It’s not OK, Nigella!

Were you as shocked as I was to see those photos of Nigella Lawson being manhandled by her husband in a restaurant window?  This was so disturbing on so many levels, I hardly know where to start…

Nigella Lawson –even the sound of her name is so mellifluous — Brilliant, beautiful, forthright …Women want to be her-men want to be with her. The first time I read about her it was an interview for her first cookbook. The former model described creating one salty-sweet recipe after a night in bed with saltines in one hand and chocolate chips in the other, alternately chowing down. Who couldn’t love a woman who said that?

Well, it turns out her husband, Charles Saatchi, can’t–or, at best, loves to beat her up.  Domestic abuse is all about manipulation; as the head of a billion dollar worldwide advertising business, Saatchi would know a thing or two about manipulation. It is very evident from the photos how very good he is at manipulating Nigella into permitting this abuse. Even strong powerful women get abused by their spouses.

In the photos, Nigella looks sad and ashamed and afraid. Not shocked or outraged, as her reaction would have been had this been the first time he got physical. As it turns out, Nigella was abused by her mother as a child. Perhaps she thought she ‘deserved’ to live with someone who continued the abuse. In discussing her mother last year, she said: “I never thought I could please her.”

Just look at the body language in the photos. When wolves show dominance to one of their pack, they will take its nose between their jaws. And the term ‘leading someone by the nose’ came about because IT HURTS when your nose is pinched and twisted like that and any one who has such a grip on you can lead you wherever he wills.

Saatchi thought the greenery at the window screened him from the paparazzi
and the alcove shielded them from other patrons. Too bad he didn’t look behind him, where the photographer had a perfect view of the assault. Those that condemned the photographers for not jumping in to physically prevent the abuse? Pssshhht. Bearing witness with visual proof was the best thing the photographer could do. Now the world knows what a perfect shit Charles Saatchi is.

My mother

“I think I’ve reached a milestone today! My parents (my mum, really) likes to get (requires, insists upon) a weekly phone call, preferably on Sunday. I called this morning, and she said “I almost called you yesterday but then I thought you were probably busy and you’d call Monday.” It’s been 30 years, give or take, but I think she gets it now”
FB post July 23, 2012

As soon as I posted this on Facebook, I imagined all my motherless FB chums saying “Lisa, you should be glad you still have parents…one day you’ll be sorry you can’t pick up the phone to call them.”  I want to make it clear: I love my parents dearly. I really do, and I am glad they are healthy enough to enjoy retirement after working hard their whole lives, and hope they live many more years.  That being said, those who know me know my mother drives me crazy. Those who know me well also know what a short drive that can be…

So, as sort of preemptive post, I’ll pre-reply…

Jamie, don’t you remember my mother using a kitchen fork to ‘fork’ her hair? Susie, do you remember her telling us not to go into the ocean when we were menstruating because we could attract sharks? Jay, do you remember my telling you with all seriousness that ‘my mother said’ pounding on your chest and doing a Tarzan yell would cause cancer? I remember it well—6th grade playground— you and Rocky Krizak howled with laughter, I mean bent over double.

So, yes, you can love someone while they simultaneously and systematically drive you crazy.  That may be the definition of family, in fact. Two weeks ago, my brother’s son got married and much of the (far flung) family gathered in Philadelphia. I must have muttered something about my mum to the Canadian crowd—her brother, his wife and sister, because my aunt said: Lisa, we love your mother dearly, but we don’t pay any attention to most of what she says!” Wise words, indeed. Because to quote another friend’s mother, Therese Nikitas  (former A&W owner and my 1st boss) “you can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your family.!”

That’s right, I’m Canadian American. Got a problem with that?

By and large, most people have been pretty welcoming and tolerant of me, but there are people who seem prepared to dislike me simply because I’m Canadian-American. Before blindly hating me, read my story.

Let’s be clear: I’m not ‘half’ anything, I’m both, OK? I have the same rights as any other Canadian, in fact, I could even run for MP and be the Prime Minister. I also have the same rights as any other American. I have a social security number and a CIB card. I cary two passports. I realize that statement will not enamor me to anyone, but I wanted to make that clear at the outset.

Now for my creds. My British mum arrived in Halifax at 15 years old, the adopted daughter of a Canadian soldier. My dad’s side arrived earlier from Sweden, where they found a clannish little enclave in North Bay just as rocky and hard to farm as the land they left behind. My dad used to pass the puck around with Tim Horton, and my uncle did the same with Alex Trebek. I learned the words to ‘O Canada’ before I learned the ‘pledge of allegiance.’

