The Coconut Chronicles

Hello from Polar Bear Heaven and Penguin Mecca!

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any colder, an arctic cold front moves in. This has been a white, weird & wonderful week. And it began with an unexpected phone call…

7:30 a.m. – Princess and Prez are sound asleep. The phone rings.

Princess: “Hello?”

Voice: “Good morning Aunty Kris.”

Princess: “Deb? What the…? What’s going on?”

Deb: “How you doing Aunty Kris?”

Princess: “Aunty? Aunty! Oh my god, are you pregnant!”

Yes, my chocolate sista is with child! Some history is in order here. You see, Deb Mac and I have been friends coming up on about ten years now and through all of those years I could tell you what season it was by a certain phone call. “Kristene, I want a baby. I think we might seriously try this time!” = Spring and, “Girl, I don’t know what came over me, I am definitely not getting pregnant ever again!” = Fall.

At first, the “I want a baby” phone calls brought me to a state of panic – I was going to lose my friend to a small, diaper wearing parasite. But eventually I came to accept these calls as a kind of signal that the seasons were changing and nothing more. So, you can imagine my shock when the event actually occurred! I am thrilled for Deb and family and will do anything to help out – except diapers. I am very proud of the fact that I have never, ever changed a diaper in my life and never will!! 

Congrats Macs!!

After the phone call, I figured I might as well wake up and check emails. There was an email from another good friend – EB (eastern not western, there are 2 EB’s in our life) – who we haven’t heard from in a long time, telling us that he and wife Angie-Poo have bought a piece of land in Newfoundland and they’re building a log cabin on it (?!?). 

What happened? Did someone mess around with my entire universe while I was sleeping or something? This week was beginning on some very strange notes.

Then there’s the matter of our very-beary friend – Choco. We’re not sure if Choco’s a young grizzly or a large, full-grown brown bear, but he loves our back yard. He managed to break into our garbage once so we’ve kept it locked up tight since, but that didn’t stop him from pilfering one of the neighbour’s cans and dragging the bag over to have a little buffet in his favorite picnic spot. Prez had some very nasty words for Choco as he cleaned up the dirty diapers scattered around! Next was our beloved bird feeder which he pulled down and sucked all the seeds from. And just to add insult to injury, he busted into our storage shed where the bird seed is stored, dragged the Rubbermaid container to his picnic spot, and ate it all up while Prez and I watched helplessly. (We tried loud noises – if Choco could laugh, he would have). Oh ya, when he finished off the contents of the Rubbermaid, he yanked the bird feeder down and ran away with it. 

Well, Choco will be sorry when 30 hungry chickadees come looking for him! 

This week was also the first week our local uni-plex theater was playing anything we were even remotely interested in seeing. So we got us all gussied up and went to have us a gander at the new 007!

There’s a great line from the TV series “Firefly”, (have you seen it? Oh my god it’s good! Why oh why did it ever get cancelled? Best TV show in years!!), this line talks about a “special kind of hell reserved for child molesters and people who talk in theaters”. In retrospect, I suppose I was a tad naïve, but I kind of believed that the days of people talking in the theater were gone…not the case in Nelson. Everyone talks in the theater here, no kidding, everyone. People probably call each other up and say stuff like, “Hey George, it’s been so long since we’ve talked, why don’t we go catch a movie and get caught up?” 

Now, I’m not a complete cinematic Nazi, I understand that sometimes you want to share a comment about the film or ask a question about the plot, but please do so in a whisper and keep it brief – is that too much to ask?? The new Bond film may have been good, I’m not entirely sure because it sounded like this to me: “The name’s – Oh  my god, I saw Janie the other day her hair looks really cool now – Bond – let’s go shopping tomorrow, I get paid and I saw this really cool thing – James – have you got your ski pass yet – Bond.”  AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!

And to cap off the week, we started a new job which has proved to be quite “challenging” thanks to the weather. Rather than tell you about it, I’ve immortalized our struggle in a little poem I call… 

The Ballad of the Blizzard Fence

Prez was a man with a heckuva plan

to build a gargantuan wall.

It would have been great if the season were late

spring, summer or even the fall

At 80 feet long, the design would be strong,

Rising 9 feet from the ground.

It would block out the sky, yes, it would be that high,

and admired by most all around!

