Well Tailored Cakes and Neckties

MOVING HOUSE

2009-09-16T10:52:00.002-04:00

http://cakesandneckties.wordpress.com/

New year, new blog home, new things to come...henceforth, that is the place...

Yes, even that...

2009-09-10T15:29:00.007-04:00

It was Labour Day, and we looked splendid. A morning market trip, the fridge and pantry well-stocked, the temptation of afternoon cocktails barely held at bay. We lounged on my balcony and decided we needed an activity or else we were going to give in to bourbon and it was barely noon. First, we composed lists about each other's awesomeness, all the reasons why (a) we are too good for men who let us down, (b) better off alone than with someone less than perfect, and (c) foolish to worry we might remain that way forever. The lists grew wonky and ridiculous, and after ruling out naps, reading, and napping with books, we tossed my apartment in search of a more strenuous pastime.

We giggled that we'd both selected t-shirts which our bras shone through, and that this just might be our last chance at croquet. Unrelated facts, but facts nonetheless. As we planted wickets in a sloppy course, Shamus and Paige shouted from their balconies that they'd love to play. The sun shone hot and bright, cicadas trilled, we laughed and shook rounds of mint juleps, and shit-talked one another when swings went wild.

"Ok, so, in order to win, you have to go through the centre wicket, off the bit of clover sprouting at the base of the tree, over there to the right, past the pond and the rock with the guy's face carved into it, back to the middle then through the two wickets and hit the stake. Got it?"

Meanwhile, the airshow rocketed overhead, and my heart felt like a plane crash. I wanted to be carefree and lovely, a girl with a perfect smile and sweet golden tan, a lady looking forward to autumn while clutching summer's late heat like a withering bouquet. Instead, I was distracted by heartache, sad for something that really, if I am honest, never amounted to much. A thing built bigger by the missing than it stood in real life.

A week later, my chest still feels tight and my breath comes short. I wake up sweaty, making fists and thinking about someone who never once climbed into my bed. I think of this and I think of that, throw off the sheets and wash myself in "angry" before jumping into each day. My throat's clogged by a log-jam of things I should have said. Instead, I sat primly glancing down my lashes and telling him the ways his leaving made me sad.

We hardly knew each other despite a few months of dating; his arms were crossed against me the whole time, and I did my best to play it smooth and cool. He admits he led me on with complicated words and gestures, efforts to convince himself he was into me when all it took was Date Number One to figure out he liked everything about me except being with me.

Writing this feels a little foolish, too large for what he was in the broad spanse of my life. And, it makes me see how much I miss the idea more than the man. Or so I'd like to claim. But really, I am lying--I do miss the man, whether that makes sense or not. All summer, I felt like barfing from the tension of guessing what might, or might not, be going on between us. For weeks, friends coached me to relax and let go, fall for him and see where the plunge would take my heart. Now, another friend suggests I am "chasing his mystery to postpone letting go." And, I think she's quite right. I believe there's a chunk of the story he's neatly clipped out, but I suppose it doesn't matter. Suck up the fresh heartbreak and fucking move on.

But, I miss the hopefulness about where things might go. I miss the anticipation of a kiss each morning when our paths crossed at the café. I miss the last-minute invitations, the chance that one, the other, or both of us would call just to say "hello". I miss dressing slightly fancier than if I thought no one was looking. I miss his jokes about my star sign and my tiny, tidy home. I miss the fact that his shirts were in a range of colours but clearly the same make and model. And, I miss the slightly bizarre way he smelled, a fragrance I couldn't place, nor even begin guess. Yes, even that.

Risk and Danger

2009-09-03T09:45:00.014-04:00

Once, I spent an evening getting devastatingly tipsy with a colleague, whom I didn't know very well. We moved from after-work drinks to after-drinks sushi, to after-sushi cocktails, to after-cocktails wine at his place. I know, I know, this all sounds sketchy, but I had a boyfriend and he knew this, and I am not that sort of lady, if you know what I mean. And so, it all seemed innocent and incident-free. And, I should add, the evening remained that way.

Conversation followed a trajectory familiar to anyone who's ever been tanked with someone from work--office complaints, impressions (and later, drunken impersonations) of co-workers, where to grab something to eat before we end up wrecked, where to head next since it's Friday and Saturday is a sleep-in day, then the slick and slippery slope from freely tossing around the F-word to personal history to most-embarrassing-moments to dating disasters to more of the F-word, and finally, to heartfelt revelations about where we wish/ want/ hope our lives take us next.

I am perhaps more vibrant the drunker I become, but I am not particularly withdrawn or closed when dead-sober, and I rarely share details when intoxicated that I would have withheld under more moderate conditions. In other words, I'm not a bar-stool confessor spilling out bits that should remain under guard. Likewise, I'll reveal personal details to people I trust, without needing drinks for lubrication.

At my colleague's kitchen table that night, we slouched and sipped wine and our eyes grew hooded with sleepiness and liquor. We'd stalled at the topic of Boyfriends and Girlfriends: Past, Present and Future, and in particular, the matter of risk versus return on investment, so to speak. He illustrated a point with a wild arm-swing, catching his glass with his palm and smacking red wine up the wall. Folding his hands in his lap and composing himself a little, he declared, "Girl, you are awesome. Why are you taking this shit from a person you call your 'partner' but who is clearly no such thing? It's making me so angry, I would like to say I can't listen to anymore of this, but I also want the whole story. If you're sticking with this guy, there has to be more to it than you're telling me. Because seriously...it sounds like you are getting nothing back for what you're putting in!"

Risk, danger, investment, return. All rather clinical words to apply to matters of the heart. And yet, strangely apt words, too. As wine dried into a permanent stain on the wallpaper, I tried to explain my choice to remain in a relationship that was no longer healthy, balanced or fun, but I failed to convince him of its worth, and by dawn, no longer had faith in it myself. "I think maybe it's a place holder," I admitted. "I have a person to snuggle and dine with, while I wait for someone who properly loves me to come along." A dreadful admission, and I wasn't sure if it made me feel worse saying it aloud (like I was a traitor, shit-talking my boyfriend to a stranger), or to know I would go home, sleep it off, and head to my boyfriend's house for dinner the next night like I'd never made the confession at all.

My colleague and I spent increasing amounts of time together, talking about absolutely everything except the thing he wanted to say most. One day, he asked me why I felt so comfortable confiding in him, when mere weeks ago, we had been strangers. "When I talk to you," I explained, "I'm a bird in your open palm. First, I perch on your finger tips, hopping a little closer and a little closer till I reach the middle of your hand. I can tell that, even once I reach the place where you could easily snap your fist closed around me faster than I could take flight, you won't do that. And so, I can tell you these risky stories without being afraid you might crush me." Meanwhile, my friend's heart twisted with unrequited and so-far undisclosed affection for me.

Within a year, that place-holding relationship would end, my colleague would angrily inform me via email that he had such a crush on me he couldn't bear listening to me talk about other men, and our friendship (which had grown sincere after that first drunken night) would be put on hiatus until the crush abated and we could get on with things.

In the wake of my break-up, I would think back to my place-holder remark and how easy it felt to be flippant, and how much it ached to lose that guy. I considered whether I'd meant what I said--that he was a place to stop and rest while something better caught up with my life. The tortoise and the hare, so to speak. Or, had I brandished a stick of "whatever, I don't care, he's just someone passing through and one day we'll both move on," when in fact he was the love of my life, never to be replaced, the best man I would ever land?

This spring, I did some tentative and half-assed dating, terrified to hook up with anyone I actually cared for in case he became a rebound boyfriend, treated like shit as I exorcised the last of my anger at my ex. I went out with a handful of sweet guys with whom I had no chemistry, and a short-list of wackos who couldn't make through the first date without exposing their skeezy side. And then, I took a break. Did nothing. Turned my thoughts and energy to other things. Traveled a bit, laid around in the sunshine, wrote like mad and spent time with my family. Cultivated a suntan that I should know better than to earn in this day and age, and wore short-shorts to the café at least three times. I never go out in short-shorts!

And then, I met someone. I pretended it was "too soon to get excited" but admitted I hoped it would turn into something. Talked myself down, played it cool, and held my cards close to my chest. Was relieved when he assured me he moved slowly, but always with intent. Took wee little steps toward acting like people who were dating rather than two people who sometimes go on dates. Coached myself not to get too excited since there was no telling where this would go, but knew it was getting tougher to deny that my heart was poised to fall for this person. And, in due course, I let myself believe he was poised to fall for me, too.

I was wrong. Risk, danger, investment and return. Bird in the palm. Heart in my hand, held out for consideration. An ache for something that stings like a bite.

Be Her, or Be With Her?

2009-08-29T09:48:00.006-04:00

When this video was released, it received nearly constant play on the local Top Ten video hits show. I wonder why...heh.

I was eleven, and it confused me more than anything I'd seen in my life. All those ladies. With ladies' parts and such. Right out there for looking at, but kinda tucked into weird swimsuits. And the massage part--jesus! I remember watching the video in the rec room TV at my cool aunt's house, and her walking in on me and gasping, "Oh my god! What are you watching?! Don't tell your mother you saw this at my house!"

Along with Molly Ringwald, the girl in my class with long legs and really great blue satin tights, and a poster advertising lip gloss at the drug store, this video was central to the wrestling match in my head--did I want to be these cute, sassy girls? Or, did I want to be with them? Have their long, lanky legs, or touch their long, lanky legs?

Sizing Things Up

2009-08-25T21:59:00.007-04:00

The other night, as I walked down the street, a drunk man reached over and casually grabbed my vagina. It was late, I was drunk, I was wearing a short, cute dress. It was a shady neighbourhood, and the guy was even less sober than I was. I was walking with the man I have recently begun dating, and one of his longstanding friends. I don't know either of them especially well. These factors collided and I felt unprepared to accurately size up the situation, predict what might happen if I called the guy on his transgression, guess how things might escalate if I were to grab his filthy hand, and demand, "What makes you think you can grope women in the street, fuckface?"

Instead, I froze, looked shocked, and informed my two companions that that man over there had just grabbed my crotch. There were a few moments spent milling about, during which my gentleman friend asked me some appalled questions, things like, "Really? For real? You're not joking? That guy? The one over there? In the red jacket? Really? For real?" Then, he set off to set the man straight. Got halfway to catching up, paused, turned back and asked again, "Really? For real?" while I suggested he just let it go, leave it be, brush it off like no big deal.

"Unacceptable," he told me, then resumed pursuit. The man was drunk and not travelling fast. My friend caught up in an instant, smacked the back of his head, told him that touching women at all without an invitation was fully unacceptable, and that he'd best make haste, get the fuck out of here, and never, ever pull something like that again. Apparently, the man apologised. I would like to believe he was so wasted he had simply stumbled and grabbed for the closest thing offering support, which regrettably turned out to be my vagina. But, I know that's untrue.

The thing is, the post-grope altercation made me feel more uncomfortable than the grope did. The potential for things to have slipped out of control...that someone I care for, in the process of defending me and any other ladies this drunk jerk might decide to assault (or, whom he'd already felt up as he made his way along Bloor Street) might have ended in a brawl. A little while ago, I posted a story about my sister telling some guy to get stuffed as he came on to her aggressively at a streetcar stop. She called me after it happened, excited that she'd stuck up for herself, but also angry and disappointed with herself for letting shit like that go unchallenged in the past.

Ranked against more serious assaults, someone touching me while I was safely in the company of friends then continuing on his way like nothing had happened, this is no big deal. But, my friend is right--he explained that he'd gone after the man because what he did to me personally wasn't ok, but also because if someone smacks him in the head the first time, then perhaps he'll be dissuaded from doing it a few more times, or stepping up the aggression behind his touch.

And so, I struggled to reconcile my own decision to just let him away with it, to not provoke a confrontation, to be intimidated by the possibility that the guy was a loose cannon, to forget it because really, no harm done. I blamed the champagne and the gin I'd poured into myself all evening, for making me hesitant to defend myself. Now, days later, I think the weirdest part is that I don't remember much about the grope, but I have a play-by-play movie in my head of David shoving the guy and shouting at him to watch his step, the man stumbling away down the sidewalk, and David just shaking his head.

Lord of the Gays

2009-08-25T21:28:00.005-04:00

In 1983, I learned "gay" had not two but three very different meanings. The first two were pretty obvious. Of course, it meant "happy" in an old-fashioned way. This was handy to know when tossing the word by its second definition, the better, crueler meaning--and by that, I mean "stupid", of course. Get caught calling a kid a gay, or worse yet, a gay fag (meaning twice as stupid), and all you had to do to squeak out of trouble was claim, "I was just saying that kid seemed real happy is all!"

But, when I pointed out the window at Nicholas from down the block, as he strolled past pretending to be a retarded duh, and informed my mother, "God, he is so gay!" she set me straight, so to speak. Asked whether I knew the what that word meant, I rolled my eyes and heaved a tremendous sigh, suggesting my mother was clearly only a hair away from retarded herself, and assured her that of course I knew. Everyone knows that, even kindergarteners. Gay means stupid, duh.

"No, not really," my mother replied. "It means he has a boyfriend, that he likes to kiss boys."

Well, I didn't know about that, but I did know Nick was a moron, and closed the conversation with, "Fine then, I guess he's just a fag."

This summer, I spent two weeks living on an island that houses, among other things, a handful of residents in awesome little cottages, an alternative school, two yacht clubs, a nude beach, a queer cruising ground, an artists' retreat, and a children's amusement park. Exploring one quiet night, I shot photos of the willows, the boardwalk, the beach and the sunset, and ended up at the amusement park shortly before dark. It remains unchanged since my family visited in 1983--the same year I learned to properly define "gay", I also learned that even small rollercoasters can be terrifying and that haunted houses make me scream like a sissy. The little park has not yet been colonised by chain shops, food vendors and conglomerate names, and retains a funny sort of charm, tough to date since it bears the patches of renovations, ugrades and improvements made over the past twenty-five years. And yet, the rides remain rickety, the snack bar sells unbranded treats, and the miniature village is modeled on the Wild West, circa 1978 or so...

...including this little gem, which I cannot believe escaped my scrutiny when I was ten. "Attorneys at Law--Elgin Gaylord"? Come on! Even if you're not down with the kids, surely you're familiar with some of the oldest taunts in the book?

I must confess, even at age thirty-six, it made me snicker. My mom can teach me this and she can teach me that, but some things will always, always be funny.

Shelby Stacks Some Stones

2009-08-22T19:09:00.003-04:00

One day, on the island, this was as productive as I could be. And, that was just fine with me.

...and then, after that...

2009-08-22T11:31:00.008-04:00

Today, one of these ladies is getting married. And, another will marry her true love about four weeks from today. One of us will be accompanied by a thirteen-year-old son; one will hustle her children into fancy dress then hustle them into the car for the long drive to be here today.

In 1991, we got ourselves up in outfits that looked like our moms let us pick our clothes the first time, sheared our hair, dyed what was left, thought we were awfully clever sprawled across the hood of some local redneck's green sports car parked outside the country-western bar.

In 2004, we gathered for brunch at Easy and lined up while Ryan took our photo for posterity--Vanessa then blonde, me engaged to marry my girlfriend just as soon as it became legal, Siobhan about to dive into an anthropology MA, Amber having just introduced us all to the man she's marrying later today, Lilynn in town for the weekend from either British Columbia or Nova Scotia...I've forgotten how long since she moved from place to place.

It's a couple years off being a perfect ten-year/ ten-year/ ten-year count, but tonight, we will line up to have our picture taken again, and in a few more years, no doubt we'll assemble for photo #4, and see where we stand.

45/ 43/ 36/ 60/ 37/ 62

2009-08-19T14:32:00.007-04:00

There were a lot of birthdays the past couple weeks, and although I couldn't bake for every one of them, here are the stand-out stars:

A cupcake packed in its own little traveller, which nearly but not quite survived the ride to Angela's backyard.

And, the pair of tarts I fixed for my mother's birthday--pâte brisée with fresh custard cream and Ontario berries. The crust didn't even shatter when I slid the pans away and portioned the tarts into eight.

The month isn't over yet, and more birthdays lie ahead, along with a handful throughout September. Canada's inhospitable winters are surely at the root of this seasonal population boom.

Dear Adrienne...

2009-08-19T14:24:00.003-04:00

Dear Adrienne,

Jo and I have received your email regarding your slightly tardy arrival time this evening, and would like to assure you this is just fine. It is better to see you at 6 p.m., rather than not at all. But, it seems right to advise you of the following:

I will reach the island a full hour ahead of you, for our reunion evening, which affords us sixty minutes for mischief. We will poke our fingers in the toppings on your portion of the pizza, and sneak looks at your letters in Scrabble. We might also talk about that time you filled your shoes with sand and your head with brandy then tried to kick out the campfire, but don't worry--it shall remain just between us that when you subtract, you say "take-away", and that you spilled your plastic cup of wine at the beach. Though sorely tempted, I swear I won't post any of that stuff online.

See you tonight!

Love from,
Amanda and Jo

Lemonade

2009-08-18T10:33:00.005-04:00

Everyone hated the chickens. The way they moulted and crapped and scratched with their terrible red feet. Even the farmer thought they were a bunch of rotten hens, but this was as it should be - as their executioner, it was best he not grow attached. The birds' stupidity was most provoking. There was always a chicken or two lost in the barn and squawking for rescue, or one wedged beneath the stile. Once they plumped up from chicks to stout, white hens, the farmer no longer saw them as fowl but as supper, smoking on the grill. He'd spent his life surrounded by silos, tractors, livestock and hay, and barring any surprises, would finish his life that way. The farmer was a farmer, and these rugged implements were backdrop to his days. So, too, the scalding tanks, chunky knives, cleavers and assorted tools of poultry slaughter. Facts of life.

Another fact: the farmer's life wasn't easy, though he could proudly call it simple. Except for when others made it complicated. Each summer, his five young nieces were exported from city to farm to breathe the fresh air and to help his wife with her pickles and jam. At least, that was the idea. Instead, the girls tumbled from the car then scattered, a few to the orchard to gorge on pears, the rest to hunt kittens in the barn. Along with their luggage in shades of yellow and pink, the girls brought high voices and high drama to the farm. They weren't sucks, but one would skin a knee or bark a shin hopping the fence, another would grass-stain her favourite pants, and now and then, they'd demand the farmer settle some crazy fight. There were tears for this, and tears for that, and always, always, the girls shed tears for the chickens. Chickens they refused to touch and hated to eat.

