When I was four, I had an imaginary friend named Cindy. She was blond. That's all I know about her. She was blond, and she spoke English (I grew up in a Greek neighborhood). Cindy and I hung out till I was about eight, and moved to an English neighborhood. I'm not sure if I gave up having an imaginary friend at that time, or if she just stayed behind when we moved!

But now I'm nearly 29, and I'm surrounded by imaginary friends. That is the joy of the internet - what real life can't provide, the internet can. So I have this blog. I have my readers. I have the Cotillion. There are literally dozens of emails that fly back and forth every day between me and my "friends". Are they real friends? I mean, really? Probably not. I can email them at any time of the day or night, and they'll write back to me, but they are not the ones who will call just to check in. I may even meet a few, but my life events are only interesting to them in passing, right? It's voyeurism more than friendship. We know each other's stories, but are only there for each other until we run out of characters in the comment box.

But every once in a while, you come across a person who touches you. You make a friend, and the boundaries of real life vs. internet blur a little at the edges. You fall into their lives as easily as you would fall into a "real" friend's life. You get caught up in their dramas: their joys and sorrows. Sometimes you prefer them to those real friends, because you don't know them well enough to know their ugly habits. Once those boundaries get blurry, sometimes one of you oversteps and presumes too much. Perhaps, depending on the situation, you are forgiven. Sometimes not. Time heals. But when these people that you have come to hold as real suffer something large and devastating, you feel that pain, too. But because they are only "imaginary," there often isn't anything you can do. You can pray. You can try to reach out. But miles and boundaries get in the way. Sometimes, you just have to let them drop.

(You know who you are. If I can feel your pain, perhaps you can feel my hug.)

We all have ghosts. The people who were once in our lives, but who are now gone, for whatever reason. My obvious ones would be my mother and father: it's nearly 10 years for Daddy, and more than half my life for Mom. But it isn't them haunting me tonight. It's two others.

Before I knew Right Thinking Girl, I had a Z of my own. I believed that the sun shone out of his ass. In fact, he was the biggest ass under the sun. It isn't often that a guy can break a girl's heart, and abscond with forty thousand dollars at the same time, leaving her devastated and bankrupt. He was my white picket fence guy. He was the one I had baby names picked out for. Daniel Elvis and Vivien Leona. They would have been beautiful babies, I assure you. It wasn't until recently that I wondered exactly where that forty grand went. I have my suspicions. Anyone have the number for CSIS? Anyway, it took a move to Western Canada, to the frozen wasteland of (d)Edmonton, to freeze the anger and the love out of me. Upon my return to civilization two years later, I wondered if I was truly cured of his poison. To this day I cannot confirm it. I haven't seen him since December 16, 1998, when I bumped into him in the mall, and told him I was leaving town. He went to kiss my cheek. I backed so far away from him that I knocked over a mannequin. So why am I telling you about him? Why is he even in my head tonight? Well, he turned forty last week. I fell in love with him on his thirtieth birthday. He comes to mind every August around this time.

Before I knew Mr. Right, I met an angel. Not the great winged beasts of biblical fiction. A real flesh-and-blood human being who had been touched by the divine to fulfill a purpose: to save my life. I had been orphaned less than a year. He had a perfect smile. His twin brother was better looking (go figure). Their mother made Lucretia seem friendly, and Medusa attractive. She hated me, and I sometimes thought she hated them, too. August fifth was a friend's 21st birthday, and my angel and I went to the bar with the gang. There was much merry-making, and several dozen shots of tequila. We drove back to my place around five AM. I made coffee. He told me he was tipsy. He kissed me. He said I tasted sweet. I told him it was the brandy in the coffee. We spent five months together. In those five months, I faced some of the hardest emotions I have ever felt. Grief. Panic. Helplessness. Fear. More grief. When I woke up in the hospital that October afternoon, it was his face I saw, silhouetted by the flourescent lights: a halo. When I was too jittery to sleep, it was he who made up stories that made me laugh. And when I was on my feet again, strong enough to stand on my own, it was he who left me. I truly believed in some deep part of me that he would come back in five years. Five years. Long enough to finish school, establish himself, and get out from under the watchful glare of Lucretia. I waited five years before allowing myself to love Mr. Right. It's now been nine. I wrote my first novel last year. I will dedicate it to him. It was August when I loved him. I never stopped.