As we planted the posts the clouds were morose,

Preparing for weather most foul.

The snow it came down and made not a sound,

But Prez was beginning to howl.

The snow fell all day ‘til we went away,

Vowing we’d never be beat.

The next day, the same – the snow came and came,

And it froze us from fingers to feet.

With white in his hair and blood in his stare,

Prez cursed as he nailed and he screwed.

The princess was chilly and thought this was silly,

But, hey, what the heck can you do?

The swear words they flew, the snow it did too,

On day three as the blizzard still flurried.

The fence was unfinished, but our hopes had diminished

So we drank till the world it was blurried.

Who will prevail, the Prez or the gale?

It’s a question I’m fearful to pose.

All I know is it’s funny, our lives may be sunny,

But boy when it rains it sure…snows?!

The irony of this tale is that last night we watched the Al Gore film, “An Inconvenient Truth”, about global warming. Mmmmmm, warming, Princess likes warming. 

But seriously, you all must swear to me that you will see this movie (if you haven’t already). You don’t have to like what you hear, but it sure sheds light on the whole global warming controversy. I came away with a new respect for Al Gore, I’ll bet many people did – too bad this movie didn’t come out 6 years ago!

Well, I’ve just about thawed so I think I’ll call it a night. But not before I say “Hello!” and “We miss you!” to ClubFred members, like EB and Angie-Poo, The Baneys, Lewis’s and Tonetti’s, who we may not have seen or talked to in awhile but think about all the time! 

Until next week, I hope this finds you all healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

 Hello again from Mountain Mecca & Hippie Heaven!

Last night, before climbing aboard the train to Sleep Land, I tried to count how many friends and lovers over my 37 years have been victims of this phrase:

“I had the __________ dream last night!”

In the blank space you can put crazy, wild, weird, cool, scary, bizarre, etc. Any of those words will work. What can I say? My sleeping life is all of those adjectives and more. Prez likes to tease me about my love for sleep but if you could go to a place where you can fly, hang out with famous dead people, and eat cupcakes the size of basketballs wouldn’t you be eager to go there too?

Do you dream? Yes, you do. You may not remember them, but dreams are an essential part of the REM sleep cycle. We all dream, what fascinates me is why some people can recall their dreams in minute detail while others are left with only a vague sense of what happened, and others are not aware they dream at all. Some of us dream in colour, some in black and white. As I’ve gotten older, my physical senses, beyond sight and sound, have become heightened in my dreams (great when you’re eating the giant cupcake, not so great when a serial killer is stabbing you with a letter opener). Why is this?

Occasionally I can control my dreams. For about a year in my early teens, I was plagued by nightmares so graphic that I would often wake and not be able to sleep for the rest of the night. The theme was always the same: my friends and I were being chased by someone, or something, who wanted to kill us (and usually did). During one of these nightmares, I was running full tilt through a forest, adrenaline pumping, heart pounding out of my chest, with an axe murderer hot on my trail. The forest cleared and there was an Old West town directly in front of me, populated by my friends. I ran to the town for help but instead watched, horrified, as the axe murderer hacked up one person after another. It was shaping up to be the same old nightmare again when, POP, a thought came into my dreaming-self’s head: “This is only a dream; I can do whatever I want!” Then I looked down and there in the dust, at my feet, was a gun, which I promptly picked up and shot Mr. Axe Murderer dead.

That was the end. Not only of Mr. Axe Murderer, but also of my ongoing nightmares. And since that night, I am sometimes able to recognize that I am dreaming and control what is happening. Why? I wish I knew.

There is a school of thought I attended for awhile that believes dreams have meanings. “Oh, you dreamt about dying and that means rebirth, so you are about to enter a time of spiritual rebirth.” After 37 years of dreams and nightmares so off the wall they make a Salvador Dali painting look normal, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no meaning to the images that come to us when we sleep, except the meaning we give them. Make what you will of my dream of my friend Graham being eaten alive by a seven-foot-tall beaver but I’m convinced it was merely a case of too much pizza before bed.

Here’s my theory: When you’re asleep everything shuts down and your brain has very little to do. Like a hyper-active child suddenly deprived of toys (i.e. sensory input, problems to solve, etc.) the brain has to find some mischief to get into. (OK, that isn’t a very scientific explanation but you get the point, I hope).