It was the same thing every summer. The farmer believed his nieces were delicate flowers in need of tougher pollen, so chores were assigned, shit was shoveled, animals were pointed out in the pasture and later, on the plate. "It takes a smart girl to get a chicken's beak and feet off and cook it up delicious," he'd declare, while the girls toyed with their meals and asked for more milk. Chats like this took the shine off the farm and made the nieces pine for home. This year, they'd get their wish: their visit would be cut short, but it wouldn't be the farmer's fault. No, the farmer would lay blame where it belonged, squarely on Lemonade. Because, of course, the farmer exaggerated just a little - not quite everyone hated the chickens. His wife, Lucille, was practically in love with the damned rooster.

Lemonade wasn't even an attractive bird. His feathers were dull as mud, a shade of brown that took the fun out of everything. He was short two toes from an incident with a reluctant hen, and his ruff looked mangy and plucked. At least he wasn't mean - the neighbour's rooster was always driving someone up a tree - but, in the farmer's opinion, Lemonade's temperament was the worst part. The rooster wasn't really anything. He was Lemonade, a lady's drink, watery and weak. Content to scuffle amongst the dumber chickens, eyes to the ground seeking feed. And, when he wasn't eating or strutting, he'd ride in Lucille's arms like a docile old cat. Gathering the bird like a loaf, she'd tuck him in the crook of her elbow, cooing and stroking his feathers and peppering his back with sharp little slaps. The rooster's eyes would close like wrinkly leather shades and his comb would shake like a disgusting, livid scrotum. "Oh yes, Lemonade," Lucille would prattle, "You're a pretty, pretty boy, aren't you?" It brought out the farmer's arms in goosebumps and he couldn't decide if he was more revolted by the likeness of his own skin to poultry, or his wife sweet-talking a cock.

Under Lucille's affections, Lemonade, like the five nieces, grew lax and shiftless, shirking his morning crow to lounge in the coop until Lucille arrived to collect the eggs. Cued by her voice soothing the brooding hens, Lemonade would splay his toes and twitch one leg then the other - shake shake stretch stretch - then settle at Lucille's feet. From across the yard, the farmer watched his wife's fingers tickle the rooster's spine. Even if he'd spent a long day hauling hay, Lucille never stroked his back that way. The farmer could go mad with these thoughts, so he did his best to quell them with chores and chicken feed and smokes in the shed. Mostly, he did a good job forgetting Lemonade, but then came the nieces, who shook his routine and his resolve. By the time the girls packed for home, Lemonade would rise in the farmer's esteem from rival to hero, but those events were safely stowed in August. Now, the season was inching into July and the nieces had just come sprinting up the drive.

For all their fussing, the girls were quick to settle on the farm, each claiming a bunk in the loft. Three girls up top, two down below, with promises to rotate every third sleep. The empty bunk housed a growing collection of debris - special rocks, long feathers, shriveled flowers, and a branch shaped exactly like a lady dancing. Things the girls accumulated like midway prizes. Abandoning their wide sunhats the second day, their cheeks freckled up nicely, and the one with hay fever developed a funny pink crease above the ball of her nose from swiping upward with her palm.

The farmer accused the sniffly one of being full of more trouble than snot, though to hear her sneezing, he wasn't sure some days. Between swipes at her nose, she egged her sisters on to feats of daring, most of which concerned varieties of barnyard dung. They'd begin with who could draw the biggest breath without gagging from the manure then ramp up to grosser trials. Crap in the pasture was a lucky find and they'd poke at it with sticks, shrieking with delighted disgust as they foraged and drilled. This game, like most they favoured, would end when one girl dissolved in tears, the target of an ill-flicked stick. Lucille would smooth things with a biscuit and fresh shirt for the crier and a stern look for the flicker, then hustle the nieces back outdoors. "Do something helpful, for pete's sake," she would scold, "But be sure and leave your uncle be."

The girls hardly needed cautioning in that regard. Hang around idle and their uncle would have them watching a chicken get its guts out, or would distribute rakes and instructions to smooth out the gravel in the yard. Their uncle was a bottomless well of chores, and the chores? Always disgusting. More disgusting, even, than a field full of poo. The nieces were disgusted by everything that summer; disgust was their new thing. Country smells that choked and gagged, hay bales churning with mice, muck fused to sneaker soles, spiders traversing the toilet seat like a mean surprise. Messy sap in the orchard, burrs snarled in long hair, the musty smell that leaked from the farmhouse and made everything smell old. The girls were experts at turning up their noses, and the farm gave them plenty to practice on. Most of all, they crumpled their faces at the chickens, but, like cats drawn to peril, they couldn't get enough of the birds.

They'd approach the coop in a tight clutch, jostling to stay one girl back from first. Then, the sniffly one would start on the others: who'll take the most steps into the pen alone? Who's brave enough to poke an arm up the hatch into the coop? When Lucille comes with her basket, will anyone retrieve a fresh egg from beneath a hen's ruffled bum? These dares wound up the girls, and they wound up the chickens, and the birds remained testy long after the farmer made the hen house off limits. The hens' unease wasn't lost on Lemonade, who considered the nieces an affront to his station and competition for Lucille's attention. The rooster puffed and blustered and kicked at the gravel. If Lucille regarded the girls or the rooster a little more critically, she might've detected the link between the girls' games and Lemonade's discontent. But, that just wasn't Lucille. She loved the nieces and the bird with a heart as doughy as the arms Lemonade liked to nuzzle. As Lemonade soured, Lucille grew more doting, spoiling the nieces with biscuits and the rooster with rides in her arms.

Summer wore on - it wore on the calendar, where August arrived; it wore on the farmer's patience, which had never been generous; it wore on the nieces, who were out of gross contests to pad their days. And, summer wore on Lemonade, whose already troubled plumage dipped to bedraggled. While July had blazed, August clouded over to deliver endless rain. The girls transferred their boredom indoors, scuttling around in old rubber boots and ratty vests, and daring one another to stick a hand in that crawlspace or slowly limbo under a cobweb. One bonked her head doing a gymnastics move between two bunks, and another ran a two-inch splinter into her heel sliding down the attic ladder. Lucille used the poor weather to catch up on her pickles, and Lemonade, poking his comb from beneath the barn's shelter, pined for Lucille in a rusty, ugly whine. Half-mad from the clamour and the smell of brine, the farmer installed himself in the shed, mechanically raising cigarettes from hip pocket to lip.

On a rare Thursday, the clouds broke and a swath of blue spread across the sky. Cicadas droned and Lucille made haste, laying the table for lunch in the orchard. The nieces set to bickering, pissy from the long string of days inside. They shuffled and shoved on the picnic bench, drilled fingers in one another's sandwich bread, and pretended to backwash in their neighbours' drinks. Then, in a turn of generosity, they offered to clear the table, probably banking good behaviour against whatever fights broke out later.

Lucille wiped her hands on her thighs, huffed out stale air, then headed for the coop. "Come on, Lemonade," Lucille coaxed. "We're overdue for our afternoon walk." The sun hung like a bright bulb as she set off through the pear trees, Lemonade restored to her arms and muttering his content. They followed a rutted path toward the meadow, crickets springing as Lucille brushed the long grass. The path was mucky from so many wet days, and Lucille picked along carefully, watching for hazards on the ground and missing what was happening overhead. And so she was caught when a fresh storm zipped the meadow to the sky. Lucille cupped Lemonade to her chest and ran as best she could, squeezing little bleats from the rooster with each step. Already, the path was a muddy river so Lucille veered left toward the trees. Perfect shelter from the thunder.

She came to dreaming of dinner, a smoky aroma strong in her nose. Her muscles felt coddled and uncooperative and something tickled her brow. It was a direct hit, which everyone would declare Lucille was lucky to survive. Clutched to her heart, the rooster absorbed most of the bolt, cooked right there in her arms. Little Lemonade, his modest brown feathers blasted and smoking, saved the farmer's wife's life. If not for Lemonade, Lucille might've stayed closer to the kitchen, tending to the lunch dishes instead of strolling with a bird. The farmer would grumble forever about this, the rooster that didn't know its place. But after the nieces were hustled into their mother's waiting car and the dust settled in the drive, after Lucille's scorched palm healed up nicely, and a new rooster came to strut in the yard, the farmer would slouch in his shed with a smoke, and privately thank goodness for Lemonade.

Day Fourteen...

2009-08-17T22:16:00.003-04:00

Enough said.

Day Thirteen - Disengaging/ Re-engaging

2009-08-17T22:14:00.004-04:00

Morning: early breakfast, latté on the beach with my feet buried in sand, long walk, bike-ride fact-finding mission, last series of photographs, picked up today's windowsill rock.

Midday: quick lunch, lots of writing, an attempt at sunning with Shelby but then the clouds arrived for awhile, so instead a short and sweet nap.

Afternoon: Campari-soda on the porch with Krystof, kitchen conversation with Adrienne, the Yes We Are Normal check-in with Jo, another bicycle ride along the boardwalk.

Evening: dinner and wine with David, slow trip from ferry dock to lodge, shoving things into my knapsack and pretending that come morning, I'm not heading home.

Night: full moon with bonfire on the beach, and a reminder that even when toasted, marshmallows remain the nastiest confection ever invented.

Day Twelve - A Breach from the Mainland

2009-08-17T22:05:00.003-04:00

Concerned about a now-overdue submission, I check my email...and...permit the mainland to leak into my solitary life-away-from-real-life. Reading one message too many, I stumble across one that makes me really mad, and a tiny bit sad. And then, preoccupied, I waste hours stewing and fuming about things that have no place invading my rare and shrinking island days.

I shake it off shortly before sundown, after a long bicycle ride, a glass of rosé, and a good chat. But, I feel a bit stupid for inviting this intrusion at all, and feel a bit haunted by how easy it was to get so upset.

Day Eleven - A Series of Deaths

2009-08-17T21:52:00.007-04:00

Today was not a lucky day for small creatures.

First one goldfish dies, then a second, and a third. Jo and I transport the fish from the lodge aquarium to the beach and lay them to rest. We debate how deep we should dig while a seagull watches us like a...hawk...and agree: to the elbow should do the trick. We hurry to fill in the holes as a family strolls by. A nice day at the beach is perhaps not the time to tackle a life-lesson about "Mommy, how come those girls are making those fishes go in the sand?"

We pack, smooth, pat, then mark their little graves with a feather, a stick, a rock.

The lodge has a resident cat, who takes his hunting quite seriously. As I pick my way along the path to the beach, I nearly plant my bare foot on his latest kill. I'm not sure why he only devoured the face--it seems to me that would be the boniest, least delectable bit, but what do I know?

The remains of a rather monstrous fish, body split in the middle as though swimming toward its own tail. Apparently, there were others washed up on the beach across the island, similarly decayed.

By far the worst, this frog was offed voodoo-style, doomed to hop forever with a feather from its killer in place of its face.

Day Ten - A Sense of Urgency

2009-08-17T21:48:00.006-04:00

A handful of residents have checked out--people who'd been here weeks and weeks (even months and months) before I arrived, and who'd been part of the island landscape since my Day One. Liz, who was in the kitchen at the same time as me, no matter which meal, no matter what time of day. Guy, whose morning conversations were important in several quiet ways. Ron and Aiuko, whose apartment-hunting finally dropped a lovely place on the mainland into their laps.

With only a handful of my own island days remaining, a sense of urgency taps my shoulder. I've ditched my small, dithering projects to focus on a children's story, a project I couldn't articulate till now. I've drafted a map so that as the story comes together, I don't forget where the rollercoaster is located relative to the midway, or how long it would take a character to walk on short legs from the Lost Children booth to the ferry dock. The characters have also been plugged into the map at the starting line, little Xs marking the location of each kid when the action kicks off.

I'm determined not to let the story drift once I return home to everyday things--the office and its tedious demands, the apartment and its various chores, the summer and its languidly tempting weather, the gentleman I've just met and his awesome smile, my lady posse and their invitations to laughter and wine--and am determined (for real), to retain some island momentum...

...we shall see, we shall see...I know I can manage most of those things and that some, in fact, will provide fresh momentum of their own...

Day Nine - Culture Shock

2009-08-17T21:45:00.004-04:00

The city strike has been resolved and the ferries have resumed. The Tourist Monster has been unleashed upon the island and our private little hideaway profoundly changed. I know, I know, it's selfish and greedy to want to keep the whole place to myself...

But...it has been incredible to step out barefoot, no smashed glass underfoot; no careening four-person bicycles clogging the road; no litter on the beach; no drunk dudes in swim trunks shouting "whooooooo!" across the park; no trucks chugging along, bins of garbage in tow; no whining families hating every minute of their day together; no bored girlfriends in ill-suited footwear for the boardwalk, clutching their boyfriends' arms and text-messaging about where to go dancing that night.

Jo from Bristol had never been the island before, and listened to lodge residents swap stories about how busy the island is most summers, when the strike isn't curbing visitors and the weather is hot and sunny. She charges into the kitchen this first post-strike afternoon, confessing, "I thought you were all just nostalgic or great exaggeraters, going on and on about the island, like you meant it once was busy, way back in the day! I didn't know you meant as soon as the ferries started running, it would be THIS way always!"

She arrived at the lodge one day later than I did, and we joke about our daily routine of "checking in"...catching up with each other for a reality check, a pat on the shoulder and affirmation that yes indeed, whatever we've been up to is perfectly normal:

"You were out climbing trees in leggings and a hat, and a shirt you suspect might be the top half to a set of underpants, with a bag of tools at your waist? Then, you walked around wearing a ventilator and boiling sap in your room till the turpentine gassed off? Yep, sounds totally ok to me!"

"You spent the day drawing a map of an amusement park, wearing no shoes and half a swimsuit beneath your clothes and for lunch you had some carrots, a bit of cheese and part of that biscuit over there, then napped for two hours and now you're writing about a rooster getting blasted by lightning for forgetting his rightful place? Right on."

"See you later, man."

"Yep, later."

After a week of going a bit feral, all this suddenly feels conspicuous, amidst picnicking families and newly minted couples on summer dates.

Day Eight - The "Weekend"

2009-08-17T08:57:00.003-04:00

Technically, it is Friday, the beginning of the weekend...not like I would know. Despite an afternoon at the beach, mornings on the sand, long walks, little diversions and plenty of naps, I have also been working like mad. Still, the days blend together into a string of routines--7:30 wake-up without an alarm, shower, granola and conversation in the kitchen with Guy and Liz, and Liz's dog Sumi slinking around. Then, a latté on the beach with my toes in the waves, retrieving my daily quota of sand in my rolled-up jeans which I then distribute throughout my studio. Work for awhile, then nap, then work, then lunch, then work, then a bit of aimlessness till the evening takes shape.

Tonight, there is a bonfire and lantern festival on the island, at the opposite tip to where I'm staying. Flasks tucked in pockets, hoodies zipped against the mosquitoes and other biters, we head to the beach: me, Jo, Adrienne. There, we meet other ladies from the lodge, watch kids swim in the freezing night lake, and feel a bit weekendish despite having minimal structure to our days.

We meet Kathleen, who till now had just been a name ("Have you met Kathleen yet? She's a writer, too!"), who is rushing around in the dark shooting video to include in her upcoming show. "There's such great material here," she says. "The island surprises you, you come out here planning to work on one thing but then your work becomes informed by something you never expected to find!"

I think of the outline I packed from home--a collection of short pieces concerning memory, etiquette, love, food--and the project I began yesterday instead: a tale of two bands of children stranded overnight at an island amusement park, the small ones forgotten at the Lost Children booth, the big ones the staff from the midway who intentionally missed the last ferry in order to party till morning amidst the flashing lights and sleeping rides. A story which indeed wouldn't exist without this real-life island.

Day Seven - Resonance

2009-08-16T19:33:00.006-04:00

Today is halfway.

Sunny and hot for the first time since I arrived, I packed my satchel with supplies: blanket, water, pens, paper, sunglasses, notes written on scraps and napkins. Put on my swimsuit beneath my clothes. Set off for the beach, figuring I would, like always, be alone there and would sit, swim, write.

Instead, I meet a woman who is also living at the lodge, I've seen her around, she has a fantastic smile. She has packed a similar stock of things and (like me) is clearly looking for an excuse to avoid work. We lay our beach blankets side by side and while the sun peaks overhead, we talk about this, talk about that, talk about how we're ok with not working today, because man, sometimes a lady needs to think.

So, we sun and sun and sun, and when we get too warm, we wade into the lake, cooling off to the waist and ladling splashes of water over our shoulders, down our chests. Then, we sprawl out on our blankets, letting the water droplets evaporate into scalding, scorching sunburns. First, her friend telephones and then mine, and after struggling to extract our cellphones from our beach bags and make evening plans, we part ways, rooming as we are in opposite wings of the lodge. Hours later, we run into one another, Shelby and her friend, me and mine, the pair of us glowing through the twilight with brilliant red "tans".

Backtrack to the beach and her phone call, though. I stared across the lake while she spoke to her friend, arranging ferry times and meeting spots and picnic menus and wine brands. Suddenly, "Wait wait wait!" she said, then told her friend how she was sitting right now, with me, a new friend, sunning on the beach, and that I seem super-great. Then, shyly, she paused, put a hand over the mouthpiece and asked, "You don't think it's too early to call you a friend, do you? Sorry if that seemed too fast."

In that moment, I was utterly charmed. Because, of course, that's the sort of thing I do over and over again, and for which I feel like a bit of a dork--get all excited about something, then have to pause and assess, put a lid on my outburts and eager declarations. And till now, I've never met another person who does it, too. A funny resonance, along with a handful of other details that sent the pair of us through time, careening through the past six months on nearly identical paths, to land on that beach, burnt to a crisp that afternoon.

Day Six - Dithering

2009-08-15T12:10:00.002-04:00

Up too late last night, drinking wine with Jo, Krystof and Guy. Up too early this morning, then did one of those time-machine sleeps, where suddenly it's three hours later and you didn't even feel yourself drifting off again. Fucking rain. Everyone is cooped up, wandering the corridors, eating without intent, pacing, hanging together in the kitchen, but not really even chatting. We all feel off, if you know what I mean.

I take a handful of walks, one after the other, take photographs of the amusement park, closed for summer because without ferries, no one is lining up for the rides. Slowly, through the mild hangover and the heavy rain, I think my project is coming together.

We shall see...

Day Five - Accepting Speed

2009-08-14T08:27:00.004-04:00

The boat situation is not as complicated as it seems. Once you're on the island, you simply ask around and the "secrets" are revealed--no, water taxis are not necessary to access this island hideaway; no, it is not impossible to transport a bicycle from mainland to island; no, it is not staggeringly expensive to zip back and forth for supplies.

