bogeyandruby

Random stuff, reflections on the meaning of life and death, humour, self-deprecation, a bit of bad poetry.

I started off writing about a trivial topic tonight but was stopped in my tracks when I discovered through a facebook post that a Muslim family of five had been deliberately mowed down by a truck in London, Ontario. The lone survivor, a nine-year boy now in stable condition in hospital, has lost a grandmother, both his parents and his fifteen year old sister, to hate.

The suspect was apprehended and charged with four counts of murder, premeditated, and one count of attempted murder. In Canada of all places, darling destination of immigrants for its positive multicultural policies and attitude towards immigration.

Islamophobia is clearly alive and well in this country and not only in Ontario. Quebec has its own history of the mass murder of Muslims with the Quebec City mosque shooting in January of 2017. Six worshippers were killed and five others injured during evening prayers. Despite this, our premier denies the existence of Islamophobia. He also pushed through the controversial law 21 that targets Muslim women in particular, a minority group already marginalized.

I am sick about this latest incident. I am sick of the denial that Islamophobia exists. And I am sick to death of our complicity in allowing a law that goes against the charter of rights and freedoms, pushed through without the checks and balances of debate or public consultation.

Being East Indian, my dad is wont to leave out prepositions when he speaks. He is also low vision now, no longer able to drive and depending on his recently purchased CCTV machine to decipher bills and financial statements.

The other day my mother and I were emptying the fridge of expired food items, dumping them unceremoniously on a section of newspaper flyer placed in front where my dad was sitting at the kitchen table, having recently finished his lunch.

« What hell is this? », he exclaimed.

« It’s recycling, dad. »

« Recycling? », he repeated, not understanding.

« Compost, dad. Organic waste. »

« Oh. »

Yesterday, he asked me how the office move was going.

« It’s okay. », I responded. « We’re in cubicles now. »

« Oh. How many people in your cubicle? »

Laugh out loud.

« Only one, dad. That’s the whole point. »

He’s recently been suffering from very swollen and painful fingers on one hand. I asked him how it was.

« Funny you should ask, my whole body was stiff this morning. »

« How did you manage?», I asked, not really interested because I do this all week in my cubicle and like to take a break from other people’s pain on the week-end.

« I pound my back twenty times and then I’m able to walk », he replied, demonstrating for effect.

A week ago when I visited my parents, I noticed my dad’s head had sprouted two unruly « Bozo » puffs of curly hair on either side (if ever I wondered about the origins of my crazy hair, here was my answer). Yesterday, he sported a buzz cut.

« Nice haircut, dad. »

My mother piped in, « Doesn’t he have a nice shaped head? »

« They molded and shaped my head when I was a baby. It’s what Indian people do. »

Wish my Indian aunties had molded and shaped my head as a baby but my Welsh mother wouldn’t let them. As a result, I’m left with a flat spot that means my pony tail never quite sits right.

Happy Sunday, peeps!

Before
After

Every Friday evening my mother calls me with a grocery list. I reorganize the list according to the layout of my local grocery store and complete the order on Saturday. Once the bags are unloaded and unpacked, my mother directs where items should be stored.

For two elderly people of average size and modest appetite they sure have a lot of food, enough to feed a small army I would say. Their split-level house hosts two fridges, a large freezer, wire shelving units lined with staples in the basement, all this on top of what they have in the kitchen cabinets.

Having enough food for themselves but more importantly to feed others is the type of house I grew up in. The definition of a party pooper in the Cheema household would be that one guest who declared they were on a diet when my dad tried to heap a generous second helping on their plate. More often than not, the dieter soon succumbed to my dad’s charm and persistance.

Before my parents fell ill, I’d go home regularly with a doggie bag. This was especially appreciated post divorce (I don’t cook) because I could stretch it out over a few days and feed my son healthy, home-cooked meals.

No doggie bags these days but my dad’s instinct to feed us all is ever present so he tries to give me money for take-out when I’m leaving which I politely decline.

