Thirteen

Yesterday was the thirteenth anniversary of my diagnosis. That experience is described, rather oddly, in the style of a blog I have long since stopped checking in this post.

I didn't really expect to be here thirteen years later, and time will tell how many more I have in me.

Last results: viral load undetectable (<40), CD4+ 238. Those numbers and the date of the first result tend to be omnipresent for people living with HIV (I may be projecting).

Unfortunately for my friend Lois, December 22 is also her birthday. I won't be forgetting her birthday anytime soon, but I might be thinking about something else that day.

I promise to get back to my blogging habits soon.

Blood Work

I was at the hospital immunodeficiency clinic this morning for my two-week visit in the context of a study in which I am participating. The study is to measure the impact of a program of vaccinations on the CD4+ count and is not – for a refreshing change of pace – linked with proving that any particular pharmaceutical product is not worse than another.

Considering that I had twelve tubes to fill with my blood, I thought I would take advantage of this opportunity to share this part of my medical follow-up. Yes, this one is in the context of a study and involves a few more tubes of blood than usual – usual being more like seven or eight – but the process is the same.

Have a look, as long as you aren't squeamish about needles or blood:



Some notes about this process and its place in my life, perhaps?

I have blood draw for my usual follow-up every three months, but this will be a little more frequent while I am participating in this study. I have to be fasting for the blood work…no eating for 12-14 hours before going in.

I have 'travelling veins' (veines fuyantes), meaning that the process of finding one that will stay in place for the needle to pierce it and to get blood from it can be much more difficult than this was today. It is not unusual for it to take two or three tries to get the right thing happening. Good thing I'm not afraid of needles! In fact, I prefer to watch it go in, rather than looking away as some people do. Also on this veins issue: the phlebotomist (yes, that's the title, not vampire) does start with gloves on, but sometimes has to remove a glove in order to really locate the vein. She doesn't take other chances, though, so no possible needle stick contamination.

The contraption used is designed to make the process easier on me: a butterfly thingy around the needle with a flexible tube leading to the interface with the blood tubes. That way, when the vacuum tube is full and changed out for another, there is no jarring of the needle in my arm.

Thanks to my very able, kind and pleasant phlebotomist for allowing me to film about half of today's experience (I ran out of space on my camera's memory card).

Best. Dog toy. Evah!

It never ceases to amaze me what variety we can find in our local mega-pharmacy, if only we take the time to look.

You know the kind of place: actual pharmacy counter in the back, after you have entered through the new, classed-up cosmetics section, walked past rows of skin and hair care products, candies and, increasingly, groceries… Funny, but I wandered into mine this evening in order to buy milk for breakfast tomorrow.

Then my friend and I stumbled upon the best find:



Despite our advanced ages, we were like children, making it grunt and laughing, bringing smiles to other shoppers – well, all but the most humourless – and it just didn't get old.

I had to buy it and plan to use it in an elaborate plot to get some laughs at my next board meeting. My president, you see, brings her three dogs sometimes, one of whom has a particular farting problem. I figure on using this genius product to humiliate the dogs for a while and then hand it over so that they can have their way with it.

Oh, I kill me!

Harpergan's Isle

(To the tune of the theme from Gilligan's Island)

He goes each year, way up north you see
He hopes to make a name
He says it's about arctic sovereignty
But in truth it's just a game, in truth it's just a game

The resignations he wants to avoid
The tightening of his grip
The ministers don't dare speak out
And if they do they're flip, their shoulders all have chips

They seem to think they're in control
The Liberals are weak
(There's no disputing this last point)
Our prospects are just bleak, not hopeless, but they're bleak

He doesn't believe in climate change
The theory's just a trick
So ask why there is no ice
And the polar bears are sick, and mosquitoes are so thick

We reserve the right to spew forth smoke
And foul the northern lands
'Cause nothing should slow down our growth
We need the old tar sands, it's all over our hands

He'll spend a bunch on bomber planes
And building prisons strong
But don't speak up for women's rights
Because you'll get the gong, 'cause women's rights are wrong

However will this sad tale end?
Is there a quick way out?
When will we all stand up to him
And kick the bastard out, he needs to cry and pout

Before he guts equality
And wrecks the evidence
Before he lets his pals buy guns
And shoot things off a fence, without any licence

Before he cancels everything
That doesn't make some cash
Before he smites his enemies
Or those whose words are brash, he'll get you in a flash

Before he rolls back time to when
We didn't care a pile
Before he comes for you, my friend
And puts you in a file, let's not see that forced smile

So go up north and just pretend
That all that water's ours
Play darned expensive army games
And accumulate powers, they feel better than flowers

But one day we will all wake up
And get a chance to vote
Here's hoping that some thought goes in
To getting Harper's goat, 'tis he who will be smote

Until that day, we watch and note
And ready for the trial
Where reckoning will come to pass
Here on Harpergan's Isle….

