I'm assuming Nia Vardalos ("My Big Fat Greek Wedding") got the idea of her movie family's home from the "House of Parashos" on Shaw Street in Toronto.
Yikes! Greeks abroad seem to really, really, really want to let others know they're GREEK!
[link]
Mar 26, 2008
Mar 23, 2008
Dromoi Palioi / Serpico
March 21st is packed with "World Days". I've posted about World Water Day, World Sleep Day but March 21st also happens to be World Poetry Day. I will not kid you Internet. Poetry -as in recitals- is not on the top if my list of arts that I enjoy.
I do, however, appreciate poetry in the form of lyrics. Here is a video of one of my favorite songs "Dromoi Palioi" that made me discover and appreciate Greek poet Manolis Anagnostakis. Music by Mikis Theodorakis. This song is also widely known as the theme song for "Serpico" starring Al Pacino.
I do, however, appreciate poetry in the form of lyrics. Here is a video of one of my favorite songs "Dromoi Palioi" that made me discover and appreciate Greek poet Manolis Anagnostakis. Music by Mikis Theodorakis. This song is also widely known as the theme song for "Serpico" starring Al Pacino.
World Water Day & Saharan sand
Today, the sky above Attica was sepia and everything looked yellowy. Mother Nature's photoshop effect is not unusual this time of year. Every spring the Saharan sands travel in thick clouds over Greece, falling in large droplets of unclear rain. And. yet. every. single. spring. I see people rush out to wash their precious cars as if the yellow rain will chip the-oh-so-cool-metal color off their vehicles.
Meanwhile, World Water Day was yesterday, and the public awareness commercials asking us to conserve water are playing on television and radio. People should realize that the first thing they should sacrifice is the cleanliness of their cars. Water is too precious. Too precious. If we keep wasting water we'll be using camels soon and they don't come in metallic colors, Greek dudes.
Meanwhile, World Water Day was yesterday, and the public awareness commercials asking us to conserve water are playing on television and radio. People should realize that the first thing they should sacrifice is the cleanliness of their cars. Water is too precious. Too precious. If we keep wasting water we'll be using camels soon and they don't come in metallic colors, Greek dudes.Pimp my flowers
Recently a new flower shop opened near our home. Daughter#2 went to buy a get-well bouquet for a classmate who was in hospital and Husband got me our 20 year anniversary bouquet from there. Before either of them could stop the shopguy, he had sprayed a ridiculous amount of glitter (yes, g-l-i-t-t-e-r) on fresh floral arrangements.
Daughter#2 was shocked at the outcome and too shy to complain, paid for the flowers but came home ranting. Husband hadn't really noticed the glitter attack because he was too happy that he had remembered our anniversary in the first place. I thanked Husband for the flowers and after a couple of days (after letting Husband bask in the glory of his victory) I pointed out that the flowers looked sleazy with all that glitter.
It turns out that adding fake ingredients to fresh flowers is not new. They use glossy spray to make foliage look greener and floral deodorant to make the flowers smell. I know that this particular flower shop will never see our business again. Call me weird but I don't think flowers should be pimped.
Daughter#2 was shocked at the outcome and too shy to complain, paid for the flowers but came home ranting. Husband hadn't really noticed the glitter attack because he was too happy that he had remembered our anniversary in the first place. I thanked Husband for the flowers and after a couple of days (after letting Husband bask in the glory of his victory) I pointed out that the flowers looked sleazy with all that glitter.
It turns out that adding fake ingredients to fresh flowers is not new. They use glossy spray to make foliage look greener and floral deodorant to make the flowers smell. I know that this particular flower shop will never see our business again. Call me weird but I don't think flowers should be pimped.
Mar 18, 2008
Sleep walking blogging
I was dog-tired last night and headed to bed early. I started reading the new Ken Follet novel but my weariness got the best of me and finally nodded off on page eight.
I opened my eyes in the dead of night, assuming it was almost 6 am because it was still dark but oddly felt "full of sleep". I leaned over and inwardly groaned when the bright, red numbers of the clock-radio glared only 2:37.
I tried to go back to sleep but it seemed my mind had irrupted with all sorts of thoughts and to-do lists. How had I allowed so many clothes to accumulate in the "need ironing" pile? The dishwasher was full. They should make larger laundry hampers. Why are my ankles so bloated? I need a haircut. Why isn't that java-script working out for me at work? Maybe I should perm my hair. Did Daughter#2 say she needed art supplies for school? The car's oil reminder thingamajig is red, memo to self about oil change.
In between these thoughts, my friend Helen is always there. Everyday is hopeful. Everyday is hopeless. Everyday is another day. Every day is a visit to the hospital; a perpetual feigning of normality. Every day I'm on my guard with other colleagues and friends so no one slips up and everyone keeps a stiff upper lip.
Meanwhile, Husband was snoring loudly and I kept bouncing on the mattress for him to switch sides, shut up and give me a fighting chance to get back to sleep and stop my mind from thinking. Then the blankets were too heavy. I threw them off me and then I was freezing. The second pillow was too high and then the single pillow was too low.