About now you’re thinking ‘Oh great, we’re going to have an entire Chronicle about her dreams. Is Nelson that boring? God, I think I’ll go watch Canadian Parliament on C-Span, that’s more interesting than this drivel!’ Fine, go ahead, leave now, what do you care if you miss the whole sex part of this story, right? Oh, I see. Now you’re interested. Shall I continue?

The idea for this Dream Chronicle came to me two nights ago after waking from a flying dream. I loooooooove flying dreams (almost as much as cupcakes) and hate to wake up from them. So, I’m lying there, awake, thinking about dreams, and flying, and stuff, and I thought, Aha! Whatever I dream about tomorrow night will be the subject of this week’s Chronicle! Except…um…last night I dreamt I was a porn star so…erm…ah…this week’s topic is “Porn”.

So let’s talk about porn.

Are you feeling as awkward as I am? Well, maybe we should have a few drinks to relax first. That’s better. Now I’ll dim the lights and we can get comfortable on the couch…

In the dream I was a porn star. I didn’t actually do any of the porn stuff in the dream (and I wouldn’t tell you about it if I did – my mother-in-law reads this for goodness sake!) but I knew that was my job, and I was distressed because my friends and family would no longer speak to me they were so disgusted by my career choice (Prez was fine with it, what a surprise).

The thing is, however you, I, or anyone else feels about it, porn is BIG business. Estimates range from 4 to 10 billion annual revenue. That’s a lot of people paying to look at other people naked!

Now, I have mixed feelings when it comes to porn. Most of it is crap, lots of it is exploitive, some of it is dangerous, and all of it can send the wrong message. If you need porn to excite you, if you neglect real relationships for porn, if you believe the story lines are real and that the next time you walk into H&R Block to get your taxes done you may be greeted by a trio of buxom vixens eager to get to your “bottom line”, then you, my friend, have a problem.

On the other hand, most of us get excited by pornographic images – whether we want to admit it or not – and if we use those images to enhance our sex life then what’s so wrong with that?

“But porn is dirty, disgusting, and I hate it!” you’re telling me now. Really?

There was a psych study done several years ago about our attitudes toward porn. A group of subjects was surveyed about their feelings about “adult video”. Then that same group was hooked up to all kinds of medical gizmos to monitor their physical reactions while watching various porn videos. They were also asked to comment on how they felt while they watched it. What happened? Well, almost everyone became excited to some degree. What was interesting, though, is the number of people who were watching the videos and saying, “No, I don’t like this. This doesn’t stimulate or excite me at all,” while their physical response was saying, “Yeah baby! I love it!”

So, culturally we’ve been conditioned to believe sexual images are wrong, are dirty, are sinful, but our bodies still respond positively to them. Hmmm.

Why are we so uncomfortable with sex in North American society? Magazines with pictures of naked people have to be kept covered and out of the reach of children, and yet we have no qualms about the hundreds, thousands, of violent images they take in every day. We let our kids watch TV shows like Survivor where humans are at their very worst behavior – lying, sneaking, plotting, betraying, all for money – but heaven forbid they should see naked bums or boobies! We have strange priorities.

No, I don’t want a world full of porn, but I don’t want a world where consenting adults are made to feel bad for looking at other consenting adults having sex, either.

I do want a world full of cupcakes the size of basketballs, but, for now, I suppose I must be content with my dreams.

Question: Cupcakes or porn?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess 

Hello again from Mountain Mecca & Hippy Heaven!

Who’s your hero? Why? Better yet, what is a ‘hero’? And even better still, why do we need them/why are we constantly creating them?

By now, most have you have heard of the Foley scandal – ad nauseum – but just in case, let me re-cap. Mark Foley, a U.S. congressman, was caught sending very “naughty” text messages to one of his minor-aged pages. Well, I guess the media has been hounding the young recipient of these messages, (how unlike the press to shamelessly harass and exploit someone), and the child’s parents have had enough. In a statement to the press, they asked the media to, “leave their hero son alone.” Now, I’m all for leaving the poor kid alone but “hero”? Explain what makes this kid a hero?

