never too late to take off your clothes

They’ve been dubbed “the Scandalwood girls” by some, but the women of Sandalwood Retirement Resort in Kelowna are unfazed. This week, they celebrate the release of their first ever “girly” calendar – a fundraising project with a lot of skin that proves the old gals have still got it.

Like the calendar girls in the 2003 British flick, 25 otherwise conservative women from Sandalwood exchanged their straight-laced apparel for something a little bit more risqué during a day-long photo shoot in September.

“We may be old now, but we have young ideas,” said Norah Simpson - aka Ms. March - one of the spearheaders of the idea.

The project came about after a group viewing of Calendar Girls. Simpson was having tea with co-conspirator Dodi Redmond (Ms. January) a day later, when the conversation turned to the movie.

“We said, ‘we could do that,’” Redmond related.

So they went to activity director Susan McQuoid and shared their idea. She said she’d organize it if they could get 12 women, one for every month, willing to show some skin for the camera.

“We had 25 signed up, and another 50 said they wished they had,” McQuoid said.

While they didn’t take it all off, like their movie star counterparts, the flirtatious girls of Sandalwood may have set a new precedent with their age. Their youngest model is 77 years of age; their oldest is 97.

Doris Bafford was the senior model of the group. She posed in high heels and something purple for the calendar’s cover.

“It shatters the stereotype of retirement facilities,” said Kristin Kornell, the facility’s director for enhanced living.

“A lot of times people have the idea that retirement means slowing down. This just shows retirement can be the spice of life. These ladies are more confident, more sassy, now than maybe even when they were 20.”

Most say they would never have dreamed of posing for a calendar like this in their 20s.

“I wouldn’t have posed in a bathing suit when I was younger – never,” said Pat Gibbeson. “We weren’t allowed to be this way when we were 20 – to put your shoulder out and your leg up.
Now, we’re free to express ourselves.”

For her Ms. May shot, Gibbeson appears as a sexy scholar, in a micro-mini, bandeau-style graduation gown and cap, behind a stately desk.

Other months feature naughty maids, bathing beauties, rowdy cowgirls, and the busy bees knitting club sporting only strategically placed knit blankets.

According to McQuoid, the women had no inhibitions. Simpson, who posed as a sassy leprechaun in a short skirt and feather boa, playfully threatened to wear only shamrock pasties.

“You get more daring when you get older,” Redmond said. “This may be our last chance.”

McQuoid is quick to point out, however, that there is no pornography going on in Sandalwood.

“Everyone is still prim and proper,” she stressed.

All the models had the support of their families and friends.

“My family can’t wait to see them,” Gibbeson said.

“They all say, ‘good for you guys,’” Redmond added.

The fear now is that the 1,000 calendars initially printed off may not be enough. Close to 350 were pre-sold before anyone even saw the pictures.

Money from the sales will go to Sandalwood’s staff bursary fund, to assist staff members who want to continue their education. Last year, residents raised $2,000 by selling snacks in an on-site tuck shop. This year, they expect to triple that, thanks to the calendars.

But while the money goes to a good cause, the bigger value will probably be the memories made by those involved. It’s not often that the girls get quite that gussied up. Jewellry was provided on loan by Fifth Avenue Jewellry, and Sandalwood’s official Mary Kay consultant donated the make-up.

“They were feeling classy and sassy,” McQuoid said.

“It was a fun, great day. We felt like we were in this world – come on, let’s go! – and not in a retirement place,” explained Redmond.

“I felt proud to be 84,” Gibbeson said. “I saw those bare legs, the net stockings, and thought, ‘wow!’”

They’re now making plans for next year’s issue.

“Of course the guys need to do one next year,” Gibbeson noted.

“Yeah, in the full Monty,” added Redmond.

Yes, they assured me, they’ve always been this cheeky.

booked

An unwritten but much talked about resolution for this year was to stop buying books. No, it wasn't an attempt to reach out to my Neanderthal roots. Quite the contrary.

You see, I have a problem. My name is Lori-Anne and I am a book-a-holic. I love buying books. So much so, in fact, that in recent years I've bought and bought and bought without ever finding the time to read my purchases.