I’m not certain where this compulsion to make sure we are well-fed (over-fed is probably a more accurate description) comes from. It may in part be from the Sikh concept of langar, or community kitchen. My father was sixteen when he had to flee for his life during India’s Partition in 1947. Despite the hardships he endured as a refugee, my father insists they were well-fed at the camps, with everyone participating in the preparation and doling out of the communal food. Once my father was safe and reunited with his family, he gave back to those camps by volunteering his time to feed other refugees.

What was your experience with food and community growing up? Has it influenced your attitude towards food, in particular receiving guests today?

I may not cook but I am my father’s daughter when it comes to making sure my guests are adequately fed and hydrated.

My parents and son, circa 2011. I took doggie bags for granted back then.

Most days I am up with the birds, or rather, before the birds. I’ve always been an early riser no matter how late I go to bed.

I love the deep quiet of the house at that time, the sleepy dawn light, and the slow awakening of nature.

There are chores to take care of first. I hoist my two shih tzus out of our bed, one at a time, then the three of us pad down the stairs to the back door where I let the boys out to relieve themselves.

If there is a bit of light out, I can usually spot two or three squirrels waiting hopefully on nearby branches for me to throw out some bird seed or peanuts.

I feed the fur kids as I prepare my coffee, black these days (you get used to it) and settle in for an hour of reading, contemplation and social media.

Back to chores as I give my sick parrotlet his meds, feed him and my other two birds, make my husband’s coffee and head up to shower.

Monday, Wednesday and Friday I participate in an online weight training class. If there’s time, I do a dog walk with my husband before heading to the office.

What’s your morning routine? Do you wait until the last possible minute before getting up or are you like me, preferring to let the morning unfold at a leisurely pace ?

My seventeen year old boy got his first COVID vaccine today. (Exhale mom … ) Gone are the days when I had to hold him down, distract him, or bribe him with candy and dollar store goodies. He didn’t need my consent to receive the vaccine and took it like a trooper. How grown up is that?

Up to now, everyone in my family bubble has received at least one dose of the vaccine apart from my husband’s daughter but she is scheduled to receive it in a couple of days. I will breathe a lot easier when everyone is fully vaccinated which will be September at the latest.

As well, we have been lucky to escape the virus itself despite some close calls. This doesn’t mean we are out of the woods yet, but we definitely have sunnier days ahead.

What are you looking forward to the most with deconfinement?

The health care worker giving the vaccine was awesome. All four of her kids are vaccinated. That’s right, four!

Our healthcare service is moving to a new site after 21 years at the old one. I woke up teary-eyed and emotional this morning. It’s not the change in building (though the new one is much further from the community we serve) that bothers so much as the fact that the new site has an open-plan space based on the dreaded cubicle-model.

What I am losing is an amazing office space, albeit run-down and worse for wear, and the camaraderie and support of a great bunch of colleagues.

I’ll never understand why a field that values evidence-based practice chooses to ignore the scientific data when it comes to this kind of logistical planning. “Today, studies show that these open work spaces have the opposite effect they were meant to, and actually reduce productivity and lower employee morale.

When we minions question these decisions we are told by management that we shouldn’t be negative even if the evidence tells us otherwise. If I sound jaded it’s because I’ve been down this road before: reforms, reorganization, moves.

One thing I can say for certain, this will be the last move of my career and if cubicle land becomes too unbearable, I will simply pack up my boxes for good.

\

Today is the first day of a new writing challenge: 150 words a day over the next month.

Remember Weebles from back in the 70s? « Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down. »

Today the therapist I’ve been seeing for my hip problem described my gait as « weebling » and suggested that the swish of my too long yoga pants was contributing to my poor gait pattern. She suggested I roll up my pants and pull the waist band as high as possible. In fact, pulling up my pants is something I do all day long considering I lack the child bearing hips that would keep the waist band up where it belongs.

