PSYCHOart

Dear Friends,

PSYCHOart is not about ideas, but bunch of verbs that spin in your head like ripping, peeling, cutting, slashing, splashing, splattering, scratching — all very satisfying actions! 

PSYCHOart is not predictable, obedient or structured — it happens, just like life.   

PSYCHOart is My Heart, My Art, it’s open to interpretation, but not criticism or messages of concern. 

PSYCHOart need not be perfect or even aesthetically pleasing — only satisfying, taking the edge off.     

You should definitely try PSYCHOart at home, alone! 
All you need is loud music, a clean canvas, few lemons that life hands you periodically, a dash of creativity, newspaper and magazines, glue, paint, brushes, some words of choice that address your issues and speak to your sense of sarcasm. 

HAPPY PSYCOARTING!!!!

Tax Deductible

Dear Friends,

The other day, I received a letter from Grants International Inc. (the refund experts)! I was about to discard it, as I do any mail that I don’t recognize, but then I noticed that my full (official) name, and status as a senior were printed on the envelope. Huuum, I thought, a trusted agency has slipped!

“What dear?” My neighbour asked.

Shoot, I was talking to myself again, in public! 

Curiosity picked my interest. I opened the envelope. Health Impairment Refund was the topic of correspondence. A few fine gentlemen could make the government give me a tax refund if I have trouble bathing myself without falling, walking, or trouble breathing when I walk.

Well, none of the above applied to me (Thank God), but it made me think.

How about all seniors get a “mobility” refund, period! We all know by now that looking good and feeling good lead to physical, mental and emotional health. Now, if only the government could help with the financial well-being.  

So far, I’ve been a very low-maintenance customer for the government, but I don’t think I can continue doing this on my own for very long. Fellows, how about a tax break for me, I felt like writing them back. How about someone working for people like me, to make the following items income tax deductible. After all, I’ve spent a lot of my own hard-earned money so my country doesn’t have to. I believe I should be reimbursed for every penny that I spend on remaining healthy.  

-Red wine

-Dark chocolate

-Dancing shoes 

-Personal trainer

-Swimsuit

-Lululemon workout atire

-Nike walking shoes

-Psychologies, Oprah, InStyle magazines

-Self-help books, crossword puzzle booklets

-Luminosity membership on-Line
-Holiday under the sun, to warm up the old bones ad the bronchus 

-Movie, concert and theatre tickets 

-Restaurant tabs for girls-night-out (therapy)

-eye-candy accessories (also therapeutic) 

I, personally, should also be compensated for not driving, littering, smoking, binging, and not being a hypochondriac. But then, as we say in Farsi, Haven’t peed yet, my night is long. 

Love at your convenience

Dear Friends,

My definition of love is twisted, and that explains why I've lived most of my adult life alone.

I need a fellow who goes that extra mile (at least once), or commits one insane act for me, not at his convenience, but at my unreasonable request.

I invited my ex-husband to join me and our granddaughters for a sleepover, making it very clear that I "needed" him. He replied, " The flight is too expensive."

Now, we are talking about a man who has made a career out of woeing me, leaving all the women in my family "envious".

"Love at your convenience!" I erased his texts and continued to scrub my tiny apartment. 

I just wanted our last sleepover to be perfect. I wanted to take the girls to the pool, the discovery centre, the ice cream parlour. Somehow, I didn't see myself doing all that alone, in a pouring rain. I'm always anxious about their safety. And perhaps, I needed their grandfather for emotional support. He called a few times, concerned. He must've left ten messages. As if I had a free hand to pick up the phone! 

Girls know how to have fun! We did everything on the agenda, except swim in the pool, but playing in the bathtub was as much fun. 

I repaid my ex-husband by FaceTime and a few cute pictures, because that's just the kind of person I am, full of surprises! 

It's so hard to give to good times. Most of us save our money, energy or heroic acts for disasters. Had I asked my X to come to my deathbed, he would've taken the first flight out of Philly. 

What astonishes me is that after 42 years, I'm still hoping to be surprised!!!!! Duh Lili, duh!

Bon Appetit!

Dear Friends,

Got off the train. Took the bus to the foot of my street. Walked uphill and walked downhill. Dropped off my suitcase.

Had every intention of going to the grocery store, but instead, ended up at William's Landing, my favourite terrace in Toronto! Japanese tuna salad and Italian Pinot Grigio! What can I say, it's summer and I'm living in the "now" which, according to experts, is only 3 seconds long! Then, it becomes the past, the guilty past, in my case.

