My bf and I were at a nice restaurant a few weeks ago for dinner.  We don't always eat at these upscale restaurants all the time but like to reward ourselves every so often.  We had a late dinner and the restaurant was already thinning out.  The prospect of rain that evening probably kept some last minute diners away too.

As soon as we sat down, we noticed a group of young Chinese diners near us.  They were nicely dressed and probably just got out from work.  A couple of them had cameras (including a nice Canon SLR - couldn't tell the model).  They were all good looking as well and the table looked like a natural photo shoot for the restaurant.  They were in the middle of their meals when we finished ordering. 

I glanced at them occasionally.  I quietly told my bf  when I was in my early 20's, I didn't have the kind of money, clothes and toys those guys did.  I felt a mixture of emotion as I watched that table laugh, take pictures and well, just looked good.  I slowly put it out of my mind and focused on the food which was very good.  But it was tough to quell those feelings of missing something, of not belonging and I guess envy.  It's strange how those feelings that I've long suppressed can still find their way out every so often.  I mean, as one of them left, I strained to catch a glimpse of the model of his camera and camera bag he was carrying (LowePro).  If I was familiar with fashion, I probably would check out what line they were wearing too. 

Strange isn't it... I would have thought logic and emotional maturity would have long dealt with these feelings. 

My bf's brother and his family flew in for their annual visit.  Their 2 young boys are absolutely adorable and well mannered.  The youngest one is still in diapers.  He can walk and is starting to talk as well.  I guess that would make him about 2 years old?  When he hugs you, he also pats you on the back as well.  He's such a charmer.  After on of their extended family dinners the other night, I happened to be sitting with a couple of the mothers.  They were chatting about their kids and asking each other questions and exchanging stories about their own experiences.  I sat there quietly and chuckled at some of the stories.  I really enjoyed listening to them but I wished I could have chimed in with my own stories too.  I feel a bit like an outsider looking in through the fence at an exclusive club.

I get wistful sometimes when I think about kids. As I was writing this entry, a couple of memories crept in.  I was a sickly kid as a young child.  When my mom took me to the doctor's office at the hospital, we would usually drop by the maternity ward afterwards.  There was a big window and my mom and I would stand there and look at all the babies.  It was a fun time and it always made me smile after a visit to the doctor.  Many years afterwards, I found out mom had a stillborn.  It would have been her first child.  She never told me a lot about that and I never asked.  I only found out when she gave me my birth certificate for safekeeping.  That's when I found out I was the 3rd child not the 2nd.  My mom did tell me one day that the nurses took it away very quickly and despite her pleas, they never showed the baby to my mom.  She just caught a glimpse of the baby's black hair.  I now look back at those visits to the maternity ward and wondered if it brought some comfort to her.

I know I write a lot of baby stories.  It might seem strange to some of you.  I just want to know what it would be like to come home and have my child welcome me.  Ok... get out the tissues.   

I was walking in the park the other day and saw someone walking a Great Dane.  Our family had a Great Dane once.  She was really more of a watch dog than a family pet.  She was fiercely loyal to us and did her job tirelessly.  She was a wonderful dog and despite her size, she was very gentle with us.  The only time she would growl at us was when she was eating.  My brother and I would try to get our hands close to her bowl when she was eating.  That was the only time she would start to emit a low growling noise.  But she never bit us and was always happy to play with us.  When my parents made the decision to move to Canada, we had to leave her behind.  My dad found someone to take care of her. 

The new owners came with a pickup truck.  My dad was at work leaving mom and the 3 of us along with the dog.  One of the man lowered the gate at the back of the truck and slid a wooden ramp down.  But our dog refused to get on the back of the truck.  There was one man pulling at the leash while the other man was trying to push her from behind. She was too strong and refused to budge.  We watched all of this from the porch with very mixed emotions.  Our dog held her ground but kept staring at us.  Finally one of the man asked my mom to help.

My mom approached the back of the pick up truck, put her hand in the back and said "come here".  Our dog waltzed up the ramp towards my mom's hand.  The man shut the gate and pulled up the ramp.  We watched as the truck drove away with our dog staring at us.  My mom started to cry and felt so guilty.  When dad came home, she related the story and started to cry again. 

To this day, I still find it difficult to look at a Great Dane without thinking about our old dog.  It wasn't a storybook ending.  I almost feel like patting each of them looking for some sort of closure. 

Someone stole my car's decal the other day.  I noticed it right away when I went to open my trunk.  All that is left are some scratch marks and the backing of the decal still glued to my trunk.  That little decal set my car aside from other similar models.  Only worshipers from the Temple of VTEC will understand my anger.  I also found the door to my car unlocked as well but nothing was taken.  It's not the first time someone has stolen stuff from my car.  I had a tool box, a pair of coveralls and some loose change taken from my first car.