Hero is a word I hear kicked around so much these days it’s become a sort of journalistic hackey-sac ball. Our neighbour to the south is one of the biggest perpetrators but we’re all guilty. Americans love heroes; theirs is very much a hero culture. And I’m not suggesting that’s a bad thing (sorry guys, I’m going to pick on you again – but just a little), I am suggesting that it’s gotten a bit out of control.

A hero, by my definition, is someone who chooses to do something that requires an unusual degree of physical and/or emotional daring while being fully conscious of the risks and possible consequences. Rosa Parks is a perfect example of this. She CHOSE not to sit at the back of the bus while being fully CONSCIOUS that her action could have very grave consequences. Rosa Parks falls squarely into the hero column.

Fast forward to this century. What about Jessica Lynch? Remember her? No? The big army hero? Jessica was a soldier who had the misfortune of apparently being shot, captured, and abused by enemy soldiers, then taken to an Iraqi hospital. Another group of soldiers, also dubbed heroes, “rescued” Jessica. For something like a week, CNN became the Jessica Lynch channel, proclaiming her and her rescuers heroes at every conceivable opportunity. Hmmmm.

Am I crazy or do lots of soldiers get shot in the line of duty? Isn’t the chance of getting shot during a war kind of in the job description? And these blood-thirsty band of Iraqi goons who mercilessly dragged Miss Lynch to a hospital, of all places, to receive medical attention, what kind of monsters are these people?! By all accounts, including Jessica’s, the staff at the hospital took phenomenal care of her – she was assigned the only specialist bed in the entire hospital and one of the only two nurses on duty (the nurse even sat by her bedside, holding her hand and singing to comfort her). Reports indicated no gunshot wound or evidence of abuse. She did have a broken leg and some other injuries. When those brave soldiers arrived to save their sister-in-arms, the hospital staff…um…just kind of stood there and watched. Iraqi witnesses have expressed confusion about the Hollywood-style storming of the building as there were no soldiers in the area. There are even reports that they tried to return her to the Americans but the ambulance was fired upon as it approached the check-point. But according to the media, Jessica and pals were all heroes of the highest degree.

Last night my cat killed a mouse. She’s a hero! Well geez, the thing could have been carrying the Hanta virus and someone could have touched it and gotten sick, or even died! Look, if Jessica Lynch is a hero, so is Emily!!

I’m not hero-bashing. I love heroes. They serve an important purpose – to make the rest of us feel inadequate. Kidding, kidding. Heroes are living examples of the qualities that we humans aspire to, or at least we should aspire to. In a world that has been swimming with war, greed, corruption, and a cornucopia of other vices since the first caveman congressman slipped an underage caveman page a pornographic message chiseled in stone, heroes are the life raft that keeps us from drowning. We need them. But more than that, we need them to be real. When the word hero loses its meaning, we are all in danger of sinking.

I have known some real-life heroes. Dave Meyer was, and always will, be a hero of mine. Big Wave Dave rejected traditional, proven, treatment for his cancer. He made the choice to be part of clinical trials, knowing the risks. Thanks to Dave, future cancer patients may have alternatives to radiation or chemotherapy. Hero indeed. 

Speaking of cancer, I was shocked to learn that many Americans do not know who Terry Fox is. I consider Terry one of Canada’s greatest heroes. For those of you who don’t know, Terry was a young man who lost his leg to cancer and then decided to run across Canada to raise money and awareness for cancer research. Remember, this was before every affliction under the sun had a ribbon, a bracelet, a fundraising run, and a celebrity spokesperson. Terry was the first. His Marathon of Hope began with little fanfare or attention but by the time he was forced to quit, because of the return of the cancer, every Canadian knew, and loved, Terry. When he died, we all mourned. And we all started to care about cancer research. What a hero.

One of my other, living, heroes is David Suzuki. You’ll see a link to his website on the left side of the screen. I call David a hero because he has dedicated his life to trying to help the planet. Long before terms like eco-friendly were commonplace, David took on the unpopular, and unappreciated, task of educating us about protecting the environment. And he did so in a manner that was friendly and welcoming – David’s not a big finger-wagger (but he doesn’t pull any punches either). As a scientist, I’m sure he could have made far more money, and had a far cushier life, by selling out to big business. But he chose not to. Hero.

