TIGHTLY WRAPPED AND A NICKEL SHORT

For the sake of the lowest coin on our totem pole, the Canadian nickel, a local restaurant and its owner has lost my business.  Sounds kind of silly, doesn’t it?  BUT, and this a BIG BUT, sometimes that’s all it takes.

A nickel, you say?  How on earth does something like a nickel, a whole 5¢, not even one thin dime, make such an impact?

It all started rather ordinarily.  I had yet another birthday recently (sigh, but glad I’m around to have one) and my daughter and granddaughters are treating me to an afternoon of their wonderful company and then dinner out at a nearby restaurant.  Getting a little bored with ‘the chicken’ place where I usually chose to go, I did a little homework and finally settle on a new place to try.  My daughter is a bit dubious.  She knows me pretty well and is actually quite surprised that I’m willing to go somewhere different but I figure, “What the heck.  So many other changes have happened in my life recently, what’s one more?”  So I make the reservation, which is recommended for a Saturday night (my daughter would have gotten to it but better safe than sorry, since she’s so busy) BUT I did do my homework before deciding.  

In this day and age of our wonderful, modern technology, it’s relatively easy to research pretty much anything or anybody.  One innocuous question later, typed into the search bar of that brilliant search engine called Google, can bring you bazillions of results.  Now comes the hard part – separating the wheat from the chaff.

There are quite a number of trip/restaurant review sites, where real people (supposedly) travel and/or go out to dine and then write reviews of where they stayed and/or where they ate and what.  I find these reviews sometimes helpful but then when a Canadian investigative show like Marketplace looks into these so-called reviews, it turns out that a lot of them are actually fake.  Yep, fake.  That’s how some people make a living these days – writing glowing, bogus reviews and getting paid for them.  I’ve heard too, that it also works the opposite way – people getting paid to write crappy reviews on a competing business, by the company which is trying to drive that business, out of business.  For shame.  And it never ceases to amaze me how many people really seem to believe everything they read on the internet.  After all, if it’s on the internet, it’s got to be true, right?

I put my question in the Google search bar and press the 🔎.  Nanoseconds later, about a gazillion and a half hits show up on the results page. Sigh.  Hmmm, where to start reading?   I start at the top of the list which has been sorted (ranked?) by Google Reviews, and read with dogged interest.  One close-by restaurant seems like a really good place to go – reasonable prices, great homemade food and child-friendly staff.  I try to surf my way to the restaurant’s web site but they don’t have one and I can’t find their menu anywhere.  Hmmm, obviously not up on technology. So back to the reviews I go and was able to glean enough information to know that there is at least a couple of things which I might order (I’m pretty picky when it comes to ‘out’ food).  Some people’s reviews are quite effusive about the home-made food, the kid’s menu and how child-friendly it is there.  So off we tootle and arrive just a few minutes late for our 5:00 p.m. reservation.
   

The restaurant is small and casual but cozy and we are lead to a booth with a reserved sign on the table. We order drinks, with two of the grandkids’ beverages being included in their child-menu meals.  The menu is quite extensive and with 3 kids it takes them a while to figure out what to order.  It finally gets sorted out and the waitress, whom I suspect, from what I’ve read, is the also the owner/chef scribbles furiously in her order pad.  She has quite the no-nonsense attitude and seems just a titch impatient with the indecisiveness of my oldest granddaughter (turned 13 just a few months ago).  Finally everyone has ordered, our beverages arrive and we spend some time catching up and of course, what meal is complete if somebody doesn't spill something, especially in a public place?  It isn’t much of a spill but there aren’t any napkins on the table to mop up the small puddle.  My second-in-line to the dynasty goes up to the pass-through and waits pretty patiently to catch someone’s attention.  After a few minutes of being ignored, she starts to speak and is told abruptly, "Wait a minute."  After a few good more minutes, no one has yet to ask her what she wants or needs.  Finally the owner/chef asks her what she wants, is informed of the spillage and that there’s nothing to wipe it up with.  The owner/chef tells her to go back to the table and that she’ll be over in a minute.  She comes over some 5 or 6 or maybe 10 minutes later, bringing our tightly-wrapped-in-a-paper-napkin-silverware.