And so, I get up early-early, rush home, fetch my bike, make it back to the dock in record time (15 minutes, all downhill, so great!) and by 11 a.m., my island situation is profoundly changed. At first, I swore I would accept the bike-free state of affairs and the island's lack of speed, but have admitted it's so much better this way. A bicycle opens up my days to fact-finding missions that no longer feel like sneaky procrastination (like yesterday's three-hour walk). And, after dark, solo excursions to remote locations no longer feel creepy.

Crickets. Tick-tick-ticking bicycle wheels. Crickets. Me.

Day Four - Requesting an Extension

2009-08-13T21:13:00.003-04:00

It's a forty-five minute walk from my end of the island to the other. Looping back home along the empty boardwalk--on a typical, non-city-strike summer day, it would be clogged with people--I clock the round-trip stroll at just under two hours. There are two ways of looking at this:

1. by spending the morning circumnavigating the island on foot, I can "waste" half the day and avoid my already challenging writing; or,

2. by spending the morning in a space that would usually be jammed with people but is temporarily abandoned, I am refusing to waste an opportunity that has fallen into my lap. It would in fact be a shame to spend these days shut in a small room, dutifully cranking out words at my desk.

Already, I know the one-week stay I booked will feel too short, and so on Day Four, I booked a second week, and felt the tension of having to leave just as I get settled evaporate. Instead of today being the tipping point beyond "halfway", I have ten more days till I head home.

Day Three - "End of the World" Rain

2009-08-13T20:52:00.003-04:00

It's been cloudy and humid since I arrived three days ago. Nothing dries--not towels, not bath mats, not rain-soaked shoes, not shampooed and conditioned hair, not dishes on the rack, not the sleeve I accidentally dunked into the sink. Someone mopped the corridor and the tiles have been wet since morning. It is nearly dinnertime.

If this were a "holiday", I would be disappointed. Instead, I accept the weather and the seclusion it enforces, penning us in our studios and giving us no choice but to produce work, even shitty work, something, anything, whatever it takes to make a rainy summer seem awesome and ok. There is something romantic about all this rain. It sounds lovely, smells good, spurs me to brief and frantic walks to stretch my legs between showers.

"Showers" diminishes the magnitude of these storms, though, makes them sound small and friendly when in fact, each round of rain is a session of cleansing. The lagoons are brimming and the paths are flooded level with the long grass. Sometimes, it feels like rain that might just come skipping along, hand in hand with the end of the world.

I take a walk and shoot some photographs of the next storm fastening the sky to the lake like a zipper. I see the saddest thing I will see my entire stay: a seagull with her wings smashed in the storm, walking along the path by the lodge. I don't know this today, but tomorrow, I will see her again, splayed on the grass a few yards from where we first met. It will upset my heart enough that I won't take that path again, not even when it's the shortest route to where I need to be.

For now, I turn my back on this bird I can't assist and head indoors, where I continue writing mostly crap.

Day Two - You Must Be Lonely

2009-08-12T22:35:00.005-04:00

Up at 7:00 without a clock to rouse me--I only learn the time when I hit the kitchen post-shower for breakfast. I meet a spider next to the toilet, see the shadow of another artist retreating around the bend, and share granola with a poet who checked in the same afternoon as I did.

Otherwise, it's me, my pen and stack of paper (I've decided to tackle this venture long-hand, no typing, no screens, no email, no proof-reading, no backtracking, no second guessing)...and...yeah...

I have freckles from the sunshine, but no tan yet; sand between my toes, but no calluses on my soles; a few short-short stories but nothing to write home about (yes, that is a dreadful pun), and a 9 p.m. bedtime that makes me feel like I am six.

Later, I describe the day to a friend, who suggests I must have been lonely. Really? Not at all.

Day One - Island Hideaway

2009-08-11T21:04:00.008-04:00

In deep, dark February, I booked a two-week stay at an island hideaway--a retreat located on the Toronto Islands, not far from home. Amidst the ice and 4 p.m. sunsets, languid late July seemed like a place I would need a time machine to reach. And, looking forward to my stay was fraught with knowing summer would be almost over by the time it arrived--wishing for the island also meant accelerating winter, spring and most of summer, with autumn next in line.

When my check-in date arrived, a municipal strike was suspending island ferry service, creating along with transportation challenges an incredibly secluded space I never dreamed I was destined to stay when I made the booking. I struggled with bags of groceries, writing material, books, clothes, and a lingering city tension, all of which cramped my shoulders into dreadful knots. First, there was a taxi ride from home, then a long, hot wait in the waterfront sun. Next came a boat-ride across the harbour to the island's tip, where a second, smaller boat carried me through a network of channels and lagoons to a slightly grungy dock. Invisible to the naked eye, my shoulders dropped this much. Then a bit more. A quick struggle through the bush and there it was--my wee little bedroom and adjacent studio with a view of a choke-cherry bush. Modest accommodations; a perfect temporary home.

I've been back in the city now roughly five days, and am shucking off the culture shock. Over fourteen island days, I slid from taking my shoes off at the beach, to taking my shoes off at the beach and then walking partway back to the lodge before putting them back on, to carrying my shoes once I got close to the beach, to stowing them in the cupboard. Each morning, I fixed myself a latté, carried it to the water and drank it with my feet in the waves. My jeans became so filled with sand there was never a shortage of grit between my sheets. I wrote while lying on my belly in the midday heat, and sunburned a perfect white underpants-shadow onto my bum.

The best way to describe the state of affairs in Writer's Studio: 4/5 was "feral". As I step back into real life, people ask for stories and details, descriptions of what I accomplished, who I met, where I stayed, what happened through that string of days. The short answer is: nothing. Nothing happened--I worked and slept and behaved like I was six. I wore my swimsuit under my clothes just in case, ate and napped and did as I pleased. Used poor language and wore no shoes. Wiped my hands on my thighs and avoided email. Cycled places then dropped my bike on the grass, one wheel spinning as it lay on its side and I went off to do other things. The long answer is: everything. Everything has changed. And, the wishy-washy answer is: I don't really know what to share just yet.

Denial

2009-08-09T14:34:00.003-04:00

Been away...remain in denial that real life resumes in 24 hours...more to follow...gah...

Bully

2009-07-17T19:16:00.004-04:00

I am so mean to strawberries. Friends swap quaint little tales of picking-their-own, cuddling their harvest during the drive back to the city, lovingly drawing them from baskets and rinsing them of bugs and dirt and debris. They gush over the aroma and whip out the thesaurus for fresh adjectives to describe the vibrant pinks and reds. Oh, and the endless accounts of brewing heady jams...

Me?

I cannot transport a single pint of strawberries from market to apartment without the mushy little fuckers turning into bruised, seedy sacks by the time I walk through the front door.

Three Inches of Crack

2009-07-17T09:20:00.003-04:00

I do my best to keep my butt in my pants when I'm riding my bike, but sometimes things happen that are beyond my control. Stiff winds, wily drafts, unexpected gusts. Crappy drivers giving me bigger things to think about than my attire--for instance, a hoodie that won't stop hiking up, trying my patience and forcing me to accept that yes, I am that girl, the one on the bike with panties escaping her waistband, shirt scooched to reveal a bit of bum. Three inches of crack flashing the whole street.

I don't subscribe to the "she asked for it" defence, but when I sat down to write this, I found myself reframing the tale. It was going to be an instalment in the Bad Lines series, which chronicles the tasteless, lame, lazy and crude. But, in fairness, my hoodie and my bum helped move the action forward; not exactly complicit, but passively provocative. And so, while the men who come next (see their car? it's a block behind me, about to arrive on the scene and take over this story) were certainly disgusting, they weren't acting alone...I suppose.

****

Mary's show was fantastic. She was radiant through two costume changes and countless intruments; she even produced an excellent story on the spot when her fingers cramped and she had to abandon a song. I left the bar shortly after midnight, snapped the buckle on my helmet, chucked my purse in my basket, and cycled up Augusta, blew through the lights to head west along College. Bed was calling, traffic was light, and I picked up speed.

I was three blocks from home when I heard the first hiss. On my left, two men rode low in a shiny black car, well-dressed and well-groomed and jangling with bling. Hunched till his head barely cleared the window, the passenger was evidently taking precautions against a drive-by or similar urban danger. He rested his chin on the window sill and waggled his tongue. If this were cartoons, the sound effect would be like wagga-lagga-lagga. He looked...deranged...but, I suspect he thought he looked might fine.

"Sssssss...yeah, baby oh baby oh baby yeahhhhh," he whispered. Yes, he was whispering. A tone perfectly pitched to carry over tires on pavement, a modified tailpipe, and my U-lock rattling against my bicycle frame. He wasn't through; his buddy slowed down and kept pace with my pedaling. "Mmmmm awww yeah, baby that tattoo, it be mighty fine. Yeah, that tattoo, I want you to show me how far down it go."

And so on. Wagga-lagga-lagga.

Did his friend think he was cool? Was he all, "aww, yeah, well-played, bra. I totally be up in that, too, if you had the wheel and I was riding shotgun!" Or, was the driver quietly cringing, wishing his disgusting and declassé passenger would get his damn head back in the car and his damn tongue back in his face?

I thought of my sister's recent outburst, the day she stuck up for herself and told off a heckler. I thought of my bed, which was still calling, and the night, which remained warm, and my bike, which goes just fast enough. And then, instead of flipping the bird, or suggesting the man go fuck himself, or hawking a loogie at the car, I simply turned right.

Cripplingly Delicious

2009-07-16T21:01:00.004-04:00

All gone...anyone care to visit Paris and bring me another bag?

Sure, I could jet over and fetch macarons myself, but there is something infinitely romantic about being handed a parcel of cookies from France, which someone has carried in her purse through metros, museums, security checkpoints and taxis, destined for my belly.

Three Steps Backward

2009-07-13T10:11:00.001-04:00

Now and then, it seems we could all benefit from making our way through our days a little more slowly. Jettisoning the inventions, contraptions and innovations that enable our tendency to speed, we could quell the rush and catch our breath.

For instance:

The dipping bird-operated key board. "Hang on, I'm typing the memo as quickly as I can. D...(dip)...e...(dip)...a...(dip)...r...(dip)...space (dip) space...S...(dip)...i...(dip)...r..."

So much time wasted when your cordless phone rings, bringbring, bringbring uselessly bleating from the empty dock, handset smothered between cushions or buried in the socks. Anchor the device where it belongs--on the wall like an intercom. Angle your head to alternately listen then shout into the little cream-coloured handset.

Short-hand. Aside from driving a car, this skill is the one I covet most. I have the A-line skirt, the low heels, the scarf at my throat, the twist in my hair, the pencil tucked behind one ear. But, I have yet to master the Pitman method, and so my secretary charade falls apart.

Last Friday, I watched three boys beat-boxing on the subway. One boy did a bit the other two really liked, and they demanded he repeat it. "Hang on," he said, scrolling in the air with an index finger and bobbing his head. "I have to rewind."

Challenges

2009-07-07T12:04:00.005-04:00

Lately, writing has been tough. There is the sunshine to be enjoyed, the summer vegetables to be grilled and eaten outdoors. The vats and vats of rosé to be downed, the garden to be weeded, the bicycle to be pedaled.

And then, when I do sit down and attempt to compose something short, sweet and pithy, there is a tiny black and white face staring up at me...casting me a longing gaze...wondering why why why, oh why do I spend so much time outdoors (without her) only to come inside and point my face at that shiny screen thingie with the typey keys? Why why why, when I could be using this chance to throw the toy mouse, or the yellow ball, or the other mouse, or the other five or six balls, or or or...

Sigh.

More soon, I promise.

Double Trouble (Bad Lines: Part Twenty)

2009-06-22T21:33:00.007-04:00

The Scene:

Sunday afternoon, unlocking my bicycle on Dundas West, outside the liquor store. A man approaches from behind, and as he passes me, turns around and asks if my name is Jessica. Note that he has not yet seen my face--I have been hunched over, wrangling a U-lock and packing bottles of chianti into my bicycle basket. I'm flushed and sweaty, I am a mess. I am mostly concealed behind dark glasses, a helmet, and a nest of long hair.

The Dialogue:

"Jessica?"

"Nope, sorry."

"Really? Because you look so much like Jessica!"

"Not me, not Jessica."

"Well, you look really familiar."

"From behind?"

"What?"

"I look like your friend Jessica from behind? Because, you asked me before you saw my face."

Split-second pause...

"Oh, no, I saw you inside, in the liquor store, with your," (glances at my basket), "with your wine."

Intermission:

We both know that I don't look like "Jessica", that this man probably doesn't even know a woman called Jessica, and that while sure, he might have seen me in the shop, he didn't for an instant believe I was someone he knew. Rather, I am someone he would like to know, and frankly, he's not trying nearly hard enough to be charming or candid.

There's a pretty slim chance that if his friend Jessica exists, her tattoos, assuming she has some, are not the same as mine, and that he's the sort of fellow who would know what his friend's body looks like. Because, you know, he seems like the observant type. And so, we see this exchange to its conclusion, aware that he's not walking away with the prize.

The Dialogue, cont'd:

"Hmmm. Well, my sister's name is Jessica, so you're close, but no cigar."

" Oh, that must be it--you look so much alike!"

"She's adopted."

"Yeah. Well. My name's Joseph, what's yours?"

(extends a hand to shake; we shake)

"Amanda."

"Nice to meet you. So, where are you off to?"

"Home."

"I'm going to a party!"

(remember, it is noonish on a Sunday)

"Really? Well, have a good time."

"Ok, well, I guess I'll see you later, Jess."

The Conclusion:

A sunny day plus sexy sunglasses (mine) plus a sweaty brow (his) plus a batch of tattoos (mine) plus a guy on the make (him), makes for a sporting exchange but no score.

Don't Call Me Cupcake

2009-06-18T18:00:00.006-04:00

...entitled to speak to me that way!

It's that season again--spring clothing season. The time of year when we shuck sweaters and coats and step into the sunshine and flash a bit of skin. I am quite modest about just how much I shuck and just how much I flash, but this does not deter certain fellows. Oh, no, they are not shy at all. They step right up and hike up my t-shirt sleeve, all the better to check out my tattoos.

"Oh, it's just me, I'm just looking," a stranger told me the other day, as he slipped a finger beneath my sleeve and gave it a yank.

The guy in the subway took a more coy approach. "You're pretty," he dribbled, giving me the once-over and running a hand through his hair in what I assume he thought was a hot gesture. "Oh for god's sake, give it a rest," was out of my mouth before I realised what I was saying. I'm not usually that blunt, ordinarily would have muttered something weak and stupid like "thanks", becoming complicit in the man's inappropriate come-on.

It seems patience is running thin this spring, and not just my own. Yesterday, I received this email from my sister:

"...today, after YEARS of quietly fuming while creepy guys say inappropriate things and then feeling really slimy and pissed off afterward--today, I finally yelled at a complete stranger in public, and IT WAS AWESOME!"

Apparently, some dude came up to her at a streetcar stop and suggested they hook up, assuring my sister he knew how to make a babe like her feel real good. At first, she rolled her eyes, then crossed her arms and turned away. Still, he persisted, until at last she blurted, "Where the fuck are your manners?! No wonder you don't have a girlfriend! Why on earth would you think women want to be spoken to this way? I can't fucking believe you!"

This is not to say that all come-ons are disgusting, all appearance-related remarks are unwelcome, and shouting down strangers is universally appropriate. When a driver nearly does me in while I cycle a congested street, it feels great to flip the bird in response. But, do I really need to? Really? Or, could I just let it go? It's a complex process, balancing the details in my palms and weighing a situation. Shouting at everyone who does me wrong--not ok. Shouting at someone who scopes out my tits, expresses enthusiastic approval, and persistently offers free and abundant sex? Probably ok. Shouting at someone who nearly kills me with a vehicle then blames me for sharing the road? Maybe ok, maybe not.

Things slide quickly from catharsis to behaving in an uncivil fashion. I high-fived my sister for sticking up for herself, because it took years of harrassment before she reached "fuck you!" I know what she means when she describes feeling sleezy after politely declining unwelcome flirtations. I once told a boyfriend about a sidewalk encounter--some guy approached me to chit-chat about my ass and when I told him, gently, to scram, he wouldn't. Instead of sympathizing, my boyfriend suggested that I'd encouraged the guy--body language, coy smile, failure to assert my disapproval or displeasure.

I'd lugged around my frustration all day, and instead of shouting at a rude stranger, I called my boyfriend an ass (which he was). And, therein lies the complicity. I failed to communicate with the harrasser, and after first turning him into an anecdote, I used him to pick a fight with my partner. This stranger became a part of my life, meanwhile, the guy probably never gave me another thought once he turned and walked away.

Quietly accepting gifts from an unwelcome suitor spurs on his affections. Likewise, resorting to good manners in the face of poor ones can imply that calling me "cupcake" is ok. Sometimes, you need to stoop to the other person's level, because that's the only plane upon which the person can relate.

Of course, there are also boneheads who will never get a clue--I'm sure my sister was one of several lucky ladies that man admired on Tuesday. We can only cross fingers and hope he went home without finding any takers.

Out of Context

2009-06-16T14:35:00.006-04:00

Sometimes, the charm, agony or ease of a situation is all about context. A tiny thing swells from neat to gorgeous; a modest ache knocks you senseless; an odious task shrinks to "piece of cake". For instance, a love letter, an insult, a firefly in Manhattan.

I purchased a plane ticket, packed a bag, and searched for my passport. In that order. Regrettably, my passport was nowhere to be found, the ticket was non-transferable, and I had five hours before take-off. Mercifully, it materialised when I emptied my desk in the middle of the floor. A taxi ride, a security wand blip, a swift landing, and by dusk, I was walking with my friend John, heading south on Avenue A.

John recited the menus, merits and downsides of his favourite restaurants, whittling down the list. We settled on pizza and chardonnay at a hip-but-not-cloying spot nearby. "Thin crust with just enough basil and cheese," he said, cupping a hand over his forearm. He lifted his palm to reveal a plain, brown bug. The sun had dropped below the skyline, but was an hour away from fully set, and a low light still reached the street. The bug flickered and zapped a vigorous yet impotent glow.

My first firefly. Its brilliance was surprising; instead of warm tungsten, this thing was flashy sodium. The bug was rendered more beautiful by its unexpected context. I don't doubt it's romantic to spot a firefly through a dark, quiet glade. But, plucking one from the Lower East Side air--that was even sweeter.