These are the ghosts that haunt me tonight. The boys of summer.

Just when we thought we'd be rained out - The American Princess has saved the day! For all intents and purposes, the Cotillion was cancelled for this week, as some of our lovely debutantes are fleeing from that white trash bitch Katrina. But EM was bored, stuck in an airport for most of yesterday, and decided to hold a tailgate party for us.

Thanks EM!

The Bloor West Village Ukrainian Festival was a huge success. The three Conservative candidates: John Capobianco (Etobicoke Lakeshore), Jurij Klufas (Parkdale-High Park), and Axel Kuhn (Etobicoke Centre), signed up many new members to the party, shook a lot of hands, and generally made their presence known in the community. The high point was, of course, Stephen Harper's appearance in the parade and on the grandstand on Saturday. As you can see from the photo, the barbecue circuit has been kind to Mr. Harper. Then again, who am I to talk!??

A couple months early, but not a moment too soon, please welcome the golden child, Parker Grace.

She is from a great pedigree; sired by Zumkopf, and mothered by Right Thinking Girl. This could very well be the most loved child in the history of man.

Welcome little girl. You have such huge footsteps to follow in, but with parents like that, we know you'll be brilliant!

I am stealing this whole thing, because it's too funny to cut:

Click HERE.

In case you ever wondered what the Debutantes to when we're not dancing and breaking your hearts.

Great, I'm a bigger bitch than even I suspected.

Joan Crawford You scored 40% grit, 28% wit, 19% flair, and 26% class!

You are one tough dame, as tough as they come. You've had to fight long and hard to get where you are, but you always knew you'd do whatever you had to do to get ahead. You aren't above committing crimes (or seducing others to do them for you) to get what you want. You want to be happy and comfortable, but you usually always manage to get the fuzzy end of the lollipop. Even your kids are usually against you. Your leading men include anyone you set your sights on, even married guys that are never seen on-screen. Watch your back. Find out what kind of classic leading man you'd make by taking the Classic Leading Man Test.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 88% on grit You scored higher than 38% on wit You scored higher than 5% on flair You scored higher than 33% on class

Link: The Classic Dames Test written by gidgetgoes on OkCupid Free Online Dating

North American Patriot compares Paul Martin to Hugo Chavez. The results are unsettling.

Who knew that Mike Brock lives down the street? Or that Kathy Shaidle isn't as tall as she writes? Or that we have groupies??

Last night I joined the bunch down at the Bishop & Belcher on Queen Street, because I felt that it was time to put faces to names, and maybe give myself a face in the process. Anonymity may be safe, but it's boring and lonely, too.

Every couple of months, Bob Tarantino of Let It Bleed proposes a conservative blogger piss-up, and the herd flocks toward the smell of liquor. How annoying, that due to my latest medical woes, I am not permitted to partake. Oh well, Diet Coke makes for a cheaper bar tab, and lessens the likelihood of stripping on the bar. So off I went to face the public...

What an awesome bunch! I met people I have been reading for a long time - so long that I consider them to be celebrities. Does that make me one, too? Well, there was the groupie... but I digress. I had the pleasure of meeting the likes of Damian Brooks (very tall), Mike Brock, Kathy Shaidle, Paul Tuns, Brian Mertens (very pretty, btw), the very funny and smart Kateland from Last Amazon, and about a zillion others whose names I may never recall. Sam Goldstein, the Tory candidate for Trinity-Spadina was there, and we had a good chat.

I also met a man who - when they make the movie about us all - will be played by Michael Caine: David Warren. I am ashamed to admit that before last night, I had never heard of the man. I'm glad I know of him now. He writes for the Ottawa Citizen, and I will have to start reading him. Any man who makes me laugh is okay by me.

