My Goat Prefer Naked

People always asking Baba, "Why you calling your book, 'My Goat Prefer Naked'"?

Ukrainian Baby Shower

You Wish You'd Had One

Crabby Apple Pie

Bake It Baba-Style

I Finished My Baba Book

1111,000 words over 18 months. I did it. My Goat Prefer Naked: Ukrainian Soul Food with Stories From the Village is done. I even have material left over for Volume II.

The last recipe, Honey Poppyseed Dressing, centers around the superstition, Don't hang diapers on the line after dark. I learned that one from Professor Natalie Konenenko's University of Alberta website. The department of Ukrainian studies there is one of the world's foremost, and Dr. Konenenko has generously posted volumes of valuable cultural material.

Baba says the diaper superstition guarantees you will be indoors, safe from predators and cooking from scratch :-D

My Goat Prefer Naked covers the holidays of Rizdvo/Sviat Vechir (Winter Solstice/Christmas), Maslenitsya (Mardi Gras), Velek Den (Easter) and Ivana Kupala (Spring fertility). There are plenty of stories and recipes to enhance your sex life as well as a Ukrainian childbirth ritual. Volume II will have Thanksgiving, New Year's Eve, and food for weddings and funerals. Oh, and a chapter on baking real dark rye, whole grain bread and dinner buns, "Not this white cotton Wonderbra bread Canadian think is real food."

The advice and encouragement I've gotten from people, some whom I barely know, is incredible. I am so looking forward to meeting those I only know online and by phone. The warm reception I got from the North Shore Writers Group yesterday was the last push I needed to finish the book. Writing can be a lonely business; these folks let me know in no uncertain terms there is an audience for the book.

It's funny. Obama's Yes We Can kept resounding in my head this week. What a powerful mantra.

I feel faint. I need sleep. Tomorrow begins a new phase: writing a marketing proposal and approaching my chosen agent. Don't worry, you'll hear me back to whinging before long :-D

Photo: USDA Copyright and sulfite-free

Beavers In My Brain

Photo: USDA

Last week I posted that I only have one more story to write before My Goat Prefer Naked is finished. Every day since, I have opened the document titled Honey Poppyseed Dressing. And stared. And stared some more. After writing over 100,000 words of narrative and recipe directions, it's as if beavers have built a dam in my stream of consciousness.

Please, none of the obvious jokes from my American friends. I'm the one who has to live with this creature as my national symbol. Eagle people should grant Canadians some dignity.

I who am so verbose and prolific, cannot think of a single thing to say about poppy seed, honey, salad dressing or salad. You'd think at least one of those would be an obvious jumping-off point. Baba is sitting in an easy chair with arms crossed and a grim look on her face. The Chair of my writing goals group asked yesterday, "Has anyone finished their manuscript---Reisa (cough cough)?"

Tonight I'm headed off to a writers open mic. I'll read from the manuscript. Hopefully they'll laugh, and the dam will break. Damn.

One More Story

I have just one more story to write before My Goat Prefer Naked: Ukrainian Soul Food with Stories From the Village is ready for submission. One.

Tonight I spent a long time looking at the ingredients for Honey Poppyseed Dressing, without writing. This won't be the last piece in the book. That honour goes to Baba's advice on how to turn a date with a bald, toothless man to your advantage.

It won't be the longest. That would be the crepe and pancake section, headed by a treatise on Ukrainian childbirth practices. Like giving birth in your husband's lap. Baba recommends a short, sharp dagger for a little reach around bum stab when he loses focus. A nod to Ukrainians' Amazonian past, when we rode side by side into battle with our men. Don't be worry, dagger is available in some feminine colour.

Neither will it be the one most reminiscent of our history as the domesticators of horses. Baba suggests tenderizing meat under your saddle. If you don't mind little bit of hair and sweat, is great time saver. Taste remind Baba of younger day and younger horseman.

But this last recipe will be the hardest to write. It's where I step away from, "Will I ever finish this (OMG 100,000 words!)?" and leap into the Great Big World of Publishing. I'll compete on level ground with thousands of others who have the same dream: a compatible agent, a good publisher and healthy sales.

The next few years will be spent touring to promote my books, storytelling and singing and making people laugh on a far larger scale. Seeing the world while living as an artist. Meeting thousands of Ukrainian-Canadians and Americans, including the generous people who've been corresponding with information and encouragement. Not to mention the Aussies, Brits, Africans, South Americans and Europeans. Because of writing this book, about the only place I don't have a friend is Antarctica.

I'll finally visit Ukraine, inhale the vast wheat and poppy fields, taste and collect recipes at their source.

I'll take a breathe, pause to review the journey and strengthen my vision before completing this last recipe.