I blame my pink, kitten-heel sandals! Shouldn't have taken off my bulky, ugly walking shoes!

Happy Anniversary!

Dear Friends, 

Another school year is almost over. I’m happy to say that I was involved enough to deserve a glass of Bubbly on Wednesday. Nothing is worse than going out with teacher friends and not feeling what they are celebrating. 

Last June, I was sure of all my choices, decisions and plans, and then, not so much anymore. 
If retirement means withdrawing from one’s occupation, downsizing or simplifying one’s life, I turned out to be a lousy retiree. When the opportunity came up to teach for a long period of time, I took it. When a conveniently located studio appeared on Toronto’s real estate market, I bought it. I divided myself between two towns, two homes and two social circles. I said, for a while, I’ll do whatever I want to, and I did. In the process, I complicated my life and compromised my bank account. A Year later, I’m still not sure what retirement meant to mean. 

Retirement is not freedom (as insurance companies want us to believe), obligations and limitations did find my carefree spirit. A few appeared on their own and some I created myself. Actually it was not me, ignorance, or boredom that guided me, but my wise subconscious. I needed that classroom in November, as much as it needed me. I needed to reinvest my capital before it turned into extra kilos, or fancy accessories. Retirement is not a to-do-list, a phase, a lifestyle or God’s waiting room to heaven or hell, either. It’s only a pension cheque.   

I’m not simple, neither has been my life, thus my retirement shouldn't be any different. I will be here or there, do this or that, feel comme çi or comme ça. Luckily, my employer allows me to sail into the sunset, gradually. 
Happy First Anniversary, Retirement!

Let It Go!

Dear Friends,

Everything I read, hear or see, including my granddaughters' favourite movie, soundtrack, costume, book, bag, notepad and pencil (Frozen), suggests to Let It Go!

As we get wiser, we innately learn not to sweat the little stuff, but I think that I've taken the concept a bit too far! 

In the process of letting go of the past grievances and the future worries, I've become an expert in living in the now which means I've limited memory, just like old hard-drives. I forget that I don't burn calories as fast as I used to. I hardly remember that I don't make as much money as I used to. My collection of clothes and activities indicate that I've also forgotten how old I am. 

All I have to say in my defence is that I'm a thorough person. My father, God bless his soul, used to say, "Either do it right, or don't do it at all!" 

Here is looking at you Papa, Happy 97th Birthday! 

What A Message!

Dear Friends,
I’m a woman, a teacher, and if people stop identifying me with terrorists, I’m also a Muslim. But, I’m  appalled at what has happened and might still take place next week.

The Islamic high school soccer team refused to play with another school’s co-ed soccer team, “ out of respect,” says their coach, Essa Abdool-Karim. 
Respect means different things to different people. In my culture, youngsters are expected to look down when they are being scolded. In other cultures, it’s considered rude not to look at the person who is lecturing you. I learnt to let my students make me uncomfortable by staring at me. 
We all try to co-exist peacefully in Canada, bending our rules a bit here, compromising our values a bit there. However, there is a limit to accommodation. A girl’s right to play any sport along her male playmates shouldn’t be negotiable, not in Canada, not in 2015, not in the name of “respect.” 
What’s next? Sitting at the back of the bus? Vacating the beach, or eating separately on the left side of the restaurant? 
The Islamic high school has the right to play by its rules, but not there and then. The authorities should’ve suspended, postponed the game. By not doing so, they sent out three infuriating messages; 1. Religion prevails Canadians civil rights, (to be honest with you, I’m not sure if there is anything written in Koran about boys playing soccer with girls). 
2. It’s commendable for women to “sacrifice” their rights and dreams to either keep the peace, or to let their “men” shine. 
3. It’s acceptable for men to have what they want, even if it involves denying women their human rights.   

No, girls, in this case, there is no heroism in taking one for the team! You didn’t win a game, you lost a war! Everyone present at this event, who stood by and let this injustice take place, back-pedalled us to the time when women’s rights played second fiddle to men’s privileges. You let down your mothers, grandmothers and great grandmothers. 

Don’t blame me for cringing, I’m a woman. I worked hard for my freedom and independence. Most importantly, I have two young granddaughters, giving up their rights, is not an option! 