But the worst theft that ever hit me (and my family) had nothing to do with cars or our home.  Someone stole a flower arrangement that we had left at the cemetery for my mom.  It was a nice arrangement too.  Can you imagine that? 

We humans can soar to great heights and accomplish amazing things.  But we sure can sink to depraved depths as well.

Yeah, in the grand scheme of life, this isn't a big deal - but it's very annoying. 

When I walk in my neighborhood at night, I always try to be aware of my surroundings and the people near me.  There is crime in my neighborhood.  It has all the issues one would expect in any large urban environment.  On the plus side, there's a lot of pedestrian traffic and cars / buses / streetcars so I'm not that worried.  I don't venture down side streets, cut across dimly lit parks or explore dark alleys.  But I do pay attention to my posture and how people may perceive me.  One of the things I've learned over time is not to look like a victim. 

I walk with a sense of purpose even though I'm just unwinding.  My back is straight, my head is high and shoulders back.  I try not to walk with my hands in my pockets.  I never look down or walk hunched over as if I'm sad or lost in thought.  When people walk past me, I try to listen to their footsteps and make sure they are walking away.  I might glance behind discreetly or look for their shadows from the street lights.  Drunks are the worse and they are hard to predict especially if they are in packs.  Fortunately my area isn't near the clubs and aside from the odd drunk here and there - I've never had problems with them.

As people approach my direction, sometimes they may look at me.  I'll look right back just to let them know I've noticed them.  But I don't glare at them.  This facade of toughness has served me well over time.  In reality, I don't know any self defense.  I have never been in a fight.  (ed note:  Matt punched a girl once when he was in Gr. 8.). 
My only weapon is my "pen" - well - keyboard.  I can just see a mugging scene unfolding.  "If you're gonna rob me, you better think twice.  I'm going to write about you and it won't be flattering.  I have over a 100 subscribers now so get lost!" 

So if you see some tough but funny looking dude walking at night.  It might be me.  But don't worry - I'm just a softie inside.  As for that girl in Gr. 8, she was bigger than me and was quite mean to me that day.  It wasn't a hard punch. 

When I started blogging a few years ago, I basically wrote whatever popped into my mind.  My intent at that time was to start an online journal and to deal with some of the issues I was facing after my mom passed away.  No one read my blog at that time.  After a while, there were a few readers here and there.  I soon bumped into Kelvin who just moved into Xanga.  He wrote under the name of Asymmetrik.  Some of you who’ve been around as long as I have might remember him.  His writing was lucid, clear and concise.  His banners (this is pre theme) were colorful and imaginative.  I never knew how he did it.  He gave me a lot of encouragement and tips on writing and blogging.  He was well read, articulate, cultured and armed with a sharp writing style.

Kelvin love of music was obvious.  U2, Coldplay, Amy Winehouse, house mixes, jazz were all featured.  But his favorite was Madonna and he would write endlessly about her.  There were also book reviews, movie reviews, interesting ads, TV shows and whatever caught his eye.  It was a treat to read his blog.  You never knew what to expect.  One day he would write about clubbing, good food or vacations and the next day it will be about relationships or religion.  He also had a habit of editing his entries after it was posted.    What you see in the morning may not be what you see at night. 

I knew what I read was only a slice of his life.  How can anyone profess to know someone just by his writing?  Humans are complex creatures with many layers.  Kel left Xanga and went back to LJ and eventually to WordPress.  He changed his blogs frequently.  I followed his blog and he kept a link to mine.  But sometime last year he privatized his blog and there was nothing to read.   

I was thinking of him the other day and poked around.  That’s when I found out he passed away recently.  I read it on someone’s blog.  It was a bitter disappointment to learn of this news.  I’m angry and sad that someone so talented died so young.   

Rest in peace Kel.  You're with God now.  You will be missed.

As usual on Sundays, I picked up my dad for dinner.  My sister was running late and couldn’t make it.  That’s fine with me.  It gives dad and I some time together.  He was already waiting for me with a clean shirt, a tie and his favorite fleece vest.  I felt somewhat sloppy with my 3 day old stubble, a wrinkled sweater, cargo pants and sneakers.  As he put on a blazer, I commented how formal he looked.  He grimaced and said he couldn’t find his winter jacket.  He thought he left it in the car.  I went to the garage and looked inside his car but I couldn’t find it.  As I closed the garage door, he was coming out into the chilly winter night with just a blazer.  He said he would be fine.   

I led him back inside and told him we should look for his winter jacket instead.  He was a bit frustrated but didn’t argue.  I double checked the hallway closet and looked inside his bedroom.  He slowly walked into his old bedroom which he hasn’t slept in for some time.  As I was rummaging around, he said he found it.  I was surprised he left it in his old bedroom.  I know he doesn’t go inside there if he can help it.  I used to water the plants every weekend because he won’t go inside.  After a while, I just took those plants home with me.

