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Olympic fever is in the air and everyone's stricken. People don't need to be sports fans to watch; national pride has folks from border to border, of every age, ethnicity and culture rooting for their home team. Whatever the event. It is during the Games that you can see testosterone-stoked hockey devotees stealing glimpses at ice dancers, and gentrified curling buffs intrigued by the dazzling stunts of slopestyle skiers. The Olympics bring diversity together for one common theme — the hope of winning gold. But it just wouldn't be human nature if we didn't reserve some of our interest for appearances.  It's not only about noticing who's attractive, who looks like a skater or skier, but from the moment the official ceremonies began, rooms of people had opinions to give on the official outfit for each nation.  And why wouldn't we? We do it with regularity in our own world,  commenting on  what 'they're' wearing, whether it's  celebrities

There are no warm fuzzy feelings brought on by the view out the large picture window at work. Moments to daydream don't take me out to the land of ice and snow I see before me, but to faraway places where sun soothes achy muscles and stiff joints.  My mind fills with images of white sands, blue waters, swaying palms and swinging hammocks. If you're Canadian and it's February, there's really only one place to be — south. People in our little village are flocking south of the border, and beyond,  to chill out far away from the monotonous deep freeze of our winter.  To romantic resorts and tropical climates they flee to soak up sun and restore  depleted stores of Vitamin D.  They return looking refreshed — a condition that fades about as quickly as the acquired tan in this bleak climate. Unless you're a Snowbird, able to spend the entire season in warmer places, feeling the afterglow of a much needed break can be short lived once your home to the reality of winte

I live in Canada. Contrary to popular belief it's not always cold and snow here. We enjoy lovely springs, hot and muggy summers,  glorious autumns. But winters? They can be mean. Sure, we sometimes enjoy those picturesque wonderlands when the sun lays pinpricks of sparkling light on the blanket of snow.  Generally however, we look forward to white and grey, damp and cold. It's little wonder that we had to find a way to make the most of it. In the 19th century a game involving sticks and balls was adapted for Canadian ice,  and hockey had arrived.  Unquestionably from ocean, to ocean,  folks here love their game. Arenas in small communities fill as parents lace up Tykes,  and teenage Midgets brimming with testosterone, bring their passion for the game to the rinks.  Fans crowd stadiums in city centres for Junior and NHL games. And now it's the Olympics. While every event of the games is important, while every Canadian participating has our respect, make no mistake. H

Three more days until Valentine's Day. There is probably no other 'holiday' that so polarizes society than the one intended to honour two souls coming together. On the one side you have the people who participate to the mushiest extent, with accolades of adoration or over-the-top gifts. Then you have the other side, the people who see it as commercial bait, set out by florists and card companies to make a buck or two in the slow winter season.  Romanticism, they argue, isn't something to be delivered on one specific day, but rather a continued practice. I guess my argument with that is that sometimes, even for the most romantic of couples, life can hit the skids. There are unique stresses putting extra pressure on all relationships these days and it's easy to take each other for granted. Personally, I don't need the grand gesture; expensive jewellery is appreciated, but not required. But the way I see it, a reminder, a day set aside specifically to apprec

To play a little with a well-known quote by  German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, I'd like to say that without Beatles music life would be a mistake. Nietzsche had it right, of course. Music of any kind is one of the most beautiful gifts we've been given. My grandparents, despite a humble, hardworking existence, loved music, humming and singing everything from Chopin to Jolson. My paternal grandmother played the organ; my maternal grandfather was master of the impromptu ditty. My parents, then,  brought music into our home, singing along with it in church choir or on long road trips, dancing to it in halls and at country frolics. Late Saturday nights, their gang would gather around our piano and their harmonies drifted up through the vents filling my room with country classics. My older sister, a teenager at the twilight years of poodle skirts and saddle shoes, loved the silky smoothness of Nat King Cole and Johnny Mathis, the light-hearted Neil Sedaka and of course,