Cottage Industry

2009-06-10T15:01:00.007-04:00

I began selling sex when I was ten years old. It wasn't just me--Kristina was my enthusiastic partner, and by the time someone put a stop to it, I think Annie and Steph had joined us, too. We plied our trade at recess, a crowd of boys huddled beneath our tree fort at the back of school property. If a teacher passed by, they pretended to play marbles, probably fooling no one since they were standing on grass.

It's not like you think--we were nice girls, smart ones. In the gifted programme, which is probably how the whole business began. We were overachievers in all ways, advanced beyond our years in science, math, reading and commerce. Above the blackboard hung a chart of Bloom's Seven Levels of Thinking, progressing from knowledge through analysis to application and evaluation. It was natural that we would recognise a growing demand, needs not being met, then step in to creatively and effectively fill the void.

T 'n A will take a lady far, if she works the game right. Naked ladies...we drew them in our notebooks then sold them for bags of penny candy. One hundred sour keys, gumballs or Swedish berries for a crude illustration of boobs and bikini bottoms. The candy came from the comic shop on Main Street, about five minutes walking distance from the playground. Leaving the grounds was forbidden, and teachers patrolled the little walkways at recess. Getting caught coming or going earned a week of detention, difficult to explain since most kids rode the bus, and detention meant calling your mom for a drive home. Once could be covered up as an accident, but five times in a row? No way she'd believe you were that careless.

And so, Kris and I took the chance that a teacher would ask about our doodles, and the boys risked everything for paper sacks of sweets. Of course, it was Mrs. MacDonald who caught us hoarding art supplies--humourless and hawkeyed, few things made it past her, and even fewer made her smile. The drawings were terrible, really, depicting bulbous figures from neck to thigh. Headless, armless, nothing below the knees. Although definitely crass, there was nothing especially dirty about the pictures. Perhaps the most disturbing part was how at age ten we had already reduced our "women" to their vendable parts: boobs, bellybutton, bikini-clad crotch, curvy thighs, the end.

Still Need Some Learnin'

2009-06-08T20:26:00.004-04:00

You might think that after not one, not two, but three gaffes in one week, I would be back on my game, proofreading and double-checking and avoiding further errors. Yes, you might think that, but you would be wrong.

My mother is spending the weekend with me, and we've jammed three days with a staggering volume of lady stuff. I figured my dad might like to get in on the fun, and so this evening, I sent him the following email:

"Dear Dad,

This weekend, as you know, is Girl Weekend, and mom and I will be lunching, shopping, chatting, giggling and generally behaving badly. By Sunday, I'm sure we'll need the stabilizing influence of some gays, and with that in mind, we'd like you to join us downtown for brunch.

See you then,
Love A."

GUYS! I mean guys. Jesus.

Walk With Me...

2009-06-08T14:43:00.011-04:00

1.

When I was small, I thought it would be neat if you could snap your fingers and say, "Oh yeah, well this is how it looks in my head," and instantly share how the world appeared in your eyes. A little frame would hover in the air, and other people could watch it, like a precursor to reality TV.

Someone had told me that no two people see things the same, like no snowflake has a twin, like no two thoughts could ever be exactly the same. I didn't get the difference between sight and worldview, and assumed they were talking about a physiological process, that the same light and air and everything touched each person's eyeballs but formed a unique picture in each individual head. I might think pink looked, well, pink, but another person's pink might be my blue.

2.

Last week, I received an email from a friend who teaches first-year classes at a Toronto university. He described his morning commute, his long day, the lecture he accidentally delivered while flying low. The students had loads of questions at the end of each session, and to avoid missing the evening train, he gathered his lecture materials, tucked them into his satchel, and encouraged the students, "walk with me."

I imagined a scene from Indiana Jones, the intrepid and much-desired professor molested by young ladies after class. He'd try to escape their clutches, ultimately making a break for it through an open window or ducking into a broom closet until they gave up and abandoned the corridor for study hall.

I thought this sounded dashing and fantastic; my friend was mortified that I would characterize him that way. "No, no, no," he protested, "it's much more modest, not at all debonair! Walk with me rises at the end, like a question, never a command. Harrison Ford, oh my gosh..." trailing off into bashful silence. Meanwhile, I privately gave him a broad swagger.

3.

I am struggling to complete an essay about food culture. The piece is in its third incarnation, each radically different from the others. My pitch, which was enthusiastically accepted for inclusion in a forthcoming anthology, was a series of interconnected anecdotes describing friends' engagement with cooking and personal history. "Love it," the publisher declared, "but can you take out all the personal stories, and make it more hands-on, more how-to?" I agreed, and reworked it to focus more on the cooking, less on the names and locations.

"Ok, better, but still too personal," came the next round of editorial feedback. It reminded me of the scene in Lost in Translation where Bill Murray is coaxed to turn and look into the camera, and speak slower, with intensity. Like being told, Yes, that's great, but can you make it totally different?

Fair enough. The editors have a picture in mind, a cohesive collection toward which they are working, while I know only the slice I am wedging into the whole. And so, more revisions. The other day, I finally conjured a picture of what I'm writing. Like snapping my fingers and mapping my image over top of the editor's dream. It's far from complete, but getting there...I think.

Of course, it's possible my blue is their pink.

Ancient History

2009-06-07T15:54:00.005-04:00

Last Friday, something foggy and ill-defined tackled me around the knees and took me down like a sack of flour. I hit the ground with a thud, lay there a bit stunned. If I had truly been a burlap bag filled with milled wheat, you'd have seen a puff of white ripple through the air, then settle over my prone form like dust.

Simply put, I was exhausted. I whipped out my calendar, made a list of upcoming engagements and plans, then canceled them one by one. "Sorry," I explained, "but I am being the canceling jerk, canceling our plans last minute like only a jerk would do." A jerk, or a really fucking tired person.

I've been overextended for months, bailing each day like a sinking boat: pailfuls of work and heartbreak and new dates and family things and a kitten and household upheaval and so on. And, I kept afloat, until last Friday when at last I began to sink. My condition called for a hundred melodramatic metaphors, every cliché within in reach. And, it was a bit confusing, because nothing new happened to tip me from "maintaining" to "too much". I have a cold, I haven't slept enough lately, I have said "yes" too often and "no" too seldom, filling my schedule with nonstop commitments from day to day to day. But still, why burn out now?

This morning, I realised two things:

1. this weekend would have been six years since a certain someone came into my life

2. this weekend is roughly one year since that same someone began to sneakily disengage, while leading me to believe he was sticking around for good

I suspect this weekend's burnout is linked to being sincerely exhausted, but I also suspect a little wedge of my heart was pumping out latent heartbreak, the last bits of crap and hurt, like squeezing the toothpaste, like wringing a sodden cloth, like shaking the last drop from a bottle, like ticking off the last cliché on the list.

And now, it's finally done.

Face-Off

2009-06-07T14:20:00.006-04:00

My mother wanted all the details of my dinner dates, beginning with my outfit and ending with espresso and dessert. That is, until the horse tartare. "I'm just so angry with you, I think I need to hang up," she blurted, and indeed, it was almost a week before she called back to pick up where we left off, carefully snipping the dinner date from the conversation.

Months later, she explained that by her principles, it's not right to eat cute things, baby things, or smart things--no bunny, lamb, deer, duck, or horse. Also, no stinky things like fish (shrimp and scallops somehow slip by), nothing that smells like feet or farts, and nothing that sounds like a part we have--heart, kidney, liver, and so on.

At first I accused her of establishing a dining hierarchy that permits killing so-called ugly or dumb creatures but not the fluffy storybook ones. But, then, I realised my own appetites and opinions once forced my family to accommodate some mercurial rules. In my early twenties, I became vegan, and remained that way until I began dating a man who teased me relentlessly about my "eating disorder". He had lifted this label from a Jeffrey Steingarten essay and trotted it out at every opportunity. "Just try a bite," he would badger, extending a forkful of bacon, trout or cheese. I called him pig-headed and rude, and he countered that it would be rude to not offer me bites of his meals, in case one day I wanted to try something but felt like I couldn't ask.

One night, I caved against a drunken dare, and dug into a rare steak, basted with butter then smothered in Stilton cheese. My meat-free lifestyle was over, replaced by a courtship that involved a game of butcher-based one-upmanship as we refused to back down from any culinary challenge.

We never plucked, skinned or gutted our dinner, but we once found ourselves staring down at a bare, pink rabbit, curled on the counter top and looking a bit too familiar. "You cover its eyes and I'll do the chopping," he suggested, dividing the labour into two equally unappealing tasks. I cupped a hand over the bunny's face and its buck-teeth poked into my palm. After a brief time-out, I recovered, my fingers hovering while he removed the head. I whisked it into the compost bin while my partner jointed the carcass. We agreed that next time, it would be ok to ask the butcher to deal with the face.

One August long weekend, we were overly enthusiastic about patio cocktails and less attentive to stocking the fridge to last through Monday. Trawling Chinatown on bicycles, we found a shop open through the holiday, and settled on a whole chicken--face, feet, feathers sprouting from its armpits. It was lankier than its grocery store counterparts, and the skin was distinctly browner.

That afternoon, my partner was nursing a sun- and beer-hangover so I tackled the bird alone, shouting bulletins from the kitchen toward his prone form. "Its feet kicked when I lowered the cleaver!" On the balcony, he groaned, rolled over, and angled his face out of the sun.

Big Hairy Fit

2009-06-07T02:33:00.001-04:00

There is a place for everything, and everything has its place. Even hair. I know someone who believes women are unattractive unless Brazilian-waxed within an inch of their lives. When I informed him that no one, under any circumstances, would convince me I need to be bare to be sexy, he "complimented" me that, although he'd never seen me naked, he imagined I am still hot with my pants off, "which is saying a lot, since usually hair is a deal breaker." Thanks, man. Your girlfriends sure are lucky ladies!

Hair is weird--it reminds us of our origins, and reminds that everyone (even that really stinky guy over there with dirty fingernails and a ball cap on backwards) has genitals. A lone, wiry hair on a dinner plate, lying in the sink, or plucked from your sleeve and which clearly didn't come from your own body evokes a primal shudder. Rogue hairs call to mind bottoms and bits, pits and chests, strangers and monkeys and germs and secretions. Hair reminds us of the corporeal and reduces us to a collection of functions and basic parts.

The other day, a girlfriend and I whipped ourselves into an unpleasant frenzy, contemplating the unpredictability of back hair. We have recently jumped into dating after years spent with the same partner (me) or flying solo (her). Neither of us is particularly frou-frou, but we wear enough make-up, high heels, and hand-wash-only garments to score modestly on the femme scale. Our eyebrows are groomed but not permanently sculpted into a "surprise!", and although we refuse to take it all off, we aren't shy about keeping things tidy down below. Looking each other up and down, we figure our looks are pretty honest, pretty "what you see is what you get". No padding to disguise flat chests, no hairy pits lurking beneath dainty blouses, no jackets concealing beer bellies.

But, what of the men we've been stepping out with? There's no reliable indicator when it comes to back hair, no sure give-away that once the shirts are off, there might be a layer still standing between our skin and theirs. There are no tells for mats of back hair, no matter what people say. "Just watch the knuckles and arms," a friend suggested, assuring me that modest hand-hair equals at most, a modest smattering across the back and shoulders. I can attest, this is not strictly true.

Cue the aforementioned primal shudder. And then, cue a second wave of shivers upon which surfs the question, "Are we judgmental jerks for not being into outrageously hairy dudes?" Am I no different than my friend who thinks the natural state of affairs is a full Brazilian? And if so, does this make his opinion acceptable, or are he and I both in the wrong?

Let's Make a Baby (Bad Lines: Part Nineteen)

2009-06-06T09:54:00.010-04:00

I was walking home from the coffee shop this morning, slightly spacey and mapping the day in my head. I passed a super-cute teenage boy who gave me the up-and-down, nodded, smirkily smiled, then went on his way. That's odd, I thought, rather brazen for a kid. Then I realised, nuh-uh, that was no boy. I make this mistake now and then--clocking a sweet boyish dyke as a sixteen-year-old boy, and vice versa--and remember when my crew cut and saggy jeans garnered similar confusion.

I've long since grown my hair, swapped size 34 jeans for a more fitting 26, added lipstick and mascara to my toiletries drawer. I've also outgrown my babyface, meaning I look neither like a boy nor like jailbait. This transformation is a couple years old, but each spring I'm surprised by how much attention I attract when I shuck my parka and heavy boots. This is not because I am hot stuff. Oh, no, I am perfectly aware that every woman is drawing attention...walking down the street, hanging out at the park, cycling, waiting to catch the streetcar.

It's all in how a man handles the situation--all catcalls are not created equal. Over dinner last weekend, I was charmed by a friend's description of Spring Fever, which he expressed as a full sentence: "It is spring, and you see other people, and how they look makes you want to be with them," he demurely confessed. Likewise, this morning's once-over was adorable, particularly the little nod.

And then there's the dude who cycled past me a few seconds later. Even without a well-mannered lesbian against which to contrast his remark, this guy had everything stacked against him. The forecast called for a warm day but it was barely 10 a.m., and sensible people could be spotted in light jackets and hoodies. This guy? Rocking one of those weight-lifter tanktops with the armpits cut to his ribs. Skin tanned a brassy orange, wrap-around shades, overdeveloped thighs forcing him to pedal bow-legged. All this topped by a do-rag that would make any WWE member proud.

Swerving closer to the curb, he whistled through his teeth then hissed, "Lookin' sweeeet and tiiiiight, awww yeahhhhh," before making a kissy face and passing on by. Damnit, I wish he'd stopped. He could have doubled me back to his bachelor pad where we would have made sweet, generous love all day long.

Knowing is 1/2 the Battle

2009-06-04T18:43:00.003-04:00

Battle against book chapter: it is winning, it has me pinned

Battle against grouchiness: I am dead in the grass and it is standing triumphant over my carcass

Battle against the weather: my icy-cold knees quiver above a pair of inadequate kneesocks

Battle against the week: stalemate; this is Thursday, but hurdles remain

Battle against my kitten's teeth: bloodied, battered...me

Battle against two dozen salted-chocolate shortbread cookies: victorious!

What Did You Just Call Me?

2009-05-30T19:18:00.018-04:00

1.

In grade two, my French teacher called roll, checking each child present and pronouncing our names in a complicated tongue. Pierre, Jerome, Marie, Jacques. I was so excited, and waited with hands neatly folded, wondering what I would be called in my first foreign language. My surname begins with "m", so even though it was torture inching through G, H and L, at least I wasn't a Thomas or a Vanderburgh.

At last, it was my turn to say, "oui, présent!" Madame smiled, checked, continued: "Bon! Darcy Montgomery?" I didn't want to be rude, but she must've forgotten the bit that goes "...et, en francais, tu t'appelle..." and reveals the secret of my name. I raised my hand, used my politest voice of all time, thought I had been more than patient with her oversight. My excitement deflated as Madame explained there is no French for "Amanda", then carried on calling attendance like this was no big deal.

I wasn't the only kid whose name remained unchanged, but I didn't care. I wanted a "Pierre" to call my own, and instead got saddled with a name that was hard enough to handle in English without this extra let-down. No one could remember "Amanda", so I was called Andrea, Amy, Anna, Samantha. I was a shy kid, and found myself answering to these mistaken identities rather than piping up to correct people.

Now, my name is relatively popular, alongside Chrystal, Tiffany, Amber and a host of good stripper names. In 1980, there were no pencils embossed with my name, no book characters, no famous Amandas, no other Amanda in my grade that forced teachers to distinguish between us by handing out cute nicknames. The classroom was jammed with Scotts and Jennifers, kids whose shared traits singled them out as individuals. I was never Amanda M; there was no Amanda P. Kids never had to correct the teacher, "no, no, you mean Amanda with the long hair--this is Amanda with the blue backpack!"

Even worse, in Latin, my name meant "lovable", which was just embarrassing. No kid wants to talk about love! Other names were hitched to legacies, tough actions, exotic birds and freaky histories. And now, no French version? This was such a ripoff!

2.

I grew up in a tiny, WASPy town, a place where it was not only possible but also acceptable to say, "You know Sarah? The black one at swimming class?" No one had a surname for a first name; no one was called after a food, a town, an object or pastime. The closest we came to weird was the Armenian kid who spent elementary school sounding out his name for teachers who finally got the hang of it by June, only to forget it over summer holidays, forcing him to start again come September.

Despite our white bread heritage and nomenclature, we made names odd and exciting by drawing out syllables for comedic effect (regrettably, I became Aman-duhhhh), extracting swears from ordinary names (Peter, Virginia, Dickson), and working names into dirty rhymes (Mrs. Tucker, Mrs. Tucker, she's a big...). Give us a name and we'd find a filthy thing to say about it. Really, parents should run baby names past a panel of twelve-year-olds, and if anyone snickers, it's crossed off the list.

3.

My girlfriends and I stood in a clutch, checking our schedules for homeroom assignment and common spares, and groaning over French class with drippy Monsieur Rondeau or phys ed with a butchy task-master. "La, la! You got Tonnelier," we mocked. "Terri's gonna kick your ass at field hockey then spy on you in the shower!"

I scanned my week for math, hoping it was slated in an easy-to-skip period. There: Wednesday, 12:50, room 402, piece of cake! Teacher: "H. Dick".

No way...did the guy not know what sort of jokes we'd be making? The initial could stand for anything, but come on! Kids would guess "Harry" and that would be that. Turns out the guy was indeed Harold Dick, known as Harry. It was boldly written on the chalkboard when we walked in and took our seats. Not just on the first day of class...every day...all year. Like a dare--crack a smile and you'd be up there solving problems in front of your peers until next June.

I can only imagine that after a lifetime of being named Harry Dick, this man was making his problem our problem, too.

Come Uppance to My House

2009-05-30T13:38:00.005-04:00

From my glass house, I wrote a scathing post the other day--this one, here--ladling scorn over bad spellers, lax grammarians, crummy writers. And, within 48 short hours, I requested a "statement of accunts" from my office Finance department, sent my mother a recipe for scones, which suggested she "shape the dough into a thick dick before cutting into wedges", and had my attention drawn to a spelling error smack in the middle of the blog post itself.

Ouch!

And so, this being the end of the month and officially moving day all over the city, I have packed my things, vacated my glass accommodations, and relocated to a sturdy, wooden shack, tucked humbly behind some palms.

