Friday, May 2, 2014

My Mneumonic Plague


There was a time when a simple string wrapped around a finger served as the only means necessary of jogging ones memory.  Often times  I'd be decked out with so much string you'd swear I was a puppeteer.     Then post its came along.  That's when yellow became the new hue.   My work station would be festooned with constant reminders.  Prepare for audit.  Send memo regarding overtime.  Dental appointment Tuesday at 10 am.  Note to self:  floss! floss! floss!  That would be plaque not plague. 

Well I'm not getting any younger and my retention skills, like my youth,  are fading fast.  Take networking.  The moment I am introduced to anyone, their name, like Houdini or the punch line of a really good joke, immediately escapes me.  I've tried enlisting the use of the alphabet.  Many times these 26 letters have  rescued me from my rusty recollection skills.  Like the other evening when I tried to recall the title of that Woody Allen movie about a man, who much like all of us, had a desire to fit in and be liked.  I was playing twenty questions with my friends.  "You know.  He takes on the characteristics of strong personalities.  He's like a human chameleon."   And no it's not a politician although technically, I believe chameleon to be a pre requisite for the job of politician."  Unfortunately the movie in question was Zelig.  How embarrassing for me it was only when I got to Z that the neurons started firing.   That can be a problem when relying on the alphabet system of recall. 

 As a "mature" student, I would often enlist the help of mnemonics, a simple strategy that can make memorization a much easier undertaking, or so they say. Take the mathematical constant pi (Greek letter “π”) for instance- the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter — which is approximately 3.1415926.  NOW, with its 3 letters, represents the first number.   The phrase,"NOW I NEED A DRINK, ALCOHOLIC OF COURSE"  thus represents the first 8 digits in sequence.   Simple,  n'est pas?  Thing is, I use that phase on a daily basis.  Hell, it's my mantra.  Now if I could only remember when and why I would ever use pi.  The only pi I am remotely interested in ends in an "e" and is preferably apple.  Perhaps not the best example. 

We have all used mnemonics at one time or another.  HOMES reminded us of the names of the great lakes-Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie and Superior.  I before E except after C is also a mnemonic.  There are a few exceptions of course like  atheist, beige, being, caffeine, counterfeit, eight, either, feisty, foreign, forfeit, freight, height, kaleidoscope, leisure, meiosis, neither nuclei, protein, sleigh, surveillance, their, veil, vein, weird, zein....This is a really stupid rule. 

You know what's even more stupid are the things I do remember.   I, like many a woman scorned,  have the uncanny ability to remember every rotten comment, slight, look, stare, back stabbing, low down, nasty, irresponsible negative comment anyone has ever said to me or about me (and Rafa Nadal).  It's a gift.  Well actually, it's the gift that keeps on giving like contagions and fruit cake.   I've  defriended many a Facebook follower as a result. 

Like the  in-law family Christmas calendar-circa 1998, featuring an all inclusive of those that mattered  including "good ole" boyfriends and family pets but somehow yours truly was MIA.  What is it they say?  A picture's worth a 1000 words?  What would a non inclusive picture be worth?  Years of resentment comes to mind.  Funny the things you remember are some of the very things you'd prefer to forget.  Like that time I woke up wearing what I ate.  I would truly like to forget that moment in my life. 

Let's face it, the older we get, the more difficult it becomes to remember.  In my mother's day they (my elders) referred to this phenomenon as  "hardening of the arteries" and salt was apparently the culprit.   As a kid, I was simply grateful  this affliction was age discriminatory even though at the time I do not think I could even spell discriminatory.  Heck, I sprinkled salt on my salted potato chips.   They said what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger.  Salt by that standard, should qualify me as a circus strong man sideshow freak.     

Song lyrics, historical speeches, and phone numbers pose no threat to my memory bank.  I have literally stood before the Lincoln Memorial and recited the Gettysburg address for many a foreign visitor.  Impressive, eh?  Sadly,  with all other things, it's all in the timing.  You can ask me who played Hannibal in the television series and I will tell you I saw that actor at tennis city in Toronto.  He was exceptionally good in the movie After the Wedding and he hails from Denmark and was also in A Royal Affair.  He's  the same guy in Casino Royale whose eye bled while playing cards with that hunk of a man playing agent James Bond,  double 07, Daniel Craig.  And he's my spouse's favourite actor.  Yes, I could tell you all of this, yet I couldn't tell you his name if my life depended on it which, by the way, favours me.   Luckily there's always something, that one thing that will eventually  jog my memory.  In this instance, a crossword clue presented itself, "author of Far From the Madding Crowd."  And there it was on the tip of my tongue, Mads Mikkelsen.  And just like that (two days later), I have my answer.   Three days later, Thomas Hardy came to me.  It was April 6, 2014.  (I Googled it) The news of Mickey Rooney's passing  was announced.   The mind works in mysterious ways.  Work with me people.   