Quickly, my granddaughter unwraps the silverware, freeing it from its straight jacket and moves to wipe up the spill.  The owner/chef barks at my granddaughter, “Stop!  Don’t be using the napkin to wipe up the pop, that’s what I’ve brought the cloth for.  Napkins cost money.”   My granddaughter being the inquisitive sort, asks, “How much does a napkin cost?”  The owner/chef seems to be a little taken aback by the query and then says, “It probably costs about 5¢.”  Hmmm, sounds a little high to me.  It’s not much of a napkin – plain white with no design on it and is of normal size.  I think the owner/chef must either be overpaying for her paper goods or she’s stretching the truth a bit to downplay the whole weird scenario.  She may be even more tightly wrapped than her silverware.

Of course, being an inquisitive sort myself (the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree now does it), a few days later I check out the price of paper napkins in Ontario.  The average is 1¢ to 3¢ per piece, for similar ones, in our local ‘discount department store’.  Hmmm, so much for 5¢ per piece.

The whole sad, sorry incident has left a bad taste in my mouth and has taken a bit of the shine off my birthday dinner.  I know that it might sound silly to let this kind of incident affect my evening but when you only go out a few times a year to enjoy a sit down dinner, which you don’t have to pay for or clean up after, then the occasions are extra special and the owner/chef took some of that lustre off, all for the sake of a nickel and not even a nickel, maybe just 1-3¢.  

I will never go back there again, nor will I recommend that place to anyone I know, or online when someone asks for a recommendation in one of my social media groups.  I try to be fair, especially in this day and age of modern technology and know that a bad review can sink a place, especially a restaurant.  Apparently, around 60% of new restaurants fail within the first year and nearly 80% close before their fifth anniversary.  Since this place has, apparently, only been open for a couple of years (March 2015), unless their ‘front of house’ staff improves, this restaurant, in my opinion, will not be around to celebrate their 5th anniversary.  All because of a nickel.

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VICKY URWIN, HISTORY IN THE MAKING

Chest … OUT, Stomach … IN, Quick … MARCH!  Everyone in total unison, 60 arms swing straight out, shoulder height.  It is the best time of Vicky Blott’s life, serving the country she loves so much, Canada. 

Born Violet, in 1926, there were so many girls named Violet in the small one-room schoolhouse she attended, that Violet became Vicky and stayed that way the rest of her life. 

Although many years have feathered the edges of Vicky’s memories, it is obvious that she’s still as sharp as a push pin.  At 90+ one or two years, so much of Vicky’s life is still as clear as the day she lived it.  So many of those years in military service to ensure the freedom we enjoy today.

In early 1942, Vicky’s home life leaves much to be desired, so she and twin sister, Mabel, decide to enlist at the tender age of 16.  Using slightly altered baptismal certificates, Vicky and Mabel manage to enlist in the Army, which up until March 13, 1942, has really just consisted of hundreds of volunteer women’s corps.  They are considered unofficial before that date. Organized from
coast-to-coast, the military authorities are finally smart enough to integrate these corps into what became the Canadian Women’s Army Corp. Thus, Vicky becomes a CWAC.

Its members wear a cap badge, which consists of three joined maple leaves and two crossed swords. Their collar badges depict the helmeted head of Athena, The Greek Goddess of War and Wisdom.  The creation of CWAC, a milestone in its day and a historical leap forward for women, is the start of a wider trend of women's roles in the Canadian military, which has expanded considerably today.

Vicky recalls basic training lasting a month or two but in the wilds of Kitchener, during the height of winter, it seems to take much longer.  

                      

One of Vicky’s duties is to keep the barracks warm.  She makes many trips to the wood pile, trampling down a deep path in the snow, to keep the stove fed and stoked and her fellow soldiers warm.  Her efforts are appreciated, as her comrades also became her friends, satisfying her yearning for companionship. Coming in on the ground floor of the fledgling CWAC, all the women are equal and have the same opportunities to prove themselves.

