Cookies in odd shapes and sizes

As I write this, I'm very tired from baking 200+ cookies over the past 36 hours. I liked baking on Sunday, when R helped me measure and crack the eggs and shower everything with sprinkles and put away the flour and sugar and baking powder when we were done with it. Today, a Monday, I baked alone like an obsessive maniac with a rolling pin. I had my high-efficiency systems and they worked, but my industrial-baker-robot body could sure use a massage right now (with lots of oil).

Tomorrow my 11-year-old girl will sell the autumn themed cookies at her school in an effort to raise money for the Terry Fox Foundation. A cancer survivor herself, R is more inspired than usual this year because of her friend "Lara", the 12-year-old who is living with an aggressive case of osteosarcoma, which Terry Fox had as well.

They say "money can't buy happiness" but I don't think they were talking about RAISING money for charity when they said that. Fundraising for a favourite cause is actually one of life's greatest pleasures and I'm glad my kid likes doing it so much. We're also very lucky to have family and friends who can pitch in - not always a lot, but enough to help R reach her goal and make her feel like she's surrounded by people who care. She is just as thrilled to check her online donation page as she is to open an actual gift meant for her.

We know a Toronto couple who are very wealthy philanthropists. They have hospital and gallery wings named after them, not to mention a high-profile University college that bears their name. They also head a Canadian program that gives money to business startups - kind of like Dragon's Den but without the TV cameras. And without Kevin O'Leary trying to profit from any of it.

At a dinner party with these friends not long ago I watched their eyes light up as they talked about giving a million to this worthy cause and another million to that one. I listened to them recount stories of instances in which they were able to make people's dreams of starting a business come true. People who just needed $5,000 to leave their ordinary lives behind and get moving on something exciting and creative and independent and new. Some of the startup ideas were as simple as opening a bakery. But some, literally, were pursuits that might find cures for diseases in the not-too-distant future.

 "We offered [the entrepreneur] $10,000 to get her idea started", S recalled, "but the woman said 'no, I don't need any more than $5,000, so I won't take a dollar more'." Clearly S was impressed by an individual who, in her own fashion, was handing money away.

Whenever I think of this wealthy couple, I have never envied their big house and their butlers and housekeepers and their horses and exotic trips (wait - maybe I would like to have a few of those things, ha ha). But what I really would love to experience is that Santa-like quality of being able to grant people what they really wish for.

I can tell you FOR SURE that these two people who spend so much time giving money away are the happiest people I have ever met on this earth.

But tomorrow will prove to be pretty exciting and happy for R and me, too. Making and selling cookies to help find a cure for cancer is hard work. But it's worth every minute. And every penny.

The Powerlessness of Positive Thinking: A not-so-odd car buying experience

Today is the 10th. Not an especially odd day, by anyone's standards. You don't need to be a mathematician to see how even the number 10 is, but what the heck. I'll write anyway.

Today I am going to write about cars.

Last year I gave our nice Jetta to my brother because he ended up with a surprise baby at the age of 47 and he was driving a nasty, bumpity old Jimmy truck that no baby should be in. My brother is always stretched-out financially and at that time he prioritized that a new baby needed a house to live in (versus his King West studio with the awesome view and awesomer bar scene). With that new mortgage and all those diapers suddenly upon my brother's shoulders, a car payment was out of the question. So yeah, I gave our nice Jetta to him.

Which left us with my 1998 Honda in the driveway. Again, you don't need to be a human calculator to figure out that that is an old car.

The other day we went to test drive a few different Kia vehicles. We had a vague idea of what we can afford, which, for various reasons isn't much at this time, but we also had an interest in trying out a range of models in order to learn what they feel like. For example, the Kia Sportage, which J tried out of curiosity, was a big hit. We had gone in thinking maybe the Soul, or more likely the less expensive Rio, was for us. I don't think I should even have to explain why a customer would test drive vehicles, but I am, because the salesman could only see one thing in us. A sale.