T. Immaculatum Update

My doctor just phoned me with the news that my most recent blood tests have shown no sign of the immaulate infection.

I suspect that there is a lab tech somewhere who will not be having as good a day as I, and I am at home nearly immobilized by a back problem!

Annoyance

All right, here's how a good day goes bad, then recovers again.

I had a lovely day at work, a little late, and then planned to leave a little early to pick up some new batteries for my two cordless phone handsets (bad feeling starting to set in: I just replaced these batteries about a year ago, so why can't they stand to be talked on for more than a half hour without beeping rudely in my ear?).

Check the bus schedule online before stepping into the heat and bright sunshine. Bus is scheduled to arrive at 16:52, the next at 17:02, and it's only 16:50, so I ought to make the first one. The first one doesn't come. The second doesn't come. The third doesn't come, or is it the third that is arriving in a convoy with the fourth, itself late? If I had known this would happen, I wouldn't have spent 30 minutes in the hot direct sun that I really don't need, especially with my complexion. Now very angry.

Go to Bureau en gros to inquire about the battery, with the previous batteries on hand so there's no way I can describe them wrong. Heck, I can even get them to dispose of the old batteries in an environmentally responsible way. That assessment, of course, before running into the ill-motivated and passive clerk behind the counter. She glanced helplessly toward the battery carrousel that is notably behind the counter, well out of the reach of customers, and told me she thought they didn't have them. With my margin of time narrowing, I really didn't have time to insist, so I completed her half-formed thought for her: "Donc, c'est non." And just walked out.

Walked quickly to my only other choice in the neighbourhood, The Source, which sold me the original phones and the substandard replacement batteries. No one in the store, except the two clerks. One heads into the back, the other is talking on his cell phone. When he finally finishes his call and meanders over, asking if I need some help (why else am I standing at the cash?). He needn't have offered, as he had none to give.

I go home with only my worn-out batteries, hot from the temperature and humidity and frustrated all around.

In the meantime, I ordered something online a few days ago and had had a "You weren't home" notice from UPS the day before. When I called their number, it took me ten minutes to work my way through their phone system, hoping in vain to be able to speak to an operator to arrange redirection of my package. No such luck. When for the third time I heard the automated voice encourage me to go to the website, I hung up and went there. Smoothly entered all the information to redirect the delivery to the office. But that was yesterday.

Today, coming home angry, tired and frustrated, I climbed the stairs to my front door and found my package just sitting there on the doorstep. Is that redirecting the delivery to my office? Is that doing everything you can to ensure that I actually get my package? No and no. And not the day for this to happen either.

I seriously considered blowing off my dinner plans, but was talked out of it. I'm glad I went to spend some time with friends and had a lovely dinner with them.

Treponema Immaculatum

A terrible injustice just took far too long to unfold in my life. Shall we start at the beginning?

A couple of weeks ago, I was feeling quite sick. A little fever and diarrhoea on the Saturday (I never manage to break out the thermometer when I feel feverish, but let's just say that it was hot and yet I felt the need to pull up my down comforter as I napped in midday). Plenty more diarrhoea and gas over the next few days and the rather disturbing change in colour of my – er – stools. By the time I got to the following Friday, I made myself go see my doctor, who ordered some blood tests and asked me to call in for results the next Tuesday.

Over the weekend, things cleared up and went back to normal. On Tuesday I called and got a bit of a surprise: awaiting confirmation on a test for syphilis.

This might not be a big surprise for a sexually active gay man these days as public health panics us with the pronouncements of a large increase in syphilis cases among gay men (shot all the way up to 300 or so, which seems a little small compared to the many thousands of Chlamydia cases among youth these days). It is, however, a rather big surprise for me, as I have not had sex in approximately 5 years. Except with myself, and I had tests every three months during all that time that showed nothing of the sort.

There is something very annoying about being diagnosed with a sexually transmitted infection without having had sex. All of the notoriety, none of the fun. It all just seems unfair somehow.

Add to my frustration the amount of time that it took for the confirming test to come back: three and a half weeks after the drawing of the blood. Good thing it isn't typhoid, or my neighbourhood would have been wiped out!