At least I know my hesitation isn't fear of intimacy :-D

Photo: USDA, copyright-free


Copyright 2009 Reisa Stone

Baba Writes President Obama

Photo: Vanity Fair

Dear President Poopchik,

This your Baba here. I need to talk to you little bit about your Inauguration. Speech was pretty okay. Baba glad you restoring meaning of Constitution like Jefferson when he get it from Ukrainian. And hoo boy, that Aretha, she belt about freedom like is nobody business. No wonder she always getting respect.

Is good thing you taking time to make party. In Ukraina we say, Work is not a wolf, it won't run away into the woods.

Baba is tiny bit disgruntle with you making Mrs. Lincoln apple cake for lunch. What, you don't like Baba yabluchnyk? Her recipe would be apple in your eye. She going to withhold actual recipe till you call her. But here is some example how you should bake:

First, you find American heritage apple. You can make cake taste different each time, just like when someone you know get boyfriend to wear wig in bedroom. My daughter Odarka say this "too much information." I say is not enough.

Use butter and thick farm cream, not this stinking margarine and wimpola milk. Butter and cream have dusha, Ukrainian soul. Also honey instead of sugar. You jonesing to be real Ukrainian (Baba can see this in your good eye), use buckwheat honey. Will make your lip smack together.

Decorate top of cake with apple slice. If is sexy red like your tie, don't peel. If is green like Republican face, you know what to do.

Serve yabluchnyk with wild rose petal preserve. Together they are so powerful love spell, even that Russian Limbaugh going to give you floppy eye. Only thing is, you going to have to visit Baba in Canada for wild rose. Don't worry, she give you good deal and big kiss.

You want this recipe, phone: 1-900-ASKBABA. Only $4.99 per minute. Phone free crisis line and make comparison. Baba is sure you be back.

Mrs. Lincoln apple cake. Pah! You call your Baba, President Poopchik. She fix you up with real thing.

Bud zdorovyi yak voda, Be as healthy as the water.

Your Apple Love Monster,
Baba

Copyright 2009 Reisa Stone My Goat Prefer Naked: Ukrainian Soul Food with Stories From the Village

Baba's Ukrainian New Year Predictions

I promised you my narrator Baba would make Malanka predictions. That's coming straight up. First, Ukrainian saying of the week:

Good luck hangs by a thread, but bad luck by a thick rope.

Over to Baba:

Bania or bath house is sacred place in Ukraina. It serve same purpose as sweat lodge to Aboriginal North American, except ours is big wood house or dig from side of hill. We relax and we meditate. We make steam on rock and beat friend with birch rod for circulation. Ukrainian bath house have extra occupant, cranky spirit name banik.

If you disrespect ritual of bath house, banik can be awful mean. You not suppose to make loud burping or have sexy romance on bench. This can cause spirit to suffocate you in steam. However, they don't mind looking out from under bench if you cute when you naked. Probably better you don't go there alone.

Bania is excellent place to find lover. Is advantage in seeing person naked first. No unhappy surprise like in single bar.

During Malanka, New Year, women tell fortune in bania. Baba get this down to art, because is no-fail method to know what kind of New Year you going to have. She lift back of skirt and walk into bania this way. Not even thong to intervene in experience. If banik spirit touch her soft and warm, is good luck. If she feel cold, prickly hand, this is bad news all the way. Time to run.

Baba back into bania twelve time this week for your astrological viewing pleasure. You should be grateful:

Capricorn: Banik have warm hand for you if you keep nose to grinding stone. Also, you going to mistake someone else spouse for yours in all that bania steam.
Aquarius: Sorry, banik have cold prickly for you. Is probably because Baba is mad at runaround from Aquarius boyfriend and Aquarius city. Pah! No one say this not personal.
Pisces: For you, banik is lukewarm like aquarium. Like always, you going to drink like fish and get scooped up in dolphin-free net. Best date this year is some strange sea creature sucking your face.
Aries: If you don't stop investing in cheap condo and treat your Vancouver tenant nice, you going to get fleece like sheep. Banik give conditional handshake.
Taurus: Hey poopchik, is Chinese year of Ox! Get ready to rocking roll. Banik give you thumb up. Uh oh. Maybe that was wrong way to describe what really happen to Baba.
Gemini: Hello two face. This is good thing when you crossing street. Otherwise, banik have lukewarm hand for you. Year is not too bad, not too spectacular.
Cancer: Banik know if Baba don't have something nice to say, you going to cry. Okay. This year, someone within 10 mile going to get pregnant. You going to meet hot obstetrician. Now quit your crabbing.
Leo: Baba should have special place in heart for you, cuz she come from near Lviv, city of lion. This year banik say your admiring mane in mirror going to obscure your vision of reality. Get haircut for life improvement. Banik is holding out scissor and comb.
Virgo: Hoo boychik, banik sure like you. He rubbing Baba with warm massage oil that have gold flake and rosy smell. Don't be so nervous. Enjoy.
Libra: Banik hand is hot, is cold, is up, is down. Just like your emotion. Listen, any decision is better than no decision. This won't always make money for you, but at least you going to be in charge of something.
Scorpio: Oy yoi yoi, banik put his hot hand somewhere he shouldn't. Because you so Scorpio, you enjoy this. Or rather, Baba enjoy on your behalf. You feeling me, dorahenka? This is how rest of year going to go.
Sagittarius: That crazy banik take arrow from archer and boing! hit target. Baba is not happy. That was free inoculation she was not expecting. But is apparently good luck for you in love. Did you know Scythian, Ukrainian ancestor, invent bow and arrow?