Other heroes of mine include Mahatma Ghandi, Nelson Mandela, Helen Keller, Dr. Martin Luther King, and the many brave women who fought for the rights of our sex (thanks ladies, I owe you big).

Maybe we try to create so many heroes these days because it’s getting harder to find people like the ones in the previous paragraph. I hope not.

Getting back to Iraq, I heard a story recently about an army doctor who applied for Conscientious Objector status because he does not believe the war in Iraq is legal or ethical. He was refused. So he went. But the entire time he served as a doctor there, he refused to load his gun. He said, “I would rather be killed than kill.” Wow. Apparently, he is now steadfastly refusing to return to Iraq for another tour of duty and is up on criminal charges. Apparently he is OK with that. He’s made his choice. As of yet, CNN has not called him a hero…but I will.

Question: Who is your hero?

OK, switching gears here…

Next week I am going to try something COMPLETELY different! I will answer your questions, any questions. Ask me anything you want and I will answer. Yes, I am a real blonde (just thought I’d get that out of the way first). Email me, or post your questions in the comments section here, anonymously if you like, and next week I’ll answer each one. I can’t wait!

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life! Happy Canuck Thanksgiving everyone!

The Princess 

Hello again from Mountain Mecca & Hippy Heaven!

How many places, how many towns, have I lived in since the spring of 2003? Abaco (The Bahamas), Key Largo (Florida), Jaco & Golfito (Costa Rica), Mulege (Baja, Mexico), Port Coquitlam (BC – Casa Roney), Coquitlam & Ucluelet (BC), Port Coquitlam again, Mulege again, back to PoCo, Las Vegas, Surrey (BC – Kozak mansion), and now…Nelson.

Whew, I’m tired just writing all that out! And that’s just the places we lived in for more than a week. The list doesn’t include all the road trips and “visits”. 

I’ve become so blasé about moving now that my pulse barely changes at the thought of packing up everything we have and relocating to the unknown. My expectations have changed, or, rather, I have let go of my expectations. In the past, each city was a promise – this will be the spot, now we will start moving forward (as opposed to just moving)! And yet, when we finally made the big move it was as if we arrived at our destination only to find a huge billboard with an arrow pointing onward: “Looking for contentment? It’s just one town away!”

So when people asked me if I was excited about our latest trek to Nelson, my response was underwhelming to say the least. “Ya, it will be nice.” I’d sigh. A far cry from the heady, party days of pre-Bahamas. (How many going away parties did we have?! Ugh, I even wrote a song about that move I was so thrilled. A song. How many people write a song about moving?)

And now a strange thing has happened…I really, really like it here.

No, I mean it. Not the usual honeymoon effect of new geography that wears off soon after you figure out it’s too: hot/cold/wet/dry/expensive/dangerous/boring/loud/quiet/crowded/empty/etc. No this is a weird, deep, soul soothing kind of like. Since I’ve been here I’ve felt my spinning mind coming gradually, gratefully, to a stop. And I need you to understand, this is a good thing. A very good thing.

I don’t know what most people think about during the course of a day but my brain usually feels like it’s stuffed full of crickets. The hopping and chirping can drive you bonky. All these thoughts bounce around my cranium demanding attention, interfering with my sleep, distracting me at work (just ask the Prez). And sometimes (often) the crickets become locusts, swarming and feeding, destroying what’s healthy in there.

I brood. I replay imaginary conversations I’d like to have over and over and over with only slight variations. Many a person who has wronged me or a loved one has felt the sting of my wit and offered up sincere and heartfelt apologies…in my head. I’ve even decked a few of the more stubborn ones; a nice right hook in the chops! If you’re someone I love and you have been treated unjustly by another person then you can rest easy knowing that I have used my imagination to avenge you. Call me The Imaginator!

It was only two days ago during one of these one-person dialogues that something bizarre happened – another voice appeared in my head, completely uninvited (the nerve). The voice, which was both me and not me at the same time, spoke…

New Voice: “Why do you do this? You have so much creativity, why do you waste it on arguments you know you’ll never have with people who don’t matter anyway?”

Me: “But I like doing this. What’s wrong with what I’m doing?”

New Voice: “It’s a bad use of energy, that’s what’s wrong with it.”