Even though I know this isn't a remarkable revelation about car salesmen, it was still bizarre. He kept talking - to me, he could tell J would have none of this crap - about positive thinking. He would say "I woke up this morning knowing I'll make 4 sales today. I've sold 3 already, and I know I'm going to make a DEAL with you too."

Another gem. "Do you play cards?" he asked me. Thinking of all the games of Crazy Eights and Old Maid our family has played after dinner on wintry nights - all of us screeching and giggling trying to hoard our eights or get rid of the queen of spades, I said "yes". "What does the word ACE mean to you?" he asked. "Uh, it means number one in the series," I answered. "No," he said. "To me it means A Commitment to Excellence."

Were we speaking the same language?

"I believe in positive thinking, Hun," he said (I was called Hun throughout this experience, while J was called Ron as well as Buddy). "It's all about perception. You know, because perception IS reality."

I was really tired of having to field all this positive thinking spiel but I kept trying to be nice anyway. I made the small talk. I found out the sales rep, Raj, is 28 years old and supports his parents, who are from India.

In the end we couldn't really justify the monthly payments on a Kia Sportage. What a process it was to even find out what the prices would actually be. All the promises that had been made during the test drive fell away as we sat in the little chairs at the man's little desk/cubicle/thingy. The 10 year comprehensive warranty Raj had talked about on the test drive - that's only available if you don't get a discount on the vehicle. Like, you pay sticker price and you get the 10 year warranty that was promised to you. Which is also known as: you're paying thousands for a warranty you hope not to need. The 0% financing? That's only on the model that has no air conditioning. If you get the car with auto and AC - the one you were sitting in when Raj told you there was 0% financing for 84 months - you're looking at a nearly 10,000 buy-back in 5 years at the rates 2019 has in store for us.

When it was apparent that we really were going to leave without "making a deal today" Raj seemed a lot less positive. His language started to become peppered with words like "shit" and "shitty". He said to J - who is a seasoned car enthusiast with a mind like a steel trap - "you really should have done your research before coming here. Most people look at the website and find out about the warranty and the financing and pricing there."

"I did my research" J replied. "The first questions I asked you were about the financing and the warranty. You told us one thing, then later you told us another." I'm summarizing what J actually said, but it was detailed, airtight and razor sharp. I was proud to be his Hun.

When we got home we followed Raj's advice and performed some better car-buying research on the internet. Not that we hadn't before, but this time we paid a more careful eye to the fine print. The research did pay off, too. It turns out we can get everything we want in a car, for the price we can justify paying every month. From Hyundai.

So we'll be test driving a few Hyundais soon. That's my perception, anyway. Let's see what reality brings.

UPDATE: Photo above shows us with our just-purchased Hyundai car from Gyro Hyundai in Leaside. The staff there were so amazing, they actually deserve a blog post of their own.

Odd writings: Blogs from my father

It's an odd day so technically it's my day to write. Not that we observe the rules anymore.

I think I'll write about blogging. Bloggers do that sometimes.

Living several hours apart by car, I don't see my dad very much these days. But he does write to me quite often, by email. And from those emails I am certain that I can easily make the claim that my father is The Worst Speller of the Entire Internet. You need the Rosetta Stone to decipher what it is he is saying, and then in the end it was only a story about how he filled the mini-van gas tank on the way back from the hockey arena.

I guess it's cool that he still plays hockey at the age of 73. He's still pretty good looking, too, actually. A silver fox, Leslie, one of my art director friends, would call him.

But the SPELLING is not hot at all. It's so bad.

Last weekend we were all at my brother's cottage together and I got to have a rare visit with my dad. We barbequed a big dinner for everyone - he being my highly skilled grill man - and in our banter I casually made fun of his spelling and what a terrible writer he is. He said "I have a blog now". I thought he must be joking and I said "ha ha, you are the last person on earth who should have a blog."

When I came back to town he sent me an email containing his little blog that has two posts in it. I read it over and it was absolutely horrible. Really bad. All about his lawn and how he re-seeded the lawn with a friend of his who is also retired.