When I arrived, Kathy (in a t-shirt with Che Guevara on it, and the words "Murdering Bastard" under his image) announced that we would start a Catholic table at the back of the bar. She would take confession. Although it never came to that (thankfully!), we did get a little clique going, and held court, if you will. Krista, the groupie (and a good looking one, at that - I felt like Mick Jagger) joined us. As you would expect, with three women at one table, it wasn't long before the menfolk came to us. So much easier to mingle if you just wait for them to arrive and introduce themselves!

Though I didn't stay terribly late, I had a great time laughing and talking with everyone. It was reassuring to see that in this great big city of moonbats, I was not alone. Kathy and I didn't stop talking till the I got off the subway at my stop. It was very refreshing to talk to people who don't vote for corrupt governments or work for the CBC. I hope to have the opportunity to see them all again soon.

Stephen Harper will be attending the Bloor West Village Ukrainian Festival on Saturday August 27. He will be in the parade at 11am, and will be speaking on-stage at noon. If you are in the GTA, come out ond join us!

The festivites are taking place on Bloor Street West, between High Park and Jane streets. Please, stob by the Conservative booth, and say hi!

It's the Cotillion today. I invite all of you to head over to the main site, and read the fabulous job the ladies have done. There are awesome hostesses this week:

The American Princess
Soldiers' Angel - Holly Aho
Bad Hair Blog
Villainous Company

Y'all will have to excuse me this week. I didn't write a post, or even bother to get my hair done. There are renovations going on in the apartment next to us, where they are using stinky chemicals to strip and refinish the floors. Ugh. So we've had to move out. I pay over a thousand dollars a month in rent, but I'm staying in a hotel at my own expense, and my animals have had to be boarded. My property management company (one of the big Toronto ones) tells me that it's not their problem that we're sensitive to the smells, so they won't be paying for our outside accommodation. Thanks, guys. Very hospitible of you to stink me out of my own home. F**kers.

So, that being the case, I'm too tired and off-centre (but always to the right of centre!) to bother with the festivities this week. But go on, have a good time. I'll wait up for you.

The warden threw a party in the county jail
The Debutantes were there and they began to wail
The band was jumpin and the joint began to swing
You shoulda heard them knocked out Cotillion girls sing...


Twenty-eight years ago today, we lost the man who revolutionized rock'n'roll. We lost The King. You would think that the Debutantes of the Cotillion would stay home today in mourning, but instead they've chosen to celebrate the life of Elvis Aaron Presley the way he would have wanted us to: by dancing. Dance your way over to see my co-hostesses at A Mom and Her Blog, Townhall C-Log, and Not a Desperate Housewife.

From Are You Conservative? comes The Scarlet Badge of Victimhood, which Cindy Sheehan wishes for all those who serve to wear. Good luck with that Cindy, but I'm not holding my breath.


Elvis was adored by millions of women around the world - myself included, though I only discovered his genius after he had been dead four years. When he first appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show, it had to be from the waist up only, because his devlish hip swinging caused a storm of controversy. And while we're on the subject of storms, Tammy from A Mom and Her Blog has hurricaine posts here and here. They're nothing compared to Elvis, though.




Janette from Common Sense Runs Wild points out that Pam Anderson is looking cheaper and cheaper lately, and posts a picture of her at a PETA gathering. The King would have shot his television if a PETA announcement had come on.






From the I Love Elvis Cookbook:

The Elvis Burger

1 pound 12 ounces ground beef
Salt & freshly ground black pepper
8 slices bacon, cut in half
4 slices Cheddar or Monterey Jack cheese
4 burger buns, split & toasted
Lettuce leaves, sliced onion, ketchup, mayo, or other condiments

Serves 4 - Pamela Anderson not invited



People often forget that Elvis served his country in the armed forces in 1958-59. As a matter of fact, he served with my father's good friend Frank in Germany. In the various histories of The King's time overseas, it is said that he only performed once at the base. And here in my humble home, pressed between the pages of a book (about Elvis, of course) are the photographs to prove it. This week, Absinthe & Cookies talks of base closures and how they affect those involved. And while we're on the subject of men in uniform, Raven from And Rightly So! brings us transcripts from the 9/11 tapes.