Me: “But this is an important imaginary discussion. This particular person has said some nasty things about someone I love and they need to be taught a lesson!”

New Voice: “As long as you keep having these conversations you will always be angry inside. Who cares what they said? Who cares what anyone says? You keep re-opening old wounds and then wondering why they never heal.”

Me: “Oh ya, well what do you suggest I do Mrs.Smarty Pants Uninvited Voice? Huh?!”

New Voice: “Forgive them. Forgive all the people you feel angry at, wish them peace and then let them go.”

And so I did. Just like that. The anger which has been rocks in my stomach for all my life turned into a handful of balloons. I let go of the string and watched them float off into the sky. The crickets grew silent and I experienced a much needed moment of peace.

Now I’m not naïve enough to believe that I won’t ever drift back into that bad habit or that my crickets are now under complete control, but I know I have the power to stop myself. And, more importantly, I now realize that I should stop myself.

I blame all of this metaphysical mumbo jumbo on Nelson. And on my friend Terri.

I’ll deal with you later Nelson, first I’ll talk about Terri’s part in all this. (By the way, I’m still trying to come up with a nickname for Terri. Everyone within the ClubFred sphere gets a nickname whether they like it or not and it just seems wrong for Terri to go without). The aforementioned Terri gifted me a book titled, “Eat. Pray. Love. One woman’s search for everything across Italy, India and Indonesia.” The author writes about a year she spends abroad. I’m addicted. I read feverishly to and from work, ignoring poor Prez as he drives. What struck me right off the bat is how this woman writes as if she lives inside ME. Sometimes I come across a piece and laugh out loud because I know that I would have been thinking the exact same thing. Anyway, I babble.

So I’m at the “India” part of the story where the author – Elizabeth Gilbert – is spending time in an Ashram. And she starts talking about how much she BROODS on things and can’t let go of past hurts and BANG, I realize, Oh my god, that’s me. That’s me! With a little help from a Texan guru (read the book, you’ll laugh), she eventually learns how to get her brooding under control. And what’s really funny, somewhat creepy but mostly funny, is that I read that part of the story on the drive home from work where I had just, two hours or so previously, had my own little brooding epiphany. For someone who doesn’t believe in much that is not tangible, it sure seemed like the universe was sending me a loud message.

Thank you Terri. Or should I call you Guru Terri? Hmmmm. I like the sound of that.

 And Nelson you have to accept responsibility for your part in all this too! Since I’ve been here, as I told you, my mind has been slowing down…in a good way. Maybe it’s the trees, or the beautiful mountains, or the lake that’s so glassy in the morning, perhaps it’s the chalet with its solitude, or waking up in the middle of the night and looking out the skylight and seeing stars, maybe it’s having lunch and chatting with Becky every day and soaking up her calmness, maybe, maybe, who knows?

Prez and I came here knowing we already liked the town a lot but we’ve liked other towns a lot too and they haven’t stuck. The deciding factor as to whether we would stay or go was work. Could we get enough work here? Will people pay our prices? Well, so far, response to our newspaper ad has been sssssllllllloooooowww and folks we’ve quoted seem gun shy when we mention our fees. So we should call it quits right? That’s what we always do when things don’t go our way – cut our losses and run. Except my little voice paid another visit to me the other day and said, “You like it here, you want to be here, so make it work. You know you can make it work.” I know we can make it work. Prez agrees, we’ll make it work.

Thank you Nelson.

Returning to the book for a moment, while the author is in Italy, Rome to be precise, she has a conversation with an Italian friend in which she confides that she knows she couldn’t live in Rome, it’s not her city although she’s not sure why. The friend tells her that every city has a word “that defines it, that identifies most people who live there.” Rome’s word was SEX. I started thinking about the cities I’ve lived in and their words. In every case, the word I came up with just didn’t bond with me somehow (with perhaps Mulege being the exception with PLAY). What was Nelson’s word I wondered?

 Oh that’s easy said you-know-who.

 You’re right I replied.

 PEACE.

 Question: What is the word of your city?

"The moment I let go of it, is the moment I got more than I could handle.

The moment I jumped off of it, is the moment I touched down."                        – Alanis Morisette "Thank You India"

Until next week, I hope this finds all of you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

 p.s. – I’m trying a new font, let me know what you think!