Sure enough, the adjustment of my pants improved my gait and my feet lifted instead of shuffled. Gravity is boss though and the pants soon slipped down again. Elastic, zip fly or belt, it all heads South eventually.

I’d be fine if I was a weeble, wobbling through life. First off, I’d have no feet to shuffle. Secondly, my pants would be painted on. Oh, and bonus, I’d never fall down.

This poor bastard has his hands permanently stuck in his weeble pants.

Every once in a while, I check out LinkedIn to see what’s out there in the job market. I’m still waiting for my dream job that will combine stacking books and removing foam from lattes.

Instead of exciting job offers, however, there was a private message from someone who seems to think I need a wardrobe makeover, as if I don’t dress down enough as it is.

« Hi Sharon,

I know we don’t know each other but I’ve been using this athleisure line that is comfortable and holds up well during workouts to running errands; I love it. I don’t know if you’d like it, but I’m just curious, would you be open to checking it out? If you are, great, and if not, no big deal. Let me know either way. »

I responded:

« Hi Kendra,

Sure. I am very short and chubby. I usually wear children’s yoga pants size 10-12 and adult sizes on top. What do you recommend?

Thanks, Sharon »

I will keep you posted …

My husband just asked why I was watching Herman Munster videos on YouTube.

Truthfully, I was looking for one of Herman’s epic foot stomping scenes to validate that Sunday before Monday feeling of not wanting to go to work tomorrow. “I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna!”

A sore hip has put a real damper on my tantrums of late. Imagine throwing things around with an inflamed rotator cuff or yelling at someone when you’ve got laryngitis. You get the picture.

I did find a scene of Herman smashing a guitar but yikes, I’d never do that.

Funny thing, watching the videos eased the crummy feeling in my tummy. Laughter will do that for you every time. Grandpa was my favourite Munster (“The last time I tried to sleep in a place this small, some guy shovelled dirt in my face.”) and I could totally relate to Eddie Munster’s draconian widow’s peak.

Now if only I could sort out this hip problem. Physiotherapist, heal thyself, lest you find yourself walking like Herman Munster, smashing your guitars instead of stomping your feet.

Like most of you, getting through the past year was an uphill trudge.

Working as a frontline healthcare worker during present circumstances is stressful but I am grateful for an excuse to get out of the house everyday and for the fact that I have a public sector job that is secure.

My husband, spending his last few teaching months prior to retirement at home, held the fort and helped out with my elderly parents who were hunkered down in their house.

Being a natural introvert who loves time alone spent at home, I barely notice COVID restrictions though I am sensitive to the impact it is having on extroverted friends as well as my sixteen year old son in his final year of high school.

If there was one thing that got me through this pandemic, it would have to be reading. For the second year in a row, I have surpassed my New Year’s intention to read 52 books in as many weeks. In fact, this year I more than doubled that amount with a total of 113 books read. All those books read initially with a cataract in my left eye, through cataract surgery in August, through reading with my right eye only post-op as my left eye is now set for monovision, 20/20 for distance only.

One of the most validating aspects of this personal reading challenge has been the feedback I’ve received from fellow bookworms: that my shared journey and monthly list of books read has prompted them to read more themselves.

My intention for 2021 will be the same, with perhaps less of an emphasize on number of books read. The reason for that is I have several large tomes waiting to be read, such as A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth, all 1349 pages of it, languishing on my bookshelf since it was first published in 1993.

My intention is to read and I intend to make reading a priority during my free time.

For those of you who have asked for my complete list, here it is. The scoring system is entirely subjective so please don’t let the lack of hearts on any one selection put you off.

Also, do feel free to share your reading experience during the pandemic. Did you read more or less? Were there some topics that were off limits? Also, how did you obtain your reading material? Did you shop local, online, or did you borrow from your local library or bookworm?

Wishing you a safe and prosperous 2021 and of course, happy reading!