This year, I decided to sit down and actually start to read what I have accumulated - starting with Ulysses, which I blogged about more than a year ago (still haven't cracked the spine on that one) and then maybe venturing into A Star Called Henry (Roddy Doyle), The Skystone (Jack Whyte) and the old Canadian classic, Who Has Seen the Wind (W.O Mitchell).

Mark me 0/4. I have read, though - The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time (Mark Haddon), The Song Beneath the Ice (Joe Fiorito - although does it count if it's been over a year and I still haven't finished it?) Why I Hate Canadians (Will Ferguson) and, oh, The Bible (which I started with Kyle, in April. We're now into Leviticus).

There are stacks of books, all over my house. Stacks and shelves of unread books. It's shameful, really. Yesterday I broke my resolution and ventured into a second hand bookstore on Pandosy - one of Kelowna's only decent ones (thus this blog entry). I heard that Memoirs of a Geisha was coming soon to a theatre near me and decided I really had to read the real thing before seeing someone else's hacked-up interpretation of it. I'm about to start Chapter 4, so at least it hasn't gone straight to a shelf.

There's something about bookstores, though, that makes me desire more books. Maybe it's the tall towers - sometimes arranged maze-like, full of knowledge (or at least ideas) and adventure. Each package of bound-together pages is a door into another life or a world that the reader can inhabit. Sometimes it's almost overwhelming.

I've tried, in my purchasing habits, to stick to a theme - classics, Can Lit, music, art - and then I come across a crazy gem such as A Last Diary, by W.N.P. Barbellion (don't know who he is but think of the possibilities - "March 21st, 1918. - Misery is protean in its shapes, for all are indescribable. I am tongue-tied. Folk come and see me and conclude it's not so bad after all - just as civilians tour the front and suppose they have seen war on account of a soldier with a broken head or an arm in a sling. Others are getting used to me, though I am not getting used to myself," he begins. So I buy it, even though it doesn't fit into any theme).

I still haven't read beyond that, of course.

If I had more time, I'd read all the time. I know people who read on the train or the bus, on their breaks or after work. I'm not going to break down my schedule for you, but it seems there's always something else to fill that spot. So I buy, rationalizing in some crazy way that to own is as good as to read, and if my shelves are well stocked and my room nicely furnished with interesting books, I will be a better person for it.

I'm still not convinced that's altogether far-fetched - a room full of literature and music and art is still balancing, even if it isn't dwelt upon.

Why do you think book stores are so cool?

Someday I'd like to open my own secondhand book shop (with an adjoining tea room), and just be surrounded by great books - novels, diaries, history books, art anthologies, travel journals, the list goes on. And then, oh yes, I might even have a chance to sit down and read, between customers.

Until then, I might just keep on buying, pointlessly. At least until I find a more productive hobby.

election coverage

As I write this, I'm waiting for periodic calls from my Province editor, Shannon (for those of you who haven't yet, you'll meet her at the wedding), clarifying stuff on the Okanagan election coverage I provided this evening. Kelowna, Vernon and Penticton. Her last call was checking on whether the new mayor of Penticton is Jake Kimberly (as I dashed off in a maddened frenzy) or Kimberley (with the second 'e'). Answer: the second 'e' should be there.

It's craziness, this election business. My deadline, for example, was 9:50 p.m. to get results of all three cities, AND pics of the Kelowna winner. The polls only close at 8 p.m., and then not only do we have to wait for results to be announced, we then have to track down the winning candidate. To help us, there's this requirement called "zzz copy" (or "zed copy," which I accidentally called "dead copy" because I didn't hear right and I'm not up on all the newsroom jargon. Yeah, Shannon loved that one). What it is, is writing the story ahead of time, with the important stuff (names, numbers) left out, to be added later.

Well, Shannon told me to write all my dead copy as though Walter Gray had won in Kelowna, since he's been mayor for three terms/nine years and hasn't actually done anything to piss anyone off. I suspected Sharon Shepherd could be the winner, but it was a long shot since incumbents usually win because people hate voting in municipal elections and those who do vote usually pick who they know - those who are already in office.

