Joy of Lex

As is always my dream, Jaime has gone somewhere and has left me in charge of what he calls Diegocare, and what I call the reindoctrination of this most splendid dog. Over these next few days, Diego’s universe will be expanded. Take today. I introduced him to an experience beyond his wildest dreams. The journey began on Sunday when we visited my in-laws. Mom made a ham and I cleverly snagged the bone. Cut to Monday, when the ham bone becomes the backbone of a heartwarming pot of split pea soup. Now, picture this. On the one hand, I have a well-seasoned ham bone. On the other, I have a dog. With Jaime’s blessing (yes, I phoned him to check — people can be so funny about what you do to their pets), I combine the two. No, I didn’t throw the dog and the bone back into the soup. Instead, I offered Diego his first ever ham bone. That was nine hours ago. Now nearly midnight, that ham bone, denuded of every scrap of meaty goodness, has become Diego’s favorite new toy. He continues to bat it around the hardwood floors, toss it in the air, and grab it in his jowls to suck out the last vestiges of marrow. Tired out from hamming it up, Diego curls up beside me for a snooze, casting a last fond glance at what’s left of the bone with one sleepy eye. I believe he’s dreaming of his next great Sterling adventure.

Sophia sets the pace in black microfiber thigh boots with five-and-a-half-inch stacked heels, her right metal-tipped stiletto poised dead center in the palm of Perry’s left hand. Squirming, he still looks devastatingly chic in a camel-colored brushed cashmere turtleneck, imported from Italy, dry clean only. He isn’t wearing pants, although moments ago he strode across the stage sporting boldly tailored olive-green belted wool trousers with hip-flattering inverted pleats and two-inch cuffs. No underwear. Lightweight beige argyle socks and black lambskin moccasins completed the look. The trousers are now draped casually over a straight angle parson’s chair, a modern classic with cafe au lait cotton twill upholstery over padded back and seat on a honey pine frame, slip-covered to the gleaming hardwood floor with resplendent ivory organza gathered in back with a broad bowed sash. The argyle socks are tucked into the heel of one loafer, leaving a precise three-inch patterned overhang. The other shoe poses, heel elevated on its mate’s lambskin vamp, the pair lounging casually on a round purple and periwinkle pure silk Oriental throw rug.

Sophia circles, satin gloved-to-the-elbow hands on hips, her right foot rotating metal and leather in Perry’s hand, which he’s starting to clench involuntarily. He is waiting for the almost unbearable instant when her heel presses down, sending a metallic jab he’ll feel coursing through his fingers, his toes, the back of his neck, and his tongue, which by now is lolling out the right corner of his pouty lips. Coherent speech is impossible, but it hardly matters. His flabby salivary mumbling would be incomprehensible were he to try dictating a memo into the state-of-the-art secretary-in-a-box he carries in this season’s best show-’em-who’s-boss chocolate Brazilian leather vertical attaché case with secure enclosures for his laptop, cel phone, hand-held database, and user-friendly fool-proof security system.

Okay, so for anyone who’s wondering why I haven’t posted in over a month, I have a really good, in fact a superlative, reason. After 14 blissful years in the U.S., and after much prodding by my sweetie and my son, I am finally … yes, finally … taking U.S. citizenship (if y’all will take me, which I do not by any means take for granted. Nor should you (take for granted.))

Multiple page applications — including divorce documents, arrest documents, and change-of-name documents, which all by themselves number mightily — were followed by fingerprinting, and will now culminate in my Civics Test and interview later this month. (I’d tell you when if I thought you’d show up to cheer me on.)

So, for the next few posts, I’m going to test you all on your knowledge of American history. Ready?

1) The Federalist Papers supported the passage of the U.S. Constitution. Name ONE of the writers (of the Federalist Papers).

2) When was the Constitution written?

3) Who is the current U.S. president?