In that same email he also told me how to google a special blog that he really likes and has been reading loyally for a few years. A blog written by a man named Brian - a grandfather - who lives in a place called Nain Bay Labrador (Canada). My family has longtime connections to Labrador, and my father and brother go there once a year to fish on a glorious lake accessible only by bush plane. The rest of the year my dad thinks about the next time he'll be able to go up there. Thinks out strategies for how he'll pack more lightly. How he'll change the menu plans (he's the main cook among the men who go up there together) to be even more simple yet delicious.

My dad didn't know how to just copy that link and send it to me, so I did google it and I managed to find my dad's favourite blog with no problem.

The first - or most recent - page of the blog was a note from one of the man's relatives who posted that they regret to inform us that Brian had passed away a month ago. Wow, I thought. That SUCKS.

I read through some of Brian's postings about dog sled races, salmon fishing, and his political concerns about living in Canada's far north. I guess the politicians there are just as hopeless as the ones in big cities, if not worse.

Most of the blog posts had no comments at all. There were plenty of clear, beautiful pictures, including some recent ones of the man's son and two grandchildren. His granddaughter, a newborn, was all red and puffy and beautiful. "She's finely here", wrote the proud grandpa, unaware of his delightfully accurate play on words. He went on to mention how the new baby's big brother was "all into her ... for now."

Feeling I had grown to know this man a little better, I went back to read the 15 comments - the largest response by far to anything he'd ever written - that accompanied the most recent blog posting, his death notice. There was a lovely outpouring of appreciation for the blog he had shared. There was sorrow in losing the connection to a faraway yet fascinating place that he had given to people around Canada and around the world. Folks who usually did not reach back out to him, choosing to absorb his shared experiences in silence and anonymity.

One of those comments was from my dad. I saw his little thumbnail photo first. Then saw his name all spelled out, loud and clear, not hiding behind any avatar or pseudonym like the rest of us. My dad's message was spelled out pretty clearly too - no more than one apostrophe appeared to be out of place.

"So sad with Brian's passing he will be missed by Family,Friend's and Bloggers like myself.
I enjoyed his daily updates on what was happening in Nain and particularly enjoyed pictures of meals he created.
So we in the south Kingston,Ont who have been following his Blog will miss the link to the north.
Bob (last name)"

When I found my dad's comment, I read it furtively like someone sneaking a peak into someone else's diary, and instantly I couldn't help but shed a few tears. Even now, seeing it, I'm lumpy-throated and misty-eyed. And even now, while I think I know why I'm having that reaction ... it does surprise me a little.

So I thought I'd write about that experience here, here in my blog. And maybe someone will even read it sometime.

Here's that photo of Brian's granddaughter, Mia. She was born April 6, 2013. I'll never know her, but may the world treat her well.

It's odd how online bullies never commit suicide

Another child has committed suicide because of bullying over sexual acts she committed with a boy. Here's the link: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/womens-life/10255283/Girl-performs-oral-sex-on-boy-in-field.-Photo-goes-viral.-Shes-a-slut.-Boys-a-hero.-What-should-we-do.html.

As a grown up woman, and mother to a pre-teen daughter, I certainly have a lot of thoughts about this topic.

I remember when I was a child myself, just how long a day would seem. It's something that adults forget - the completely different perception of time children have compared to ours. We know if we're having a bad day, or even a bad stretch - we know that it will be over with at some point. The ancient saying, "This too shall pass" is succinct and bang-on accurate ... but to believe this proverb it surely helps if you've lived long enough to witness first-hand just how true it is.

Children don't have that luxury. And to a child a day is long. A bad day is unbearable. A bad week or month is the end of the world - often by their own hand.

A broken toy, or lost friend, can be devastating for a 9 year old. We cuddle that child, protect her, tell her things will be okay. We shield her eyes from filth and horror, large and small, that come her way. And we forgive the child for their misdeeds and failings. We allow them to learn from their mistakes and move on.

But only a few years later, that same child can be thrown into a pit where she'll have to battle sexuality, dishonest people with ulterior motives, public shame and humiliation, and the list goes on. Parents become the "last ones" kids feel they can talk to. The internet makes it so much worse for these children, because while it can create the illusion of a delightfully supportive friendship network, it is in reality filled with sharks.

