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ODE TO LOUIS

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  TO LOUIS, EVER THE MYSTERY... Leaves shuffled that day as you slinked out of the bushes and walked across my legs while I sat on the front steps. You paraded back and forth across my lap, winding around my body – friendly. I marveled at your majesty. Where did you come from? Surely you must be someone's pet. An enormous Maine coon cat. Stray? Months passed with the same scenario, but growing ever more closer. But still you would not come inside. When I arrived back from errands, you would be there waiting. I picked you up, you blinked and sniffed the wind. I held you tight so I could feel our hearts beating as one. You looked happy doing that. It became our thing. Sunning in my lap on the porch, playing with a string toy, rolling around in the driveway. Trading my lap for Pete's for some dude bonding. You became a friend to Kristina when she really needed one. Then I finally carried you inside. No dice. You were obviously not comfortable ...
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POUTINE PANDEMONIUM!

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You'd think that with all these restaurants and pubs now serving poutine - and seeing it on food TV shows and reading about poutine festivals - that it wouldn't become a cause for repeated clashes with a sibling. To be clear, poutine is a French Canadian comfort food that apparently has two versions. One originated in Quebec in the 1950s and consists of French fries and cheese curds topped with a brown gravy. It is associated with Quebec, but has spread throughout Canada and the U.S. Then there's the dumpling-like things your mamere in New Brunswick made, called " poutine rapee."  They are Acadian and are made with mashed potatoes and pork. No fries or cheese curds. I am not French Canadian, although I sure do wish I was! Neither is my sister, Paula, although she was married to one. Paula just insists that the Acadian variety is the only real poutine. She will repeatedly post photos of them on Facebook. She argues with me about it at family ...
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ALOHA, ANUS!

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My pal David Sedaris claims colonoscopies are somewhat pleasant experiences – really it's just the trippy anesthesia, but nevertheless, he's OK with them. While I totally disagree, my most recent exam – my third! - had a fascinating aspect to it. You could almost describe it as a tropical escape, if you're still under the influence of Propofol. Starting when you walk in the office door of an ordinary looking building in an office park. There, your eyes feast on an entire roomful of lush island greenery (real plants and trees), with a little bridge over a koi pond. There are bamboo, surfboard-like signs directing patients to either endoscopy or colonoscopy offices. OK, this is weird, I say to my husband. Then we enter the office, which is wallpapered (who has wallpaper anymore?) in a large fern print with shades of green and pale yellow. The furniture is bamboo and rattan. There are curtains in another tropical print, and there are big framed photogra...
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