Another detour

Dear Friends,

I decided not to take the memoir writing course because I don't want to write my memoirs anymore. 

My last name should've been Detour! 

Lili Detour, sounds cool, no?

In the past week, I finished reading memoirs of an Iranian-Canadian woman who was in prison, in Tehran. I came across a beautiful poem by Sadi, a great  Iranian poet. I saw a movie about a young Iranian dancer who defected to France. All of the above, out-of-my-character activities, made me sad, mad and reflective. 

Finally tonight, my mood took me to a lovely terrace across from where I live. I'm sitting here, sipping my wine and listening to loud music, the kind that even my children don't enjoy anymore. All of a sudden it dawns on me that my past is as dark as the sky above me, and my present, as bright as the moon in it. So, I take a picture of my gratitude. 

No, I don't want to dig into the past. Who looks at the black sky when there is a beautiful moonlight? Only the silly! I don't want to recall my sins, or those of the others. Let the injustices, the betrayals and the pain be all forgiven and forgotten. Or, at least be hidden under the black blanket.

 I'm so lucky to be here, now.

Spring Fever

Dear Friends,

Spring has definitely taken control of Cobourg. Once again, the shimmering waters have become home to various flocks. Although there are no signs of bathers, campers or boaters yet, the smooth sand is as inviting as it was in the summer, as if it had never been buried under layers of snow and ice. Even the lawn and the hedges in front of my patio are green.

Did winter really happen? It must've, because I have the spring fever! My nomadic blood has already rushed into my head. I feel the need to make new plans, the kind that lead to another life. I don't know what that life looks like yet, but I'm allowing hope to germinate. 

I have to travel through the past one more time. I need to look for the bricks that have survived the betrayals and the hatred, and use them to build the future. Revisiting my memories that I had so diligently put on my blog three summers ago, is inevitable. Taking a memoir writing course, in the summer, at U of T is absolutely necessary. Meanwhile, I'm putting my habitual activities aside, including my blog, to read as many memoirs as I can. I have to learn how to make a bestseller out of my dirty laundry, and that of few others who have crossed my path!

Untill then, keep well, live well!

Me and My Mutter

Dear Friends,

Sometime ago, I discovered that I had become my mother. Although I’m sure the transformation had been gradual, the realization was shocking. It took me a while to get used to my new reality. Catching my reflections in the mirror, unsolicited advice I gave my children, unfamiliar practices turning into habits, like becoming skeptical, or criticizing young people for their choice of music and clothes.

Today, I realized that I’ve become my grandmother! 

Some of us follow in our ancestor’s footsteps willingly, and some of us live their drama mindlessly.  

My grandmother never went out unless she looked “right.” As she grew older, it took her longer and longer to achieve the look that she wanted the world to see. Eventually, in her eighties, ten years before she passed away, she stopped going out altogether. For as long as I can remember, my grandmother had aesthetic issues. In hot sizzling days of summer, she covered her arms because they were flabby. She played peek-a boo with her strands, covering one balding spot only to expose another. She spent hours drawing her eyebrows because she had shaved them when she was young and they had never grown back. I can still hear her voice, “Lili, pay attention, do they look even?”

“Of course, Mutter dear.” Sometimes I lied, just to get her out the door. 

Now, every morning, as I pencil in my faded tattooed eyebrows, powder my rapidly thinning hairline and adjust my strands from one side to the other, I feel guilty for having trivialized my grandmother’s concerns. As upsetting as it is, I end up making faces at myself in the mirror, laughing hysterically and calling her name.

When people say I look good, I think to myself, of course I look good (still). Do you know how much work has gone into covering up every flaw, and enhancing the very few assets I’ve left! 

More difficult than achieving the “ right” look, is hiding my obsession to look “ right” from my granddaughters. I really don’t want them to become “look” obsessed and miss out on living, because of their grandmother’s foolish aesthetic standards.

Only Just for One!

Dear Friends,

If I hear one more “Is’t just you? Just for one? Is’t only you?” I’ll stop eating out forever!
Every time I hear a hostess or a waiter ask me one of these stupid questions, I feel as if I’ve “failed” at becoming a “two.” 
“Yes, it’s just me.” Sometimes, I myself repeat after them, mindlessly. But, today, I decided to  educate the host of my favourite pub in Toronto, who, by the way, has always seen me alone.
“Don’t use ‘just,’ I told him. “I’m not just, I’m plenty!” He looked confused. “What shall I say?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Anything but one, only or just! See, I have a laptop with me. It’s me and my blog. I have an iPhone too!”   
He didn’t reply. He thought I’d gone mad!

The same thing happened to me last weekend, in Cobourg. “Will you be dining alone, tonight?” 
“I’ve been dining alone for a while now.” I mocked host’s affected tone and followed him. “Would you prefer to sit at the bar?” 
 “No!” I answered curtly. Actually, I like sitting at the bar, but I felt that he was saving the small round tables for couples. As soon as I sat down, the waitress arrived to take away the extra place-setting. She looked disappointed. I ordered an expensive glass of wine, to reassure her that an “ alone” old lady could ring up a large bill too!
Eating alone is an oddity, especially at night, or in better establishments. I don’t blame people for not wanting to put themselves in an awkward situation. First, the host makes you feel inadequate, then the waitress. The empty chair across from you, whispering “Failure, failure...” doesn’t help either. 

If I were rich, I would open a restaurant called “ Only Just for One“ where either tables were set only for one, or the staff was trained to see the obvious.      

Garçon, un filet mignon, s’il vous plait!