Baba is hungry like steppe vovk, wolf. She going to go make kasha. Happy New Year, everybody!

Copyright 2009 Reisa Stone My Goat Prefer Naked: Ukrainian Soul Food with Stories From the Village

And He's Allowed Me to Go Up to the Mountain

It's little more than a week until one of the greatest days in history.

Barack Obama's election as President of the United States of America was an event that left me in tears. I wake up some days going, "Is it true, or did I just have a beautiful dream?"

As a Canadian, I was unable to vote. If I were American, I would have done everything I could to help with his campaign. His integrity and character are impeccable; his solutions to the life-threatening problems facing the world are both practical and compassionate. I admire that he first made an impact as a brilliant writer and storyteller. Did you know he is also a Grammy winner?

I would support Obama were he striped, speckled or Martian green. However, there is no denying the healing of racial wounds and the righteous turning of justice that has begun with the appointment of an African-American president.

For those of you for whom images of the 1960's phase of the Civil Rights struggle have faded (or if you are too young to remember), I'd like to recommend a film: Dr. Martin Luther King, A Historical Perspective, released in 2002 by Xenon films. It's available through Amazon and Netflix.

I'd seen these images and heard the speeches before, but viewed right before the Inauguration, it's a stunning reminder of what January 20th will mean to my Black sisters and brothers. To all of us. A balm for the searing pain in our individual and collective souls from the insanity of racism, whether we are consciously aware of it or not.

And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over, and I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you, but I want you to know, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land. And I'm so happy tonight; I'm not worried about anything; I'm not fearing any man.
Dr Martin Luther King, Memphis, April 3rd, 1968

Ukrainian Saying of the Week

Literary maven Moonrat posts "Yiddish Saying of the Day" on her terrific blog, Editorial Ass (short for "Assistant," of course) I'm going to take a page from her and post Ukrainian proverbs.

In honour of Rizdvo, or Christmas, which was January 7th by the Julian Calendar:

May your wheat grow so thick even a snake can't get through it!

I will now hand things over to Baba, my narrator. When a malcontent refugee grandma slings borshch, there's mayhem in the kitchen:

Hello everybody, Baba here. I ask Reisichka to put this proverb on site today because yesterday was Ukrainian Rizdvo, or Christmas, by Julian calendar. Baba is not big fan of Julian, but at least this way she get twice as many present. Ha!

Winter Solstice is continuation of Ukrainian agricultural wheel of year. You give biggest blessing when you wish for someone large crop. In some family, father stand behind stack of wheat at dinner table and play peeking boo. He say in big thunder voice like Perun, "Can you seeeee me?"

Family say, "Yes tato, we can see top your bald head."

Father reply, "Next year, wheat crop will be so huge, you will not see me. Also, I pay for good toupee."

We bring nother, special sheaf of wheat in house call didukh, or grandfather. It sit in corner and represent ancestor spirit.

Baba now tired from explaining. She have to go prepare for Malanka, Ukrainian New Year. On January 13th, she is playing principle role when her community reenact Persephone journey to Underworld. She is still auditioning for man to play god of Hell. And you thought your New Year was lots work.

(Coming next: Baba tells fortunes in the bania, Ukrainian bath house)

Copyright 2009 Reisa Stone My Goat Prefer Naked: Ukrainian Soul Food With Stories From the Village

Making Perogies

I just found the dearest New York Times video of Ukrainian babas making verenyky (perogies). I may go to them for a refresher before my cookbook comes out. If you can imagine what growing up around these feisty, funny women was like...

I'm working hard at capturing the experience in my cookbook. It's now at over 500 pages of verenyky, holubtsi, homemade noodles, kozak crabapple pie, several takes on Chicken Kyiv, honey, poppyseed and cheese cakes, dill cream sauce and road kill stew. And stories. Lots and lots of Baba stories. About outsmarting Soviet officials, having wild sex because you know Siberia or death could be around the corner, luring Nazis into the woods to pick (the wrong) mushrooms and foiling passive-aggressive neighbours.

It's on my mind all the time. Yesterday I told Dr. Wong, my dentist, I was thinking of him when I froze a head of cabbage. To make peeling leaves easier. I had a little explaining to do.

I've settled on a title for my book: My Goat Prefer Naked: Ukrainian Soul Food with Stories From the Village.

Let's hope my future agent loves it, too.