I’m expecting a rush of answers (and support). If you wanna come to the citizenship party at our house afterward, I need to hear from you. So start googling…

Impossible to be in Canada without thinking about one of my favourite CDN authors… I wrote this years ago…

Dreaming of Michael Ondaatje

A fundamentally true story

He approached with practiced subtleness, like his words, in the murky, dream-drenched moments just before I awoke, so that I didn’t realize he was there until he loomed directly over me, like a musician’s fingers hovering above the notes about to be played. The melody is inevitable, its flow unalterable.

He said, "I’m a formidable writer, among the best. I turn a phrase and twist a plot the way other people navigate inner city dead ends, screeching hairpins just before leaving you hopelessly lost. It took twenty years to write the best story of my life, but I sold it for half of what I wanted and a hundredth of its worth."

"But you won an Oscar…"

"My story and those who made it famous won, not I. My pen is a commodity, chisel tool extension of my mind, housed within this body, created for no purpose but to tell the story that makes you say, ‘Yes. That is the story I wanted to hear.’"

My son often points out that my life imitates a sitcom. Although I don’t always share his mirth at the meanderings of my daily grind, at times I have to admit he’s right.

Take Sunday. Graduation party. Nice, but predictable. All the usual suspects telling all the usual stories. Plenty of air kissing and a few people ogling my neck as if able, thanks to the gift of x-ray vision, to see my thyroidectomy scar beneath my choker. Just hand me the chardonnay and we’ll all get along just fine.

The celebration had reached the point where guests were cozying up in gaggles where one person (usually me) who doesn’t know anyone else in the group (me again, trying to find some new, less predictable conversation), infiltrates a group where everyone knows everyone else. That’s when I met Monica who, in the space of one afternoon-cum-evening, redefined every notion I have ever had about pet ownership. My sister-in-law Beckie introduced us, and I launched into my usual conversational gambit.

"Hi. I’ve got this dog, a 14-year-old cocker spaniel called Silky, with mild doggie dementia. She’s blind, pretty deaf, and she doesn’t smell too good either. But I just started her on a glucosamine supplement, and at least she’s got a spring to her step."

Never has this opener worked better. Monica was beside herself, and everyone in our little gaggle was urging her to "tell Lex about Spike." Now, I can share a stage as well as the next person. I arranged my facial features into "engaged listener" and made appropriate sounds as she described Spike: dementia, blind in one eye, maybe both, deaf in one ear, arthritis. I thought it was a bit crass when she called Spike "an old iguana." Okay, these dogs aren’t as young as they used to be, but they still have feelings.

Turns out that not only is Spike an iguana of megalithic proportions, but he’s got feelings coming out of every orifice, pore, and scale. When Monica acquired Spike at the express wish of her son Peter during some teenage reptile fetish popular in the early 1990s, she was assured that iguanas live only three to five years in captivity, and never grow beyond three feet.

Spike is now 19 years old, and measures six feet, nose to tail-end. Monica won’t even estimate how much he weighs. And while Peter and his siblings have all gone off to college, launched careers, and established domiciles far and wide, Spike and Monica co-habit the old family homestead. One woman, ruled by her iguana. A temperamental iguana at that. An iguana that vacations with Monica and her husband, gets smuggled into motels, and won’t tolerate being left alone while they stop roadside to grab a bite at McDonald’s. An iguana that thrives on a diet of macaroni and cheese with broccoli florets. An iguana who, during the ice storm of 2008, reposed on heated bricks faithfully replenished by his beleaguered human who couldn’t even indulge her wish for a hot shower. An iguana with attitude. An iguana with character.

It’s not many people, nor many stories, that can shut me up. Not many animal stories that leave me prostrated first by laughter, then fascination, and ultimately respect for what animals can do when confronted by the right human and vice versa.

With Monica’s cooperation and blessing, I’ll be writing more about Spike. I can’t help it. Our conversation, advanced–dare I say–by my probing yet sensitive queries, touched upon everything from iguana digestive issues to burial rites.