Alas, the battle was lost. After 40 minutes I gave up and just got up and headed for the family computer and the ever wide-awake Internet.
I opened my eyes in the dead of night, assuming it was almost 6 am because it was still dark but oddly felt "full of sleep". I leaned over and inwardly groaned when the bright, red numbers of the clock-radio glared only 2:37.
I tried to go back to sleep but it seemed my mind had irrupted with all sorts of thoughts and to-do lists. How had I allowed so many clothes to accumulate in the "need ironing" pile? The dishwasher was full. They should make larger laundry hampers. Why are my ankles so bloated? I need a haircut. Why isn't that java-script working out for me at work? Maybe I should perm my hair. Did Daughter#2 say she needed art supplies for school? The car's oil reminder thingamajig is red, memo to self about oil change.
In between these thoughts, my friend Helen is always there. Everyday is hopeful. Everyday is hopeless. Everyday is another day. Every day is a visit to the hospital; a perpetual feigning of normality. Every day I'm on my guard with other colleagues and friends so no one slips up and everyone keeps a stiff upper lip.
Meanwhile, Husband was snoring loudly and I kept bouncing on the mattress for him to switch sides, shut up and give me a fighting chance to get back to sleep and stop my mind from thinking. Then the blankets were too heavy. I threw them off me and then I was freezing. The second pillow was too high and then the single pillow was too low.
Alas, the battle was lost. After 40 minutes I gave up and just got up and headed for the family computer and the ever wide-awake Internet.
Mar 16, 2008
42
42. The answer to the ultimate question, "Life, the Universe, and Everything".
When asked why 42, the humorous and insightful Douglas Adams replied: "The answer to this is very simple. It was a joke. It had to be a number, an ordinary, smallish number, and I chose that one. Binary representations, base thirteen, Tibetan monks are all complete nonsense. I sat at my desk, stared into the garden and thought '42 will do' I typed it out. End of story."
I turned 42 at a quarter past midnight.
It's a good number to be in. You've lived enough to know not to panic. End of story.
When asked why 42, the humorous and insightful Douglas Adams replied: "The answer to this is very simple. It was a joke. It had to be a number, an ordinary, smallish number, and I chose that one. Binary representations, base thirteen, Tibetan monks are all complete nonsense. I sat at my desk, stared into the garden and thought '42 will do' I typed it out. End of story."
I turned 42 at a quarter past midnight.
It's a good number to be in. You've lived enough to know not to panic. End of story.
Mar 13, 2008
Mar 2, 2008
Helen
I began writing this post on February 23rd. And only today have found the courage to read, update and post it. This is a record of my closest friend's last couple of weeks.
Last night (February 21st) I stayed in the hospital with Helen, my closest friend, who has recently been diagnosed with advanced stages of ovarian cancer. I felt completely useless when I could not ease her pain. The ascites (fluid that has flooded her abdominal area and has grossly transformed her belly) is hindering her breathing, making it impossible for her to lie down.
As the night went on and her breathing became steadier thanks to the pain-killer cocktail, I couldn't believe how fast things had gone from grey to completely black.
Her tummy had started swelling gradually the last couple of months and despite our concerns to see a doctor, she waved us off ascribing her bloating to collites which she had been diagnosed several times the past years. She visited a physician/acquaintance and dictated that her collites was acting up again. He took her word (!) and prescribed a couple of de-bloating drugs and after tapping on her back, which she complained was hurting her, dismissed it as common neck cramps due to computer use.
She took the medicine for her swelling for a fortnight and finally on February 11th realized that she was still getting bigger, her breathing shallower and her back pain more excruciating. Only last night, while I was holding her hand to help her doze off, did she confide in me that for the last couple of months she had been sleeping in an armchair because lying down hurt more. Realizing her situation was getting worse, she visited a (different) physician who examined her and ordered several tests. When the test results came in the doctor ordered her to find a gynecologist at once. On Valentine's Day she walked in to a hospital, looking for a well-known gynecologist, who did a double-take at her belly and immediately examined her. He wasted no valuable time with my friend and told her cold out, "You have cancer. Ovarian cancer".
She yelled "are you nuts?" in anger, shook her head in denial and cried in despair. All this within twenty minutes and then logic and the need to survive overtook her and asked what needed to be done. The doctor explained. She went home that day and the cycle of anger, denial, sadness and stiff upper lip began as family and friends were informed of my friend's situation.
Six days later, on February 21st she was admitted to the hospital because the pain was overtaking her being, unable to breathe properly, sleep, eat. The doctor tried to have the fluid from her belly removed with syringes but the darn thing had turned to jelly and wouldn't budge.
Surgery had first been scheduled for March 4th and because of her hurting it was mercifully rescheduled for February 25th. The operation and full anesthesia , doctors told us, would be hard on my friend who was a heavy smoker and had been overweight most of her adult life (although she had lost weight with dieting during the last year).
That Sunday, the day before the operation, was one of the darkest days for those of us who knew.
The operation took place and my friend recovered from it soon, which is considered a huge success considering how all the odds were against her.
Tomorrow, Monday March 4th, she starts her first chemotherapy.