"Somebody yelled something was falling. We didn't know if it was desks coming out. It turned out it was people coming out, and they started coming out one after the other. … We saw the jumpers coming. We didn't know what it was at first, but then the first body hit and then we knew what it was. And they were just like constant. … I was getting sick. I felt like I was intruding on a sacrament. They were choosing to die and I was watching them and shouldn't have been. So me and another guy turned away and looked at a wall and we could still hear them hit."
- Firefighter Maureen McArdle-Schulman

While serving overseas, Elvis met the love of his life, Priscilla. Who didn't want to be her?? She was beautiful, graceful, well-bred, and married to the largest pop icon since Jesus Christ himself (Oh boy, I'll be in trouble for that remark tomorrow. Um, in my defence, those of us on the right are supposed to have a sense of humor, remember?) Now, Elvis was deeply religious, and had a deep spiritual side that shone through in his music, much of which was gospel or gospel based. Carol, the American Housewife, prays with us. Perhaps the music or the light was just right as I was reading her post, but parts of it choked me up a little.

Annika, on the other hand, takes a rather un-Christian view of Mrs. Sheehan. As vicious as it seems, I can see where Annika is coming from when she says

i just don't get these people who have so little faith in the power of Americans to achieve what they set out to do. We can be successful in Iraq. i have no doubt of it. If they think the goal of a free and democratic country in the heart of the middle east would be a bad thing, that's different. But who could say such a thing? And if they were to admit that success in Iraq would be a good thing, then get on board and help make it happen.

When does a mother's grief become a nation's downfall?

The ever-brilliant Jane at Armies of Liberation takes us once again into Yemen, and highlights its manipulative king.

But today, August 16th, the only king that really means anything to me is Elvis Presley. Rest in peace, Big E. The Cotillion girls are Taking Care of Business.

I've been meaning to post this since Friday night. Not exactly a crack journalist, am I?

On Friday evening I went to a lecture at the University of Toronto Bancroft Building. It was to be about Sharia Law in Ontario, and I had received the invite from a pro-Israel group that I had seen in conference before. They always have amazing guest speakers. Anyhow, the invitation itself was nearly three pages long, so I skipped most of it. All I caught was that time, place, and that Irshad Manji was a speaker (For those of you who haven't read The Trouble with Islam, you really should. She's Muslim, but she's calling for a reformation. This doesn't exactly make her popular.). I didn't read the names of the rest of the speakers, but I was pleased to notice that they would be screening the short film Submission - the one for which Theo van Gogh was murdered by an extremist.

So off I went, not sure of exactly which building I was going to. U of T is so large, that I was getting worried I was heading in the wrong direction. Then I saw them. There was one on every corner, armed, radio in hand. I've been to large synagogues in Montreal, and I know that they have armed guards - I thought this was a measure of protection because of the content of the event. But these weren't private guards, they were police. I quickly deduced that I was in the right place, but I didn't understand what all the fuss was about.

As I went to walk in the side door, which was being held open by a man with a clipboard, a police motorcade pulled up. For Irshad Manji? I knew she was under protection, but I had no idea that it was so severe. It looked like a publicity stunt. The man with the clipboard advised me to go round to the front entrance, and as I walked past the motorcade, a tall, thin, beautiful black woman stepped out, surrounded by what appeared to be the Secret Service. Ayaan Hirsi Ali. And me without my camera! That'll teach me not to read the invitation next time! So that was what all the security was for... it made sense. Ever since Submission was made, she has been under fatwa. To have her friend and co-filmmaker be murdered for the film she had written had caused her to be extra cautious. Throughout the night, she was surrounded by approximately 15 armed men and women, one of whom stayed on stage with her, next to her, in case there was an attack.