In my rather-small Ottawa suburb high school, as a 14-year-old, I once left my wallet on top of a pay phone for about a minute before I hustled back to retrieve it. The wallet - containing plenty of identification, and money I had been saving up to buy a camera lens - was gone. I asked the office staff to make announcements, which they did, and I checked daily to see if someone had returned the wallet, but it never reappeared.

That was the first time, for me, that I realized that there are people among your social circles - people you would never suspect of being capable of cruelty or evil - who would easily hurt you if they could. If they could get away with it. If they'd never be found out. Someone I interacted with every day at school had knowingly done this to me. Wow.

As someone who always corrects a cashier if he or she gives back too much change, or returns even the coolest gadgets to the nearest logical authority, this was news to me. A stark revelation.

A wallet was a horrible thing to have stolen - but I did leave it out there for the taking. Didn't I? Even if only for a moment. Now consider what it is that our children put "out there" for the taking every day, in our wired world. With cameras everywhere, and on everyone, there can be reminders of every embarrassment, every hurt, every mistake. I can think of at least two television ads running right now that make light of this phenomenon. One is a Rogers TV spot that makes fun of a man who studies newspaper ads to find the best technology deal. His friend takes a photo of the man - his face covered in black newspaper ink fingerprints - and we just know the humiliating image is bound for facebook or twitter.

Adults can handle something like that. Kids can't. Period. And yet kids have their self worth and self esteem out there, ready to be snatched from them, all day long, every day. For girls the risk is very high - possibly much higher - because they risk the shame of being called sluts if the wrong photo of them should make the rounds online. Whether they actually did anything wrong or not. For gay youth, the risk is also high. That's why you don't see any suicides among the football team members who raped the girl and posted photos online. But you do see plenty of suicides among the girls and gays who are victimized, like Hannah Smith, Rehteah Parsons, Amanda Todd, Audrie Pott, and a young man named Tyler Clementi who was outed as a homosexual on video by his school roommate.

The victims kill themselves. The perps live on.

I guess this is as good a time as any to make my point. And the point is that I want young people - people who have their dignity taken from them EVEN IF IT'S THEIR OWN DAMNED FAULT - to know that this too shall pass. Please, believe me.

If you're distraught because you have done something you're ashamed of, and you're hearing about it online, and you feel all the fingers are pointing at you? I agree. That's a bad and difficult experience to get through. But you must get through it. Just let today turn into yesterday. And tomorrow, do that again. Eventually, if you just wait it out, you will get through to the other side of this. I promise. Don't let the biggest bully in your world be the voice in your head. Get up on top of it and tell that voice to shut up.

Get the help you need. Don't do this alone. And once you rise above it all ... maybe, just maybe, you'll find that the bright and beautiful joy at the end of the tunnel some day is the ability to turn around and help someone else who is going through the same thing. Sure, you'll still have your failings. But they'll be packed in the smallest pocket of your massive suitcase filled with love, and learning, and new experiences and all the gifts you know you can give the world.

And in keeping with the theme of putting something online that people might laugh at, and ridicule, I wrote a poem just for you. Whoever you are.

Only Yesterday

My self defence just feels so weak.
No one hears it anyway.
So throw your stones at me all day.
Cast them over yesterday.
Yesterday. Yesterday.
The endless void of yesterday.
It's all just yesterday.

What you see and think of me?
That was only yesterday.
Those things you say?
They will all be gone away.
Beneath another yesterday.
Yesterday. Yesterday.
They'll all be yesterday.

I am aware what your eyes see
But that won't take control of me
You see ghosts of yesterday
Not real no matter what you say
In darkness lies all yesterdays
Tomorrow lights upon new days
Not yesterdays. Yesterdays. They're only yesterdays.

Odd to be deathly ill as a child

My daughter is sick today. High fever, sore muscles. Aching bones. Yes, a real, authentic, rainy sick day is upon us.