Now I think that we all believe that medical science is a lot more precise than it actually is. Like they pour the blood on a little test strip which then turns a particular colour or flashes a "+" to indicate a positive test. It just isn't that simple. There is interpretation involved and I suspect that someone has misinterpreted this result. Either that or the 20 previous results. Which of those scenarios sounds more likely? I think we'll find out more certainly when I have my next round of regular blood tests next week.

In the meantime, public health gets notified and will likely contact me (can't wait to see how long that takes) to ascertain my behaviour. I honestly don't know how they will react to my account, but I don't have another one: just the truth of my lack-of-self-esteem-bad-body-image-inspired chastity. The interesting twist is that I go to meetings with these people in the context of my work.

So where did it come from? A mystery, one might even say a Holy Mystery (hence my clever renaming of the responsible bacteria in the title). Call the Vatican! This is surely a miracle, albeit a negative one. I credit (or blame) Brother André. I think he got it from one of those young boys with whom he is rumoured to have chastely shared his bed. With saints like that….

Now lest anyone think that I don't have all the theology straight in my head, let me remind you that my short-lasting conversion to Catholicism occurred when I was a young adult, so I am down with the dogma. The Immaculate Conception refers not to Mary and Jesus, but Anne and Mary, so that Mary could be born without original sin and be in a position to say "Let it be done to me" when accosted by an angel or archangel.

And while I may have uttered those words, or at least thought them, countless times in the past, I have not done so in about five years. And therein lies the injustice.

Paris

We arrived in Paris this morning to a little bit of drama.

Having opted to be a little frugal and take the RER rather than a taxi, at least to the Gare du Nord, we purchased our tickets without incident and then had to ask the information person where exactly to go.

That's when the drama arrived: a suspicious package that kept us out of the train area for a while and treated us to the sight of soldiers with machine guns and police bomb specialists who were much less well armed, but much more snappily dressed. Not to say I didn't find the camouflage (or what was under it) interesting…. No bomb went off and we took the train.

On the train, a little entertainment from a guy who sang his own karaoke – portable sound system, the first part of a number of songs of different styles – and then asked for contributions. A few of us gave a few coins.

Taxi, then, to the Hotel IBIS La Villette. The hotel is nice, of a different style than the North American hotels I usually stay in for meetings. Here, for Bob, a hotel bed shot…

…and a shot of the view from the window of my room.

Not a typical Paris scene, but we are practically at the wall in the 19e arrondissement. The thing with the bubbly top is actually a covered play area and there are a bunch of kids playing soccer in it, which is a lovely and lively sound.

Another all-important view for me, given my varied experiences of showers in different hotels in France, is the bathroom. First the toilet and sink area:

…and then two views of the shower itself, base and a vertical shot:

It is not much bigger than a phone booth (certainly not bigger than a phone booth here – they are larger here), so I will probably have to get out to pick up the soap if I drop it, but at least the two doors open, so that action will not be a struggle.

I still need a bit of sleep, so will get to that now.

Oh, the Humanity!

Just back from a one-day trip to Ottawa for a meeting and I thought I would write a brief note about the travel experience, rather than the meeting.

First big surprise: I got to the train station with very little time to spare on Sunday only to discover that the travel agency used to book my travel and/or Via Rail had mistakenly booked me for Monday! Some tense moments on my cell phone to the emergency line of the travel agency got me onto the right train with several minutes to spare.

Second big surprise: there was no Via1 car on this particular train, so no lovely free lunch for me! No complimentary drinks either! :-(

The hotel was lovely, and I'll show you what it looked like in this Bob-esque view of the bed:

It was a sleep number bed, meaning that the remote you see on the bed was there to control the firmness by inflating or deflating each side of the bed. A first experience for me, but I won't be rushing out to buy one.

The real tragedies come with the trip home: brace yourself for bourgeois spoiled-bratness!

No problems with the ticket, but what is with this long, long walk to the Via1 car? I mean I – or someone anyway – has paid much more for this ticket, yet I am forced to walk way further than the economy class passengers to get to my car! The world is surely out to get me!!

And then on the way home, neither of the electrical outlets at my seat worked, so I used up 40% of my laptop battery watching two episodes of Justified. (Timothy Olyphant is pretty, cool, and wears his Stetson well.) And, thanks for asking, I am now completely recharged!

I'm just bracing myself for my Air France experience tomorrow. Can things right themselves? ;-)

Resting Place

One of the objectives of our recent family gathering in BC was to come together to spread my Mum's ashes. She asked to have her ashes spread in a place where she would have been afraid to go in life, and we chose the beautiful Helmcken Falls, iconic image of the region she and Dad have called home since 1969.