I really can’t keep this all to myself.

Thanks, Beckie, for the best Thomas party in years. And thanks, Cory, for pointing out what I’m sometimes too self-absorbed to see for myself.

So, Spike and Monica, are you ready to dance?

And so in my dream, Tiffany is Ranjit’s daughter, or more accurately she’s Dr. Persad’s daughter, but while he looked like Dr. Persad, I knew he was Ranjit. So we were at a carnival that I recognized was the Ex in Toronto even though it didn’t look anything like it, and Tiffany bought a pound of candy she hardly needed, except that the candy vendor had no bags because she was rolling all the candies in felt tubes, but she didn’t roll Tiffany’s candy because she said it was too much to pack into one roll, but she added some nuts and garlic skins to make up for it, and Tiffany had to carry the whole thing, complaining all the way, and I said you shouldn’t buy more than you can carry, so I hope she learned her lesson. But the other itty-bitty girl who was pretending to be my daughter, but whose name I don’t remember, said she couldn’t think why we were there and that anyway, garlic skins are bad for the complexion.

Take a look at my guest blog in this week’s issue of Bay Windows.

http://www.baywindows.com/index.php?ch=news&sc=blog&sc2=news&sc3=&id=105620

As my week with Diego nears an end (he’s heading to Provincetown for the weekend with his other doggie-joint-custody dad), I feel compelled to sniff around the week’s high points, reflect upon them, and impart some wisdom. Like pouring all my pent-up insights out onto a big, shiny fire hydrant.

Hair . Critically important. Diego was groomed a couple of days before my tenure as his handmaiden began. I, on the other hand, hadn’t met up with clippers in a couple of months. A scruffy start on my part. But all was put right after my visit to Noel here in Jamaica Plain. He turned me into a breed of cat any dog would be pleased to drag around by his "Life is Good" leash. The purchase of some VSOP goop to keep carefully selected strands pointing just so ensures that no wayward wind gust, torrential downpour, or other dog-walking risk, will disturb either the look, nor Diego’s equanimity.

The Walk . This is unarguably a challenge. Diego doesn’t walk so much as he struts. Sometimes he prances. On occasion, he breaks into a canter. But he never simply walks. When people stop to compliment Diego, as they often do, and frequently while in the presence of their own canine companion, they most often comment on his unique and highly stylized walk. Think Red Carpet. "Proud," "self-confident," "pleased with life," and "stylish" are all descriptors I’ve heard this week (took me a couple of encounters to realize they were talking about the dog — bit rough on the old self esteem, that). So I’ve had to adjust. Tummy tucked in, buttocks tight, with that nonchalant, slightly bored posture whenever he stops to sniff around a trash can or pee on the leg of a park bench. The trick is to turn my ankle provocatively while looking in the opposite direction, directing my gaze just beyond the shoulder of any on-comer, sending the message that I’m contemplating decisions that will affect hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.

Join the ‘hood . JP is its own world, and as such, it enjoys (and endures) its own culture, sub-culture, counter-culture, and bargain-counter-culture.  To really look the part, you have to fit in somewhere.  Joining the exclusive and select doggie-walking community was a cinch with a pure-bred star pooch as my calling card. I now greet my social peers with the glib remarks and all-knowing smiles that suggest lifetime membership. Even better if you can hook up with someone who owns the same breed. Within minutes of meeting Jaime’s neighbours, Nancy and Dan, who belong to a mini-Schnauz called Ozzie, we were discussing our shared diagnoses. I think we’re almost related. Ups my street cred for sure.