Mental Jambalaya

Dear Friends,
There must be something wrong with a mind that doesn’t allow its healthy, slim owner to enjoy an ice cream, once in a while. 
Guilt is the most powerful human emotion. It makes you do unspeakable things to yourself. It deprives you of peace because you are not worthy of it. 
I know how this poison has entered my psyche, what I don’t understand is why it isn’t leaving. I’ve read books and articles, consulted with shrinks and completed exercises. For years, I’ve repeated affirmations and rationalizations. I’ve even put my pain on paper and share it with strangers. Alas, all to no avail! I really envy people who have no idea how imperfect they are. 
I read somewhere that feeling guilty doesn’t make us a better person, so we should drop it. Well, in my humble opinion, punishing ourselves makes us a better person because we are suffering the consequences of our wrongdoings. That’s what we teach children, to take responsibility for their actions. N’est-ce pas? 
How do we love ourselves better at sixty? We don’t! That ship has sailed, and if we weren’t on it, the best we can do, is to remain afloat! The severity of our crimes depend on the size of our self-love. Some crimes require ongoing punishment. Guilt surpasses love, especially love of oneself. It doesn’t keep us from doing things (I do almost everything that I want), but it keeps us from enjoying them. 
Add a tad of control issue, and a pinch of obsessiveness to the unjustified feelings of unworthiness, and there, you have it, a perfect mental Jumbalaya that bans ice cream!
But then, realizing that I like myself enough not to completely destroy myself, is a relief. 

Different values

Dear Friends,

I just finished reading an article about the not-so-scandalous side effects of smoking weed! Gotta love FB and your young FB friends!

No, I'm not going to start smoking weed to feel good, but from now on, I'm definitely going to drink and eat out without feeling guilty or inadequate. I can be home (saving money, feeling down), watching series of reruns, gruesome crime or pathetic reality shows on TV, or I can have my Pinot Grigio (Merlot in winter) at my fav bar, and forget about what I don't care to remember or acknowledge. 

Is it me, or everyone in my generation has difficulty being irresponsibly loose!

There is nothing wrong in helping yourself get through the night? Is there?

Nostalgia!

Dear Friends,

While ago, I read somewhere that it’s healthier to be "happy" than "right." Since, (in the name of wellbeing) I’ve walked away from many arguments and debates. I believe my passive conflict resolution policy has turned me into a LESS; spineless, helpless, gutless, take your pick!    

At the moment, I live beside what my students would call, a bully! A young, South American father of one who treats my balcony as his dumping ground; dirty water, cigarette butts, dried leaves and flowers, paper cups and whatever else that doesn’t belong on his well-kept terrace. 
There is only so much the condo manager can do. The rest depends on residents’ integrity, I was told. Alas, my bully has none. He has a loud voice, a condescending tone and insulting vocabulary. 
Although I complain to the management every time I feel abused, I stay out of his sight. I pull down my blinds and forego the sunshine, happy to save money on balcony plants and furniture.
Is fierceness a muscle that needs to be exercised daily, or is it hormone-based and disappears with menopause, just like bone density? 
Looking at “ Tiger Lili” inked on my forearm, I can’t help but wonder, where did the Tiger go?

 

Darn It!

Dear Friends,

The other day, a good friend of mine quoted Jackie Onasis to me, "I want to live my life, not record it." Had been Jackie’s reply to those wondering why she didn’t want to write her memoirs. 

Now, Jackie and I have two things in common, two marriages and one incredible joie de vivre! 

So, if you don't hear from me, it's not because I'm depressed, or have nothing to say, it's because I'm busy living my life which includes work, family, friends, workout, and enjoying the best of what Toronto and Cobourg have to offer! 

Gosh, darn it, I think I've finally figured out how to live!  

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!

Setbacks

Dear Friends,
Yesterday, I took a test in Psychologies Magazine, (UK edition, March 2015), to find out how I deal with setbacks. According to my scores, when things go wrong, I feel it’s my fault. Well, it’s true. I do.  I spent the past week taking responsibility for the flood in my condo. Was I too happy? Not happy enough? Was my spirit tired, resentful? Had I caught someone’s evil eye? Did I break someone’s heart? Perhaps I shouldn’t have bought my New Year’s sweets from a new store! Were my Persian ancestors mad at me for making a portable Haft Seen? 
When my superstitions failed to settle on an explanation, my other beliefs stepped in. Everything happens for a reason, I reminded myself. But, where was the message that the flood had brought me? Did the water wash it away? 
Just an hour ago, as I was cleaning the repaired washing machine that had caused the disaster, I finally had my answer. The flood wasn’t a setback, a warning or a bad omen. It was squaring of accounts, literally! In my entire life in Canada, I’ve never had home insurance (I do now)! At an average of twenty dollars a month, I owe the universe over six thousand dollars! 
Suddenly, paying Shawn the contractor’s bill, didn’t seem like a punishment anymore!    