Interestingly, the area reaches much further back in Mum and Dad's history, as we found out on the drive to the falls. One of Dad's early jobs was in the park – the cabin he stayed in is clinging to the bank of a creek visible from the road, threatening to fall in as the bank erodes. Closer to town, another auspicious spot: the little inn where Mum and Dad went to dinner on one of her visits to him, the place where Dad proposed and Mum accepted.

You might think that a waterfall with a viewing platform and accessible by road would not be the type of place where Mum would have been afraid to go. You would be right on that count, as Mum really loved this spot. We did take care, however, to place her ashes beyond the security fence on the slope leading to the precipice, and we can all be sure that she would never have ventured there.

It felt good to carry out this wish, and not like a sad occasion at all. Now we know that Mum's remains will contribute to plant growth in this beautiful spot with so many ties to her past, and we can only be glad about that.

Glad, too, to have been able to spend some time all together – Dad and all of us siblings and assorted siblings-in-law – which is always a pleasure above all. I did have to realize that I have some points of divergence on issues quite central to my work with some of my siblings, but the important part is that we all love and like each other, which continues to be a testament to what a great job Mum and Dad did with us.

Cendrillon

What a lovely evening I had last night with two friends!

First, we met for supper at Zen Ya, a lovely Japanese restaurant hidden on the second floor on a building on Ste-Catherine West. I had delicious sushi and a lovely appetizer of galettes de deux saumons, layers of smoked and raw salmon on a crispy rice base. Yum!

The true object of the evening was the Opéra de Montréal production of Massenet's Cendrillon (Cinderella).

I have to start with the sets. At the opening, there was a kooky arch with a sign spelling "Cendrillon" in lights, which I didn't really care for. It looked a little tacky for what I expected, and I'm glad to say it didn't stay long.

The main set which arrived afterward – the kitchen of Cinderella's family home – was like some kind of crazy cross between a Dali painting and a box of pale pastels. Giant kitchen appliances soaring skyward and a 50's looking table at the centre on a much smaller scale, made for the humans who sang there. I'm not sure if I was more surprised by Cinderella emerging from inside the stove, where she was cleaning, or by her fairy godmother stepping pout from behind an old looking test pattern on the TV way up on the counter and descending by using a series of pulled-out drawers as her stairs.

The ball brings us to a theatre space where they have cleverly inked on the marquee "Bal Princier." The big problem with this was the clock, which lost control of its minute and hour hand, so Cinderella rushed out when the clock struck…11:20. Nothing else really stands out about this set, so on to the next: the drive-in cinema! A giant boat of a car sits centre stage and a screen descends from above – a screen on which is projected black and white movies of historical princesses getting married to princes. How big is the car? It's so big that when the prince and Cinderella get in, they are not even aware of each other's presence (opera is fun that way) and we can barely see their heads above the dashboard!

One other set to mention is the suburbs, where Cinderella's father moves with her and, it seems, with step-mother and step-sisters, after a post-ball dispute. Or maybe they were always in the suburbs? Rows of identical houses layed out in that peculiar suburban way of patterning streets, all visible painted on the backdrop.

Costumes, you ask? Fascinating. A whole lot of garish shades of the pastels in the background on the main characters. The best, however, was the Las Vegas style performing at the Bal Princier. The dancers were wearing giant headdresses that looked like cocktails and they even lit up at a particular moment in the performance. Oh, and the slipper. In the opera, only one glass slipper is ever worn, and it renders Cinderella unrecognizable to those who know her. When she put it on, I swear it lit up like the whole thing was made of glow in the dark material, way better than those running shoes that light up on impact. I still can't believe, however, that no one noticed she was wearing two different shoes (the Bal Princier was obviously not held in a club in Montréal!) and there was no mention of how difficult it was to get back home with only one shoe on after midnight.

And just because we are delaying getting to the singing, a few words about acting and other elements of movement. I don't think I have ever seen as much dancing in an opera, and this was not just at the Bal Princier. The bevy of foreign princesses competing for the prince's attention were a collection of acrobats and contortionists, doing things like ironing while doing a handstand on the ironing surface or tossing a baby around in a most entertaining but not very motherly way. Some extras who looked a little like feral Mr. Cleans ventured into the audience during the cinema scenes to hand out popcorn, which was most odd. Back at the house post-ball, there was some slapstick that looked a little too much like domestic violence for my comfort.

Okay, it was the opera, so what about the singing? Well, things did not start well. I could barely hear Cinderella's father as he sang, and I'm not sure whether it was he, or the set eating the sound. Others were more audible and sang quite nicely. But you need more than a nice voice, and I may be a little too prejudiced in favour of Italian opera, with its catchy tunes and repetition of the best lines, to rave about this one. There were a couple of very lovely songs that I thoroughly appreciated.