But I know she will be okay in a few days. Up and around, starting projects and making messes and hogging the computer to research some new exotic pet we ought to adopt. I know she'll get out of bed every morning and I know that next Tuesday morning she will put on a special outfit and go to school. And we'll be hearing R tell all her many stories again - the many tales and dramas of the 10 and 11-year-olds in her world - not to mention all the eccentric teachers. Coronation Street's got nothing on these people.

Last week, we went for a playdate at R's new friend's house. It was my first time properly meeting this girl and her parents. I had seen them briefly at the camp bus, the day R returned from camp (where they met), but that was all.

The girl is 12 and we'll call her Lara (EDIT: "Lara" is shown in the photo above, in white. My daughter is on the right, in the bubble-gum pink top).

The sound of Lara's voice is the part of her I think of first - possibly because I heard it on the phone the many times she has called R to chat and plan the play date. The melody of her voice spills out of the phone like laughter when they talk.

It's a very, very, sweet voice. The voice of a curious, happy, hopeful girl - a child who sees everything that happens as part of the lovely build-up to an extremely funny punch line. Some people describe a voice like hers as bubbly. I'd say hers is lighter and floatier than the lightest, floatiest bubbles. I'd even go so far as to say bubbles have something to learn from Lara's voice. It's just so damned eager and positive and happy and fun and affirming and upbeat and young and sweet, just like she is.

The strange thing about it all? This girl has nothing to be happy or hopeful about. She has terminal bone cancer. Stage 4. And to answer the question forming in your mind right now? The doctors say it's only a matter of time.

Lara will be having 3 consecutive days of radiation this week at SickKids hospital. Not to cure the tumours - at least 6 which have appeared in various sites within her body since her left leg was amputated last summer. The radiation treatments will be done just to try to reduce the extreme pain, mainly from the newest tumour that has decided to grow - and grow fast - in Lara's back.

If you've ever gone for a playdate - whether to stay the whole time or to chat with the child's mom for a few minutes before going off to run a few errands- you know how the conversation usually goes. You hear about the other girl's incredibly advanced violin lessons, the soccer championship she's just won, the amazing new teacher she'll be getting. Sometimes in the darkest conversations you might hear how the family recently dealt with a school bully. How math has become a struggle. How they've finally given up on piano lessons. Heavy stuff.

Imagine talking to a mother who has to admit to you that her child won't make it through the coming school year? Without a miracle, will not be alive this time next summer?

Kind of puts things in perspective.

Nothing I can say about it here could possibly do justice to the way I felt, and feel, having been witness to the way this girl's mother is feeling.

The world Lara's mother lives in is a different one from mine. Her world is one of slowly losing the grasp of her most precious thing. Her little girl. A world in which she knows that, soon, she won't be able to hold her baby in her arms ever again. She won't be able to smooth her daughter's hair - what's left of it - off her sweet brow. Won't be able to delight her as easily as offering an ice cream cone. Won't be able to watch her play soccer, or perform martial arts. Won't be able to indulge in a rainy sick day with chicken soup and DVDs and tons of hope and expectations for a busy, healthy, future.

If Lara were my child, I don't know how I'd ever survive the heartbreak of it. Of knowing I'll never hear that beautiful voice again.

And now I really wish the only actual phrase I remember hearing that voice say wasn't "Mommy, I need a morphine." And I'm absolutely certain there's something very wrong with a world where something like that can happen.

EDIT DEC. 2013: Lara has passed away. This is as unbelievable as it is sad.

Oddly Roughing It in the Bush in 2013 (written on another even day - oh well!)

We went camping last week. Not in a clean, bright, colourful tent from Bass Pro Outdoor World. But in a shadowy one-room log cabin built deep in the northern back country of Algonquin Park back in 1922.

It's called Bissett Road Ranger Cabin if you want to look it up. If you know me, you won't believe we actually chose this place over a stay at Arowhon Pines, but we did. Eleven-year-old R has been begging us to go on a family camping trip for years and years. And as she's growing so quickly, it just seemed like we couldn't put it off any longer. Oh, the things we do for our children, huh?