And now here’s the crux of the matter on why exactly you shouldn’t hate me: I’ve been  carrying the water since I fucking moved here and was laughed at for standing to answer the teacher.  When people hear that I am Canadian, half of the time, they’ll say ‘eh?’ (bet you’ve never heard that one before) and I’m also mocked for how I pronounce certain words like ‘process’ and ‘toque.’  I have heard the most ignorant things, such as “well, you have no races in Canada, so of course there are no racial problems.”  A university professor once introduced an immigration seminar with “Americans accept more immigrants than any other country” (In fact, Australia and Canada accept the most immigrants; US is third). Some people think the whole country is a frozen tundra (no thanks to Molson for this one.) When universal health care was proposed by President Obama, the interwebz were full of scary stories about socialized medicine being the next step to goose-stepping bolshevism.  Again and again, I corrected misapprehensions: my Canadian cousins were not less free -they were more free because they didn’t have to worry about crippling health care or university bills. In regards to climate, I inform people that  rather than frozen tundra, a lot of the maritimes is horticultural zone 5—the very same zone as where I reside now.

I am happy to educate others who are not fortunate enough to experience Canada for themselves so that they know what they are missing. In fact, I almost feel it is my duty.  The Canadian flag was flying at my wedding reception, and the bagpiper wore the Nova Scotia tartan.  The maple leaf is part of my artist’s chop and my online avatar and flies in front of my Massachusetts house on national holidays. I am probably more patriotic than most of you.

If you’re determined not to like me, you shouldn’t have to look too far for a reason. I’m a lippy bitch who doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Odds are even that you’ve been cut by my rapier wit on this very forum, (if you really knew me, the %  would be way higher, trust me) Plus, I think I’m pretty fabulous. Like I said, you don’t need to look hard to find a reason to hate me— just make sure isn’t because I’m not Canadian enough.

 

I love this video. It is from the Olympics.

Recycling

Tonight I prepared the refuse for pick up. It took me about half an hour. This was my first time, and I wanted to do it properly, and, well, there’s a lot of steps. I didn’t want to mess it up. Halifax is at the front of waste reduction initiatives: it is the ‘greenest’ of the Canadian provinces and HRM is the greenest city in NS. So, we’re talking the greenest of the green. Green of the crop if you will. Massachusetts is one of the greenest states, but Halifax begins where Massachusetts ends. I am used to sorting out bottles, cans and paper for recycling, but here, there were four piles in all–one for paper, one for recyclables (cans and bottles plus milk cartons, plastic bags and plastic containers #1, #2 and #4. Starting next week, they will also take #5 plastic) one for ‘organics’ (food and yard waste as well as dirty paper plates, towels and napkins) and one for garbage. It is quite an eye-opener to see how small the garbage bag is, when everything that can be recycled is taken out. And here’s the best part: the city provides each household with two compost bins–a little kitchen composter and a big ‘tip in’ Green Bin for the weekly pick up. When you move, you have to leave your bins for the next resident. The municipality also picks up the waste at no additional charge–I hesitate to use the word free, because it’s not, but I was paying $300 a year for trash pick up in Massachusetts.

My landlady takes great pride in not using the Green Bin, which stays out back, because she composts everything herself, ‘using all of it.” She does vermiculture, (composting with worms) and the kitchen composter gets what the worms don’t like. Except for protein, fat, bones and shells, which could be put in the Green Bin, but instead get put in the trash, as do dirty paper towels and serviettes. In my mind, that’s kind of cheating. I bring this up because we are having a bit of a conflict about trash. She tells me to put bones, lobster shells and paper towels in the garbage, but then says I make ‘too much garbage!’ Last week, on trash day, I came out of my room with a small bag and she said “More?” in an incredulous voice. More? It was one little bag of trash from my room, mostly tissues from morning allergies. And it was a week’s worth! I felt like Oliver Twist asking for another bowl of gruel. A couple of times I have even ‘packed’ trash out to furtively stuff it into a public receptacle. Still, though, I felt really cheap sliding my trash out, and resented feeling like I had to.

I arrived at what I thought was the perfect solution. The lot next to ours holds a garden where an old man from the next house putters around every morning. I noticed that he never moves his Green Bin to his yard (like he is supposed to) but leaves it on the street between our houses. Perfect—I’d just throw my ‘organics’ into his bin! The other night, my landlady was complaining to her boyfriend about the amount of freezer space I have used (it’s less than the worms have, by the way). I said “Oh, not to worry, a lot of that is lobster shells and stuff that will be gone by Tuesday, and told her of my brilliant plan to toss it in the neighbor’s Green Bin. My plan displeased her.

“If I saw someone throwing anything into my trash bin, I would be very upset!”

“But he leaves it out all week!”

“Nevertheless”

“Yesterday, he was urinating in his garden!”