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Don't Hate Me 'Cause I Write



When I first learned that my essay would be published by the Globe and Mail  I was ecstatic.  Sure I had been published before and yes I had been rejected as well but I was certain the earlier rejections were a simple case of misinterpretation.  Ok, so my daughter's soccer coach really wasn't  a direct descendant  of Adolph Hitler (sure fooled me) and to whom I lovingly referred to as the "soccer Nazi!" ( I'm still not convinced btw).   And maybe I embellished the fact that I was in the movie industry somewhat.  When I said I was in the movies, in hindsight  I probably should have said I was at the movies.  But let's not quibble over semantics. 

 My point is, and I do have one, I was completely taken off guard and not prepared for the onslaught of negativity my simple, yet heartfelt, essay would have had on the handful of subscribers who evidently and for no apparent reason,  have nothing better to do with their remaining time (I can't be certain but I'll bet they reside in close proximity to the mortician's on deck circle) then to defecate (once burned) all over my written word. Talk about sticks and stones breaking bones.   Osteoporosis has lesser odds.

Do these critics with completely anonymous names like "yousuck" and "diealready"  have any idea how difficult it is to come up with an idea to write an authentic essay of 1000 words without maybe going online and purchasing one?  Ideas alone are difficult to come by.  I've tossed around more ideas than I have salads.  For instance, one in particular that has been on my mind for a while now is  "what happens if you wear night cream during the day?"  Oh, who's  kidding who?  I can't even take credit for that one.  My son asked me.  And to think I once thought writer's block was simply an excuse made up by some whining author so they had an excuse to drink alcohol.   Well not this whiner.   I don't need an excuse.

The essay in question was all about aging.  I was flirting with a number of titles for my piece like "The Social Security Network";  "The Old Lady and the Sea of Rejection"; and a take on Louisa May Alcott's Little Women-"Little Old Women".    Sexagenarian seemed to fit.   After all, sex sells or so I thought.  I just wasn't prepared for the brutal attack on what I had hoped to be received as a light-hearted take on turning 60. 

From the sounds of the responses there's nothing funny about aging.  Which is ironic because I set out to put a humorous twist on that very thing.   Well, it backfired quicker than my 2012 Dodge Caravan.  Boy did I have mud on my face.  I couldn't have had more mud on my face if I was in the middle of a mudpack treatment.  I'm talking large quantities of mud the likes that can only be seen in the hills of Los Angeles.  Mega mud I tell you.   Talk about being blindsided.  I'd sooner be tackled by Michael Oher then tangle with the critics. 

Who knew I could have such an effect on so many people? (Like 46 or so)  I didn't set out to insult anyone.  The essay was a means of therapy for me to accept the fact that I was entering into another dimension - a dimension of sight; a dimension of sound; a dementia of mind. 

I've actually lost sleep over this.  And for that I do not forgive.  I tried denouncing some of the more irritating comments but to no avail.  Turns out no one wants a piece of my mind.  People like a piece of cake or even a piece of pie but no one really wants a piece of mind. 

So I have taken it upon myself to write yet a follow up essay to try and make amends to those I may or may not have offended.  

So to wat2020 who wrote "I suspect you are single and deserve to be.  With any luck your negative attitude will reward you and you will not see 60."  My apologies for asking you if you had eaten paint chips as a child.   There are any number  of other causes for delayed development.  Who am I to presume it was caused by toxicity.  Forgive me.

And to marre who accused me of "navel gazing."  That was a new one on me.  The only thing that can be said of or about me to be remotely self absorbing is my  choice of paper towel.  Perhaps you should get to know me a bit better before reducing me to a stereotype. 

To cathyrules, my son, who has nothing but a kind word to say about his mom, the cheque is in the mail.

And finally, to Yukon-otter gloating about her two sets of 20 unassisted chin ups.   Look at you all pumped up!  Now I really have mud on my face (and chin).

Well there you have it.  I can feel a sense of relief washing over me already.   No wait.  That would be the last of the Chardonnay running down my shorts.  Must reach for my self-absorbing paper towels to go along with my self- absorbing personality to wipe away the fall-out.  Looking forward to what is sure to be some interesting commentary.  Let the games begin.