One other note: at one point during the performance there was so much coughing around us in the crown that I thought there was some kind of H1N1 outbreak. Yikes! Get a lozenge, people!

All in all, as you can see, an enjoyable night out.

Civic Vigilance

Even now I am wondering about the story behind this sight in the entryway of the Jean-Talon Métro station yesterday afternoon. But I will not likely have any answers.

As I rode up the escalator, I called my friend to see if he didn't want to join me on my shopping trip. He did, so I offered to wait where I was until he got there. As I stood in the nearly deserted entry space, I noticed this pile of things:

No one seemed to be connected to it. I started thinking that this is the classic case where news reports tell us "the authorities" have closed down an extensive area in an urban setting and sent in a robot to determine what this might be. I actually expected it to explode at any moment. But I didn't leave, because I was waiting for my friend and wanted to be where I promised I would be.

People just walked by, not taking any notice of this menacing sight. Even the officials of the Société des transports de Montreal (the transit authority) – well, I guess I should point out that only a couple of bus drivers went past – paid no attention.

At least I, the model of civic vigilance, took a picture with my phone.

All of this reflection just makes me think that we have become a little paranoid these days. Or the news has. I guess I watch too much news?

Andersen's Inkwell

We went to see an excellent play this afternoon in a theatre full of parents and children.

It must be very difficult to create a piece of theatre that can entertain children and adults alike, but this Geordie Theatre production succeeds in doing it. Minimal sets, but with very effective use of a projection screen at the back of the stage, great costumes and really good acting.

The little match girl sitting under a snowfall of paper bits as the tall man cuts out a cityscape that mimics the one projected on the rear screen just after, the coming and going of characters in Dickensian outfits (probably Andersonian, but I'm quite unfamiliar with Danish couture at that particular time in history), it was well-staged and well acted. It was actually a plus to have children calling out "There's nothing there!" in response to the cloth for the Emperor's New Clothes or "I am!" when one of the characters asks who's there.

My personal favourite was Daniel Brochu in the role of the goblin. He was also good as one of the swindlers (of the Emperor's New Clothes), but the goblin role showed off his talent, voices and physical presence the best.

And in the end, the goblin Eric learns the value of books and reading, even if this might not be the message retained by some of the many children under the recommended age of six who were entertained anyway.

I would recommend going to see it, but I fear we just saw the last performance.

First

I have been so busy over the last few weeks that I didn't realize that this day was coming. Now, in a brief pause in the pace of work, I have a few moments to think about it.

This is my first Mother's Day without a Mother.

I won't have any more hugs. She won't massacre me in a game of Scrabble or Crib or any of a number of card games we played either between the two of us or as some configuration of members of our family. We won't debate the issues of the day or agree on our criticisms of things that are happening around us in our society and in the world.

I'm not sitting around weeping and wringing my hands (though I am getting a little teary as I write this). Anyone who knew Mum would know that that would be the last thing she would ever have wanted. No, I'm remembering the best of our relationship and the many things that Mum did and said that will stick in my mind forever. In that sense I will always have a Mother.

I wish that seeing the rest of my family was not still three weeks away. I think I need to hug them.

Sharing a Smile

I love it when this happens.

I was waiting for the bus after a long day at work and a short grocery shopping afterwards that was nonetheless challenging to my stamina. I kept having to change my briefcase and (reusable!) shopping bag from one hand to the other as the source hand started falling asleep or hurting too much and the destination hand was ready for its turn.

The interminable parade of 535 buses (always empty when they pass at this particular bus stop and always three times as plentiful as the ones I want to appear) finally included something worth looking at: one of our new accordion buses, just introduced to Montréal this year.

I had a good look at the bus from the point of view of someone standing at the bus stop as it pulled away, including seeing what the inside of the trailer part looked like. Then I turned and I noticed that there was a woman in the bus line, also not waiting for the 535, who was looking at the bus with the same fascination I had. We caught each others' eyes and exchanged a smile with our shared delight at our bus close-up.

A few minutes later, it was a car going by that caught our attention. Not the car, mind you, but the enormous dog with its head sticking out the back window. Smiles again.

This woman is no one I am ever likely to meet, maybe not even to see again. But we shared a couple of moments of joy. This should happen every day.

GinGer Schnapp

In case you're wondering, the Gs in the title are hard Gs.