So I write the copy, and submit, then head to Gray headquarters for a pic and comments on winning, plans for the next term (are you bored yet?) etc. As I'm leaving, the numbers are just starting to come in, (it's after 8 p.m. now), and show Sharon Shepherd in the lead. $#!+.

So I RIP down to Shepherd's constituency office, where she's already making the speeches. It's about 8:30 p.m., and I start shooting pics (stupidly I had my flash on so there are cookie cutter shadows around her which looks bad). The reporters are all there, already, taking pics and notes (although, talking to one photog I know I found out the Daily Courier made the same mistake and angled everything in favour of Gray).

As soon as she's done, before she's even off her little platform, I'm in there, asking Shepherd how she feels about being the first female mayor of Kelowna. Just as she starts to answer, this ignorant CKOV guy sticks a phone to her ear and starts asking her questions for a broadcast, leading her away to a quiet area. MY DEADLINE!!! Remember, I now have to start from scratch (practically) on this story and still be done by 9:50 p.m.

Finally, CKOV Guy is done with her and I ask her a couple of quickie questions before running (literally) from the building and tearing home (well past the speed limit since I live across town) to write what I have. Along the way, Shannon calls, and I update her.

I get home just before 9 p.m. and start pounding the keys. Check the results for Vernon and Penticton, and the long shots in both those towns also won. Ga! More revamping. Fortunately, Shannon's done some zzz/dead copy on Vernon, so all I need to do is insert names.

Penticton arrived after 10 p.m. (giving Shazza less than 20 minutes to edit, question and have ready for her own, page deadline. No sooner was that finished and she had to jump to the Victoria/Nanaimo page, which was supposed to be to her by 10:20 so she could have the page done by 10:50. (addendum: she didn't get Victoria until after 10:40 p.m. which makes me feel a little better)

And within all this madness they expect you to also be accurate! I just hope it's intelligible.

The things I do for money ($250 in about three hours tonight!) I'll never understand. I'd really rather open a tearoom/book shop somewhere and write fiction. Oh - and vote for Pedro!

me-ow!

Rudyard Kipling had a great understanding of cats. "I am the cat that walks alone and all things are the same to me," he made the first Cat say, repeatedly, in his classic short story, The Cat That Walked Alone.

He could have been writing about my car. A Jaguar - named after a species of cat for reasons appreciated only by those who have owned both cats and Jags. Like your average house cat (or even the feral kind - why limit it?), my car has a mind of its own. If there's something in it for it, it might decide to cooperate. If not, don't even ask. Some days it loves you, others it's happier pretending you don't exist.

I took it in to the only British car mechanic in town last week, to get it wedding ready. I figure that, now that I have the thing, I might as well use it for one of the most important days of my life. Make it worth the investment.

When I stopped driving it, the front driver's side triangle window had been taken out by vandals. The brights went on automatically when I turned my driving lights on, pissing off everyone I passed at night; the back brake lights didn't work (I used to turn the parking lights on whenever I stopped so some sort of light would come on in back to warn people of my stopping), and, oh, billows of smoke appeared from under the hood within seconds of starting it.

I had pretty much sworn off cats as cars, and the thing has been languishing in my mum's garage (much to her chagrin) for the past three years.

Well, it's back, now, and my affection for it was renewed whilst driving it home - "motoring" through the curvey roads of East Kelowna, gliding through the town traffic (turning heads all the way) and pulling up to my house. I then drove Kyle to the airport - or rather he drove himself - for his bachelor weekend in Vancouver. So to my Grandma's, to collect my supper, and home (it's home; my mum's).

The thing drives like a dream. It's like riding a cloud. Because it's so wide and solid, you just float over bumps, feeling practically nothing. Turning heads as you do is just the icing on the cake.

Still, it takes premium, 94 octane petrol ($1.13/l vrs. $.99 regular), gets only 15 miles to the gallon (20 on the highway - makes Kyle's SUV seem environmentally friendly), and goes through motor oil almost as quickly (question: how do you know it's time to add oil to a Jag? When it stops dripping).

According to Kyle, who drove behind me on the way home from the mechanic's (who's name is Mike, so Mike and the Mechanics), the brake lights were working fine, as were the signal lights. Then again, my lights seemed to work fine on the way home from the airport - but as I left my grandma's, they were back to brights only - - Cats!