The Ranger Cabins are a pretty interesting alternative to tent camping - especially if you don't own a lot of camping supplies already. And if your child is interested in living like a pioneer for a few days, all the better, because this really did remind me of Little House in the Big Woods from the Laura Ingalls Wilder series.

Constructed of logs almost a hundred years ago, it was originally built as a moose hunting camp out in the middle of nowhere. With moose, bear, deer and goodness-knows-what-else wandering freely through the surrounding forest, swamps and meadows ... it must have been a hunter's paradise. But for a middle-cass family from Toronto? Well, its appeal was questionable.

When we first arrived at our campsite after a loooooooong drive along a lonely dirt road upon which the only traffic were squirrels, voles and herons, there was some initial confusion over how to pick up the key to the cabin. Secretly I was pleased because - on seeing the cabin for the first time - I couldn't picture us actually staying there. Even the Bates Motel would provide a more relaxing sleep, I thought. At least we'd know there'd be hot showers! But this wooden hut was very tiny, and rustic, surrounded by trees and clouds of mosquitoes, and looked almost like the crooked little house of folklore.

There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile.

He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile.

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

But we did get the key, eventually, from the nearest Algonquin Park office about a 25-minute drive away. And we did end up sleeping there in that ancient cabin, snuggled against one another on the hard wooden bunk beds, warmed by the fire my daughter built in the black iron wood stove. And by the second morning awakening there, we were very sad to have to pack our things and leave.

Why? Because of the silence, for one thing. We live in a house in the city. The roar of traffic and construction and trash-mouthed people - and just the tiresome din of civilization - is what we hear on a regular basis. We sometimes find ourselves shouting over the ambient noise of our community, just to get ourselves heard by one another.

But at the cabin - aside from the brief rumble of a logging truck that passed once each day - our family was immersed in complete silence punctuated only by the songs and rhythms of the natural world. There were no humans around us for literally miles and miles. The trees were ridiculously tall and wide, with dense, rough, ancient bark embedded with markings that looked like symbols - like Mother Nature's hieroglyphics - telling the dark secrets of the woods and its inhabitants over the past few hundred years.

After their batteries died, our electronic devices were silenced, as well, by the complete absence of electrical power and the lack of signals. No Blackberry. No 4G. No phone service. Nothing.

Day or night, all we could hear were the squawks and calls of birds, the chirrups of chipmunks, and the weird scratching and popping noises of what we liked to imagine was a curious black bear lurking in the shadows. The symphony of blue jays and herons. The occasional hiss of the wind rushing like a river through the pines and birches. The mysterious - almost frightening - drumbeats of the unknown. The hungry crackle of the campfire. The rustle of J and R collecting sticks and branches to keep the blaze fed.

I never wanted to tune any of it out - but rather found myself listening attentively. Appreciatively. Relishingly (which is apparently not a real word, though it should be!).

I'd love to say - now that we're home - our family yearns for the tranquillity of Algonquin Park. That we wish we were still back there burning pancakes on the outdoor grill. That we're rugged nature-lovers of the true north, strong and free. But none of that is the case. A family of Catharine Parr Traills we're not!

Despite being back to the grind of work, and emails, and subway delays and ready access to all the world's bad news again (hello again, Rob Ford, Egypt, and Sammy Yatim) ... we are very glad to be back home. And we are grateful that we can simply swipe a light-switch when it's dark, or boil our water on the kitchen stove, or go to the bathroom without a massive tarantula-like spider staring at us from the outhouse door. And the ability to flush? Pure heaven! Yup, convenience, on demand, is how this family rolls. Yikes, hold on a second while I see why my phone beeped ... Oh, I have to take this call. Bye for now blog.

Odd topic for today: Racism and why celebrities like Oprah do more harm than good.

Americans have succeeded in bringing about a "dialogue" on racism after the Trayvon Martin case. Everyone seems to be talking about racism, from Barack Obama to Oprah.