Sooner or later, we all pay our dues! Now, there is a priceless celestial message!

 

’Twas The Night Before Nowruz

Dear Friends,
Long, long time ago, I heard this anecdote from my uncle. I never really appreciated the gist of it, until tonight. 
One day, a young man, walking by the river, sees an old scruffy man dipping his dry, mouldy piece of bread in the muddy water, and thanking God. 
“You are so poor and unfortunate,” the young man says, “what are you thanking God for!” 
“Oh, I’m just testing his impudence!”
Tonight I’m that old, scruffy man!
’Twas the night before Nowruz! So much to look forward to! My granddaughters are having their first sleep-over in Cobourg! So much work had already been done; shopping, cooking, cleaning, ironing. Last but not least, laundry also needed to be done. Clean sheets for everyone! But, the washing machine decided to go crazy while I sat down to do my crossword puzzle. 
Two centimetres of water sitting in three rooms and two bathrooms! Over five thousand dollars in damages. No insurance! 
“Thank God,” I said to myself, after the workers left, leaving behind four huge fans, “thank god, it was only water and not fire!” 

Focus Statement

Dear Friends,
Some people have a knack for complicating their lives, I am one of them.
There was a time when I looked forward to writing my blog. An idea came to mind, I shared it with friends. Many read it, a few liked it, and one or two gave positive feedback. It was simple and enjoyable. But, obviously, it wasn’t enough, because I had to go and mess it all up by taking a writing course. Not only I haven’t learnt to write better, but I’ve lost the little flare that I had for writing.
For the past few weeks I’ve been struggling with retelling an incident that happened to me in Nashville. A drunken young woman, who needed to throw up, yelled at me on the street, “Hey old lady, you are in my way!” I thought my harsh response, “At least I can hold my liquor!” was worth exploring. After all, she had stated the obvious (in vino veritas). I am sixty, I have grey hair and a sagging jawline.

Finally my instructor and I agreed on a focus statement, “I hate being called old because I’m not old!” He warned me to remain centred and not confuse myself, or the reader.
Well, every sentence of every paragraph is to answer why I don’t like being called old, why I walk around looking old if I don’t like being called old, why I can’t accept being old. The more I try to answer these questions clearly, the more confused I become. At some point, I had four different versions running on my hard drive. Obviously getting old, looking old and not liking to be called old are complex matters, better left to the experts. 
This assignment has cost me time, sleep and most importantly, self-confidence. I can’t write anymore. I was going to enter a poetry contest, but then decided against it. I was going to share with you my recent adventures in Cobourg, but I can’t locate the focus statement, and without it I will be lost. 
Now I’m thinking, perhaps I should look into becoming an editor. I sure recognize bad writing when I see one!!!!!!!

Time

Dear Friends, 
The icy cold hands of winter are gently releasing Mother Nature into spring’s tepid embrace. Starting tomorrow, once again, we will be saving daylight. Every time we fall back or spring forward, I can’t help but think about our strange relationship with time. Although time is not money, we treat it as such; give it, take it, measure it, save it, spend it, waste it. We are so worried about time passing us by that we don’t realize we are the ones passing through time. While we are busy making time for this and that, time is busy making us. When we are high we think time flies, when we are down we think it crawls. As much as we would like to think we can kill time, it’s really time that is killing us. The truth of the matter is that there will always be plenty of time and money, just not for us. We don’t run out of time, time outruns us. With that thought in mind, take advantage of every moment, and live it up! 

You are not losing an hour, it’s all in your head!

Happy Choice Day!

Dear Friends,

As the catchphrase goes, we live by choice, not by chance! And, I say, sometimes, we live by our second choices!
Spending Valentine's Day, in Cobourg, alone? Check! 
Returning to Toronto on Family Day, yet to another empty nest? Check! 
By chance? No! By choice? Perhaps, second choice though!

It's very unfortunate that this year, these two sore, celebratory thumbs happen to stand side by side! 

According to Shannon L. Alder, our perspective on life comes from the cage we were held captive in. Mine must've been disappointment, since my thickest silver lining, on this cold, snowy long-weekend is, lack thereof!  

My second choice!