Warning: graphic dentistry and offensive driving content:

And by the way, Dr. Wong did an incredible job on my teeth. He froze my head like a cabbage and restored the finish. Because I hate needles so much, we decided to get it all over with in one go. Here's the trick, friends: Get the dentist to swab the entire inside of your mouth with topical anesthetic. Then have him inject each successive needle where it's already numb from the last one. Piece of cake. Much less stressful than several appointments in a row. I now insist on topical anesthetic for whatever needle-related procedure I need. Doctors have it. You should ask for it.

Driving home was interesting, because my eyeballs were numb. What the hell. I drive a steel body GM tank, I belong to a classic car club, and I'm not the one who's gonna get hurt. I am a Vancouverite, damnit. I learned a thing or two about community standards during the recent traffic snow wars. I now practice offensive driving. Survival of the fittest it is, you so and sos. See previous posts about Vancouver Snow

Did I stay up and try to shovel soup into my thawing mouth? Heck, no. I always burn myself, bite my tongue and drool. This time I was forearmed with drinking boxes and a sleeping pill. That's the other trick to surviving a trip to the dentist.

My teeth look teenager-ish. Thank you, Mid-Main Community Health Centre for your combination of caring and professionalism. Despite the changes I moan about, parts of Vancouver are still old school groovy. Carolyn and Cindy made me laugh all through the cleaning and assisting, too. Cindy, I certainly will consider getting a diamond for that tiny old nick in my incisor, the only flaw in my near-perfect smile. You are one wild woman.

Copyright 2009 Reisa Stone

Vancouver in Less Snow

After ten days so snowed under I couldn't walk farther than a few blocks, I was finally able to drive my car. It was immediately clear that if I were a horse and on the mend from a broken leg, I'd be one of those, who driven crazy by confinement, would rear up and shatter the limb again.

I drove. Boy, did I drive. I drove like an Amazon, like a Kozak. To a mall three miles away when there was one just a mile up the road. To claim 5000 Shoppers Points that came in the mail. Whoo hoo. That was an excuse. I drove five miles more to another drugstore. For what, I can't remember. I saw friends it had been impossible to meet up with over Christmas. Next, I drove ten miles to visit my favorite neighbourhood.

I logged over forty miles joyriding. Gas was down to 76.9, and I was thrilled. I tried to visit Pacific Spirit Park, but gave up when the snow in the middle of the road caused an alarming scraping sound on my undercarriage and the car began sliding sideways. "Please, please, please," I prayed, "I knew that was asking too much."

In the midst of this minor panic, it started to snow again. With my spinal fractures, I'd only been able to carry home a few apples or a litre of milk at a time for two weeks. And that with difficulty on the icy, uphill sidewalks. I shopped feverishly at Safeway, glancing out the store windows to monitor the snowfall. I figured I had half an hour before my parking spot would be blocked again.

It's now sixteen days since Vancouver's first snowfall, and the lanes and side streets are uncleared. Hundreds of cars on my pleasure drive were still trapped behind banks of snow. Winter Olympics 2010, here we come.

But it's the drivers who really get to me. In snow, Vancouverites are anarchistic. It's as if traffic law has been suspended. Today I drove from Broadway to 41st (on a dry road) behind a Hyundai who first cut closely in front of me, then signaled. He kept up a blistering 40 km/hr and straddled both lanes so I couldn't pass. Then, I tried to pull into a parking lot. Another driver tried to pull out. Inexplicably, the SUV in front of me halted across the entrance. I honked. The other guy honked. Pedestrians banged on her hood and windshield; she was blocking them, too. The road was clear, her engine humming. She. Just. Stopped. That's what I mean. Anarchistic.

I'll be staying home a lot more than usual until things get closer to normal. But my cookbook just hit 99,000 words, I've written the bibliography and edited everything so far. Vancouver snow isn't the worst thing that could happen. Happy New Year, everyone.

Copyright 2009 Reisa Stone

I Love Craigslist: The Pompoo

Today on Vancouver Craigslist Pets, a woman is trying to palm off a puppy she's had for a week. She claims to have bought it from a private breeder in Victoria. It's something called a Pompoo, the progeny of a horny boy toy Poodle and an even hornier Pomeranian. Here's the kicker. She says they "paid quite a bit for it," and "though we don't expect to be fully compensated, hope we won't take too much of a loss."

Here is my message to her:

There is no such breed as a Pompoo. It's a mutt. A Heinz 57, as we fondly called such ditch-bred accidents on the Prairies. If they charged you more than $25 over the cost of puppy vaccinations and hopefully, a nice shiny neutering certificate, you got ripped.

We're more realistic on the Prairies. Everyone knows that should your bitch be in such an accident, there's a procedure. First, you phone everyone you know and beg them to take a puppy. If that doesn't work, you resignedly place an ad in the classifieds, offering the mutts for Free. You might add a humble, "The mother's real sweet."

Now the whole city knows about your bad luck. People slap you on the back, shake their heads and buy you a beer. If you called the puppies "Pompoos," that would become your nickname. As in, "Here comes Pompoo! What's shakin', Pompoo?"

