The full
Monty will have to wait. After much anticipation,
Brunch was postponed yet again. Scratchy
throat and sneezing have become the norm. After a night of zero sleep, I am
even more curmudgeonly than usual. We
are two weeks into the New Year and already looking ahead to the next statutory
holiday. Thankfully, forces conspired to
declare Family Day available to all.
But the
world has bigger problems. Sunday was a day
of action to counter the coming inauguration--marches on Washington, pink
hats, Writers and Readers Resist. Very pleased to hear that Mr. Anka has
withdrawn his services. No one needs to
listen to a version of My Way that has been specifically tailored for the event. Stellar performance
from Baldwin—and SNL writers—Saturday night. And not to mention a call for Hinckley
to give sober though to an encore. A marathon session of House of Cards II suggests impeachment shouldn’t be all
that difficult. We don’t need an assassination attempt.
Streep’s
acceptance speech carried me and a lot of people through the week. Not even the threat of 10 cm of snow could
dampen the mood. Some felt she was just as bad as Trump in calling out Kovaleski’s history to get her point across. I have no issues with celebrities using their platform to
express their opinion.
As a
counter measure to January 20 and a bleak day for last Sunday’s news—bombings, death by bus—I read Healey’s The Drawer Boy, again.
You carried me—and all that—around all
this time?
The snow
turned out to be a non-starter and we have endured rain and cloud ever
since. Come back sun, all is
forgiven. Need a sun lamp and brass band
to get me up in the morning. I am better
to suited to an equatorial climate. The
rain forecast did not stop the property manager from dumping a truckload of
salt on the driveway. This is why there’s
salt shortage; it has nothing to do with snow and ice.
Things
do still happen north of the border.
Pleased to see Dion shuffled out as he lacks the social graces and spine
for the position of Foreign Minister. Will the Woman in Red tame the Orange Man? Like
her colleagues, Ms. Freeland is equally adept at avoiding answering a direct
question.
Not
you! Not you! By Wednesday, we were back to the US—the post press-conference
blues. More backbone, Press. Reading
that all unsubstantiated claims against Rob Ford’s indiscretions turned out to
true.
Three
things on the to-do-list:
One,
find a way to finally shirk the flushed cheeks, congestion, aches, and sneezing.
I took in five minutes of chill, afternoon air to clear the lungs. There is a
suggestion of green left in the garden—a robust aquilegia and a spike holding
on for dear life. (Also, to convince those around me to wash their hands on a regular
basis and encourage them to sneeze not into the hand or the air, but, the
armpit. Germs are no joke.)
Two, to
find the right balance in being engaged with news and avoiding it outright due
to rising blood pressure from seeing Trump splashed across the newspaper and
screen. But we shouldn’t silo or bubble-wrap ourselves, either.
Three,
to find a tastier option than lifeless WASA crisp bread to sustain me through
January’s fast. This is critical.
Closed
out the week with The Trip—Italy, for respite care. It is pure torture watching
beautiful food being hoovered up without any appreciation for the preparation,
plating, or mindful eating. Note to self, it is time to return to more
adventurous menu planning. Beautiful pieces
of music from Strauss and Mahler (“Wouldn’t you simply die without
Mahler?”) throughout the film. Very medicinal movie all round.
Odd to
start the Sunday wind-down without a Vinyl Café story; last year’s weekly double
bill made for a good jumping off point; we wish Mr. McLean well.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several pounds of sausage, black pudding, and ham to dispense with.