Namaste 🙏

January

1. Transcription — Kate Atkinson ❤️

2. The Dutch House — Ann Patchett ❤️

3. The Ghost Garden — Susan Doherty ❤️

4. The Handmaid’s Tale — Margaret Atwood ❤️

5. Be My Guest — Priya Basil ❤️

6. Reproduction — Ian Williams

7. Late Migrations — Margaret Renkl ❤️❤️❤️

8. The Cello Suites — Eric Siblin ❤️❤️

9. The Poetry of Impermanence, Mindfulness, and Joy — edited by John Brehm

10. Unsheltered — Barbara KIngsolver

February

11. The Family Fang — Kevin Wilson

12. Finding Yourself in the Kitchen — Dana Velden

13. Roseanne — Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö ❤️

14. The Inner Work of Racial Justice — Rhonda V. Magee ❤️❤️

15. The Inconvenient Indian — Thomas King ❤️❤️❤️

16. When We Were Vikings — Andrew David MacDonald ❤️❤️

17. 77 Fragments of a Familiar Ruin — Thomas King (poems) ❤️

18. The Diabetes Code — Dr. Jason Fung ❤️

March

19. The Skin We’re In — Desmond Cole ❤️

20. Immigrants: Your Country Needs Them — Philippe Legrain ❤️ (a very interesting read though I found myself skimming through the economic details)