If you charged hundreds of dollars for your accident, you'd be laughed out of town. This is how normal people behave.

Back to your current dilemma. Call them up and try to return it. A real breeder will always take back a dog they produced, as well as refund your money, or at least part of it. Breeders often operate at a loss, just to improve the breed they love. Hold up a minute. You can't improve a breed that doesn't exist: Pompoo. Please.

I don't like the Puggles pseudo-breed either, but at least someone had the wit to find a vaguely Harry Potterish name. As disgusting as is the activity, you have to admire the marketing. And I'm waiting for the wave of Golden Retriever/Cocker Spaniel crosses. A hit amongst a certain segment of society, I'm sure.

Betcha the pseudo-breeder won't take back your pseudo-breed. The "breeder" is likely a pet store, prime distributor for puppy mills.

"...hope we won't take too much of a loss." Lady, do you think anyone cares you dropped a pile of bucks on a mutt, are trying to dump it one week later, and might take a financial loss? What planet do you live on? Oh. Planet PomPOO.

Copyright 2008 Reisa Stone

Vancouver in Snow

People, I feel a little nutty. Vancouver, BC has had heavy snow for ten days. This is a temperate rainforest, and we have not had this much snow since the '60's. The snow-clearing budget is pretty much tapped out, and they only clear the main arteries anyway. Sporadically. And of course not on holidays.

I couldn't even get out of my parking space on Christmas. My holiday was electronic, greetings exchanged by phone and email. I don't have snow tires. Hardly anyone does. Why bother, when all you usually get is a few inches per year? I ate my lovingly prepared Ukrainian cooking by myself. So you know I'm not totally hopeless, I froze some to share later. There will be life after this crisis.

The streets are dominated by two types of drivers. First, the Hummerers/SUVers who are finally getting a chance to prove the purchase price was worth it. I am sick of them crowing about it online. I don't even stick my foot out at the crosswalk when I see them coming. It's like yuppie NASCAR.

And secondly, people in teeny putt putts who are in denial. There's one in every snowbank, the car roof looking like a cocoa puff floating in a bowl of milk. The sound of gears grinding is everywhere, and burned rubber floats in the air.

Earlier in the week, I stood at the bus stop for forty-five minutes, waiting for the number 20. Three people informed me my bus had toppled over. I decided to believe the third one. Yep, one of those freaky articulated beasts had finally jackknifed like a dying dinosaur. I always knew it would happen; I'd just hoped it wouldn't be anywhere near me. Trees have fallen on the Skytrain tracks in two locations. People are stuck all over the city.

Christmas Eve, I put on my backpack and hiked through the drifts for lettuce, red peppers and a couple of suet blocks. Despite two layers of protective plastic, my miniature poinsettia didn't survive the walk home. I only bought it because I felt sorry. It was stunted and $1.99. At home, I saw the label said Pinched Species. Oh. It was meant to be puny. The tiny pile of miniscule, dropped scarlet leaves by my computer makes me sad.

The wintering songbirds are starving. Wildlife biologists are asking us to feed them. They're having gang rumbles on my balcony over peanut butter. Not the biologists. They're snug at home having biological thoughts.

The long range forecast? Snow. Snow mixed with rain, so footing will be even more slippery. Then more snow.

The good things are: I'm writing. Boy, am I writing. And the swimming pool (with whirlpool) is only two blocks away. It was open today, thank the Lord of swimmers, and nearly empty. The library is next door to it. And if I can manage to trudge through the snowbanks in the park, a swing is waiting for me.

Copyright 2008 Reisa Stone

I Love Craigslist: How To Lose a Dog

I've long maintained that the real news isn't in the front sections of the paper. It's in the classifieds. That's where the population is buying, selling, announcing, denouncing, overpopulating, trying to find someone to overpopulate with, dying losing, finding, looking for homes, renting homes, legalizing, auctionizing, dumping stuff for free free free, lying about Great Career Opportunities! and offering career opportunities for which most of us don't qualify.

Perhaps the latter don't qualify, themselves; they're usually quarter page display ads near the classifieds. The same way I can say I don't live in the Downtown East Side, but have the privilege of DTES denizens rooting through my garbage anyway.

But since I found Craigslist, I am in Heaven. Now the folks who'd formerly spent bucks on an ad that read, Pbull pups, 6 wks, ready NOW, csh only, Sry, have the luxury of not only wildly embroidering the virtues of said pups, but opinionating on everything else. Then everyone opinionates on their wrongheaded opinions. Until the Mad Flaggers arrive and kill all opinions but their own.

This week, a particular posting really got my goat. CL pets is probably the most active section. There is the above, plus animal shelter ads, pet sitters and trainers, as well as enough doggie jackets to keep Paris Hilton feeling fashionable for a lifetime. They come and go, depending on the Mad Flaggers' moods and med levels. But it is understood you do not flag the Lost ads, no matter how many the frantic owner posts.