Vicky enjoys the camaraderie that develops in the barracks, along with travelling and meeting people from all parts of Canada. She becomes more self-confident and believes that military life has a positive effect on her health, mental and physical. She is proud to belong to the CWAC and to wear its uniform.

Funny only in retrospect, Vicky is scathing when she recounts an experience she has during a two week stay at a summer camp in Niagara-on-the-Lake.  One day, to the female soldier’s astonished eyes, they observe a men’s  platoon marching.  Not an uncommon event but that day … the only thing they have on besides their socks and boots, are their sporrans.  Show offs or chauvinists?  Regardless, it is another example of additional challenges that women soldiers face.  The men, their scanty attire covering up their private parts, stride briskly, sporrans flapping in the breeze, saluting the women in a disdainful way.  Hopefully, not something that would happen today.   

Now living contently in a retirement community not too far from where she was born in Toronto, Vicky loves to sing in a choir, entertaining the ‘old’ folk, playing shuffleboard, serving as a Director for the local Veterans Social Club and going for peaceful walks with Murphy, her 8 year old Shih Tzu.  Penny, the cat, gets to stay home and guard the house.

 

                        

                      Base Borden, May 2014

  

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THERE’S A GROUSE IN MY HOUSE

 

There’s a grouse in my house

Says the little brown mouse

And I don’t know why he’s there 

There’s a grouse in my house

Says the little brown mouse

And all he does is stare

      

               There’s a grouse in my house

                 Says the little brown mouse

             And he’s giving me quite a scare

There’s a grouse in my house

           Says the little brown mouse

          And he won’t get off my chair

There’s a grouse in my house

Says the little brown mouse

And now he’s on the stair

 There’s a grouse in my house

Says the little brown mouse

I’m going to go get my bear

Now there’s no grouse in my house

Says the little brown mouse

He’s finally out of my hair!

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BUSTED! BEWARE THE CHICKEN POLICE!

I had a rather interesting experience late this afternoon when I stopped at my local grocery store, wanting to buy one of the delicious, cooked barbecue chickens.  I’d had a hankering all weekend for one, but living in the ‘tourist’ town that I do, I don’t dare go near the street the grocery store is on.  It’s the main road into our beautiful beach park and every nice weather day in the summer and especially weekends, it’s an endless line of red tail lights, casting a raspberry glow as far as the eye can see.  I try to wait until the out-of-towners have departed our usually serene beach town to go back to their hot and smoggy cities from whence they’ve come.

On Monday, the hankering can be denied no more.  I deliberately time my arrival at the grocery store so I could get one of the just-out-of-the rotisserie, piping hot and juicy chickens.  Alas, I was there about 10 minutes too early.  The deli clerk, recognizing me as a regular, managed to let me know that they (being the chickens) would be out of the rotisserie in about 10-15 minutes.  She is multi-tasking; serving the can’t-make-up-my-mind-Asian-Persuasion-Grandma who was there with her 6 grand kids and the mother (I think) of said grand kids and who wanted every… single … piece, chosen by each .. and … every … grand kid, with a great deal of time-consuming thought and mind-changing, packed separately.  The clerk is a shining example of patience and Customer Service.  Me, not so much in the patience area. 

I am grateful though, that the clerk knows what I’m wanting to ask and I don’t have to wait until Grandma is done.

I said I’d be back and cruise the store for the next few minutes, stopping to check out the bunkers of fresh meat, hoping I could score one or two steaks on special, hopefully cheap enough that I wouldn’t have to mortgage my house or perhaps sell my ample, curvy, luscious body by the pound, on the street corner in order to afford it  Nope, no such luck.  The ones on special are cut pretty big and so weigh in around the $17.00 mark for 2 in the package.  I used to love red meat but as I’ve matured, discovered it doesn’t love me as much I love it.  Someone mentioned that ‘they’ were feeding the cows grain now, instead of hay or field grasses and that’s probably why I’m reacting to it.  Apparently cows shouldn’t be eating grain – it’s just not natural.  Hmmm, “That explains a lot”, I think to myself and now try to make sure that when I can afford to buy red meat, it’s eaten the right stuff, before I eat it.