Little Pleasures From When I Was Little

2009-05-29T08:36:00.004-04:00

1. licking the egg beaters

2. dipping my finger into the bowl of frosting

3. peanut butter and jam

4. stirring ice cream until it turned to soup

5. drinking milk through a fat straw

6. salt & vinegar potato chips from a green bowl while watching TV (and, keeping the bowl all to myself)

7. Wink soda

8. salting and peppering a dish before tasting

9. pudding from a little tin, which always crashed into my sandwich in my lunchbox, leaving a dent in the bread

10. chicken fingers

Let Me Show You My Kitten

2009-05-28T14:48:00.003-04:00

My bikini waxer is named Carlita. She is buxom yet lithe, has dimples when she smiles, and stalks around the salon in the most terrifying heels I've ever seen. She greets me with a kiss on the mouth then a firm and sincere embrace, and once, when the temperature dipped to -25, purred, "Ohhh, you are so, so cold! I think you need another," before laying a second hug against my chest.

Her job is a strange one, and no amount of description or debate can make it seem average. For years, I sorted things out down below on my own, then one day I decided that, like tiling, roofing, electrical work and landscaping, some things are considered a trade for a reason. Why? Because a professional will always do a better job than an untrained individual. Carlita deals with ladies' privates all day, primping and preening and grooming things into fancy shapes. Her co-workers scamper about in short-shorts, little skirts, jeans that fit like candy wrappers. It's impossible not to imagine them booking one another for appointments, although aesthetician etiquette might send them to the beauty parlour down the block, like not seeking legal advice from a colleague or sleeping with a friend.

It's been a year since I first became acquainted with Carlita and her kisses. At first, I found the whole thing bizarre; now, I think it's kind of cute. Like visiting a girlish fantasy land where the air smells pretty, everyone is giggly, and transactions are conducted in whispers. Rest assured, there is nothing sexy about bikini waxing--this is one of those instances where less is more. As in, the less you know about the mechanics, the more you are free to enjoy the results. And yet, each appointment is injected with a healthy dose of dirty.

For instance, the time Carlita offered to show me her kitten, then reached into the waistband of her jeans, pulled out her iPhone and scrolled through photos of her new cat. Or, when she asked if I wanted her to "do around back, too?" When I replied, "No thanks, no one sees back there these days," she slapped my thigh with a brisk crack and called me saucy.

What? She's the one who asked if I wanted my bum waxed, so if anyone deserves a slap, it surely isn't me!

Tiny Creatures

2009-05-27T11:55:00.001-04:00

I carried the stripey caterpillar in my palm all day. My mother shot photographs of us taking a walk, riding the swings, sliding down the slide. I cupped it gently and let it pee in my hand. I never stopped beaming, maybe because I loved the little furry thing so much, maybe because it tickled as it wriggled to free itself from my clutch.

As my mother tells it, the caterpillar was neither squished nor squeezed, treated roughly or petted too hard. But, by dinnertime, I'd loved all its fur off and I cried my heart out when she forced me to leave the naked black worm in the garden and come to the table for chicken and peas.

High School Confidential

2009-05-27T11:39:00.002-04:00

I have a thing for a teacher I see each morning. Not my teacher--I finished school long ago. This one sits in the corner at the café, and leans his elbows heavily on the table, slopping a bit of latté over the brim of his cup. I know nothing about him, not the subject he tackles, his age, his full name. I'm not sure whether students call him "Mister" or if he operates on a first-name basis. I have detected his affection for grammar, and note that he writes left-handed, grading with a simple red ballpoint. It's possible he's a really annoying person, has disgusting quirks, maintains a squalid little bachelor pad or shares his digs with a cute girlfriend. All I know is, he laughed at my joke about semi-colons, and with that snicker, conquered a sector of my heart.

I am incensed by bad writing: the wrong "its"; shamefully poor advertising copy; hastily pecked text messages that encourage me to "how nice days till laster"; illegible post-it notes attached to office files; internal emails that clearly weren't read aloud to see how they sound. You know how sometimes a phrase scans ok, but when it's spoken, suddenly seems ridiculous or rude?

For instance:

"Human Swine Flu!" read the subject line of a broadcast email delivered to each and every member of the Ontario Public Service, of which I am a member. A well-drafted letter signed by a minister was attached; yet, that subject line conjured memories of a few skeezy bachelors I dated last month. Human swine, indeed.

From my grammatical intolerance, I infer a dribble of elitism, a quietly bitchy superiority. That's not so hot; I should keep that in check. I am not above making a mistake or three; I don't profess to keep a tidy workspace or to pay perfect attention to detail. I drink wine while I write, eat dinner from my lap, watch my penmanship deteriorate when I jot things at high speeds.

My favourite school teacher, Miss Sinclair, paced before my grade thirteen class, beating style and knowledge into our heads. "You will rarely meet another person who knows how to correctly punctuate the word 'however'," she drilled. "Remember where to place the semi-colon and you will go far." She presented similarly vague reasons why we should be grateful to learn the art of the precis (economy of language, awareness of what matters and what is merely extraneous fluff) and to recite soliloquys by heart (just because). Miss Sinclair was stuffy, frumpy and dry. And, she was dead right.

Bad Decisions

2009-05-27T10:14:00.000-04:00

Hooking up with a boyfriend who had his own apartment when I was sixteen.

Saying, "Hell, yes, I'll be right over!" when Ted offered me a free tattoo in exchange for letting him practice.

Body piercing. Enough said.

Leaving the party dishes till morning.

Applying for a credit card.

Hatching brunch plans as we watch the sun rise. "We'll stay up all night, then go to the diner for bacon and eggs. It will so rock!" Ugggghhhhh...famous last words.

Sticking a finger through the cage bars.

Accepting a date while my gut commanded me to chew my own leg off to get out of the trap. "Run, run, run!" my belly said. "Oh, come on now, relax, belly, how bad could he be?" I replied. It seems I would soon find out!

Leggings, halter tops, and feathered hair.

Bad Lines: Part Eighteen (Underage Edition)

2009-05-27T06:27:00.001-04:00

My first Vancouver apartment wasn't in the best part of town, nor was my second, third or fourth. Even during those pre-Olympic days, the city was wildly unaffordable, a fact of life amplified by my $7.35 hourly wage. My housemates and I contended with drug deals in the alley, a chop-shop next door where stolen cars were stripped, painted and disposed of at night, and johns with a predilection for the dope-fiend teens who hitch-hiked along our block.

I found everything dangerously romantic, a welcome change from the safety net suburbs where I grew up. East Fourth rubbed a bit of toughness into my skin like grime. I deeked around a heroin deal going down in my garage, licked my index finger and stroked a line through the air, chalking up points for experience.

One night, I stood beneath an umbrella in the rain, waiting to catch the bus to my boyfriend's place across town. It was late and I was jumpy--the old man who paced his Rottweiler up and down the alley had been rolled the night before, and suddenly, the neighbourhood boasted less street cred and more straight-up trouble.

I shifted my knapsack, kicked a puddle with the toe of my boot. A man approached me from behind, and stated in a lewd whisper, "You will go with me." I ignored him and continued gently splashing. "You will go with me," he repeated, this time with a rising inflection. He was asking, or he was commanding? He was small, but I was, too. I could probably hurt him, but wasn't confident our struggle (if one broke out) would be equally matched.

"No," I said. I hoped my voice sounded bigger than it felt coming out of my mouth.

"I mean, you will go with me," the man repeated, "like, I pay you." Waggling his eyebrows to assure me there was something in it for me.

Oh.

He thought I was one of the hitch-hikers, a working girl waiting for a man. Jesus! These were the grunge years, and I sported a snazzy pair of longjohns underneath my boyfriend's shredded fatigues, wrecked black boots and an oversized coat. A holey sweater draped my flat chest and my hair was scraped nearly bare. I wore no make-up, carried nothing to expose me as a girl. I was mistaken for a boy pretty much every day. Once, while we sat snuggling in the yard, my boyfriend's neighbour called over the fence, "Is this your little brother? Hi there! I'm Mary!"

I was shocked by the man's offer, not so much offended that he'd mistaken me for a prostitute as surprised he'd want me to service him in the first place. This was before I understood the complexities of sexual identity, before I'd heard of men cruising for tricks that didn't threaten their heterosexual facade. A blowjob from a girl who looked like a boy? That was hot, that was worth twenty bucks. A blowjob from a boy? That would be just plain queer.

I assured him that no, I wouldn't be going with him, pointed to the sign overhead, explained I was waiting to catch the bus. "Ohhhhhhh!" His eyes got big, he blushed and grew sheepish. "I am so, so, sorry! I thought you were...you...well, you know. But you are not. I...uhhh..." He turned and stalked away.

Sure, he was looking to score with a kid. Sure, he was probably out there all the time. Or, maybe he was a newcomer, as unclear of the rules as I was about the shady sides of desire. Nonetheless, I suppose he also had manners, apologising for a genuine misunderstanding before scuttling away.

Phuckphace

2009-05-25T18:35:00.007-04:00

It takes but a tiny linguistic tweak to make something cute. To make a sentence sound like spoken graffiti, like rocks tossed at a ceiling fan, like the moment when a math equation finally makes sense.

For instance, the email I received wherein a friend suggested a mutual acquaintance be screened for phuckphace syndrome. Man, that made me laugh. I swirled those words like marbles in my palm, while shopping for groceries, preparing a tart tatin, raising a glass of chardonnay, during a taxi ride across town. The swap of ph installed humour where perhaps only vulgarity would have lain. And, not to make everything too, too intellectual, phuckphace makes me laugh my head off like a snickering little kid. It's just so funny, and so rude!

I love language. Small, plain words and big ones, too. Words with several spellings where your choice reveals something about your character--do you go for the technically correct yet slightly outmoded version simply to prove you know better than the masses? Do you demonstrate your support for spelling reform by dropping those extra letters? Do you jumble the letters and use the wrong ones and create a dreadful mess? Do you really throw your weight behind your error, and try to fuck it up as much as you can? Do you abbreviate with single letters, subbing numbers and symbols for words, text message-style?

I remember my vocabulary expanding at an equal rate in two languages. At eleven, I adopted the F-word at the same time as we covered animal nomenclature in French class. For weeks, my favourite gag was to shout phoque in a loud, proud tone, then flutter a hand to my chest in mock dismay. "Mais, madame," I would exclaim, "j'ai seulement dit le mot pour 'seal' en francais!"

I love words spray painted on walls. It made my day when some local vandal tagged fences along my street with a big, navy-blue "c-u-n-t". A pair of ladies stood with pails and sponges, hips canted, tongues tsk-ing, scrubbing the paint into a froth and debating whether their gate would require sanding. I smiled as I passed them, and remarked, "Hey, at least yours isn't the only cunt on the block!" I'm not sure whether they got the double-entendre, or if they were stuck at the part where I said the word aloud. A swear word can be tweaked into humour; graffiti can make an ugly building attractive; a famous person can make an ugly garment hot.

Conversely, adding "face" to anything makes it tenfold more offensive. One sodden evening, Dean cast around for something to catch his piping hot slice of pizza. "I need something to eat my pizza with," he said, searching cupboards for a napkin or plate and juggling the slice from hand to hand. "Why don't you use your face," I kindly suggested.

This retort nearly killed Adrienne, our hostess, as she struggled around a pizza-clogged laugh. It also laid the groundwork for a slew of spin-off jokes, which she and I deftly applied to just about any situation. The best part? Even months later, it was still funny. At least, we thought so. When a member of her comedy troupe grew noticeably pregnant, a table of ladies sneered and crooked their lips in disdain. "Ugh," said one to another, "this show sucks. And, that one's pregnant!" Recounting this to me, Adrienne was a bit down about the scene, upset that someone would discount a woman's talent simply because she was going to have a child, like a pariah to be hidden in a hut till her condition went away.

"Well, you know what they were thinking, don't you," I consoled. "They looked at her and thought, 'Oh my gawd, that one must've used her vagina instead of her face!'"

See? Still funny.

Two Left Feet

2009-05-23T18:57:00.007-04:00

One of my toes isn't feeling so hot. Care to guess which one?

For three days, I have been mincing around in a pair of sandals--ordinarily, these are a very VERY sexy pair of shoes. Strappy, silver, barely-there. For now, they are the only thing that I can fit over my broken part without tears welling in my eyes. At the office, the bakery, the café at 7 a.m. To the drugstore for aspirin, cycling across town, to a dinner and gelato date. Wherever the location, whatever the occasion, the silver sandals are there.

Somehow, the "wow" isn't quite the same when one of the perfectly pedicured toes peeping out happens to be blue, black, and three times its customary size.

Don't Give Me Milk

2009-05-19T10:10:00.003-04:00

When we were small, the duller kids showed up for school with notes pinned to their sweaters. "Don't give me milk," for instance, or, "I live at 222 Sutton Street". Faced with blank and boogery stares, teachers and other supervisors could refer to these slips of paper for back-up:

"Derek, are you permitted to have peanut butter?"

(sniff, sniffle, silence...head tilted a little, shoulders shrug to indicate...to indicate what? Yes? No? Never had it before? I need to use the toilet?)

"Ah yes, here we go...'Nuts will send me into shock. I have a special needle in my knapsack just in case.' Ok, I suppose you should have the egg salad then."

Since then, we have grown taller, filled out, smoothed out the cowlicks in our hair. We've attained degrees and purchased homes, trained ourselves to shop for groceries and wake up for the office on time. And still, we continue to shrug our shoulders, act on impulses, make bad decisions and engage in uncritical behaviour.

Little notes might come in handy in adult situations--"Do not serve me after five gin and tonics", "I have a meeting at nine tomorrow morning", "I live at 222 Sutton Street". Bartenders, companions, colleagues and taxi drivers could read our little tags and help us safely navigate our nights and days.

Unhappy Hour

2009-05-15T11:36:00.004-04:00

For three years, the Sanity Plan has kept me and my girlfriends sane and sexy through the grueling Canadian winter. But what of summertime? Is June all sweetness and light, bare shoulders and painted toes? July just smiles and radiance and glasses hoisted to toast our various charms? Not quite. We do not enjoy European-style Augusts, the office clearing out as everyone heads to the country.

Instead, we commute on bicycles alongside belching vans and mad dickheads behind the wheels of taxis. We sweat and grow cross, and perpetually wish for Saturday. We wish for more than two months of hot weather and we wish for fewer mosquitoes at dusk. Our complaints could be construed as petty, but this would be unfair. Never idle gripers, we are instead ladies of action, Once a problem is identified, we worry it like a bone until we settle upon a solution.

The other night, I met the Sanity Plan's co-founder at happy hour, and as we sipped our Campari-sodas, we decided 5 p.m. isn't happy at all. The office is still deep in your tissues, you haven't spoken to anyone but colleagues and clients since 8 a.m. Venting has been limited to fierce emails dispatched from a cubicle. You're still constrained by high heels or throttled by a necktie, and your eyes smart from the fluorescents and that nagging red message light on the telephone.

5 o'clock is premature; the day has yet to slide from our shoulders. We need a buffer between work and pleasure, a break that prepares us to fling around jargon like "happy", an intermission when we stretch our legs and shuck the day's bullshit like a husk. Happy Hour doesn't take its seat till more like 6.

And so, we propose a new standard: the 5 p.m. Unhappy Hour, which serves two purposes:

Firstly, it's like a shower taken before entering a public pool. Leave your street dirt where it belongs then plunge into buoyant pleasure. Tell your tales about who said what and where do they get off and can you believe it because I can't. Unload Bob and Carol and that bitch from Finance and the guy in the elevator who rammed his briefcase into your crotch and didn't even notice never mind apologise. Tell those fuckers to take a hike--don't let them tag along for martinis!

Secondly, Unhappy Hour is nutrition's last stand. An intermission between office snacks and evening liquor. By another name, Unhappy Hour could be called "Roughage From 4 Till 5", a chance to pad your belly with something complex before an evening of simple sugars. Because, we all know there is no such thing as one quick after-work drink. Oh, no no no. You'll stay for a second round, so you may each pay for one. Then, you'll get thrown in the time machine and step out into a future where you are calling for a fourth martini and a plate of "food", which means sweet gherkins and chilied olives. Essentially, these are cocktail garnishes loaded onto a bread plate rather than pricked by a sword and propped in a glass.

Some people might argue that pinky-sized cucumbers are not food. And, some people would be right, but only while Unhappy Hour is in session. Come 6 p.m., these dissenters will simply be told to go fuck themselves. Roughage is over. Happy Hour is here.

A Piece of Cake

2009-05-14T11:22:00.006-04:00

"Never ask a man out," a girlfriend recently cautioned. Instead, I ought to gently guide him to pose the question himself. Make him think it was his idea, work things into our conversations, demurely imply that I'd like him to make a move. Really, I can do anything to make it happen, short of asking him on a date.

"Men love it when women ask them out. It shows she knows what she wants, and knowing what you want is sexy." This from a man with whom I dabbled a few months ago. I think back to how, after skirting our attraction, we went to dinner, then ended up at his place with pants and shirts rumpled on the floor. I'm not certain, but I think I did the asking out...and, I suspect he worked the same game my girlfriend advocates, in reverse...me asking him out, but only after he guided things that way.

Does this count as knowing what I want and sexily expressing it? Or, does it hover somewhere in the liminal zone--he manipulating the situation to get what he wants, while making me think it's what I want, too? Does the fact that he Jedi Mind Tricked me into making the first move expose me as suggestible, confident, trashy, or cute? So many questions!

I've been historically arrogant about dating, presuming I know all there is to know on the subject despite having no direct experience in that culture. I've never been a dater, but now that I am indeed dating, I realise I know almost nothing at all. Once, I claimed it was a piece of cake, this dating thing, although it's a mystery why I thought I was qualified to weigh in.

Last summer, Rachel and I lounged on my balcony, fixing cocktails for each other, pouring cascades of red wine, grilling massive steaks to rare perfection, and devouring arugula, the meanest of greens. At dusk, bats cruised overhead catching bugs, while our conversation turned to love and its pursuit. Rachel recounted ceaseless disasters, while I expressed relief that I was all set up with a nice man and didn't need to seek another.

"If I had to go on a date, I'd probably have a heart attack," I would say. "I can't imagine getting to know a stranger, showing him secret parts of myself, letting him into the nooks and crannies of my life." I would pause for another slug of whatever we were drinking, then continue, "Mercifully, I don't have to think about such things, and hopefully the day never comes!"

In due course, the day did arrive, quicker than expected. After a few weeks of skulking around my apartment in track pants and a blanket cape, talking too much with my kitten and ranting to my girlfriends about the sorry state of love today, I decided to suck it up and move on. "Dating" had begun to expand like a choking marshmallow, a fog of dread that ate the village in my head. Before things grew more dire and dramatic, I put on some pretty clothes and went out with this guy, then that one. Let friends set me up, accepted invitations from previously distant and quiet admirers, even asked out one man directly. Had a torrid hotel-room fling with one comfortable friend; enjoyed curious, chaste and fully-clothed sleepovers with another.