In the wake of the Zimmerman verdict, Obama told us that he was, at one time, treated with suspicion because of the colour of his skin. Until he became a Senator, he explained, women were afraid to be alone on the elevator with him. And, of course, Oprah was recently denied a chance to view a very expensive handbag while shopping in Switzerland. These, they claim, are incidents of racism that they've had to endure.

I have a few thoughts on the matter. First one being that I do believe "isms" exist. There are isms all around us and racism is unequivocally a very real and serious one. But at least it is frowned upon and generally outlawed. However, there are few sanctions against people who are classist, for example. And I think it can be argued that the situations described by Barack Obama and Oprah fall into that category. I've been uneasy being alone on an elevator with a man of any colour. If the man is dressed a certain way, the uneasiness can be intensified. Obama himself said he suffered that kind of discrimination until he became a Senator. We all know Senators wear spiffy suits. So, once he was dressed with dignity and class, his skin colour no longer posed any problems on elevators. Hmmm. Makes you wonder if skin colour had been a factor at all?

In terms of the Oprah incident, my mother loves to go into the most expensive shops on Bloor Street in Toronto. It's our annual "day in Yorkville". The truth is, my mother does have enough money to buy whatever she wants. Not from a lifetime of wealth and comfort but from years of careful planning, saving, budgeting, investing, and self-deprivation. Not to mention years of hard, intelligent, work as a secretary.

But my mother bears the appearance of someone with just enough money to buy a box of Kraft Dinner. She is about 5'2" and shrinking. And she's as plump as any grandma should be. Her hair is silver and fluffy. Her shoes are Birkenstocks. Her clothes are off the rack, from the mall, with horizontal stripes stretched across the girth of her mama-belly. And she is very kind, blue-eyed and beautiful.

Last summer on our day of sunshine and flowers and fancy shops in Yorkville, I recall pretty much all of the shop keepers raising an eyebrow of scepticism when my mother would ask to see an expensive Hermes bag or Gucci wallet. She was actually shopping - not just messing around - though the likelihood of buying a $5,000 wallet with her wise attitude toward money is very small. And we did have a similar experience to Oprah's. The clerk told my mom that she wouldn't be able to afford the ostrich wallets that came in 5 colours. But, the Asian clerk explained, the "ladies from China" could walk in and buy all the colours at once. "These wallets, over here, in regular leather, would be better for you", she said.

So it seems we didn't look Chinese enough to afford the wallets. Though we are clean and well-groomed people, perhaps to her we look more like Honey Boo Boo's family than descendants of the Ming Dynasty.

I took note of the designs and found a very similar wallet for under $100 at Town Shoes a few months later. Obnoxious mustard-yellow leather with card pockets in bold green, blue, red and orange. About five colours all in one design. So my mom got her fancy-looking wallet in every colour, and she got to keep all her money inside it as well!

And we were not crushed by the experience of being called out for the non-billionaires that we are. I thought it was snobby, and foolish, of the clerk to speak to us that way because you just never know who you are dealing with. But again, I bore no injury from the experience and nor did my mom. In fact, I hadn't recalled that incident until Oprah brought up her own, and said it was racism.

I actually believe that all of us in the human race are victims of some kind of "Ism" from one day to the next. I think it's part of the human condition. Very few people are immune to some sort of prejudice based on age, class, sex, weight, height, etc. Some of it is mild. Some of it laced with hatred. In high school my brother was called Pizza-Face because of his acne; I can tell you it hurt both of us as much as the N-word hurt anyone in contemporary North America. Most of us simply tolerate these ignorant slights and get on with our lives. If we focused on these insults too often, or for too long, we wouldn't want to get out of bed in the morning.

As a woman, I see misogyny all around me. In children's movies, like Diary of a Wimpy Kid, the team coach will say to the boy's team "Okay ladies, you can do better than this". An angry commenter on a news article will attack another commenter with: "Are you having your period? Take a Midol". As an ultimate insult, men call one another "douche bags" (a device of feminine hygiene) and label each other "pussies" or "vaginas". It's also common to say "he screamed like a little girl". And singers like Justin Bieber are ridiculed because their "only fans are 12-year-old girls". All of which implies that anything female or feminine can and will be used as a pejorative. It seems that girls and women are considered the lowest of the low by half the population.