I do a fast pass of the store, checking out the specials and picking up the cat grass my cats love to eat.  Then they promptly upchuck on the beige wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room.  Scoped out the pop isle too and was disappointed not to find the ginger soda I treat myself to now and again.  Oh well, saved some money there. 

I make my way back to the chicken counter and notice that it seems to be a popular place to hang out.  There are about 7 or 8 people clustered against the bread bins opposite the counter.  I station myself in front of the chicken bunker and I’m having fun watching the clerk, packaging up the hot chickens, efficiently, gracefully and somewhat hypnotically, as she works her way through about 20 of the golden brown birds, steaming on the stainless steel counter.

I am shaken out of my reverie by a stentorian voice, proclaiming, “Why do you think WE’RE all standing here?” 

Huh?  Is he talking to me?  Gob smacked, the penny drops when I realize why all of these are people are draped over the bread bins.  They must be waiting for one of the mouth-watering chickens too.  I turn around and say, VERY LOUDLY, “Oh, I’ve been here a lot longer than you.  The clerk has one with my name on it but thank you for saying what you did loud enough for the entire store to hear”, and turn back to watch the clerk.  The smug look on the loud mouth’s face had quickly dropped off when he realized that I don’t embarrass easy.

AND, he just can’t leave sleeping dogs lie.  Within a minute or so I feel movement behind me and he says, close to my ear, but again, very loudly, “So if you have one reserved, why do you have to stand right up by the counter?”

I heave a deep sigh and turn around and reply, “You’re just not going to let this go, are you?” 

“No.” 

“You should.  You tried to embarrass me by yelling what you did before and you just ended up embarrassing yourself.  Now you’re just trying to keep it going, so you can try, once again, to ‘get’ me."  He starts to say he isn’t embarrassed but I just hold up my hand and say, “Speak to the hand”, which seemed to, at last, shut him up.  He mutters something I can’t really hear (for a change) and I turn around and resume my watch on the clerk who is packaging up my dinner.  A couple of the waiting people comment on how great it is to be able to buy one of the fabulous chickens for only $7.99 and that’s when I realize that it’s Monday and the chickens are on special from the usual $10.99.  It also explains the ‘line-up’.  It doesn’t explain the Chicken Police though, as it’s obvious that there are more than enough birds for everyone who’s waiting.

The clerk brings 4 chickens and puts them on the top of the counter.  I take two, and as I start to turn around, The Chicken Police is already starting to speak, wanting to make, I’m sure, a sarcastic comment, because I had taken two.  I hand one to him and say, “Enjoy.”  He promptly, and I’m sure he thinks, gallantly – did he actually bow as he hands it to the woman who is standing beside him?  She graciously thanks him and walks away.

I make my way to the check out and as I finish paying, I hear someone say, from a couple of check-outs away, and loudly enough for half the store to hear, including me (uh huh, I see him looking at me), “Oh yes, I’m going to enjoy every delicious bite’, I assume he’s referring to the chicken.  He still couldn’t just leave it be, as his icy stare tries to drill holes into the back of my hard Irish head.

I can’t imagine expending THAT MUCH energy on this kind of thing, whether it’s a real or imagined slight; an act of what he considers rudeness, butting ‘the line’.  Even if I was butting, instead of trying to embarrass me by making snide comments loudly enough to be overheard by about a third of the store (and it’s a pretty big store), he could have approached me quietly and personally and suggested that I go to the back of ‘The Line’.  At which point in time I could have, quietly and personally, told him that I was first in his imaginary ‘line’ and keep the other things I’m thinking to myself.

I guess, even at my advanced age, that there’s still new experiences to be had and glad that my first episode (and hopefully last) of Chicken Rage is over.  Although I am wondering, thankfully, how, in this day and age of our wonderful modern technology, the whole sorry episode escaped being caught on video and then going viral!  Thankfully, my own winged creature, my Chicken Angel, must have been watching over me.

My Chicken Angel

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ZOMBIE COVE ACRES

When I first moved here from the Town Down Below in 2012, I was enthralled with the serenity and beauty of my new hometown and especially the new little village I had chosen to live in for the rest of my life.  What I didn’t know, was that I might come to regret that choice.