Walking while texting. Do Not Try This At Home! Bit of a cautionary tale here. Cory texted me while I was walking Diego around Jamaica Pond the other morning. Two-word reply needed. No problem. I had Diego’s leash securely in my talons. But just as I was between the two required words, around the corner sacheted one of those "doodle" mixes. Really a gorgeous mutt, can’t blame the dog. Diego got all excited, lunged toward "doodle" and, well, can you guess the rest? Diego hurtled over doo-doos, right into the pond, swam out for a couple hundred yards, raced to the bank kitty-corner from me, accosted a baby in a pram, bit mama’s big toe, stole baby’s stuffed teddy, and rolled it in a mud bank before mama clubbed him with her brolly. Well, maybe it wasn’t exactly like that. Here’s what really happened: Diego got about a foot away from me, I yelped, "Diego, stop! Stay!" and the little darling did exactly what I asked. So, no harm done, but it gave me a fright. Jaime’s brother Luis keeps telling me to let Diego off the leash once in a while. I don’t think so. I’m not sure how Jaime would feel about me if I managed to lose Diego while he was busy fattening up on Basque cuisine. No, I take that back. I know exactly how he’d feel about me!

Jaime says he’s gained 20 pounds in Paris. Sounds like he’ll be needing a healing health spa vacation soon. Which sounds like an extension of my tenure as Diego’s dog-mom handmaiden to me…

I’m pleased and proud to announce that I am helping to organize and host this year’s open mic event immediately following Boston Youth Pride on Saturday, May 8. This is a very popular event with the kids, and is a good way for them to fill the time between the end of Youth Pride and the start of the BAGLY Prom.

The open mic is in the chapel of First Church in Boston, 66 Marlborough Street, Boston, 4-6 p.m. Come on out to strut your stuff and support these wonderful kids!

Left, right, left, right, left, right, just one foot in front of the other. It seems so simple, and it can be. But not always.

There’s a mythology that says rural living is so much healthier than urban living. If downtown smog doesn’t kill you, a mugger will. Dangers lurk in every shadowy doorway and behind each lamp-post, and what you pay for 900 square feet in the city will buy you 3,000 bucolic square feet in some godforsaken wetlands or conservation heap. Trouble is they’re, well, in the country.

As a confirmed born-and-bred urbanite, I have done the only practical thing I can think of doing with all those extra square feet of "living space" in my country home. I have converted them into an indoor walking track. Sound silly? Not on your life.

To meet my needs, a walk must satisfy three requirements –  purpose, destination, and sidewalks. Country rambles hold no appeal for me whatsoever. Walking from one field to another, from route so-and-so to route whatever, or up some slippery slope, is pointless. Kind of like cooking a meal, then throwing it in the bin. And trying to take a pleasant stroll along roads with nothing but rough, rock-and-broken-glass-strewn shoulders is nothing short of madness. You’re at the mercy of 18-wheelers, cyclists, bikers, texting motorists, and whatever else assumes it’s got the right of way. At the end of it, the grand prize is jangled nerves.

Even if I wake up brimming with good intentions, I rarely enact a decision to "walk 3 miles today." It might take less than an hour, but the time slips away from me. Why? Because instead of putting in the paces heading out to buy vegetables, milk, or a newspaper, or meeting up with a friend for coffee, I have to drive to almost any location I might actually want or need to visit. Rural living might be good for something, but hoofing on a whim to the corner for the Sunday New York Times? Forget it.

Spending this idyllic week in JP and being walked several times each day by my canine buddy Diego, has reminded me of a more civilised life, one in which you don’t even need to own a car (mine is at home in Sterling). I walk to catch the bus,walk to buy my iced coffee, walk to buy a bottle of wine, walk to the post office and drug store, walk to the ATM. Yesterday I walked to a salon for a haircut. I have rediscovered the deeply satisfying pleasure of walking to a selection of food and veggie markets where I can choose what looks best and freshest each day and build my daily menu around what I find. This evening, I am walking to a patio-restaurant to meet up with friends for dinner.

Like all good things, this one will come to an end this weekend. Next week, you’ll find me beating a well-worn circuit through my living room, dining room, and kitchen. Yuppers. Sure do enjoy that country living.