The evening started with a press conference, at which she made reference to her protectors,

"It's telling that I, as a woman brought up in Islam, need security now. I need protection to fight for my rights."

Irshad Manji made what I felt to be one of the top zingers of the night, when she said that if the apologists were trying to placate the naysayers by assuring them that Canadian law would always take precedence, and it would always be there to fall back on, and that it would always trump any decision made in a Sharia court - then why are they so eager to have a Sharia court in the first place? After all, it serves no purpose, if they must always defer to the law.

There were hecklers of course. There were the three veiled women who made me think Moscow: why didn't the guards search our bags? and who argued that Muslim women subjugate themselves by not being properly educated about their rights in Islam, so it's their own fault. Hirsi Ali countered with the fact that perhaps women would be more educated if they weren't forced to leave school and marry at nine years old. There were the angry young men, as there always are at events like this. A few of them tried to debate both Manji and Ali. Manji is proficient at deflecting these people, and English is her first language, so she stayed her course and smote them where they stood. Ali, on the other hand, is more softly spoken, and more careful in choosing her words. She took the cake when she challenged one of the men who had argued that Islam and Sharia should be left to the Muslims, and if they, as an independent group want to have their own arbitration system, it's nobody elses business. She countered that he was obviously intelligent, well educated, and a handsome man, but she was concerned that he never mentioned abuses against women and children in his argument, and she wondered why men like him never talked of the protection of women from within - is it because he has a stake in their abuse? The crowd went wild, and he returned to his seat with his tail between his legs.

There was a break between the speeches and the film, and a couple of plates were brought out, mostly for the benefit of the bodyguards, who we later learned were members of the RCMP. Hirsi Ali had been whisked off to a back room where she was more protected, and her guards took turns munching fresh veggies and spinach dip.

After the evening was over, and I was on my way back out into the street, I had the opportunity to speak with one of them, and tell him how impressed I was with their performance. They were perfectly orchestrated, perfectly timed, and ever alert. I confess I spent most of the evening watching them, and following their gaze. I noticed that when the troublesome veiled women left halfway throught the evening, one of the guards follwed them out. I admit I was uncomfortable being surrounded by so many armed guards. Not because I'm afraid of guns - unlike the liberal left, I do not have visions of guns jumping out of nowhere and shooting me. No, I was afraid because I was in a room with a woman who needed so much protection in the first place. That meant that anything could happen.

And what of that woman, and those guards, and that potential for anything? Our politicians and protectors denounce the threat level in this country like it is a racist construct; they pooh-pooh our fears and concerns, and they assure us that nothing bad could ever happen in Canada. After all, there are no bad people here.

So why did this lovely, intelligent women need fifteen armed guards in a country that purportedly has no terrorists? Something tells me that someone is deluded, and it's not Ayaan Hirsi Ali.

That's how old she would be today. She was born Marie Therese, but that's not the name I knew her by. She changed it in the fifties to the name I recognized. As a matter of fact, I never knew of Marie Therese until after her husband died, and I was checking the birth, marriage, and death documents.

The name I knew her best by was Mommy. Her husband was Daddy.

She died in 1991, aged 47 years and 9 months. She weighed only a pound for each year of her life.

Daddy called her Honey, and that was the song that was sung at her funeral. I still can't listen to that damn song.

I don't know what to say about a woman I was too old to love unconditionally, and too young to understand. I was 14. My sole purpose in life at that age was to hate my parents, and I did it well. So I never got to know her. I never got to learn her secrets - not from her, at least. And as I found out later, there were definitely secrets.

So what did I know about her? Well, she was short. Five foot even. She died her hair so often that even she forgot what the natural color was. She almost never wore make-up. She couldn't swim. She had 16 sisters and 4 brothers; said she was part of "the last half dozen". She was from New Brunswick. Her command of the english language was atrocious, but she could shoot the eyes out of a squirrel at 50 paces. She was frequently stung by bees - Dad said this was due to her sweetness. She didn't laugh - she giggled.