Tuesday, December 10, 2013


To Russia With Love

It's been 23 years since the Cold War ended but come this February, athletes from around the globe will descend on Sochi, Russia where a much different form of psychological warfare will ensue - the games of the 2014 Winter Olympics. 
Who doesn't love the Olympics?  The thrill of victory.  The agony of defeat.  Why it seems like the 2012 London Summer Olympics just ended.   Who can forget James Bond and the Queen herself jumping out of a helicopter and making a parachute entrance into the opening ceremonies?  Of course, it wasn't really Daniel Craig and Her Majesty, but it was clever.  Or the 16 year old Chinese swimmer, Ye Shiwen,  who not only set the world record en route to gold in the 400 individual medley, but swam the event seconds faster than her personal best.  In fact, the final 50 meters were faster than American swimmer Ryan Lochte who went on to win the men's gold in the same event.  It wouldn't be a true Olympics without some doping allegations now would it? 
Great Britain's own tennis great Andy Murray defeated Roger Federer less than a month after losing to him in the 2012 Wimbledon final.  There's something to be said for home field advantage.
We all had our own memorable moments we took away from the London games.  Personally, I'd like to thank the underwater camera crew for its amazing coverage and close ups of the men's water polo teams.  There's shrinkage? 
How about the Kenyan and Ethiopian long distance runners?  These people proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that running a marathon is simply a classic case of doing something just to prove to yourself and others that you can do it regardless of how stupid it really is.  If I could give any advice it would be "eat something already!"
Who could forget Destinee Hooker, the  U.S. Volleyball team member?  She epitomized the classic line in Romeo and Juliet, "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."   Translation: What matters is what something is, not what it is called.  Which begs the question, what were her parents thinking?  Obviously, they weren't.
I, along with the collective Canadian population, will never forget, (or perhaps forgive) the Norwegian referee who officiated the U.S. vs. Canada women's semi final soccer game.  That controversial call could have started a cold war all on its own between the two countries who just happen to occupy the longest unprotected border in the world.   Perhaps Argo made up for that.
But that's all behind us now.  Come February we will hopefully have a whole new set of long lasting memorable moments from the world of sport to sustain us.    
Of course the games do not come without their fair share of controversy.    Russia has a law that limits gay rights, specifically dispensing information to minors regarding "non-traditional" sexual relationships.  This of course caused a stir with LGTB rights.  Some athletes and countries have threatened to boycott the games.  There is no bigger stage than this non-political event to make a political statement. 
The games have already been threatened with violence.  Doku Umarov, a Chechen militant, has called on fellow rebels to attack the Olympics. No worries.  Russia has ripped a page right out of the headlines and the U.S. National Security Agency, NSA, and will not only deploy tens of thousands of troops but enlist the help of surveillance drones, robots, and cameras in an all out effort to keep all people including spectators, athletes and the general public, safe.  All communications in the region will be monitored including mobile phones and emails.  Is there any wonder NSA whistleblower Edward Snowden was granted temporary asylum in Russia?  We can only hope that the likes of Anthony Weiner or Brett Farve won't be in the general vicinity. 
But believe it or not, these are not the biggest problems facing the Russian hosted Olympic Games.  The weather, or more importantly, lack thereof, could be the biggest obstacle facing these games.  Sochi happens to be a resort town situated along the Black Sea, famous, like Florida, for its palm trees and balmy weather.  With temperatures ranging from 50-70 degrees Fahrenheit, it will be tough to keep the ice venues cold.  Of course, skiing will take place in the mountains where generally there is a significant amount of snowfall but snow making machines will be on stand-by none-the-less.
So it would seem the cold war Olympics could ironically become lukewarm if the weather doesn't cooperate.  Let's not worry about that melting snow just yet.  Instead, let's hope the Sochi Olympics, like those held before it, with all of their pomp and circumstance, personal triumphs and improbable defeats, will melt our hearts and leave us with memories to last a lifetime.  Or at least until 2016 when we can Blame it on Rio.
 

Sunday, June 30, 2013

PROGNOSIS NEGATIVE!


My name is Cathy, (I am not an actor-well not technically anyway)  and I play tennis.  I've tried quitting but I just can't.  Once I start to lose I experience changes in behaviour, thinking or mood, hostility, agitation, I'm depressed and have suicidal thoughts and actions.  My doctor recommends winning.  He has told me to stop playing if I notice behavioural changes such as wanting to lash out uncontrollably against my opponents or uttering the words, "How would you like it if I rammed this ball down your throat?".  If I develop and/or have a history of these actions, I am to contact my head pro right away as some could be life threatening, ( to my opponents life that is)  I am to use caution while playing at the net and I am to phone my club pro if my game becomes worse.  Side effects of losing can be an unusual increase in alcohol intake as well as a greater increase in the use of profanity and very few invitations to dinner.  If winning continues to allude me, I am to phone the tennis hotline at 1-800-you-suck, and speak to a former loser who has rebounded from this tennis hell and who will provide me with such words of wisdom like  "It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game"  which is badly and thus the reason for my call.    If all else fails, I am to remind myself that tennis is merely a game.  Much like The Hunger Games, the tennis game is a daily ritual in which players of all ages,  from tennis clubs around the globe, battle to the death.  The last one standing doesn't die shamelessly.  Caution: If bragging rights and feelings of euphoria do not last longer than one week contact your head pro and book a lesson immediatley.  Play to win!