This week, some Grinch beyond grinchness asked the question, "How do you lose a dog, anyway?"

I responded, and my post was flagged almost immediately. Here it is, where the Mad Flagger(s) can't touch it:

I can't believe the cruelty of someone posting to question how a dog got lost. If the owner was careless, they're already blaming themselves big time.

I have always been very responsible with dogs. Nonetheless, here's how I lost them. I got them back every time, but still:

-The dog digs under the fence or leaps over it. My six month old pup leaped/climbed a four foot fence. I heard a noise and looked in my rear view mirror. She was galloping down the road after my car. And yes, there was someone at home, watching her. The noise I'd heard was my mother shrieking. She was galloping after the dog. In a nightgown. Oh, for a video;
-Someone let a whole pack of dogs out of my yard. By now, it was surrounded by six foot chain link. A non-doggie person attended my dogs' birthday party, and didn't latch the gate. The pack of Dobermans, Labs, terriers, mutts and a huge Rottie rampaged through the neighborhood for half an hour. And then down the driveway they came at full gallop. Good thing I'd baked an Alpo birthday cake. The smell was irresistible;
-Leashes break, collars slip. When I was a kid, my Boston Terrier was an escape artist. He could wiggle out of any collar. We'd find the little fiend growling at the neighbour or mounting the neighbour's dog;
-An ignorant person will lets the dog out. I left my pup in a friend's apartment while we went to a movie. Luckily, we couldn't get in. The pup was nowhere to be found. I called and called, and she came running around the street corner. She'd been whining, and the landlord decided the best solution was to throw her outside. Without tying her up;
-Some dogs are natural adventurers. My Doberman Karma, miffed that I'd left her on the farm while visiting town for the weekend, took a weekend of her own. She spent three days terrorizing the local jackrabbits with a pack of coyotes. Cool, elegant, slinky Karma. I'll bet that if she hadn't been spayed, she'd have found herself a wild husband and never come home. There'd be a long line of coyote-Doberman crosses roaming the Alberta Prairies. What would the designer dog people call these? Dobacoys? Coybermans? Whichever sounds more like $1000;
-Dogs will go right through a screen window after a cat or squirrel. I came home to a hole in the screen and no dog. The answering machine held a message from my vet. Two police officers had compassionately picked up my Lab Martha from the road, where someone had hit her and left her to die. She was bruised everywhere. The vet said, "Good thing Labs are made of rubber."
From then on, I either took her everywhere with me, or came home to a stiflingly hot house;
-A dog hit by a car but not critically injured will run a long distance, from shock. One of my dogs hit a little red MG. That's right, Ms. Impetuous ran into the side of the car, leaving a dent. This was while I was on a park side road, letting both dogs out. Sometimes the word Stay is negotiable. She ran about half a mile, with me running behind and yelling. It was like she'd lost her mind. I also once lost this dog for a while when she took off after a rabbit;
-They jump off apartment balconies. If there's a handy tree they can half-climb or bounce off of, dogs can scale remarkable heights. My neighbor's rescue dog, an Italian Greyhound, freaked so badly when she turned on the vacuum, he jumped out a second story window. Happily, the delicate little fella landed on a soft hedge.

I'm sure there are other interesting ways a dog can get lost. But of course, the original grinch-like questioner does not "attract" imperfect situations in his/her own life.

Copyright 2008 Reisa Stone

Vancouver's Housing Shortage: The Dirty Truth

I was looking for one of the myriads of shared situations advertised as $600 or less. Spend half my time writing, sock a little money away.

At one time, Vancouver was a groovy place where you could find all sorts of shared "lifestyles." We moved in and out of each others' spacious homes and apartments, shared meals and just as casually said goodbye when our life situations changed. It was a great way to make friends and save money. In many ways, Vancouver was a cauldron for artists of all stripes to brew our fledgling careers. Heck, I put myself through music college mainly as a busker, with a bit of horse grooming and exercising on the side---at minimum wage. While living in a gorgeous Dunbar heritage home.

Twelve years later, the Vancouver I knew and loved is no longer groovy. It's gotten mean as a sunburned snake. Quality of life for the working and artsy classes is gone. We're talking grim survival in a city that overvalues itself. We're competing for real estate, much of it bought by drug dealers who started their investments in the 70's.

If you're unfamiliar with the Vancouver rental market, check out these Craigslist postings. Prices do not include heat, Internet, cable, phone and usually not parking. Some denizens have invented a number called "a takeover fee." This is a big fat surcharge. Sometimes it's a way to force you to buy their second hand furniture, sometimes it's their way of compensating themselves for having to dirty their fingers answering your email.

And I'll tell you a dirty little secret: Vancouver's "homelessness problem" is not all about addiction and mental illness. Scores of working poor are being forced into homelessness. Tell me, if you had a $10-12 per hour job, or God forbid, lost it, could you afford these prices plus a security deposit and moving costs? How many people with low wages can cough up a minimum of $2000 on the spot? What happens if you have even a week off work with an injury, unpaid? Bingo, you're homeless.