And since she died half my life ago, I have had nearly a thousand nightmares that she's trying to kill me. She's a monster, a villain. She scares the hell out of me. I don't talk about her much - I was my father's child.

I loved her when she was alive. I cared for her when she was dying. I grieved when she left us. I screamed when I dreamed of her killing me. And then, over time and with the help of others, I began to learn about her. And I began to hate the woman my father had put on a rose-bedecked pedestal. I hated her because she lied. I hated her because I wasn't the child she wanted. I hated her because when she looked at me, she saw someone else. I hated her because she left. Now, I walk the fine line between love and hate for her.

Happy birthday, Mommy.

The Cotillion has lost a member: Christina of Fiesty Repartee has decided to move on to a bigger and brighter future, and leave the blogosphere behind. We'll miss you, honey, but we wish you well.

If we in Canada - and especially in Ontario - hate the Americans so much, why is it that every third person I see is wearing a Ralph Lauren t-shirt with the American flag on the front? And I don't mean tourists, either. I mean local Torontonians, walking the streets with the stars and stripes emblazoned on their chests. Are they such label whores that they'll wear anything designer, even if they hate it?

There's a ball today. A Cotillion, actually. And in my lazy days of summer, I'm thinking more of the barbecue at Twelve Oakes, with Scarlett sitting on a bench, surrounded by beaux. What a wonderful way to sepnd a sultry afternoon. There she sat, with all the young bucks from the country, making all the other girls jealous. She flirted, and her pretty earrings sparkled in the sunlight when she laughed.

That's how I plan to spen my afternoon. I know that at the end of the day, I'll have a lot to make up for with the other girls - Kate at Small Dead Animals, Maxed Out Mama, Darleen, and the lovely Baldilocks - but for now I'd rather sit with the boys.

Next week, I won't have the time to languish under a tree. I'll be hosting. And what a party it will be.

Peter Jennings died yesterday at the age of 67, from lung cancer. He is survived by his wife and two children. He had smoked when he was younger, and quit, but took it back up after the events of 9/11, which were very hard on him. September 11th also spurred him to obtain his American citizenship, even though he retained his Canadian one.

I am 29 years old - I grew up watching Peter Jennings. And though much of his work of late had been fluff pieces (hey, I wouldn't want to be too journalistic if I was dying, either) about UFOs and such, to me he will always be the face of 9/11.

Rest in peace, Peter.

(and yes, I will probably be just as sad when Dan Rather passes away)

Y'all may have noticed that the blogging has been light these days. With the heat and all, I'm on hiatus. Been more interested in sitting in the shade, sipping iced tea, than reading the news. Oh sure, I'm still keeping up. I know about the John Roberts thing, the shuttle, the new Governor General, Intelligent Design, and the possibility of J-Lo being knocked up. I know about these things, but I'm too languid to care.

When I was a kid, I never felt humidity. At the end of May, dad would pack us into the car and drive us up to The Cottage for the summer. The air was clean and crisp up in the mountains. It didn't matter that school didn't let out for another three weeks - dad never bothered his head about such things. So the three of us, and later the four of us (Nana moved in when I was four) and the dog would pile into the old Ford LTD Country Squire station wagon (with woody panelling, of course) and set out to the most wonderful place in the world.

I grew up in a Greek neighborhood. I was almost fluent by the time I was six (and have forgotten every word of it now), because it was the only way to have any friends. But my bestest, bestest friends were at The Cottage. They were the daughters of my dad's two good friends, who had all bought adjoining plots of land on which to build their dream houses. Those men didn't drag their families up so early in the season, coming only on weekends till the start of July. But it didn't bother me too much. There was always something to do. My mother was busy in the house, getting it opened and cleaned for the season, so I could help with the chores. Dad worked midnights in the city, but was around during the day, splitting kindling and doing whatever odd jobs needed doing. And something always needed doing. It was especially exciting when the wheelbarrow was involved, because he'd push me around in it if I tagged along to the sandpile up the road. Of course, there was also my imaginary friend, Cindy, to keep me company when I was bored (ah, the joys of being an only child - it so expands ones imagination). And on Friday evenings I would sit on the hill at the end of our drive and I would listen. Everything was so still and so quiet that when my friends' cars would pull onto the lake road, I would hear them coming from three miles away. To this day I'm still very alert when walking a country road, always able to tell how far away a car is, and what side of the road it's travelling on.