“So? It keeps the ants away.” she staunchly replied. (!)

“My point is, that anyone who leaves his bin out all week and urinates in public view can’t be so bound by propriety as to take offense at anyone’s adding to his midden!” She sniffed and stalked off. I asked the boyfriend if he would be offended if someone put trash in his barrel and he said “of course not.” So last night, like a ninja, I stole out to add my organic refuse to the neighbor’s Green Bin. So far, so good.

Canada Day Eve

Canada Day is tomorrow (July 1) and all of the stores are selling flag-themed and maple-leaf-strewn everything and anything and yes, even that!

Remembering the days when I searched in vain for Canadian stickers for my luggage, I of course had to succumb to temptation of so many patriotic purchases! One corner of my room could be an ad for “Wake Up Canadian”

Just so you don’t think I’m throwing money around, I bought a men’s hat at Value Village for $1.50 and covered the Patron tequila stitching with a flag patch I got for 75¢. Of course, I also had to buy a sewing kit first… I also bought a red hoodie at Value Village (they had a 50% off sale June 27 $2.50!) and a can and bottle coozy and a flag umbrella hat and a bandanna for the dog and some tape for my bike and a bunch of flags for the basket of my bike…so I should be good to go tomorrow. there’s a parade and a barbeque, a multicultural fair, a pow wow and fireworks. Whoo-hoo!
Took Max over to Point Pleasant Park, a park with ‘leash free’ areas. How cool is that? Here is a picture of Max taken today. Who’s a good dog?

Max at the Park

Also got an email from my landlady. Constant rain has compelled her to cut short her bicycle vacation and she’ll be home Saturday. Sigh. Somehow, I was expecting something like this might happen. I had a feeling she would not be gone for the whole three weeks. More than sense, too; she never showed me how to use the lawn mower. So what was I supposed to do, just let the grass grow? Of course, I see clearly with the retrospectacles. Dang. I need to borrow a ladder from a neighbor so I can fix the damn laundry line. And it’s the beginning of a holiday weekend. Oy, Canada!

Bad trip

OK, that title may be just a bit dramatic; maybe ‘a series of unfortunate events’ or ‘a day at the beach is no day at the beach would be better titles.
My landlady has (finally) left on her bicycle trip, leaving me in custody of her two houses and her dog. (Oh, yeah, did I mention I have a dog now?)

I had been looking forward to this day for weeks: a sunny day with the cottage to myself: The dog and I would play at the beach, followed by lobster and a glass or two of crisp chardonnay at the cottage, then I’d be rocked to sleep by the oldest house on Ship Harbour.  With the exception of the beach, which was lovely, the scene did not play out as scripted.

On the way out, I gassed up. It doesn’t matter what gas station you go to, the price is set by the province and costs the same everywhere. I have been having some confusion with the gas pumps. When you pre pay at the pump, you select the amount of cash you want to spend, and the pump stops when you arrive at that amount. I am used to just plugging the hose in and having it stop when the tank is full.  My landlady tells me that you can fill up this way, but I haven’t figured out how to do that. Anyway, the last time I put $30 in, and I got about a quarter tank. So I decided to put $40 in. I had heard that gas prices had gone down, but a shift from $1.29 to $1.24 per litre means little to me, and I wasn’t really paying attention until I felt something wet on my foot. Gasoline had overflowed the tank and was running down the side of the car and soaking into the fabric of my Tevas! Apparently there is no auto shutoff on the gas hose when the tank is full. Also, none of those handy wipes to clean your gas-smelling hands, as I am used to. The amount of gas in the car was $39.65, so I was curious as to what the amount on the receipt would say, but, alas, no receipt was forthcoming. So I drove away with a full tank and a gassy smell.  Got a couple of bugs at the pound (one for dinner, one for lobster salad with leftover wild rice) and pulled up to the cottage.

I had several pages of opening and closing chores, and entered the cellar to turn on the water pump and boiler. I banged my head, hard, on a metal duct, which should have been padded or something (my landlady is a good ten inches shorter than I, so she probably clears the duct.) I had trouble turning on the water pump; I kept going to the kitchen to run water and nothing was coming out. Back to the cellar (not hitting myself this time!) I turned one of the switches I had already turned once. The pump started right away, so I am thinking that my landlady did not turn it off when she left. The one thing left to do was to turn on the gas, but I didn’t need to do that right away. I rubbed my sore forehead and sat down with a cold cider.