I rewrote the lyrics of a traditional song in honour of the birthday or a friend of mine. In reaction to his insistence on calling me "Buttercup" when we speak, I have taken to calling him "GinGer Schnapp" complete with a wide-arc snap when the hands are free and not too sore.

For the tune to which this is sung, try one of the original versions here or here.

When I First Came To This Land (GGS version)

When I first came to this land,

I was but a girly man,

So I got myself a schnapp,

And I did what I could.

And I called my schnapp, GinGer Schnapp,

Unrepentant girly man, I do what I can.

When I first came to this land,

I was but a girly man,

So I got myself some 'mos,

And I did what I could,

And I called my 'mos, tramps and hos,

And I called my schnapp, GinGer Schnapp,

Unrepentant girly man, I do what I can.

When I first came to this land,

I was but a girly man,

So I got myself a 'tude,

And I did what I could.

And I called my 'tude, watch it dude,

And I called my 'mos, tramps and hos,

And I called my schnapp, GinGer Schnapp,

Unrepentant girly man, I do what I can.

When I first came to this land,

I was but a girly man,

So I got myself some boots,

And I did what I could.

And I called my boots, big galoots,

And I called my 'tude, watch it dude,

And I called my 'mos, tramps and hos,

And I called my schnapp, GinGer Schnapp,

Unrepentant girly man, I do what I can.

When I first came to this land,

I was but a girly man,

So I got myself a grip,

And I did what I could.

And I called my grip, out don't flip,

And I called my boots, big galoots,

And I called my 'tude, watch it dude,

And I called my 'mos, tramps and hos,

And I called my schnapp, GinGer Schnapp,

Unrepentant girly man, I do what I can.

When I first came to this land,

I was but a girly man,

So I got myself some fun,

And I did what I could.

And I called my fun, no work done,

And I called my grip, out don't flip,

And I called my boots, big galoots,

And I called my 'tude, watch it dude,

And I called my 'mos, tramps and hos,

And I called my schnapp, GinGer Schnapp,

Unrepentant girly man, I do what I can.

Happy Birthday, GinGer Schnapp!

Simon Boccanegra

Once again to the opera last Saturday to see something that is apparently not often presented: Simon Boccanegra.

No politicians climbing over rows of seats this time, and we're not really sure whether we saw the Fraggle (woman in the fabulous feather coat that I imagined to be made of the tailfeathers of a thousand baby pheasants). We were not, however, without audience amusement.

There was a guy in the row ahead of us, a little more off to the side, who was wearing an outfit to stand out. At first my friend told us (we were a party of 3) that the guy was not wearing a shirt! We, of course, tried to position ourselves to see, even racing from the hall during the intermission to see if we could get ahead and glance back. Alas, he was too quick for us. We did make it back to our seats before he did and had an excellent perspective when he finally came back in with mere moments to spare.

He was wearing a motocross-style white leather jacket made by some trendy designer and under it, while not completely shirtless, he had only a very flimsy jersey knit top, open all the way to the navel. To make it all worse for us, his chest was nothing that we really wanted to look at too long.

Focus on the opera! A lovely experience, although great parts of the story take place off stage and are explained to us in some of the longest surtitles ever. The chef d'orchestre was a woman, which was a welcome first in my 3-year opera experience in Montréal and the music was beautifully played and sung.

If I had a particular critique about this production, I would say it was in the sets. They were rearranged in various ways for the different scenes, but didn't look all that different from each other. One would think that Genoa was a cookie cutter suburb, albeit one with soaring arches and lovely stonework. I'm not worldly enough to be able to compare the sets to the actual architecture of Genoa, but I am willing to guess that it is more varied.

The other thing that bothered me was that I was too often aware of the spotlight. It seems to me that the spotlight should not be visible on the scenery (even the house wall), but it was throughout the opera. This annoyed me a bit, as I don't recall having noticed the spotlight so explicitly in past productions. Maybe bad set placement, bad coordination with the movements of the singers/actors. (Yikes! Do we call them singers or actors in the opera?)

Once again I will say that the singing was very lovely, if only to take away the sting of my harsh assessment of the sets and spotlight. The other aspect that I loved was the costumes. Those of the senators gathered in deliberation with the doge are an inspiration to me for something that I have resolved to do if I should win tons of money and can affort to be a public eccentric.

That story, however, will have to wait for another time.

Finally!

I suppose it has actually only been 9 days since I went to the optometrist and then selected multiple frames for the fabulous deal (buy 3, get 3), but it still seems like forever since the old glasses broke only 3 days ago.

So here's that first look at my new glasses:

Okay, just kidding. Those are some new glasses underneath, but the dominant image is the 3-D glasses I was wearing to see Alice in Wonderland ("I need a pig here!").