He took off the blazer and I helped him into his winter jacket.  The only thing he doesn’t like about the jacket is the zipper.  His fingers have trouble lining the zipper up so I help him.  One time, he just muttered “This f*cking zipper.”  It’s not one of those big zippers where everything seems to slide easily.  I think it would be similar if we tried zipping up a jacket while wearing oversized gloves.

As he stood up, he let out a sigh and said “Don’t get old Matt.  I just can’t remember things anymore.  Don’t get old like me.”

I just smiled and said we will all go through that stage.  I did a quick check of the lights and we left.  As we headed out, I handed him his cane.  He doesn’t like using the cane but I gently tell him again to just carry it along just in case he needs it.  I lock the doors and slowly followed behind him.  But I don’t think I could ever describe myself as following his footsteps.  

I was cleaning up in the kitchen the other day, putting away dishes, cutting boards and other stuff.  I left one of the cupboard doors open (just slightly).  I turned away to reach for something and turned back.  Of course, my head hit the door.  It wasn't a hard hit.  But hard enough to confirm that you don't see birds circling your head while chirping their little hearts out.  I can also confirm that swearing helps reduce the pain.

This week, I also broke 2 bowls.  One was just an ordinary soup bowl.  But the other one was from a pottery in Chiang Mai that I shipped back years ago.  On other things that are breaking.  I haven't found someone to service my washing machine yet.  It still works but the squeaking sound is worrisome.  My receiver also stopped working.  I'll probably have to take that in for repairs.  I just dread rewiring those speakers.  It took my brother and I a couple of hours to set everything up. 

Speaking of things that are wearing out... my dental hygenist warned me about my receding gum lines and told me to be more gentle when brushing.  She said it's a common mistake. While I was carefully brushing my teeth that night, I looked in the mirror and noticed my receeding hairline.  As I finished up in the washroom, I looked down to see if anything else was receding.  The only thing that wasn't receding seems to be my tummy.  Sigh...

"The scene of the crime." 

I did manage to make a decent dish this week.  Bittermelon and beef with home made black bean sauce.
It took a day to air out my condo. 

I finish washing the clear vase and fill it with clean, cold
water from one of the many taps in the cemetery.   My sister carefully cuts the flowers and trims
the lower leaves off the flowers before putting them into the vase.  I watched as one car pulls up and park behind
a long row of cars.   An elderly man slowly pulls himself out of the
car, grabs a small bouquet, a newspaper or magazine and a small lawn
chair.  He’s somewhat overweight and
slowly ambles to his destination, both his arms full.   He
glances over my way briefly, looks back down and continues walking.  

My sister calls my name  to let me know she’s done.  I carry the flowers over to my mom’s site while
she tidies up.  My brother and my sister
in law have also been here and they too have left flowers.  I carefully position the flowers and wait for
my sister to come over. 

By this time, the elderly man is sitting down on his chair.  He is leaning forward, his arms slowly moving
as if he was in a conversation.  I look
up at the blue sky filled with puffy white clouds.  It’s a beautiful day.  A cool breeze gently tickles the leaves of the trees and they rustle in laughter.    I watch the elderly man continue his
chat.  I look back at my sister and she continues
to putter about.   My mom was always a patient listener – a perfect
foil for my somewhat high strung sister who always needed to vent.  I start to amble around and look back at the
elderly man.  He’s finished and folding
up his chair.  As he returned back to the
car, I noticed that his pace was a bit faster and his steps just a bit lighter.  Or perhaps it was just my overactive imagination.

My dad looks increasingly fragile as the weeks go by.  After our weekly dinner, I sometimes just sit
with him.  During these times,
conversation can be a bit strained.  He
keeps to himself a lot more.  There
are many moments of silence and sometimes it can get awkward.  I sense he doesn’t want to embarrass himself
when he forgets something.   I asked him the other day if he wanted to move
back into his old room.  He just shook
his head.  He’s slowly cleaning up and
sorting the many, many books, magazines and newspapers.  After all those years of asking him to do
something with them, he finally has done something.  Yet I feel sad rather than relieved.  I know this must be difficult for him.

Eventually I know we’ll have to figure out the next level of
elder care for him.  One evening, I was
going through my pile of magazines and came across an article in Time Magazine
(May 5^th).  The author, Nancy
Gibbs, was writing about death and dying. 
There was one passage in the article that really resonated with me.  

She wrote:  I asked a
doctor friend what makes the difference, once the battle is out of her
hands.  “Fear,” she said, “and regret.  Take those away, and what’s left is peace.”   

Suddenly some of the mist and fog that were covering my path
have started to clear.