The "homeless count" they conduct here is not at all representative. Many decline to participate, and the thousands of people sharing bachelor apartments and even beds with strangers in order to avoid the street, go uncounted.

During four months searching for a home, I spoke to 1500 landlords/landladies. Some, I visited. These entrepreneurial souls:

-Provided no heat at all. Said "heat from the downstairs would rise" into the illegal attic suite;

-Constructed barn-like stalls for tenants in the stinky, unfinished cellars of their monster homes and crammed tenants in like refugees on ships. No living room, no phone. Kitchen was half the windowless, airless laundry room, shared by four or five sullen people at $450-500 apiece. “You can take turns sharing,” the landladies/landlords chirped. I found about two hundred of these situations. From West side to East side to South Vancouver ;

-Thought tenants would be fine using the phone in the landlord's bedroom;

-Thought a tenant would be fine sharing the landlord's bedroom. I see you rolling your eyes. Yes, sexual arrangements have existed since the dawn of time. But it wasn't sexual. The guy just had no concept of privacy. He didn't want my body, he just wanted to be "close" to a stranger. That's the creepy part. He was worse than the flaky old bachelor who kept picking at his thighs while interviewing me;

-Called small 1 bedroom suites 2 or 3 bedroom, because they counted the twin bed and couch. They charged $500 per person and had three floors going this way, thus making $4500 per month on a house that should have been, tops, $2000. One was in that crap area just off Broadway, halfway between Main and Cambie;

-Said central heating was too expensive, and instead had dangerous old space heaters plugged in all over the house. There were cords underfoot at every turn. They apparently spent a full time day walking around and turning these units on and off. Including in your bedroom and the bathroom. In exchange, you had the comfort of their 5 smelly old cats. "We hope you don't mind cat hair," they said. I don't much, until it gets congested in your rusty old heaters and causes a fire. How a kitty litter box smells placed in front of a space heater (with blower) is another matter;

-Tried to rent me a tiny room or unit, then use said unit to store their excess furniture. I mean inconvenient hunks of furniture to which they wanted regular access. Example: "You don't mind if I get my bike out of your miniscule kitchen every day at 5:30 am & return it at 6 pm, do you?" Yes, unless the rent is under $200, I damn do well mind. And if you're going to do that, don't call it an "apartment" and a "tenancy." We are sharing a living space. Actually, it's more like I'm living in your storage room. A proposition that should be much cheaper.

Oh, and the 7' X 5' armoire in the 8' X 10' bedroom is of virtually no use to me when it is full of your plaid shirts and tragically unwashed fortrel pants, so don't try to convince me. Ditto for the 6' long bureau in the narrow hallway, crammed with 1959-96 Readers Digests.

-Let me know rent would rise as they "renovated." Upon further questioning, it seems there wasn't a usable bathroom or habitable living room in the first place. I would be renting a construction site. $500 to start, who knows how much once there was a toilet. Not to mention the lady told me she shaves her cats bald. She was losing her own hair in menopause, and felt "cats are so empathetic." Dear genius, the cats didn't shave themselves for love of you. What was your first clue you're a monster?;

-Advertised their unheated, cement-floored garage as A comfortable living area that doubles as a work space for the healing arts practitioner. The ad sounded pretty good. Real Old Vancouver groovy hippie. To their credit, they had painted the floor an attractive, healing vomit colour and simulated a rug texture;

-Tried to rent me a cot by the furnace with, “At least you'll be warm”. Was this a kind hearted working class person who just wanted everyone to have a home, no matter how humble? Noooo. This was a Dunbar matron whose marble-pillared mansion backed onto the golf course. She wanted that extra $450 pin money. Plus utilities. For golfing fees, I assume;

-Clearly did not want tenants who owned any personal possessions. None. If it was a shared house, they would not make one iota of cupboard, closet or wall space. See above re: furniture storage. And I'm not talking about harried, multi-child single parents living in a tiny downtown high rise. These were businesswomen from Kits to south Richmond, sometimes with one child, rattling around in 4000 square foot homes. And from the looks of the furnishings (two big screen TVs, two complete sets of Calphalon pans) they were not only doing well themselves, but had absolutely wiped out the ex.

The room they were offering in this “shared” housing was invariably situated right between to their dawn to dusk home office and the living room---which is where they saw their clients. For massage, for bookkeeping, for creative spelunking. "Ooops, didn't I tell you you could only use the living room on Sundays? Unless, of course, I have a client that day."

I knew right away my domestic life would consist of scuttling back and forth to the bathroom through Ms. Entrepreneur's tangle of wires. The spacious rec room was for the exclusive use of the child. Did this gracious living merit a gracious rate of rent? Hell, no. This was the one area in which they absolutely insisted on "cooperative living." Much like the last bastion of equal rights between the sexes in Vancouver is on the bus. But that's a rant for another day.