Bob would have me do this:

I think not, oh helpful one!

Here is my lovely selection of frames:

The last two also come with magnetically attachable sunglasses:

I am most relieved indeed to have new glasses and multiple backups.

Now maybe I will be able to see the slides at the front of the room in my ongoing conference tomorrow morning.

Foreseeable

I knew it was coming. That didn't make it any easier to accept, even as it made it easier to plan for.

About a week ago, I casually wiped my glasses with the bottom of my sweater as I have done so often in the past. They came back up seriously twisted, and that was the moment I realized they had entered the fragile zone. They were not long for this world.

I immediately booked an appointment with the optometrist at a nearby optical outlet. For the next day, as it turned out: she is there only two afternoons a week. Another health care professional who didn't bat an eye when I disclosed my HIV status (Did I have any health problems, she asked. I disclosed my status more to explain the potentially vision-impacting treatment I am taking for my psoriatic arthritis, the effects of which she then explained to me more clearly than anyone else has in the past.)

As luck would have it, a promotion at the store: three pairs of glasses with just-discontinued frames, lenses and clip on sunglasses included (well, for 2 of 3) all for less than $900. I might have been more upset by that before my [no longer so] new job and before the impending urgency of the state of my actual glasses. It actually seems like quite a bargain in light of all of those elements.

Ten days to wait for the new ones. Now when would it happen?

I handled them oh so carefully through the entire weekend of the 6th Canadian Skills Building Symposium on HIV/AIDS, where I had some official duties to perform. They held. A day and a half of time to recover from that demanding weekend, including a rare and enjoyable Monday afternoon movie with a friend. They held.

I got the idea that this would be the day as I dashed off to a meeting this morning. When you have progressive lenses, there is something about their being at slightly different angles that becomes disturbingly noticeable. When I had to straighten them several times on the metro en route to my meeting, I got the sense of foreboding. They didn't last through the meeting, snapping about an hour into things.

Luckily, I had been carrying around my flawed but more solid previous glasses since the day after the sweater incident, and the transition was quite smooth for me. I don't feel comfy in these and I'm looking forward to the impending delivery of my new choices.

Cross-pollination

I've never really put any pictures of myself on this blog, partly because it's about what's going on inside my head, partly because I have been having terrible body image problems over the last few years with weight gain. Now I'm sort of making an exception to that practice, but you will have to go elsewhere to actually see me in action.

Since Thursday, I have been participating in the 6th Canadian HIV/AIDS Skills Building Symposium here in Montréal. Bob, who you can also see here, asked me to do a short interview with him for PositiveLite.com, a collective blog we are both involved in with a number of other people. I was happy to oblige, even though I'm sure I'll have all my image issues when it gets posted.

Here's the trade-off – Bob promoting the eventual posting of the video over at PositiveLite.com:

Just to clear up a few issues in the video Bob shot…I'm not actively soliciting applications for boyfriend, but if any unsolicited ones should happen to roll in…well, who am I to be rude?

And the question he didn't ask? Black. My favourite colour is black. Just like my heart. ;-)

Post script: the interview is now up and can be seen here!

Surprise!

I talked about this with my siblings in December, and we even looked for one then, but to no avail. Now I have finally found a jack-in-the-box (a boîte à surprise) for my great nephew (son of my niece).

Now it is thematic, and themed to characters which are unfamiliar to WASPy me: Barbapapa. I figure that when he starts talking, he is likely to be as anglophone as I am, growing up in western Canada with parents and grandparents who speak English to him. So how to understand and explain Barbapapa? With a book, of course!

I was lucky enough to pick out this book which is seeking to teach francophone children their first English words. I suspect that he and his parents will be using this book the other way around!

And here is how the box itself works (ignore the clutter on the kitchen counter behind it!):

Now why don’t more toy companies make these things these days? It’s a mystery to me.

Cross-Marketing

With all of the bad automotive news circulating in the media these days, it occurred to me that there is actually an opportunity here for a joint promotional adventure.

On the one hand, we have Toyota, having some problems with sticky accelerators on a few of its models, and apparently with brakes on some of their Prius models. (As an aside, I was trying to determine whether the plural of Prius would be Priusses or Prii, but ended up just avoiding it!) Note the massive battery power on the non-combustion side of the Prius.

On the other hand, you have Energizer, with the little bunny that keeps going, and going, and going….

Now is that lemonade or what?

In other thoughts, I have found myself looking at the grilles of cars slowing to stop at red lights before stepping in front of them to cross the street. I know it isn’t logical, but all the media coverage has made me a tiny bit reluctant to step in front of a Toyota until it has completely stopped.