Head Zombie

Recently someone who lives here started a facebook page just for the ‘people’ who live here.  About 65 ‘people’ joined.  I have to admit that one day I woke up and seemed to have been taken over by something I can’t describe or put my finger on, so I joined this group too. Very quickly, the group seemed to be populated by some zombie-like creatures. Luckily, I hadn’t been taken over by the Zombie powders.  I spoke my mind on one of my posts, which didn’t happen to agree with the Head Zombie’s opinion, so she suspended me.  Isn’t that how Zombies are made?  Where did these creatures come from in the first place?           

According to Wiki  “A zombie (Haitian French: zombi, Haitian Creole: zonbi) is a fictional undead being, created through the reanimation of a human corpse.”    

The Head Zombie made this statement to me, “Unfortunately I find it necessary to suspend your ability to post on Fs & Ns. Your privilege to post will be reinstated after one week.”  

I was so sad to realize that this woman, who I liked and respected seemed to have been sucked into the mindset and culture of our Village, which, in my opinion, is not a good thing overall.  Suspended because my opinion is not the same as hers.  Suspended because the Head Zombie seems to believe that it’s okay for the HOA Board of Directors to terminate your membership if THEY don’t like what you say about them, the community or other residents.  She actually defends them by saying, “Perhaps the HOA is simply evolving...and Parkbridge being more receptive?” 

And this, AFTER she knew that the HOA is trying to add a gag by-law, taking away Freedom of Speech! 

So what did I say that got me suspended?  “Dinosaurs are extinct, no evolving there. Old blood, dried and crusty. In my opinion, Parkbridge obviously colludes with the HOA to their advantage and to the detriment of the home owners.”  Zap!  I was gone.  Terminated from the group. 

Luckily for me, I came to my senses and told the Head Zombie not to bother reanimating me back into the group, as it is obvious she is not forward thinking and clearly she just doesn’t care for any opinion but her own.  I prefer to associate with others who are open-minded and cherish our freedom of speech.    

A few days later, I saw the rosters for the new Committee members for our various Village recreation centres, and guess what my enquiring mind discovered? The fb Zombies seem to have become the Committee for one of our rec

facilities, with the Head Zombie being a director.  Also, on the Rec Centre Directorship and Executive, I can’t help but notice, is an employee of the Village Lessors.  Also on the board is a member of the HOA Board of Directors, who’s an Executive, and also on about 50% of the HOA sub Committees.  Hmmm, maybe the DoAsIsayasaruses’ created the Zombies?  So many of the Zombies from the fb page are now on the Board of Directors for the rec center. 
Co-inkydink?  I think not. 

I seem to be surrounded by creatures of the night and have to wonder about relationships between the HOA DoAsIsayasaruses’ and the Zombies – read my Democracy is Alive and Well in SCA – NOT!  How incestuous, if it is so.  I really, really, really hope that Zombies and the DoAsIsayasaruses’ can’t procreate together, which would create Zombieasauruses.  I would have to move for sure.  But at least now that the mystery has been unwrapped and the true nature of the fb page started by the Head Zombie revealed.    

When I was growing up, my mom always said to me, “You are judged by the friends you keep.”  I used to scoff at her and tell her she didn’t know what she was talking about, until I made friends with a girl named Rachel, who had the reputation of being ‘easy’.  It didn’t take long until the boys thought I was ‘easy’ too.  So my mom was right after all, but the boys were wrong.  

I continued my friendship with Rachel, who, I discovered, was not easy after all but had been labelled that way when a boy tried to wheedle her into ‘putting out’.   When he couldn’t/wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, she kneed him in the nuts to stop him.  He retaliated by spreading a rumour around school that she was easy.  So, this girl, who had done nothing wrong, was labelled easy, just because this ignorant boy had been denied his ‘cheap feel’ and instead of just slinking home to lick his wounded pride and sore balls, he boasted about his ability to cop more than just a few feels. In no time at all, it became ‘fact’ to the tiny-minded  sheep at school that Rachel was more than just ‘easy’.  I’m glad I remained friends with her and stood up for her.  Eventually Rachel earned a different reputation by graduating high school with honours and eventually becoming an advocate specializing in women’s rights.