Ironically, they were usually the ones with whom I initially had warm, lengthy phone conversations re: their desire to have "real roommates, not tenants," and "build a community here." They always expressed hurt surprise that the last two roommates "just weren't community minded." They wasted a lot of my time. And expressed shocked and genteel disappointment when I politely declined their "new age alternate life style vision." In a way, I understand. My little Sears pans would look pretty sad next to the Calphalons. I mean, if they made room for my pans. Which they wouldn't.

I met one who even refused to allow me to bring in my own new, clean bed. She insisted the tenant had to accept a funky old "heritage" mattress from her grandparents, further slept upon by the last twenty years worth of tenants.

Okay, so you're stingy and eccentric. But dear landlady, don't you wonder what kind of person has 0 possessions? Even 8 year olds have a bug collection and Hot Wheels. And need a place to keep them. In my experience, people with 0 are either addicts who've recently been ripped off or depressed guys who just had divorces so miserable, you don't want them around. Or maybe you do, just so you can punish them some more. The tenancy version of sado-masochism. Do I have mommy issues, you ask. You mean you don't?;

-On top of charging market rate rent, obviously were angling for me to be a free babysitter to the kids who were, at this moment, rifling through my purse and wiping their snotty fingers on mama's skirt;

-Lied lied lied. Said the room was "main floor,"and the house was "nonsmoking" when it was, once again, a damp, cold, unfinished basement. Next to the filthy, nicotine-encrusted rec room where, "We hope you don't mind our friends crash during our weekly drinking parties. This will also be where you keep your personal computer." These people were West side, and in their 30's. And this was at more than one house.

-Were evangelicals. They wasted my time on the phone or in person, convincing me what "nice" people they were. And then, "Oh, one more thing. I am born again/washed in the blood (ick) and I won't allow you: overnight guests, any reading materials but an approved version of the Bible (mine), music, entry after 9 pm or an opinion”;

-Imposed all kinds of extra charges. Which they didn't tell me about until they knew I was hooked. They'd advertise a tenancy as "all-inclusive." After I praised the hardwood floors or vaulted whatever, they let me have it. The paid extra: heat, water, Internet, phone (if there was one---usually there wasn't), parking, yard use, cable TV, laundry. Occasionally furniture I didn't need. See "furniture storage," above. Yes, they charged to store their crap. $600 all-inclusive turned out to be as much as $800. And did I say your own phone was on top of that? Cell, because they wouldn't allow a land line for the tenants, even when I offered to pay for installation.

-Then there was the gem of a guy who I actually rented from. Half of a spacious, 2 bedroom suite I would share with a barely-there student. $600 each. I arrived two days before the end of the month to sign the lease. He was hammering in the fireplaced living room.

"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Making a third bedroom."
"Whaaaaat? I rented a 2 bedroom with a living room. Look, it's almost move in day. If you're doing this, I expect to pay no more than $300. And I want compensation to move elsewhere. I'll have to put things in storage."
"Too bad. You're still each paying $600. You haven't signed an agreement not to." He kept hammering and smirking.

Of course I left. But in the end, he won. I'm sure he had no trouble renting to the next rube.

People kept telling me to "report" these situations. To whom? And when? I was in the time-consuming frenzy of house hunting. Most of these situations are not illegal, just weird and mean spirited. Vancouver City doesn't dictate terms for renting out a room in your home.

Although it was alarming how many people turned from friendly to frosty when I said I'd like a written agreement and to pay rent directly to a landlord. A lot of tenants are hurting, scrabbling to pay rent on homes no one should be asked to afford. Illegal sublets, where you have 0 rights under the Residential Tenancy Act, are rampant. You can't even call the landlord in a plumbing emergency---because he doesn't know you live there, and would penalize the leasor if he did. I'd run into that one just before I had to move. Irate landlady storms out of her SUV and screams at me to answer whether I live there or am just visiting. And keeps coming back to check after I lie.

There's a lucrative underground market in "rent catching" (my term). A landlord takes your security deposit and first month's. If you don't know the law, sometimes you even give him last month's. There's no written agreement. Shortly after you move in, the landlord says, "It's not working out," and asks you to leave. Under common law, you have to go. He can even ask the police to escort you out. If you want your possessions, you have to file in civil court. Ditto for your money, because again, this was not a legal tenancy. Legally, you are a "guest." Again, no help from Residential Tenancy. Filing a claim? Start with $150, which runs higher if you have trouble serving papers. And just try to repossess belongings for which you no longer have receipts.

I've heard of landlords doing this to more than one person per month. Usually from some nice person sobbing on a bus or bench, surrounded by Hefty bags. Does this person have the time or money to pursue legal action? Not if they want a place to sleep or eat that week.

My stuff stayed in storage and my body in temporary lodgings for four months. Tell me I'm picky and have a fear of commitment, just don't tell me you want to rent me your "nice clean basement with a view."

Copyright 2008 Reisa Stone