21. Radicalized — Colin Doctorow (Well written but way too dystopian and close to home for the times.)

22. The Five — Hallie Rubenhold ❤️❤️ (A fascinating social history of Jack the Ripper’s victims.)

23. The Testaments — Margaret Atwood ❤️

April

24. American Dirt — Jeanine Cummins ❤️ (Well-written and suspenseful but difficult to read during the pandemic.)

25. The Sentence Is Death — Anthony Horowitz 👍

26. The Cuckoo’s Calling — Robert Galbraith (JK Rowling) ❤️ (I will definitely read more of this detective series.)

27. The Forgotten Waltz — Anne Enright ❤️❤️ (Gorgeous writing, poignant story)

May

28. The Gifts of Imperfection — Brene Brown

29. The Tiny Journalist — Naomi Shihab Nye (Poetry) ❤️❤️

30. The Silkworm — Robert Galbraith ❤️

31. Weather — Jenny Offill ❤️❤️❤️

32. Sorry I’m Late, I didn’t Want to Come — Jessica Pan ❤️

33. Career of Evil — Robert Galbraith ❤️

34. Small Game Hunting at the Local Gun Club — Megan Gail Coles

35. Wild Milk — Sabrina Orah Mark

June

36. My Dark Vanessa — Kate Elizabeth Russell

37. Lethal White — Robert Galbraith ❤️

38. The Babies — Sabrina Orah Mark ❤️

39. 21 Things You May Not Know About the Indian Act — Bob Joseph ❤️❤️❤️

40. Girl, Woman, Other — Bernardine Evaristo ❤️

41. Dept. Of Speculation — Jenny Offill ❤️

42. I Will Judge You by Your Bookshelf — Grant Snider

July

43. Tea and Cake with Demons —Adreanna Limbach

44. Washington Black — Esi Edugyan ❤️❤️

45. One Hundred Years of Solitude — Gabriel García Márquez

46. Dreadful Water — Thomas King ❤️

47. Aggie Morton Mystery Queen: The Body Under the Piano — Marthe Jocelyn ❤️

48. My Sister, the Serial Killer — Oyinkan Braithwaite ❤️

49. Feel Free — Zadie Smith ❤️

50. The Girls with No Names — Serena Burdick ❤️

51. A Paris Year — Janice MacLeod ❤️

52. The Heart Does Break — George Bowering and Jean Baird

August

53. Breath — James Nestor ❤️❤️

54. Cloud Games with Plums — Rose Maloukis (poetry) ❤️❤️❤️

55. We Have Always Been Here —Samara Habib ❤️❤️

56. Maybe You Should Talk to Someone —Lori Gottlieb

57. Where the Crawdads Sing — Delia Owens ❤️❤️

58. The Jane Austen Society — Nathalie Jenner ❤️

59. Intimations, Six Essays — Zadie Smith

60. Big Sky — Kate Atkinson ❤️

61. Snowblind — Ragnar Jónasson

62. Hamnet & Judith — Maggie O’Farrell ❤️

63. Grief is the Thing with Feathers — Max Porter ❤️❤️❤️

64. Fleishman Is in Trouble — Taffy Brodesser-Akner ❤️

65. The Long Call — Ann Cleeves ❤️

66. Vesper Flights — Helen Macdonald ❤️❤️❤️

September

67. The House in the Cerulean Sea — TJ Klune ❤️

68. So You Want to Talk About Race — Ijeoma Oluo ❤️❤️

69. Migrations — Charlotte McConaghy ❤️❤️❤️

70. Nobody Ever Talks About Anything But the End — Liz Levine ❤️❤️❤️

71. One by One — Ruth Ware

72. Field Notes from an Unintentional Birder — Julia Zarankin

73. The Gilded Cage — Camilla Lackberg

74. Last Things — Jenny Offill ❤️❤️❤️

75. Anxious People — Fredrik Backman ❤️❤️

76. The Girl Who Lived Twice — David Lagercrantz❤️❤️

October

77. Songs for the End of the World — Saleema Nawaz ❤️

78. Framed — Frank Cottrell Boyce ❤️❤️❤️

79. Broccoli Boy — Frank Cottrell Boyce

80. The Girl Who Was Saturday Night — Heather O’Neill

81. Just Mercy — Bryan Stevenson ❤️❤️❤️

82. Hyperbole and a Half — Allie Brosh

83. Everything Under — Daisy Johnson

84. Commonwealth — Ann Patchett ❤️

85. Phantom — Jo Nesbo ❤️

86. The Bird Way — Jennifer Ackerman ❤️❤️❤️

87. Empire of the Wild — Cherie Dimaline ❤️❤️

88. Falcon — Helen Macdonald ❤️

89. Rosie: Scenes from a Vanished Life — Rose Tremain ❤️

90. The Queen’s Accomplice — Susan Elia MacNeal ❤️

November

91. A Room of One’s Own/Three Guineas — Virginia Woolf ❤️

92. Horrorstör — Grady Hendrix ❤️❤️

93. The Guest List — Lucy Foley

94. We Have Always Lived in the Castle — Shirley Jackson ❤️❤️❤️

95. Six of Crows — Leigh Bardugo ❤️

96. Crooked Kingdom — Keigh Bardugo ❤️

97. Dearly — Margaret Atwood ❤️

98. Everyday Inspirations — edited by Julia K. Rohan ❤️

99. On Photography — Susan Sontag ❤️

100. Stranger Diaries — Elly Griffiths ❤️

101. No Time Like the Future — Michael J. Fox ❤️❤️❤️

102. Indians on Vacation— Thomas King ❤️

103. Memorial Suite — Jocelyne Dubois ❤️❤️❤️

104. The Lonely City — Olivia Laing ❤️❤️❤️

December

105. Deep Country — Neil Ansell ❤️❤️

106. Old Filth — Jane Gardham ❤️

107. Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead — Olga Tokarczuk ❤️❤️❤️

108. So Long, See You Tomorrow — William Maxwell ❤️❤️❤️

109. How to Pronounce Knife — Souvankham Thammavongsa ❤️❤️

110. The Man in the Wooden Hat — Jane Gardam ❤️

111. A Girl Returned — Donatella Di Pietrantonio ❤️❤️❤️

112. The Namesake — Jhumpa Lahiri ❤️❤️

113. Interpreter of Maladies — Jhumpa Lahiri ❤️❤️❤️

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