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

The "Comeback" Kid






I've been watching a lot of movies lately what with TIFF being in town and the installation of my new cable carrier, Bell. Not to mention my "situation" has not changed in two years. (no I have not grown a six pack or joined the cast of Jersey Shore or had a baby...congrats to Snookie!) Apparently the fact that I am unemployable is not that uncommon.  Indeed, I am among the 20% of people over 50 who have stopped looking for work. We are referred to as "disgruntled". I didn't need to be without employment to be labelled that.  Hey, I'm old. I already have enough to be pissed off about.


Just recently, I resigned from a volunteer position. With a mere week to go in my term, my work ethic went from "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again" to "enough is enough" and I threw in the proverbial towel.  I walked out without a word being said.  Looking back, I so wish I had the opportunity to get some things off my chest.  That perfect retort that could not go unnoticed or be misconstrued in any way.  You know like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator, "Hasta la vista, baby!"  Then I would walk away in a fog of smoke into the sunset. No regrets or asking myself, "Why didn't I say that?" Alas, this only happens in the movies.

It would have been so cool to have some great comebacks to express my disappointment.  Some of those all too perfect lines found in your favourite films to silence the opposition rather than take the high road.  Who am I kidding?  I've mapquested the high road and it does not exist which is why I never, ever take it.

How cool would it have been to just get up and say, "You come 'round here again, and I'm gonna get discourteous on your ass" and just like that I would get up and be Gone, Baby Gone.  So cool, right? Wow, if only life were like that.

So now friends have convinced me to attend the annual dinner and I have, with much apprehension, reluctantly agreed. But why would I put my friends in the awkward position of having to defend me by uttering throughout the evening, "You'll have to excuse her.  She suffers from selective tourettes".  Like when I inevitably say to a certain someone, and I'm paraphrasing here of course, that great line from The Sixth Sense, "I see lazy people."  Or should a happenstance encounter with spontaneous combustible guy cause me to act out a scene from Million Dollar Baby or Raging Bull or Rocky I, II, III, IV, or V, over and over and over again.  And will I once again shake my head and ask Miss Hilly, "You sho you need help with that?"  C'mon! Who am I kidding?  The light at the end of the tunnel is the oncoming imminent train wreck.








 

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Olympic Thank-you Notes

With the Olympics winding down, I would like to take a moment to reflect on these last few weeks and show my appreciation for some special moments that have left a long lasting impression on me.


Thank you, the underwater camera crew for the Olympics men's water polo game for close ups of the athletes   There's shrinkage?

Thank you, Kenyan and Ethiopian long distance runners for proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that running a marathon is a classic case of doing something just to prove to yourself and others  that you can do it regardless of how stupid it really is.  Please eat something.

Thank you, U.S. Volleyball team member, Destinee Hooker for proving Shakespeare's meaning of a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.  Translation: "What matters is what something is, not what it is called" and for not killing your parents for naming you Destinee Hooker.

Thank you, Norwegian referee of the U.S. vs. Canada soccer game for alienating me from all of my Canadian friends and family.  Good call.  You suck. 

Thank you, Michael Phelps for proving you can still win Olympic gold while enjoying the occasional  bong.

Thank you London Olympics for bringing the games into our homes for these last few weeks.  Now what am I suppose to do?  What day is this?


Saturday, January 14, 2012

Tebow (to the tune of Levon)

Tebow wears his helmet like a crown

He prays to Lord Jesus

because his game is lame

and he has to face Tom Brady in Beantown



Tebow, Tebow likes his cranium

He bows a lot they say

He spends his days praying

on the sidelines in the mile high stadium



He was born a hero to his team on a November day

when he came from behind and saved the game

and now the tables turned

Denver Broncos have a star today



And he shall be Tebow

And he shall be a good man

And he shall be Tebow

In tradition with the football plan

And he shall be Tebow

And he shall be a good man

He shall be Tebow


Tebow's the cartooned buffoon in town

The Broncos have arrived

Tebow throws the football all day

While receivers watch them fly right by



And Tebow he wants to go to Superbowl

Leaving the Patriots far behind

Take that ball and go scoring

While all others slowly die



He was born a hero to his team on a November day

when he came from behind and saved the game

and now the tables turned

Denver Broncos have a star today



And he shall be Tebow

And he shall be a good man

And he shall be Tebow

In tradition with the football plan

And he shall be Tebow

And he shall be a good man

He shall be Tebow