Outside, it was sunny but also incredibly buggy. The recent rains have left optimal breeding grounds for all of the little nuisances, and they were flying, hopping and crawling all over me and Max. I looked for a Raid coil–found the burner, but no more coils. I did find some sticks of sandalwood incense; that can be an effective repellent sometime, but not today. There were some really weird looking ants that were part red and part brown and seemed to have an extra abdomen. They bit, too, and I have several tiny itchy bite marks on my feet and ankles (some sort of fire ant hybrid?)

Fine then. Too buggy at the cabin? Time to frapper la plage avec le chien. Off we went, Max had a big doggy grin all the way there and even whined a little bit in excitement when we arrived. This beach is a public beach, absolutely free to all. (I had to compare this to state and national beaches on Cape Cod: Ten dollars to park, maybe a porta potty and no trash barrels (pack it out yourself, please!). This beach had a grill area, changing rooms, showers and toilets, all wheelchair accessible. Did I mention it was free? Oh, yeah, dogs are welcome too. The sign said they needed to be leashed, but Max was tugging so hard, a cut on my finger reopened (great–now I was gonna attract sharks!)  My landlady said that it was OK for Max to run here, so once we walked a ways down the beach I let him go. He took off at a run and it became clear to me why even two half hour walks a day were not nearly enough for this dog! He ran and ran and ran, occasionally stopping to smell and pee on a pile of seaweed. He was a blur of white and black (Max is a husky shepherd mix). He would occasionally run into the ocean and flop down, letting the waves wash over him.

Of course, once Max got out his bejeepers, he had to go and make friends. He cheerfully ignored me as he ran the other way down the beach, where the people were. I could see the black and white blur, approaching couples in the sand, smelling them impertinantly, peeing near them and more often than not, getting fed a chip or something. Max was in doggy heaven! I expected people to be angry with me for letting the dog go off leash, but no one was upset. They smiled and said “no problem, nice dog.” People are so nice here.

The sun doesn’t set until around nine this time of year, but the hottest time of day was over. After several hoiks up the beach and back for the salty dog, it was time to go back to the cottage and ‘see about them bugs.’ And this is where, my friends, the good times ended. I must have rubbed my eye in the car, for no sooner were we on the road than my left eye began stinging and burning and watering. I pulled over a couple of times, but I couldn’t see anything, of course.  I was definitely “driving impaired” with one hand clapped over my burning eye, while the other eye squinted in sympathy. Finally, I thought to grab an ice cube out of the cooler and hold it against my eye; this helped flush out the sand or salt or whatever it was as it melted. I did overshoot the house though and had to turn back a quarter mile.

My landlady had warned me about the gas barbecue grill out back. She said there was a little leak last year, and if I did use it, “move it well away from the cottage.” Y’OK. I had mused about doing it with charcoal and seaweed, but there wasn’t any charcoal, nor a grill. This cottage could use a firepit, but there wasn’t one of those, either. So aboilin’ it would be, but first I needed to turn on the gas. It was a very old gas oven (with a broken glass in front!) and no auto pilot light. There were three pilots that needed to be lit–two on the stove and one in the oven. The stove was no problem, but try and try as I might, I could not light the oven pilot! I had a box of wooden matches and lit one after the other in a vain attempt to get a catch. I turned the knob for the oven and tried again. I did this until I felt dizzy and realized I was kneeling with my head in an unlit gas oven and that is why I was feeling dizzy. I shut off the propane and let the kitchen air out while I poured a glass of chardonnay and pondered my alternatives. I scoped out the kitchen for some sort of appliance like an electric wok I could use, de nada. Could make a wood fire, but the only graveled part was right next to the house (did I mention it’s the oldest house in the harbour?) and every other spot was either too hilly or too woody, plus I’d have to dig a pit first. No other inspirations were biting, but the bugs sure were, and not the ones in the sink! OK, I don’t like to quit too easily, so I girded my loins and turned the gas back on.  The results were almost exactly the same. The difference was this time I was standing and bending over the oven instead of kneeling (safety first!) so this time when I felt woozy I swayed. Swore, turned the gas off and looked at the bugs (the ones in the sink.) They looked back glassily. They had gotten awfully sluggish and might not survive the night. Checked the time-almost seven o’clock. Nothing  to do but beat it back to the city.

I felt better immediately once I had made my decision, and started packing out. In taking the recyclables, an empty bottle of cider slipped out and shattered on the flagstone step. Luckily, the dog was inside, but it was vexing to be slowed down by the clean up once I had resolved to leave. Once packed, I went into the cellar to turn off the water and boiler and hit my head again on the bloody duct! I hit it so hard I saw stars.

When I got home, it was eight thirty and I ate my lobster with much less pleasure than I had anticipated. This morning, my head hurts in two places (one dunt was on the top of my head, one on the crown) I have a ring of itchy bug bites on my ankles and three red bites on my face. Meh.