The smell of The Cottage is what I remember best. A mix of moist black earth, strawberries, and pine. With a faint undertone of algae from the lake. When I die, Heaven will smell like that for me. When I die, and go to Heaven, not only will it smell like The Cottage, but that beloved home of mine will have risen from its ashes to welcome me to the Kingdom of God.

Well, nowadays, with no Cottage, and stuck in the city, I try to make the best of it. I still get up for work every day, and toil my hours as need be, but the television stays off for the most part. I've put away the deep and important political books and tales of global terrorism. Instead, I've dug out mystery novels, and biographies of cheap Hollywood starlets. I'd rather laugh than scowl. It's hard to be serious in this heat.

So I'll leave the bulk of the ranting and raving to those who are enjoying it more, and who are better suited to it. For now, I'll just enjoy this iced tea, and maybe take a stroll with the dog. It's summertime. The livin' is easy.

In the past few days, Bell Mobility has come under harsh criticism for it's sale of PimpTones to the 12-17 year old market. But let's forget about that for a second. Let's instead go to the site of the Air France crash in Toronto, which is just a couple of miles away from the Bell Mobility Creekbank office.

**As thick smoke billowed from the Airbus A-340 crumpled in a ravine at Toronto's Pearson airport, a team from Bell swung into action.

Their goal: get cell phones and calling cards to the survivors to enable them to tell family and friends they had made it through the terrifying crash of Air France Flight 358 Tuesday afternoon.

"One young girl of about 17 was shaking so much she couldn't dial the phone," said Julia Quinton, Mobility's Associate Director of Communications, who went behind police lines to help in a room packed with about 200 dazed and tired passengers. "She was holding my hand, my arm, so tightly as I dialed. Then I heard her say 'Hello, maman' and burst into tears. I had to struggle to hold back my own tears.

"She said the media in France were reporting no survivors. Can you imagine how relieved her family was to hear her voice?"

That's just one of many stories of the fast and compassionate response from Bell that put 50 cell phones and 500 calling cards into the hands of passengers, crew and emergency workers within three and a half hours of the crash. All 309 people escaped with their lives after their plane ran off the end of runway 24-L after a flight from Paris.

The good stories are so rarely reported, especially where "big business" is concerned, that I thought I would share this one with you.

**This is a Bell internal release that was forwarded to me by an employee. It is not on the WWW, and cannot be linked.

My father worked for Air Canada. He started with them back when they were Trans Canadian Airlines. In 1963, a TCA DC-3 crashed just outside Ste. Therese, Quebec. My father was one of the volunteers who did "disaster recovery". That meant body recovery. He spoke of the horrors of the site: parts of bodies strewn about, personal belongings all around to remind you that those were real people, with real lives. He spoke of the smell. Not of decomposition, for it was far too soon for that. No, it was the smell of burning jet fuel, and the plasticized stench that clung to his clothes, hair, and memory long after.

Tonight, as I sit watching the news from Pearson Airport, a smell begins to burn my nose. What's burning? Something's burning! So I run from room to room, and out into the hallway of my apartment building. Where is it coming from? I run out onto the balcony, facing east, away from the airport: the smell is stronger there. And it dawns on me: smellovision. What I'm watching on television, I am smelling outside, despite being 15 miles east of the airport. How interactive.

Miraculously, no one has been killed. This is a one-of-a-kind situation. Small blessings.

The girls of the Cotillion can keep their taffeta this week. I'm too sticky to dance. I have gracefully bowed out of the activities, leaving it to those girls who never seem to break a sweat. I am on hiatus until the humidity breaks.

Portia Rediscovered
KelliPundit
Ilyka Damen
Sisu