But we'll use it for the wedding. Get our $244 of work worth out of it (supposedly we shouldn't have to add any oil before then), and then retire the beast back to the garage. Maybe in the future we'll have the engine overhauled (we being me and Kyle - he probably didn't realize he was getting THREE high maintenance divas out of the deal - Me, Sarah, Jag), and have the interior redone.

That's the other thing about cats - they tend to grow on you to the point that, just when you think you've had enough, they start to purr, and your heart just melts all over again. And, oh, you should hear my Jaguar purr!

minute of silence

I was sitting in a coffee shop called Second Cup (yes, a chain - - but at least it's Canadian???) drinking a chai latte with Kyle when 11 a.m. rolled around. Being 11 a.m. (according to my watch), we decided to take a moment of silence, while everyone around us chatted, laughed, and continued slurping their coffees.

I thought about that - that there I was, in a coffee shop, drinking chai latte with people all around me, chatting, laughing, slurping coffee, while veterans gathered around cenotaphs to remember their fallen comrades, and their own experiences at war.

Is this what they died for? I pondered to myself. Yes, ironically, I think it is.

I'm so fascinated by these men, and their stories. I want to call them stories of bravery and courage, but in fact many of them didn't have a choice. They were kids, a lot of them, on a battle field, fighting someone else's war. Their stories are, in my opinion, stories of survival.

This year, leading up to Remembrance Day, I interviewed a Japanese PoW who helped build "The Death Railway" (because the soldiers that died on it were as many as the ties they put down) from Malaya to Burma, and an infantry vet who was nearly decapitated after his tank took out a German Panther tank in Italy and the two anti-tank guns beside it fired back (the last words his gunner spoke were "I got him, sir!" It's him this sgt remembers every Nov. 11). I also spoke with a Korean War photographer and several war brides. Their stories are riveting.

But before I get too deep, my minute finished on a rather light, amusing note this year. You see, the coffee shop didn't forget to remember after all, and at c. 11:01 (obviously their clocks are not set to the CBC) a barista got everyone's attention and announced she was going to set the timer for one minute, and would everyone in the crowded shop please respect our veterans with silence. The whole shop - those at the full-up tables and the long line in front of the counter, did so. The chatter stopped. The blenders and grinders behind the counter were quiet, as everyone began to reflect.

And then.

A man walked in, unaware of what time it was. All eyes fell on him, as everyone continued their micro-vigil of quiet. He felt the awkwardness, and didn't know how to respond. It was like the room went dead upon his entry. No one moved. Everyone watched.

"Wow, that's one hell of a line-up," he offered.

Silence.

"I guess I'll just get in line."

More staring.

Then, I think, he realized what was happening, and fell into step. When the timer sounded and the barista said thank-you, he was the first to speak - "sorry, I didn't realize at first what was going on," he said to no one in particular and everyone in general.

I'll bet that's one Remembrance Day he'd just as soon forget.

commercial break

In an attempt to continue to keep you, my audience, rapt, while actually delaying my next entry, I've decided to quickly jot down some of the things I WANT to write about, and would, in fact, post ... if only I had the time. Before you accuse me of copping out, try working full-time whilst planning the wedding of the century. It's not as easy as it sounds.

If it helps, think of this as a commercial for future blogs. Coming soon to a blogspot near you:

*Trying to plan aforementioned wedding of the century when you have no time to wash your own dishes never mind get a wedding dress dry cleaned or, um, fitted, because all you do is work, work, work - and trying doing same without turning into bridezilla

* Missive on obtaining marriage license, yesterday morning (Yay! I think that makes us half married!)

* Something on having engagement photos taken with Kyle, yesterday morning in downtown Kelowna.

* Why oh why did I buy a 1971 Jag, and the madness of trying to have it wedding-ready

* Conversations with veterans I interviewed for Remembrance Day stories and what I got out of it

* FINALLY watching Napoleon Dynamite and how it's flipping sweet.

Stay tuned . . .

(and feel free to post comments on these blog ideas now just in case they don't get to see the light of day once I'm institutionalized and not allowed near electronic - read computer - equipment)