Nearly a year after ranting with Rachel, I am far more circumspect about dating, and the relative challenge or ease of granting romantic prospects access to my life. I've learned a list of unexpected things: men tend to lie about their height on Internet dating sites; it's tough to find someone who doesn't smoke even in these enlightened times; a well-written email does not a good conversation make; I have a terrible habit of swearing, which amplifies when I am nervous; I stand 5'7", not 5'5" as previously understood, and in heels, I am a "towering" 5'10".

And, I have learned to trust my gut after years of telling it to pipe down and butt out. My belly knows what's right and what's not so much. It trumps any advice about who asks out whom. I am sure there is a dreadful pun in there, waiting to be coaxed out. Something about bellies, the ways to one's heart, and so on. But, reflections on romance are already so twee, I think I will leave it at that.

The Vermin Ranch

2009-05-13T13:22:00.001-04:00

From a recent conversation with a friend:

He: They're back.

Me: Who's back?

He: Them. The maggots.

Me: Oh, honey, that's disgusting!

He: You're telling me! They're all over the place: in the cereal, in the sink, in everything. Everything!

Me: Well, sweetheart, the reason the maggots keep returning is...hang on. No conversation should include that phrase. Jesus!

He: I know, I know.

Me: It's like you're operating a vermin ranch in your pantry. Do the maggots have brands so you know which ones are yours and which ones belong next door? Are they harnessed and wearing little saddles?

He: Very funny.

Me: Thank you. By the way, I am not helping you clean the kitchen this time.

He: Ohhhh come on, pleeeeez? Pretty please, with a cherry on top?

Me: Don't ever mention cherries and maggots in the same sentence! You'll ruin sundaes forever!

Thrown Back

2009-05-09T11:01:00.006-04:00

I recently posted this photo and as I composed a quick blurb to accompany it, it occurred to me: I have nearly identical sneakers, jeans, windbreaker hanging in my closet. Today. Right now. Twenty-five years later.

I wear these things often, and Toronto streets swarm with "old kids" who look much the same. Downtown cycling lanes are clogged with retro 10-speeds and guys with low-slung, rolled-up jeans and quick-looking sneakers. We're in our mid-30s and here we are, looking like I did when I was edging on thirteen. Bodysuits and unitards. Sweats and bandanas and stupid strappy sandals. Jelly shoes and neckties and all that crap they sell at American Apparel, in lurid shades of snazzy and bright.

This trend, and recycling fashion in general, is nothing new. But, until now, I've recycled someone else's childhood. Now, I'm repeating the styles of my own, and this is weird. Weird because it fixes a point along the timeline like, "once I was here, and now I am here." And, weird because I think my childhood clothes are cool--then, I was an outrageous dork.

The way "nerdy" morphs into "chic" on its second time around, this is also old news. And yet, it was startling, to look at me way back when...and to think, hang on, I had it all going on!

Off the Hook

2009-05-08T08:12:00.001-04:00

I am not going to the office today. It's not because of the sunshine and rising thermometer, although those are both very nice. It's not because of too much wine on a Thursday, or too little sleep, or a headache or bellyache or other complaint. I'm just not going; you can't make me.

My work is always slightly fraught--my office locates next-of-kin when someone dies without known family and leaving an estate but no will. There's usually a good reason a family fractures or disappears, so the cases where everyone I speak with is lovely and well-mannered, adjusted and sane and competent, these are the ones that stand out as remarkable.

People misread my letters, hide or fib or obfuscate family facts, fail to respond to my queries then arrive on the scene years later to create a gigantic fuss. The stories they share at first seemed exceptional and wild; over the past five years, I've grown accustomed to tales of uncles' heads on stakes during various uprisings, and cousins who turn out to be brothers, or relatives who end up being of no relation at all. Digging up dirt about the long-departed then sharing it with the survivors is a strange business, and I'm not surprised when a telephone conversation deteriorates into the caller shouting an inventory of "everything I hate about dealing with you people." Nonetheless, rare callers take a few too many liberties--even accounting for the crazy--and I get a little crazy in return.

Yesterday was a banner day, with a series of especially messy pasts landing on my desk. And, in that "it never rains but that it pours" kind of way, everybody and their brother (literally) decided to give me a call. First, I spoke with a woman who was jacked on cocaine. I could hear her sniffing, shouting, stomping around, talking to someone in the background, and shuffling papers at the same time. I sent her an advance of $15,000 in her inheritance a week ago. It is apparently all gone, and she could really use a little more cash. Now. Like, immediately, if that's ok. Like, today. Ok?

A few minutes later her husband called with the same list of demands. He was so drunk he couldn't follow his own end of the conversation, and began mocking me for using such big words. Which words? "Everybody", "papers" and "five". I explained that there were five family members inheriting in his case. Three had mailed me their legal papers, therefore his case was on hold while we waited for everybody else.

He became incensed.

"Listen here, it's all nice for you, I mean real good for you, that you have a fancy job and fancy words and think you can talk this way to me. Yeah, that's real good for you. But you're gonna have to stop being so complicated, ok? I am not so fancy like you. This 'everybody' you keep saying? Who's this 'everybody'? I been around a long time, and there ain't no one I ever heard of called Everybody, so they're lying, whoever they are. They ain't no relative of mine. What's an everybody, anyway?"

Mercifully, he then began swearing like mad, which entitled me to hang up. And, today, I have opted for sunshine and bicycle rides and a latté on my balcony, leaving the madmen to fill my voicemail with tirades that can wait till Monday.

Super Convenient

2009-05-07T20:05:00.005-04:00

Sometimes, mistakes happen. The important thing is to accept the situation, find the silver lining, then move on.

Let's say you're enjoying a rowdy night at Super Contact Danse and things get out of control. And, let's say after some "super contact", the lady finds herself in the family way. Not much you can do about that--accept it and find a silver lining. For instance, the maternity shop conveniently located right downstairs.

Super!

Wishful Thinking

2009-05-06T09:21:00.009-04:00

I'm not above a little wishful thinking, and so, a little wish hangs above me.

The card reads, "make a wish, close your eyes, and pull," and it swings from the kitchen ceiling, just out of reach. This affords a moment of sober second thought. Is this a true emergency? One that really, really needs a wish? Really?

By the time you pull a chair over, climb up, untie the string, recruit someone to pull the other half, you've had time to consider whether a situation can only be settled with a wishbone, or if perhaps patience, cooling off, an overdue telephone call, or a good sleep might suffice.

Really 4 Realz?! (Bad Lines: Parts Seven to Seventeen)

2009-05-04T17:40:00.011-04:00

On a dare, a girlfriend and I completed Internet dating profiles and jumped in. It was 9 a.m. one Sunday morning, and I was composing witty hooks intended to catch tasty bachelors while discouraging any impotent predators that might lazily swim by. The only thing more skeezy-seeming were the little red "online now!" bulletins popping up to announce that MikeIzUp4It was looking for ladies...did I mention it was before brunch-time on Sunday? I guess Mike's Saturday didn't turn out so hot. Nor did the weekend yield enough action for N-E-1-4-Me...or Lookin4Laydeez...and I guess TalentedMrRipley is still single, too.

"TalentedMrRipley"?! Dude...you know that story is about murdering someone and hiding it, right? And come on--"anyone for me"? Sound it out, and it sounds like bad news. No lady wants a man whose standards dip from open-minded to settle around really not choosy as long as she puts out.

One month later, the anthropological thrill of online dating has grown stale, and I am ducking out before the site simply breaks my spirit. It wasn't all for naught--I did cull a few good stories from the experience, and learned some good lessons. Certainly, these are broad generalisations and by no means ultimate truths; yet, when it comes to navigating the strangers a lady might encounter online, it's safe to say that typically:

Men will say anything they think a woman wants to hear. Men have no idea what women want to hear. Men will say just about anything while crouched behind the nameless, faceless shield of the Internet. This ranges from the sweet and endearing to the very, very dirty. He might be sweet and sexy on date #1, but hang on, because he might prove volatile and bananas by date #3.

And then there's the goldmine of crazy that landed in my instant message in-box after dark. So, without further ado, I give you my top ten, along with the replies I am too ladylike to send:

10. Here is my sexy ass--I make you a photo, it is in your email. Go there, go look. (you can't make me)

9. Who's your daddy? (his name is Mr. Miller--I'm sure he'd love to meet you)

8. I guess now that we've met each other, we can get off this site. (mmmmm, how about we hedge that bet for a couple of dates?)

7. I think I know you from high school. (yes, you do...you and your friends threw sandwiches at me in the cafeteria, and stalked my friend Leonard because he wore make-up)

6. Here's a cute question to get things started: what's your position on spanking? (I am for it, but only if the kid's really being a rotten little bastard; otherwise, I'm against it)

5. Your profile is nice but what I really want to know is, do you do bisexual? (no, no, I think the question is, do you do bisexual? and I'm not talking you plus two women...)

4. Right, you are hot. When do I see you? (nothing warms my heart like a man who wants to boss me around)

3. I would like some dancing on you. (.......)

2. You look pretty. Have you considering get married and having a children? Then you have something to show for those efforts. (awesome! so, after we have sex as dreadful as your spelling and grammar, I'll have a baby to remember the night by? when do we meet? don't keep me waiting, man!)

1. U R h-o-t-t for realz. Not lookin 35 at all. (hey, thanks! I'm so glad you think that in my advanced age, I am still looking good. most single 35 year-olds are washed-up spinsters, of course)

When Taxi Shoes Stay in for the Night

2009-05-03T11:21:00.004-04:00

Taxi Shoes: The Morning After

2009-05-03T10:55:00.007-04:00

We called for Nicola at 5:45. Rang the bell, tapped our feet and glanced around--it was too early for that much make-up, too late to turn back and swab some of it from our eyelids and cheeks. She was slow to answer, probably teetering through the house on heels that already pinched in all the worst places, foreshadowing the blisters of 11 p.m. Neighbours stared from a porch across the way, hoisted king-cans of Labatt 50, nudged one another and checked out our bums. When she opened the door at last, Nicola gave us an appraising up-and-down, but we hustled her aside with a sharp, "Oh for god's sake, let us in! This is all too lurid for dinnertime"

Taxi shoes: too tall for walking, too pretty to remain stuffed in the closet. The solution? Pricey cab fares across town then home again. We played fashion show, demonstrated our steady moves, perfectly executed spins and turns, cautious dance steps. Rather fine, rather sassy, if I do say so myself.

But, despite our bravery, despite our stout hearts and determined gait, despite the taxis and the cocktails and the cocktails and the cocktails, by midnight, the shoes simply had to give...

...and, a few "notes to self", gleaned from Taxi Shoe Night: tiny pickles are not food, nor are spears of melon and small squares of cheesecake (at least not when consumed together to the exclusion of other more substantial dinner); come midnight, those hot pink panythose will do you wrong; go to the ATM mid-afternoon rather than midway through Taxi Shoe Night--it will save you valuable mileage when you don't have to walk a couple blocks between bar and cab...mileage you can redeem when you need to climb up and down three flights of stairs between your table and the ladies room.

Sunday School

2009-05-02T15:14:00.006-04:00

School was out, but on Sundays we learned lessons like any other day of the week. These ones seemed special somehow, like things that couldn't be taught on a Tuesday, for instance. Their resonance came directly from Sunday.

My brother learned that homework ought to be taken care of when it was assigned, not crammed in the closet beneath action figures and underpants and forgotten till the weekend was nearly gone.

I learned not to sleep over at Brenda's house on Saturday night because come morning, I would be hoisted into a crunchy dress and trundled off to church before her mother would drive me home. More importantly, I learned that unlike at my house, her family did not consider the words "Jesus Christ" a complete sentence.

I tried to be on my best behaviour, but like slipping on a banana peel, it would begin with something small (dropping a blob of glue at craft time) then turn into a total wipe-out (forgetting to swap ck for the pair of l's, and coming out with hell). Her mom would overhear and blam, I would get the pursed lips, the crossed arms, the phone call home.

What did I learn from that? Look both ways before swearing.

Search and Rescue

2009-05-02T15:03:00.006-04:00

I was the new kid, so new that my smile had yet to win me friends. The girl next door was trying her hand at ennui, and was often groggy and shiftless. Together, we laughed until we grew breathless and the sound ran out. I was the nudge that broke her inertia, suggested activities to which she would agree, “yeah, we could do that.” And then we would.

Caught one evening in a miserable rain, we cut through the half-built houses bordering our neighbourhood, retrieving worms from puddles, and carrying them to safety. Water pooled deeply along the flat prairie roads, making the ground no place for our crawling charges. The clear solution: get the worms indoors.

We made our way home, scoops of fleshy noodles in our icy hands, but when at last we stood dripping in the shelter of my porch, we discovered the worms had retreated up our sleeves. Neither she nor I had felt them slither up our chilly forearms. We shook and plucked and left the worms to find their way in the night, then huddled together on the couch waiting to dry. Toweled heads slumped into cushions, we lapsed into sleep just before morning.

Ruthie Joins the Team

2009-05-02T14:55:00.006-04:00

Ruth completes her daily case quota in just over an hour, and whiles away the remainder of her shift sprawled on her belly on the floor, feet swaying in the air. A book is spread beneath her nose and colleagues peeking into her cubicle are confronted by her foreshortened figure: shoes hooked over airborne toes, knees connected to bum, spine telescoping along the ground, sprawled dark hair, dipped shoulders skipping neck to pass directly into head.

The other employees have reprimanded her, the Harvard-bound temp clerk, for suspicious efficiency and for closing too many cases. Her work ethic and attention to detail cloud the achievements of permanent workers, who have grown adept at dragging single cases through the bog of months, padding billable hours with trips to “Central Record Keeping”, meaning the coffee stand in the south building.

She thumbs ahead in her book and picks her nails. Her fingertips are dry from fanning through files. Her eyes prickle from the stagnant air and from lying so close to the carpet, which smells like a low-end thrift store. The matted shag bristles with staples and Ruth wonders what passes for housekeeping around here, whether it is someone’s after-hours project to knit each discarded fastener deeper into the rug. She wonders if it’s the cleaning lady’s paid occupation to get down on hands and knees and pick each staple loose.

When she accepted this contract, her predecessor was on-hand for three days of training, which meant orientation and introductions and doubled as the woman’s farewell tour. “Mary, Helen, this is Ruth, she’ll be joining us for a few weeks while we adjust to one less body around here.” We. As if the woman wasn't the fewer body. As if she would be here to groan beneath the workload of a shrunken staff-count.

While the rest of the team took their departing member to lunch, Ruth pitched in, scavenging an empty cardboard carton from the photocopy station and packing the woman’s ailing plants. Task completed, she grew anxious that this helpful gesture would be construed as rude. She wrung her hands and waffled between using the gritty soil rings as a map to restore the pots to their original position, or cheering up the box with a scrawled smiley face and “Congratulations on your transfer!”

Finally, she left the plants in the box and slipped out before the others returned, excusing herself with a note reporting a sudden, urgent stomach situation and the wisdom of heading home prior to its inevitable escalation.

Hangover Helper

2009-05-02T09:59:00.002-04:00

Another little endeavour:

http://thehangoverhelper.blogspot.com/

...with many thanks to the one who helped get this off the ground (while often serving cocktails till we landed face-down on the ground)...

Love Me, Love Me Not

2009-05-02T09:34:00.001-04:00

Once, I had it all figured out. Then, I grew up, grew sensible, turned my back on my gut and the feelings it shoots toward my chest. I've dressed some scrapes across my heart like sticking a bandage over a pavement-scuffed knee. Nothing I haven't sprung back from, but I've made some rather poor choices since I abandoned the decision-making tools of childhood. Remember how easy it was?

1.

Magic Eight Balls ruled grade six. One question, one shake, one hand over one's eyes until the answer appeared. Does he love me? (shake shake) Better not tell you now. Will we get homeroom together? Outlook good.

2.

Paper fortune tellers were less reliable, but you could go best three out of four, hoping that a few more flicks of the origami pod would yield the answer you wanted. Last winter, a friend and I downed bourbon sours and tried to get to the bottom of a dilemma. We never did, but we sure did get loaded. It's also possible we loaded our fortune teller with loaded suggestions:

11:35 is not that late; you got cooler after high school; care for another bourbon?; I am good for now; the kitten doesn't mind if you sleep over tonight; the kitten doesn't mind if I sleep over tonight; you look great in those jeans; you have a nice bum.

3.

I wish we could revive cereal box decoder rings--rummaging elbow-deep in Shreddies for a delicious little disk and cipher sheet. The perfect tool for cracking the code on adult situations. For instance, when he says it's nice to see me, what does he mean? He might mean it's nice to see me. Or, that his day isn't the same without our morning "hello". Maybe he'd like to ask me out but isn't sure how and covers his desire with simple salutations. Maybe it's nice to see me...and the postman and the grocer and the receptionist...meaning, he simply has good manners and his statement means nothing at all.

4.

Pulling daisy petals worked on the honour system. As you exhausted your blossom, it was possible to cheat, tugging a couple petals at once to dodge "he loves me not". And, if the first flower let you down, you could pick another and try again.

Maybe that's the beauty of being fresh and small--you truly believe a flower is trustworthy, that its petals are the currency of love. Just like you believe smiling coyly, kicking your toe at some dust, twirling a lock of hair while you speak will get you what you want. And if it doesn't, well, you're young enough that you probably don't really care. You just plaster a bandage over the mess and get on with things.

Bog-Going Day

2009-04-29T18:10:00.010-04:00

Imagine there was a day, a very official day, when all the crap from your life got sent to the bog. And, on that day, all the crap from your town got sent to the bog. And all the crappy things people do to one another were rounded up and sent to the bog. And all the crappy people who are just generally crappy were banished to the bog. This is Bog-Going Day, and I would like to carry the motion to have it added to the calendar.

On Bog-Going Day, I would purge my desk of half-crocked projects, poorly executed plans and bad ideas. Out with the stagnant, in with the fresh. My novel, for instance. That damn thing is so going to the bog on Bog-Going Day, all 50,0007 words, 86 pages of it. I've tried and tried to edit that thing, to wring some good from all that bad, but no. It should just go to the bog.