I assume by now, that there’s a lot of creatures out there who wish I would move.  I’m happy to say that I’m very happy here and won’t be moving.  At least not anytime soon.  And since most of the creatures which live here, in this seemingly tranquil little village are older than me, I’m thinking I’ll outlive most of them.  I’m thankful for the people who still have their brains and are in their right minds, who actually know me.  They don’t fall into the zombie lack-of-mindset, like so many here who do, to curry favour with the Big Bokor (a sorcerer or witch) On Campus (BBOC) by sucking up to them and letting the BBOC eat their brains for breakfast.

I find it hard to believe and accept that these were once-sentient beings, and I used to refer to them as ‘friends’.  Now that some of them have been elected to a rec centre Directorship, it is my belief, based on previous exposure to certain committees here in the Village, that these beings have succumbed to The BBOC and are now zombies.  The Head Undead goes so far as to defend the HOA DoAsIsayasaruses’ and their feeble attempt to quell a home owner’s right to their freedom of speech. 

The HOA Board of Directors are trying incorporate a gag into their Constitution and by-laws.  Check out Rule #27, which essentially states that if ‘THEY’ (the HOA board of directors) don’t like what you say about them, or Sandycove Acres or fellow residents, you are gone.   Their ludicrous ‘new and improved’ – NOT - changes to their Constitution and By-laws, are based on changes to ONCA (Ontario Not-for-Profit Corporations Act) which failed to be passed into law and yet seems to be the Holy Grail upon which the HOA have based their changes. I suppose it works for them.  Go here to read the hooey http://www.scahomeowners.com/ ;  click on the yellow box and check out NEW By-law #27 (page 11) and Change #20, directly subsequent, which appears to be the HOA Board of Directors’ justification of Rule #27.    

                                      STRONG & FREE

I am really grateful and happy that the country in which I live allows me to state my opinion, which I have done here and also gives me the Freedom of Speech to express it.  Good thing I’m no longer a member of the HOA, ‘cause I surely would be expelled for speaking my mind, which I’m happy to say, I still have.

April 17, 1982 Signing of our Constitution

                                          

                                       

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60

60

So you’ve hit 60 – 60 years old that is, not the speed limit, whether miles per hour or klicks.  Now what?

Well, speaking from experience (I sped past 60 a couple of years ago), it takes longer to get out of bed in the morning.  I find myself sitting on the edge, for oh about 5 minutes or so, just getting used to a new day.  Doesn’t matter that I’ve gotten out of bed approximately a QUARTER of a MILLION times before today.  Every day is a brand new experience and my body shouts that out, loud and clear every…single…morning.

Oh, that’s new, I think to myself, when the ‘good’ knee aches some.  I’ll have to remember to put that on the list to go over with my doctor the next time I see him, which since I turned 60, seems to be a lot more frequently than before. 

And, according my doctor, almost every ailment I have (and believe me I’ve come up with some new and weird things), will take time to get better.  The one thing that hits home, is the realization that the amount of time to heal after you turn 60, is at least quadruple the amount of time that was required to get better before you were 60.  Not fair.  But if you’re lucky enough to be retired, then at least you have more time to deal with stuff.

I woke up with a crick in my neck around New Year’s Day (it’s now almost the middle of March).  I, like millions of other people (I’m assuming), think to myself, “It’s just a crick.  It’ll go away.”  Wrong.  And even more wrong, in trying to make sure that the crick doesn’t get worse, I shove extra pillows under my head, while watching TV in bed.  I did that, maybe 2 or 3 nights and wouldn’t you know it, my neck is even worse, probably because my head was forced forward.  Now my neck is sore from the base right up to my skull.  Wonderful.  I think I sprained it.  Doesn’t matter how much I use my Professional T.E.N.S + E.M.S. + Pulse Massager system or heat up my Enchanted Bag, a smallish piece of cotton fabric, filled with a 2.35 pounds (1.07 kg) of rice, heat in microwave for 2 minutes, and which cost $20.00.  This pain in the neck just won’t go away. 