Down at Tosca Rock

I just got back from the opera, and boy… Okay, no finish for that one. I continue to love the promotional materials of the Opéra de Montréal (above).

Once again, the sets would have made a nice apartment, if you could keep the crazy diva from tossing a life-sized doll off the parapet. And I was appreciating the solemn silent soldiers, but that might be because it’s been a while…

The action, it seems, was in the crowd.

Two rows ahead of us, there was a woman wearing quite a dazzling feather coat. She took off the part that looked like it had been made of the plucked tail feathers of a thousand tiny pheasant babies and she still had on a feather collar and a stylish hat, itself adorned with feathers. My companions decided to call her the Fraggle, as those characters were the last to be able to pull off that degree of featheredness.

We also saw an Angelica Houston look-alike (complete with bangs) and someone else in a red leather skirt that would have looked at home on Tina Turner.

The funniest sight might have been the leader of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition. Not the fact that he was there, but the manner of his arrival.

"Can anybody tell me where my seat is?"

It seems that the guy who thinks he ought to be in charge of charting our way over the next years arrived in the wrong row and had to climb over a couple of rows to get to his seat. It’s not every day you see a political leader climbing over theatre seats.

Calculating in my tiny head from where we were sitting to where he was, I figure that he was supposed to be in row Q, but entered row O instead. Hmmm… Ontario starts with an O and Québec with a Q, and he headed instinctively to the O. I wonder if there are any conclusions to be drawn from that?

Just asking.

Govertainment

We've all seen the seemingly unstoppable development of 'infotainment' shows — ET, E, Etalk, TMZ — the list goes on to unfortunate lengths. What seems to characterize these shows is an endless stream of teasers for the content that is 'ahead' or (eventually) 'up next.' When we get to the item in question, the content seems to be somewhat less than the sum of the promotional elements.

Now it looks like our federal government is trying to move governing in the same direction. They ceaselessly announce the same spending programs, slightly repackaged each time, without actually sending the money out to where it belongs. When it does go out, it is going to the projects so late that they couldn't possibly spend the money before the end of the fiscal year, let alone actually accomplish the whole of the project that was submitted. The excess money goes back and the job is half done, through no fault of the project managers.

When the infotainment people don't like the way their program is turning out, they yell 'Cut!' and start over. Our federal government has just done the same thing by proroguing Parliament, not intending to call it back to work (and all work must restart after prorogation) until March.

The Prime Minister would have us believe that this is a normal course of events. It's true that this seemed a little more panicked when he did it last year to avoid being defeated and possibly being forced to cede power to a coalition of the opposition parties, but it is not supposed to be an annual or even a regular event.

The first Wiktionary definition of prorogue is: "To suspend a parliamentary session or to discontinue the meetings of a parliament without formally ending the session." The real effect is that all legislation that has not received royal assent dies, the work of the committees is suspended and generally that business of government that already moves at a rather slow pace slows further. At the same time, this is less than dissolving Parliament, which would bring about an election.

So I ask you, when the government offers us an endless stream of promotional announcements with underwhelming concrete results and then yells "Cut!" when they feel that things are not going their way, are we being governed or 'govertained'?

Ungrateful

Today, 4 January 2010, marks the end of the US HIV travel ban.

For those who might not be familiar with this story — and there are a disturbing number of people who didn't know about this — the United States banned the entry of people living with HIV to its territory from 1993 until today. Oh, yes, there were ways around this, either by getting a waiver (meaning disclosing your status and applying for permission to enter the country for treatment or on compassionate grounds, acceptance not guaranteed), by hiding your HIV medications (more difficult in the post-9-11 era), or by taking a holiday from your treatment (not the best of ideas for the efficacy of your treatment). The rule, however, was as clear as the message: if you have HIV we don't want you.

So now, after a year-and-a-half process that actually started under George W. Bush (but wasn't likely his idea), the ban is gone and the country has gone one step further than that, eliminating the HIV test as a part of required medical testing for immigration purposes. I realize that when a country doesn't have subsidized health care this is probably easier to do, but I wish Canada would follow that particular lead and stop testing immigrants and refugees.

So why am I ungrateful? I refuse to be grateful when someone finally stops doing something they should not have started doing in the first place. If I'm being punched in the face and the bully stops, should I thank him? I'm not grateful for that. It is the right thing to do, but it is not praiseworthy.

So now let's get on with eliminating other countries' various absolute and conditional barriers to the free movement of people living with HIV, maybe starting with our own.