More importantly, there are also very serious examples of sexual discrimination - like the fact that even in Toronto, a woman can't go out to pick up milk at the corner store after dark without hoping she won't be raped. And female children have to be cautious in a Walmart that some predator won't try to carry them out as a sex slave. Or that boys at a party won't have sex with your daughter and post pornographic photos and humiliating remarks about her on social media.

So yes, there are many serious examples of women having to face dangers more severe than everyday ridicule and put-downs. But I wanted to highlight the mild, day-to-day sexist remarks and attitudes because they are so widely accepted we don't even notice them anymore. Parents aren't gasping when the coach in the movie says "Johnny, you run like a girl". Nobody is bringing up these instances in interviews, saying how crushed they were that their gender is held in such a low regard. Not because these everyday insults to girls and women are subtle, but because they are part of the fabric of our lives. There's no "dialogue" happening about it, and none is in the works, either.

Even having said all that, I still haven't made the point I want to make. And that point is this. Racism is a problem for black people and anyone who cares about them, which we all should. Absolutely, it is a problem. Black people are stopped while they are driving nice cars. Questioned by police more often. Black teenagers are asked to produce ID more often.

When I was younger I was reunited with an old friend from Ottawa. We had known each other as children, but ended up working together at a publishing company in Toronto. She is black - not Halle Berry black, but Oprah black - and tall, slim, elegant and pretty. She was a book editor, and always dressed like one. We were having lunch together, and talking about jogging, and she brought up the fact that there wasn't always a convenient way to carry ID when going out for a run. All the other young women at the lunch table asked "why would you need to carry ID when you are jogging?" And the black friend answered, "well, because I get stopped by the police. I once went running without ID and the police told me it was against the law not to carry ID. So my brothers and I, we all do. And when we get stopped we can show who we are".

When we get stopped?

This story always stuck with me because this girl and I had grown up in Canada, both of us starting out in grade 1 in Ottawa and ending up in a publishing company in Toronto. We were living parallel lives. And yet the colour of our skin really had made an important difference to how we were treated. Neither I, nor any of the white or middle-eastern girls at the table had ever been stopped by the police. None had ever bothered to carry ID when jogging or going to the park or going to buy a popsicle from the ice cream truck. The whole notion seemed crazy. Yet that was about 20 years ago and since I do follow the news I can see that the situation has gotten worse. Not better. I don't think it's gotten any easier to be black. Not at all.

Not because someone looks at you and decides you can't afford a purse. But because someone looks at you and messes with your freedom. Your daughter's freedom. Your son's freedom. And this is where I believe the narrative should stay focused. I admit, I admire Oprah and Barack Obama very much, because they are incredibly accomplished people who do very good things on this earth.

But I think that when Oprah allowed the purse incident to hog the microphone away from the issues that actually matter ... I think she does a disservice to the cause. Classism and clerk snobbism are nuisances, to be sure. But the undisputed racism that still goes on unchecked - the kind that ruins lives, not the kind that momentarily dampens a sunny day in Yorkville (or Switzerland) - that is the racism that should always be in the spotlight. This other stuff - like Obama thinking he can read the racist minds of white women on elevators - is just noise that distracts from what really matters.

After the progress made - and discussions opened up - after the Trayvon Martin case, today people will be talking about the purse Oprah wasn't readily-invited to buy. Many, like me, will be able to say they've had the same thing happen to them. And yet tonight a black family driving home from the movies will have their BMW pulled over and they'll be detained for no good reason. And a group of black teens walking to the community centre will be stopped, interrogated, and intimidated. And if one of them fails to show his ID or expresses his indignation at being singled out for his skin colour there could be serious trouble.

That's the stuff the dialogue should be about. So let's keep our focus, people. What happened to Oprah is an interesting story many of us can relate to - but let's not be distracted by it. I really thought we were heading in the right direction on race relations in the United States and Canada ... but somehow we ended up in Switzerland.