Another thing bound for the bog? Bad dates. Oh my gosh, have I had some of those. The expressionless lizard who stumbled into a personality extractor en route to dinner. The jackass I met online who claimed to be non-smoking, 5'9", sweet, friendly, and looking for love, but proved himself a short, rude smoker looking for humping. The "nice guy" who tried to make me feel irresponsible and guilty. The one who threatened my cat. Done. No more bad dates, ok? All of them--to the bog.

Processed food. Unnecessary extravagance. Tasteless cookies and bland, dry cakes. Bike-lane parkers, speedy swervers and other bad drivers. The guy who picks on my friend Chris at his office. The client who left me a voice message, shouting that I am a liar and a failure and listed off what "the worst things are about people like you", meaning me. And, the sandwich I ate for lunch today. It was on too-crusty bread that did that mean thing where it cuts the roof of your mouth while you eat and you don't notice till you're finished because the sandwich is so delicious. And now, your mouth is sore and the sandwich is gone, and there's nothing to blame but your own voracious appetite for mean sandwiches.

All these things would get dumped in the bog, too. If only there was a Bog-Going Day.

Taxi Shoes

2009-04-28T21:08:00.002-04:00

I have a hot date this Saturday evening...with two ladies and three pairs of taxi shoes. Well, one pair per lady, per set of feet.

"I'll have you know," declared one of our posse, "I am wearing stupid, stupid shoes. The sort you can't walk far in. The sort that you don't even bother to try walking in."

And so, we agreed, it's more of a waste to own hot, hot heels and never make it out the door, than to spend good money on cab fare...besides...there's the moment when you fling open the door and step to the curb...it never fails to impress.

Little Rabbit Foo-Foo

2009-04-27T11:03:00.005-04:00

I just can't bring myself to eat this bunny. It is one pound of spicy Mayan chocolate, sculpted into a shape that begs to be bitten. I bought it Easter morning, thinking it would be perfectly adorable for my nephew...then, in a moment of sober second thought, admitted that sure, it'd be pretty cute to see him sucking on that outstretched ear, but really, does a seven-month old need to get jacked on candy? Probably not.

Recently, the pediatrician declared the baby ready to meet solid food. "Gradually introduce things, but pretty much, he's good to go. You can feed him anything but the big no-no's like strawberries, soy, corn, or nuts." I think it's safe to add solid-chocolate bunnies to that list, at least till next year.

My nephew's mom and I tease my brother that when he's not looking, we feed the baby red meat. "After all," we wheedle, "the doctor said anything but corn, soy, nuts and berries!" My brother gets angry and flustered and tells us that we'd better do no such thing. Frankly, I agree. Just reading that--we feed the baby red meat--sounds barbaric and makes me feel a little gaggy, conjuring images of my nephew tearing into a steak, jaws lined with double-rows of shark teeth.

And so, chocolate rabbits and rare beef remain safely stowed in my nephew's future, along with tricycles, girlfriends, indigestion, splinters and television.

Season Opener

2009-04-26T18:47:00.016-04:00

Yesterday, I picked up my bicycle, tuned up and ready to ride. For three years, I've used the same mechanic--I was reluctantly charmed on my first visit as he looked me up and down, looked my bicycle up and down, then asked, "So, what's its name?" I was indignant, this man smirking like I was easily read, that my bike must have some cutesy name. Then, I admitted he'd clocked me at fifty paces. "Jeffrey," I sniffed. "My bike is called Jeffrey. And, he needs a tune-up."

I fell last October, rear wheel lodged in the streetcar tracks as I whipped around late-late with a girlfriend. Sprawled on the pavement, I was grateful for the hour (no traffic), the weather (gloves, jeans, boots, rather than bare knees arms palms), the flask in my handbag (where it had remained till that moment; no, I was not riding half-crocked!). It wasn't my first spill, but it made me nervous, so I stowed my bike for winter, forgetting the accident and the convenience of zipping from place to place. Last week while the sun shone hot, my patience for public transit waned and the time was right. My mechanic aligned this and and that, made things just so, even threw in a headlight to replace the one that smashed when I fell.

And...I realised that despite a long, fraught winter, I am in excellent shape! No leg cramps, no broken ass, no gasping like a fish as I struggle uphill. Amazing. Typically, cycling season is the report card after a winter of indulgence--the first spring commute exposes me as the kid who talked in class, skipped homework and threw crayons at recess. Each kilometre, my thighs and calves cry for mercy, my bum kills from the seat which, while cute and retro, is all kinds of uncomfy, and my lung capacity is roughly a teaspoon.

After my October spill, I parked my bicycle and uncorked an ocean of wine. November was a landslide of oysters, grilled cheese, extravagant dinners, late nights and mornings that began mid-afternoon. In December, old-old friends threw a party, where Alex and I flaunted our recent growth (girth?) spurts. We laughed, lamented the loss of our figures, which were much more svelte when we met at 16. We tinkled ice in our glasses, jammed our hands into shrunken pockets. Joked that it's fine that his inseam had grown a little snug--this implied a little something extra hung behind the drapes. In contrast, my belly sausaged into a wee velour skirt? Not so hot.

Next came the holidays, which delivered a surprise tied with an ugly bow. Then, January, February, March...and, instead of slouching through a season of too-rich meals, too-hectic days, and too-too much, I spun a private cocoon. Stretched. Read. Laid low. Cleaned house. Rotated heavy recipes to the back shelf and hauled out lighter standards that once dominated my kitchen. Wrote then wrote more. Rose early to start my day over Common lattés instead of dashing from bed to office. Turned off the radio; turned off the television. Adopted a yoga routine so strenuous I feared I'd need the ambulance to come help me button my blouse. This, in fact, paid off last week when I realised at 35, I can lie on my belly, arch my legs over my shoulders and touch my toes to my nose.

Last week, I cycled home in a pretty skirt, red heels, kneesocks, scarf. Hair blowing in the breeze, sun shining on my cheeks, feeling like I was smiling in private even though I was out in public. And, I realised how light I've grown. It was fucking hell to let go of love when the city was buried in snow. But, like winter fat, that love was making us sluggish, weighing us down, drooping our cheeks and spilling over our belts. It was thickening the blood that pumped through our hearts. We lost endless days to sleeping it off, our homes littered with traces of "everything about this is broken and wrong."

Of course, that love will stick around like a tissue memory, like a repetitive movement, like the shadow Wendy stitches onto Peter Pan. A shadow that stretches like when the sun's setting behind you and the sidewalk gets swallowed by your block-shaped shoes and gigantic head. It's tough to end this little piece without stumbling into some stupid metaphor about spring flowers, fat plops of fresh rain, or shifting seasons giving way to new things. And, those words just aren't me. And, so, I will declare bicycle season open, and leave it at that.

Sleepaway Camp

2009-04-23T21:21:00.002-04:00

My sweet Birdie Birdo isn't feeling so hot. She's at the veterinary clinic until Saturday morning. I didn't get to kiss her little nose good-bye, but I'm sure she's being awfully brave. Until then, I am pretending she's at sleepaway camp...

Sometimes When I'm Choking...

2009-04-22T11:08:00.003-04:00

"Sometimes, when I'm choking, more food helps!"

This horrifying line is stolen from a Martin Short sketch. Shouting, gesticulating, and gulping food at once, he gags on a hastily gobbled doughnut. Declining the Heimlich Manoeuver, he loads more bready hunks into his mouth. Eventually, he spits out the whole mass, heaves a sigh of relief, and explains that the best remedy for choking is more food. Then, he resumes eating and talking, gleaning no lesson from his ordeal.

Watching this performance on television, I laughed till my cheeks turned pink (the remedy for choking on giggles? more giggles), because I've done this so many times--coughed on a shard of ill-swallowed cracker and chewed another in hopes that it would wash its buddy down; sent a sip down the wrong pipe and chugged the whole drink to quash my hacking. Terrible!

Now, friends and I use it as a catchphrase to call attention to poor decisions. For instance, an inebriated Dean replacing a spilled margarita:

"Hey! What are you doing there?"

"Freshening up my drink, of course."

"Haven't you had plenty?"

"Perhaps...but sometimes when I'm choking, more food helps!"

And so on.

It's like the mechanism that makes Ritalin cool down hyper children. Apparently, some kids' off-switches are set higher than others, and it takes more stimulation before nature kicks in to calm the crazy. Ritalin jacks up the child's brain till it rings like a Test-Your-Strength bell and the metal weight descends to the ground. Sometimes, when you're hyper, more hyper helps.

This also describes how I've tackled the past several months, heaping one thing atop the last while declining the Heimlich. Charting September through April requires a fine-point red pen, perhaps a protractor and graphing tools, a bit of string, some tape and a box of gold stars. Sometimes, the wiser remedy is slowing down, swallowing, pausing while the flush drains from your cheeks, then taking smaller bites. But, consider all those hectic precepts:

If you want something done, assign it to a busy person. The wind is calmer at the eye of the storm. When pressure exceeds what one space can handle, things will force their way into an area of lower concentration. Sometimes, when I'm choking, more food helps.

Wrestle Mania

2009-04-14T09:40:00.007-04:00

I sometimes liken myself to the Estelle Getty character, Sophia, on The Golden Girls, the one whose internal censor was rendered mute by a stroke. Sophia became the fool whose apparently crippled intellect earns freer speech than that afforded ordinary citizens. In theatre, the fool is a device that moves the action forward, sharing secrets with the audience and warning tragic figures of their pending fall. On The Golden Girls, Sophia called others on their bullshit, pointing out who was wearing too much perfume, when someone was courting trouble, weighing in that a boyfriend was a loser.

This is where Sophia and I differ, since I can't blame foolishness for the things that come out of my mouth, and typically, what I say is not so much a critique as a lack of filtration. Maybe it's shyness, maybe I skip the part of storytelling where I sift the details and tailor things to suit my audience. Perhaps, my manners simply aren't as keen as I think.

I believe I have plenty of social grace, but now and then, something slips out that really ought to have remained in my brain for private enjoyment. Rarely is it awful or offensive--a slightly lewd remark, a moderately off-colour joke, a reference to a past that we needn't revisit, an accidental insult. All forgivable, excusable, easily set right. I'm not a jerk, nor am I reckless with my words or reluctant to apologise. I will make a mess, then I will fetch a broom and sweep it up.

Dating someone new is a bit like looking down a well, one with an inch or two of water in the bottom, just enough to cast my reflection back at me from its pool...and then, filling the reservoir with accidental slips, inappropriate information, fuck-ups and words that splash rather than flow. Ordinarily, my good sense and good manners subdue the internal Sophia, and I avoid saying anything truly stupid. And, when I do slip, I manage to spin it to look cute, all part of my awkward charm. Then, I relax, release Sophia from the figure-four leg-lock...and blam...something comes out and I'm pinned to the mat by my own tongue.

Kissing Bandit

2009-04-13T17:55:00.005-04:00

My kitten is a bit of a make-out artist. She loves to kiss on the nose--both to give and receive. She's quite demure though, and never tries to slip anyone the tongue.

In fact, Birdie loves kisses so much that she's set up a kissing booth in the bathroom, where she perches waiting for someone to drop in and plant one on her.

Each morning while I pick my clothes and pack my shoulderbag, she opens for business, sitting on the tall narrow shelf just inside the doorway. She waits patiently, but chirps a bossy little sound if I don't poke my head in and give her a kiss between pulling on socks underwear shirt pants sweater shoes.

***
My friend Craig has pointed out, people who own cats fall into two categories: those who believe cats belong outdoors or in warehouses, where they are gainfully employed as mouse-catchers; and those whose kittens have their own kissing booths. The former ought not to own animals at all, while the latter should really just make some children.

Baby Steps

2009-04-13T09:00:00.007-04:00

Things I Promise to Teach Him:

1. books--fun to eat AND to read!
2. to execute a figure-four leg-lock
3. pig latin
4. to bake a perfect apple crumble
5. how to make his dad crazy without getting in trouble
6. 10 ways to prepare avocado
7. how to ride the streetcar
8. to do a steady handstand
9. one new joke, each time we meet
10. "Here is the church and here is the steeple, open the doors and see all the people!"

Things He's So Far Taught Me:

1. babies are awesome! I never liked babies until he came along!
2. you won't break the baby if you don't hold it perfectly
3. baby-giggles can mend a broken heart
4. moms have incredible arm muscles! aunties do not!
5. little boys look awfully cute dressed in pink
6. babies know how to work a room
7. babies do not travel light
8. rolling on the floor is hilarious
9. every shirt looks better with a little drool on the shoulder
10. sometimes, peeing in the bathtub is unavoidable

Axe Me No Questions (Bad Lines: Part Six)

2009-04-12T15:04:00.014-04:00

Last night, we took the long way from house to bar because, as Andy explained, "if we go left then left again, then left and then right, we'll bypass the whole Queen and Lansdowne strip, including at least thirty weirdos. Maybe we'll still run into two or three, but that is way less than thirty."

On our way home again, the air was cold and we opted for the quick, weirdo-addled route. Now and then, a smarmy character sneaks up on you--you never smell him coming till he's on you like a day-old fish. Other times, you can detect the sleeze from blocks away. A man hustled past, heading in the opposite direction. Judging by his outfit, his gait, the comb he ran through his hair, someone, somewhere would get the moves put on her very soon.

"Well, he smelled good," Krista commented. No one wants to hang out with a stinker, but phew, there should be a spritz-gauge on cologne bottles, like those little plastic nozzles bartenders stick into the gin to measure each pour.

A couple blocks later, the man nowhere in sight: "You know, he still smells good! Do you think if we followed the cloud, it would lead us to his front door?"

Stretching My Legs

2009-04-11T12:45:00.004-04:00

This morning, I had a dog-walking date in High Park. The path was splattered with mucky tracks, moats of deep mud flanking the trails. After months cooped up indoors, the dogs were stretching their legs. And, after months of stuffing myself into a dozen sweaters and still feeling shivery, it's time to lighten up and stretch my legs, too.

Reliable Narrator: Part Two

2009-04-11T09:31:00.005-04:00

There's a fish pond in my yard. Over-landscaped and pristine, it's charming nevertheless, and its waterfall lulls me to nap in summer shade. In early spring, the pond is still murky and congested. But, this morning, the fish woke up, signaling that summer naps are closer than winter ice. Each April, the carp bob up like corks and begin to swim, little orange crescents gliding below the surface. Local predators try to catch them so the fish stick to the shadows or tuck safely beneath overhanging slabs of rock.

These carp are as much a spring thing as crocus greens pricking the garden. When I announced to a friend, "The fish are awake! That means it's truly springtime," he cocked his head and told me that was nice, in a tone that implied he was humouring my twee declaration. Like I was being cute, and that was fine, since we both understood that no, the fish hadn't woken up. But, when I continued to reference their long sleep, the composition of their beds, how fun it must be to clear their gills after lying clogged in the dirt, my friend decided he'd let my joke and his patience run long enough.

"Come on," he scoffed, "your landlord keeps them in a tank or something, right? And this morning, he probably dumped them back since the weather's been pretty nice."

"Don't be silly," I replied, "of course the fish sleep! How else would they survive winter? The pond's all frozen!"

His point exactly. Fish are small and thin, January temperatures dip to -35, and the ice crusts several inches thick. No way could such fragile creatures survive an Ontario winter. I counter that I'm small and thin, and I make it through, so fish, descended from dinosaurs, must be hardy enough for Canada, if they've survived so many harsh ages. My friend accuses me of being absurd, claims that birds, not fish, are partially prehistoric, and pats me on the head like case closed: no sleeping fish.

"Where did you learn this, anyhow," he challenges.

Dinosaurs. Birds. Fish. Birds...fish...birds...fish...oh, damn. Suddenly, I remember how I learned about fish hunkering down until the water warms again. Narrative reliability has been on my mind lately--when and where a story is recounted, who tells it, what the narrator showcases and the bits left out. In a flash, The Lifecycle of Fish According to Me tops the list of possibly dodgy tales. For years, I've discussed the sleeping habits of fish like a kid explaining that the earth goes around the sun because someone tows it on a really long string. And now, my source bobs to the surface like my carp.

When I was small, I favoured three bedtime stories. Mimi the Merry-go-Round Cat and Trumpet the Dog were all about sound effects and special voices and the bits where we turned the page and got to shout. But, Hamilton Duck was more serious. One morning, he heads for a dip in the pond, only to bonk his bill on the newly formed ice. The splat he makes wakes a fish who's been sleeping in a toasty pondweed bed. Swimming to the frozen surface, the fish tells Hamilton to keep it down. Then, raising his voice to be heard through the layer of ice, the fish teaches the clueless duck about winter, and explains that if they take a nice long snooze, one morning, they'll wake to discover the water and flowers and sunshine have returned.

Sure, a storybook might simplify things, sticking to two-syllable words and dumbing down tougher concepts. But, would the author snow a child with falsehood? I pull the book from my shelf and discover this:

Hmmmm, that's not good.

Rollerskates for Easter

2009-04-08T11:57:00.002-04:00

As previously explained, I grew up observing the commercial version of Easter. Instead of being crammed into fancy dress and hauled to church, kicking my patent black shoes like all the other little girls I played with, Easter morning at my house was a jellybean hunt (racing my brother AND the family poodle to find the most candy).

In addition to little baskets of candy and chocolate bunnies, my brother and I each received some sort of inedible treat each year--books, dinky cars, brooches and caps. Best memory? The year I got a pair of roller skates that clamped onto my shoes like little wheeled vises. All morning, I skidded up and down the street, clattering over the salt and sand that clogged the pavement after a particularly snowy winter, drinking fistfuls of warm, linty jellybeans from my jacket pocket. Anyone who ever owned a pair of those skates knows, more time was spent seated on the curb wrestling with the flag-shaped key that tightened the skates. Fun they were; well-designed they were not.

***

This year promises to be another best memory as my sister-in-law and I chauffeur the current family favourite--my nephew--to visit his grandparents and great-grandparents. Right now, he's almost seven months old, roughly eight months younger than his dad was when caught on film above. And, you can be sure that next year I'll be teaching him everything I taught his dad about candy-eating contests, back in 1977.

Not Quite Right

2009-04-05T21:32:00.005-04:00

My family doesn't quite get religious holidays, but we do tackle them with fervour. We drink ourselves silly on December 24th, gorge on chocolate rabbits each April, and douse our plates in syrup on "Pancake Tuesday". We don't intend to be irreverent, it just happens that way. One minute we're toasting the season with polite flutes of champagne, the next we're wrestling over jellybeans or whipping our dresses over our heads. Ok, that was just me, and I was two, but I think it was a harbinger of doomed occasions to come.