I’m so miserable, it’s a miracle I don’t kill someone or something.  I can’t even yawn  ‘cause it hurts my neck so bad.  Kinda weird when you think about how something as simple as yawning can hurt so much.  I start wondering about what could happen if you can’t yawn properly.  Would it cause some other weirdness?  Kinda like when you dream about dying.  Apparently, if you actually die in your dream, that’s it – game over – you’re deader than a doorknob.  There’s no waking up.  I’m not sure if it’s true or not.  It’s just something I remember someone telling me when I was young and naïve and it’s still something I believe to this day.  So if you can’t yawn properly, what effect does that have on the rest of your not-so-young body?  Will it start shutting down in other ways?  Apparently, yawning is not only an indication that you’re tired, there is also a theory that we yawn to cool down our brains.  What happens if we can’t yawn and our brain overheats? Does it explode like an egg in the microwave? BANG!!!!  I really don’t want to find out and continue yawning as best I can, even though it’s more like just a half a yawn, ‘cause I stop when it gets to the point of hurting.

I plod through the next 14 or so days, trying to yawn without wanting to kick the cat.  Nope, pain-free yawning is just not happening.  Then, one morning, sitting on the edge of my bed during quiet time, I have an Ah Ha! Moment and think about Dr. Christy, the best chiropractor in the world. Oh, I hope I can get a fast appointment.  Of course, being the best chiropractor in the world, also means that she’s usually fully booked.  I can hardly wait until 9:00 a.m. and about 2 minutes past, I punch her number into the phone and hold my breath while it rings.  Dr. Christy answers after about 3 rings (good thing) and I pour out my tale of woe.  She tsks a few times (which I deserve) and is able to give me an appointment for the next day.  I think she keeps a small time slot here and there for emergencies.  I breathe a huge sigh, in anticipation of getting some relief quickly.

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Tuesday morning, yay!  I get to see Dr. Christy and have my pain in the neck fixed.  Oh, if life was just that simple.  Apparently Mother Nature has a cruel streak and decided that an ice storm was in order for today.  Oh goody, a change from the endless snow storms we’ve had.  What a bitch!  I keep checking out the window, hoping against hope that the ice rain would stop and I could make the trek uptown.  Nope, not going to happen. 

I'm so disappointed, I want to cry.   By 10:00 a.m. I had to accept reality and call Dr. Christy to cancel.  She kinda figured I’d be calling and bless her, she was able to give me an appointment for the next afternoon.  I keep telling her she’s going to heaven.

                                                        

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Finally, time to leave!  I throw Sofie, The Toothless Wonder Dog in the car (she’s allowed to come in with me, ‘cause besides being a people chiropractor, Dr. Christy also treats 4-leggeds), and head out.  Driving is tough, ‘cause looking left and right is tough.  No matter.  What’s a little more pain until Dr. Christy fixes it?

We arrive at Barrie Family Chiropractic, which is in one of the old historic duplexes on Collier Street, overlooking Lake Simcoe. There is great karma here and I feel a sense of serenity as soon as I walk in.  Dr. Christy and I catch up on the past three or four years and then she goes over the new medical history form I’ve filled out.  As we talk, I remember the odd thing that didn’t make it on to the form, of course.  Then, the magic begins.  Dr. Christy starts by checking out not only the main ailment but also makes a careful examination of my whole back.

Right off the bat, she can tell that my back is not exactly in whack and treats me to what I refer to as The Rack, which stretches me back into proper alignment.  Wow!  A lower back ache on my left side, which I’ve ignored for about 3 years, is gone.  Just that alone is worth the trek to the Upper East Side.  The coup de grace though is the treatment she applies to my neck and although I sometimes think the cure is worse than the ailment, it doesn’t take long for my neck to start feeling better.

Well, today, about 2 and a half months after this whole sorry episode started, I saw my wonderful (and young) doctor.  Wouldn’t you know, the first words out of his mouth?  “Oh, it’ll heal and be just like it was before it happened, but it’ll take time.”  Yep, been there, done that, got the T-shirt!  Don’t ever wanna do it again.

Another couple of months and I should be as good as new.

                                          

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