The other day, my sister telephoned with a dilemma--she had purchased a new mattress from IKEA, and after lugging it across the lot, strapping it to the roof of her compact car, zipping it home along the highway then mashing it up a narrow staircase to the third floor, discovered it smelled. Smelled? Yes, smelled. Like what, I asked, because when it comes to smells, the remedy is always determined by the nature of the stink.

"Like a barn," she shouted. "It smells like a barn. Like, I feel like I'm going to roll over and discover I'm sleeping next to the baby Jesus!" Apparently, she'd already spritzed the problem with a litre of Febreeze, to no avail. "Now, I own a soggy mattress that smells like some Mexican sweat shop baby Jesus barn in a dry cleaning factory!" I commended her on her mixing of metaphors.

The most staggering part of our conversation wasn't the sacrilegious tone or the flippant reference to global labour abuses, rather that I knew exactly what she was trying to explain. Mattress, stinky, barn, baby Jesus, manger, bad straw, old-fashioned mattress filling, contemporary chemical treatments, odour-eating sprays, dry cleaning chemicals that reek up your nice wool suit. I get it, totally.

We're an off-colour bunch, but it's not always our fault! Sometimes, the screwed-up Christian comedy routine gets dumped at our doorstep like a baby (Jesus) in a basket. For instance, my brother manages a commercial bakery, and one December, his Sikh colleague came to him for advice. The man had decided to try out Christmas, check out the hype, see what all the Catholics and Protestants were going on about.

"So, uhhh," the man began, rather inauspiciously.

"Yes?" my brother probed.

"Turkey. It cooks for how long?"

"That depends."

"Depends? It depends on what?"

"Well, the size, oven temperature, a lot of things. When will you be cooking it," my brother probed.

"Since a little while."

At which point, my brother sniffed. Sniffed some more. Detected the aroma of poultry mingling with warm bread and yeasty dough. The man had popped a massive Butterball into one of the bread ovens, set it to a balmy 300 degrees, and figured since the bird had been in for an hour or so, it was probably good to go. My brother shuddered as he peered through the glass and the turkey, still a cool, creamy white, slowly rotated, the oven gears squealing from the weight.

"Buddy, I think you're going to have to drive this home and finish it off in your kitchen," he cautioned, pretending not to hear the man's skeptical "well, if you really think it needs longer."

As Easter approaches, my family prepares to dine on chocolate, roast meats, and fill our mouths with liquor and foul language--all things we ought to have given up when Lent began. Instead, I was dismayed that I forgot about Pancake Tuesday and missed a perfectly good opportunity to eat breakfast for supper, and figured since I was having a tough winter, I was in no shape to start giving up this or that.

A few years ago, I made what I thought was a rather clever joke about the resurrection, the punchline having something to do with Jesus rolling a rock from the cave door. "Cave door? Rock? What are you talking about," my mother demanded. I elaborated in that way that kills a good line dead. Still, she wasn't getting it.

"How did he get in the cave? Why would he go there? Who let him out? If he was dead, how was he strong enough to move a stone? That's just ridiculous," my mom countered. I had to agree, she had a point.

I wish I could claim we'd made an informed decision to step away from Christ, that we'd compiled an intellectual argument against maintaining the faith our family followed for hundreds of years before we came along. Instead, I must confess it all stems from a dislike of the churchy folks in our home town. Not to mention how much fun we have, gathered together at my parents' home, tanked on wine, smeared in chocolate, and wrestling to settle disputes over whether Jesus rolled the rock away himself or if the Easter Bunny helped.

Reading is for Suckers

2009-04-05T11:53:00.002-04:00

Birdie, she is against reading. Clearly, my time is better spent throwing toy mice, fetching her dinner, petting her ears, or holding out my hand for her to gnaw. Or, maybe she just thinks urban development theory is for suckers.

Planting Season

2009-04-05T09:23:00.006-04:00

Once, I rented a second-storey flat from a couple who brought to mind Jack Sprat who ate no fat and his wife who ate no lean. Somehow, they cohabited just fine--I suspect, by avoiding each other, which seemed sad.

The husband was roly-poly, sloppy and odd. He blasted techno music on a strict noon till 11 p.m. schedule, and wore a blue hockey jersey year-round, which hung from his shoulders like a nylon sack draping a potato. The wife, she was articulate, tidy and small. She walked on quiet footsteps and slipped my mail under my door.

He lolled indoors, maintaining a doughy palor into late summer. Now and then, he sat on the porch and aimed a hose at the dusty sidewalk. Mostly, he watched TV and languished in the air conditioned parlour. Come August, he was still as hunched and sour as a bear breaking hibernation.

She tended a dainty garden that met the front curb as a sloping patch of flowers and miniature fruit trees, giving way to hardier plants close to the house and winding around to a backyard vegetable patch. Every night of the growing season, she crouched in the soil to gently pull weeds, primp leaves, harvest purple carrots and red beans, shake pollen from cherry blossoms and mist the ferns. She was the most relaxed person I had ever met, despite the techno, despite the husband who frankly deserved a kick in the pants.

***

Now, I live in a homier place. It, too, is a second-floor bachelor, not exactly cramped but modest enough I call it my doll-house, my cubby, my home the size of a breadbox. It's well-situated, sunny all day and dead-quiet all night, but its outstanding feature, the thing that made me move in and makes me determined to stay? A private balcony overlooking a forested yard.

My landlord says this used to be the house girl's quarters, converted ten years ago to a rental flat. They bricked up the flight of stairs that once descended to the kitchen, and adapted the one running to the laundry room to create a private entrance. But, there was a complication--they closed the staircase first and took care of the plumbing second, stranding the old clawfoot bathtub too chubby to fit down the narrow steps. And so, my balcony boasts a rusty green tub, planted with roses, peonies, tall grass and short daisies.

This year, I could use a bit of the plant-based relaxation enjoyed by my former landlady, and think I might sow some complicated things. Weird vegetables, fussy blooms, things that creep and sprawl. It's too early to trust the frost, but today I wore only one sweater beneath my jacket, and surely the warm weather can't be far off...

Haunted After All?

2009-04-01T09:18:00.011-04:00

It seems perhaps, I am haunted after all. For a week, my sleep has been showered by strange, anxious, angry things, and I awake feeling like something went down while I was out--a battle or fight, a tussle, accident or crime, but I can't remember the details.

2.
At last, I am past the heartbreak that plagued early winter. This haunting, it's not that. Fuck. Finally. I am so tired of feeling sad and icky. I am excited to have a little colour back in my cheeks.

3.
A friend tells me she, too, has been haunted the past several weeks. It seems there's a lot of this going around. Her ghost is confounding, frustrating, stale and tormenting. Meaner than a gnat, tougher to grasp than fog, more cunning than a fox. She is haunted by something crummy. It perches on her shoulder like a parrot on a pirate, yapping in her ear while she goes about her day.

4.
Yesterday during the hours and hours of rain, worms splayed themselves on the sidewalk. They were skinny, twig-thin, like they'd hibernated in frozen soil with nothing to eat. This made me realise I have no idea how worms work! Do they sleep through winter and awake come spring? Or, are they planted like bulbs in autumn to emerge for the first time, born from thawed dirt? On the pavement they met their demise, but even a worm massacre was somehow hopeful. Dead worms! Springtime! Yes.

Haunted

2009-03-30T21:24:00.004-04:00

A friend believes he's being haunted. He doesn't think this ghost has his best interests in mind. Or, maybe it does; yet, it presents itself as a menacing force, and has two, perhaps three, claws.

I suggest he is being haunted by himself, his own desires, inner conflicts, internal wrestling matches that pit two parts of his character against each other. He disagrees.

Perhaps, then, it's my kitten (who loves to bite his hands each time he pays her a visit) calling to him from across town, beckoning him via spooky dreams to come over, come over, for a session of kitten nips and scratches?

No, he doesn't think that sounds quite right. He describes its presence as bad news, definitely not sweet, furry or mischievous. I agree: it's not my little Birdie. She's a bit of a bad ass, but hasn't got an ounce of "mean" in her tiny body.

I run through a few other possibilities, ticking off common ghosts on my fingers: dead relative; person from his past; unresolved issues; leftover ick from a situation he dealt with last week? No, nope, none of those.

Hmmm...this is a tough ghost to crack.

I don't think I have been personally haunted, although I once rented a house that gave my friends the willies, and we were pretty sure the cat saw something more than air each time it stalked "nothing" and trapped it in the corner.

I've quickened my pace walking home a few times. Darted up the basement stairs with my back to the wall and an eye on the door at the top. Raised the hair on my arms playing seance at sleepovers in grade seven. But haunting? No, I don't think so.

Not so far.

The Reliable Narrator

2009-03-30T13:56:00.003-04:00

I am reading a novel, a weird one. The story is staged in a facility for chronic liars. You must decide whether the action is occurring as laid out on the page, whether its characters are being honest, modestly obfuscating, outright fabricating. In literature, I love this sort of thing; in real life, I prefer it straight-up.

In university, I took a survey course in literary genres. The professor distributed the reading list and explained, "The best way to learn to critique a genre is by studying its failures." He believed that an excellent romance novel, superb Shakespearean tragedy, or noir thriller would hook you, and, caught up in the piece you'd gloss over what makes a mystery a mystery; a bildungsroman more than a coming-of-age story; a sonnet not simply a poem. Instead, if you looked at a rather crappy book, you would take note of how it fell short, and appreciate why the greats are indeed great.

The course orbited the issue of narrative reliability--can you trust the voice that is telling the story? The Great Gatsby, for instance, is recounted by a narrator with vested interest in casting himself as someone swept along by others rather than a figure who directly moved the action toward disaster. Passive, not active; impelled, not compelled; admirably tragic rather than guiltily tarnished.

I loved this idea--that I was being fed a line by an author's invention, dealt a fib by someone who doesn't exist. That a book might be a liar.

I know I should carefully consider the source of gossip. Carefully consider its relevance, too. Does it matter, for instance, if I got fucked around three years ago? Does it matter, who's telling me the story, does it matter, the timeline, the trade?

But gossip, when it's about my own life, is tantalising. It hangs above my head like a bunch of grapes and when I reach up, hoping to draw it in for scrutiny, it recedes. The details lose definition, like shrinking print. I clutch, I grasp but never gain purchase. I could reach for something better, something that will not make my belly ache. Still, I swat at those sour grapes, hands tapered to a plucking shape. There the stories dangle. A sickening orchard of frustration.

Recently, I was lied to a little by someone who claimed they were telling me some things to clear up past lies. Then, someone else told me no, no, the first someone was lying even worse. How to decode all this? Do I even bother, or just dump it all and walk away?

My own stories, how reliable are they? I tell you this, and I tell you that. Do you believe they concern the same woman? That they profile the same man? That he was once good until exposed as bad? Or, that one story is inflated, the other mostly true? Which bits are made up? Which are true? All of it, none of it, some of it?

How about this one?

"Lily is over Skip, and realises she was like Alice, nibbling treats that made her shrink or grow, all out of proportion. Long neck, short arms, plump fingers, minute feet, tempted time and again to swallow anything adorned with a ribbon and a short note. Drink me. Eat me. Poison."

The precept "write what you know" is slippery, allows you to roll facts between your palms like a Play-Doh snake. I can tell you my story, and then tell you it's true. What you make of it up to you.

The Bird, Flipping It

2009-03-30T06:07:00.003-04:00

Today, I feel like a steaming, roiling ball of Angry. Capital "A". Like I am the embodiment of flipping the bird. Like this mucky glove in the alley out back of my house, trampled until its middle finger became permanently folded in a rude gesture.

I am stewing and brewing, boiling over with "grrrrr". I feel like spitting, but know it'd all go wrong, landing in a long, stringy goober down my own chin. No one to blame but myself for that additional affront, like stubbing a toe.

I am confident it will subside. Sometime.

For now, I percolate.

The Traveller (Bad Lines: Part Five)

2009-03-29T15:26:00.009-04:00

He make his move when my girlfriend steps outside for a cigarette. Comes up behind me and taps my shoulder, then does that duck-around thing so that when you turn to look, the guy is at your opposite side. Playground games--smooth.

"You ladies look deep in conversation," he says. "Too deep to make room for my friend and I?" A question. The next move mine to make. My girlfriend returns before I can reply, makes the move on my behalf.

"Miller! I'm single for three years and get no attention. You're single for three weeks and the moment I step outside, they're flocking to you in swarms!" Tells me to introduce her to my new friends, but it's too loud (some hipster DJ spinning music that rolls from song to song in a clangy blur), so we watch the men make the shape of their names but the sound is lost the moment it passes their lips. Let's call them her guy and my guy.

The men go to the bar, return with scotch for us, beer for them. While they're out of earshot, my friend nudges me, tells me my guy seems sweet and is also very cute. I agree, but feel nauseous. I've been single three or four weeks, unceremoniously dumped by the man I believed I'd spend the rest of my life with. Am pretty much in shock, and in no shape to date.

"Duh, you don't have to date him," my friend points out, "just go out with him. Give him your number and go for a drink. People do this. It's normal. It happens all the time. It might even be fun."

Dating, number-swapping, getting to know each other. It stands the hair on my neck, makes my palms sweat, provokes a dozen cliché reactions to something I might want to do but am also terrified to jump into. Ugh.

My guy does seem nice. Right away, he loses the ironic drawl intended to mask whether he's interested or not. Asks questions about me, my life, my evening. Remembers what I say and a few minutes later, brings the conversation back around to an earlier point. Is paying attention, not just wooing. He's not some dick trying to pick me up because the hour is late and no one else came along. Seems like someone I might actually have a nice time chatting with, under quieter, casual conditions.

I look to my friend. Her guy is pacing, clearly wants to keep the bar crawl moving, perhaps with my friend and I in tow. My guy asks if we'd like to join them for another drink up the street. I tell him thanks but I'm out with my friend and it'd be wrong to hijack the evening, even for a pair of nice men.

"But," I suggest, "I can give you my number if you'd like to get together on purpose sometime."

"Oh, I don't live here," he says. "I'm just in town till morning and lost track of the guy whose place I'm supposed to crash at. I just thought, well...you know..."

A sleepover--how sweet. Such a gentleman. Dating. Number-swapping. Getting to know each other. Ugh. Not yet. Maybe some other time.

Cool Kid

2009-03-29T09:02:00.004-04:00

I see this cool kid on the streetcar every morning. He's pale and slightly built, with bird-wing shoulder blades and feathery blond hair. Two weeks ago, he dyed it turquoise--this drew the girls like a flock to a pile of birdseed. They plucked and pecked, chittering about how cute he looked, did he do his homework for French class, oh my god that test was so hard, doesn't he agree it was so unfair? The cool kid was ringed by their huddle, dwarfed by girls with a four-inch head-start on puberty. Still, he was cool. He had coloured hair, he clutched the bar as the streetcar rounded the bend at Spadina Ave, let his backpack droop, shuffled his left foot then his right. Told the girls, yeah, the test was sort of ok.

He wasn't showing off, wasn't shy or uninterested. He just wasn't into those girls. They were fine to talk with, but he could take or leave their attention. He has cute hair, now faded to a milky blue, he has his headphones and his pale cheeks. He has ok grades, judging by his opinion of the math test. Probably, he could have a crush on a few of the girls...if he felt like it...but he doesn't. Feel like, that is.

He reminds me of Trevor, the boy my girlfriends and I loved through grade eight and the summer before grade nine. We had brand-new boobs, deliberate hair styles, braces, mascara. We wore all four terribly--ill-fitting training bras, too much Aqua Net, headgear, globs of black ringing our eyes. We flipped our hair and rolled our shoulders, rocked hand-on-hip. We gabbed about ridiculous things, intended to impress Trevor, to show him we were super-mature, definitely girlfriend material. Totally the one(s) for him.

But, he had his skateboard, he had Richard and Edmund, he had trackpants with a rip in the knee. Trackpants. Even surrounded by our drugstore perfume and petting hands, this kid wasn't getting boners! If he was, surely he'd take precautions against popping evidence that we were getting to him. If there was a chance he liked us, he'd have upgraded to sturdy, restraining denim. But no. He was immune to our advances, content to chuck rocks and practice ollies and make armpit farts with Rich.

In grade nine, Trevor moved away, his dad was in the army and shunted his family from place to place. Turns out this was the kiss of death for his son's coolness--by the time Trevor returned in grade ten, the girls had moved on. We had boyfriends a couple grades ahead of us, beginner driving permits, periods and proper handbags. We knew where to buy decent perfume, how to pull beer on Friday nights, where to gather and hang out--not at the skate park.

The blue-haired kid on the streetcar rides alone most mornings, the girls crowding around him when their transit schedules intersect. He reads and flicks the dial on his iPod, brushes his bangs from his eyes with the palm of his hand. Leans his head against the glass and shifts in his seat. I wonder how cool he'll be after summer holidays, whether he'll stay tiny or sprout taller, what'll happen when the girls move on. Today, he looks like probably, he doesn't give a crap about any of that. Mostly, he just thinks about getting to school.

Ladyman (Bad Lines: Part Four)

2009-03-27T18:05:00.007-04:00

Lunchbreak. Walking through the concourse below my office building. Always a cast of skeezy characters loitering, but this guy, I didn't smell him coming. He was swaggering in a mildly idiotic way--he's King of the World, a true man among lesser men. A gift that ladies should be so lucky to unwrap. Ugh. Veering a little closer, he tosses me a line, casual and suave:

"You're a good looking lady, man."

Pardon me?!

As in, I am an attractive transvestite? Take a look--no Adam's apple bobs behind my scarf. Or, I'm an effeminate guy? Ok, my chest is modestly endowed but I hardly look like a dude. Or, is this just very bad diction, a vocal tick, "man" tacked onto the end of each sentence? It's all in the inflection.

A girlfriend once told me the thing she loves most about New York is the way men compliment her like they are simply delivering a public service. Like she ought to know she looks fine and it's their duty to keep her informed. No lewdness, no propositions, no attempts to get her number. Just a man telling her that today, she looks quite pretty, then carrying on his way.

In contrast, we agreed, Toronto men tend to the other extreme--shouting through car windows as they speed past, "heeeeyyyyy babyyyy wanna fuuuuuuuck?" Sucking their teeth, staring and nodding like they're sizing up horses at the track. Pick-up lines that sound like subliterate text messages said aloud: "Baby U R hott 4 real."

Of course, these are both grand generalisations. I've been hit on by more than a few unclassy New Yorkers, and captivated by my share of men here at home. Really, it's all in the delivery--there's no such thing as a good pick-up line; its success lies in how the line comes across. Now and then, someone cute saying something stupid can work like a charm, if he says it just so.

A Toast

2009-03-25T20:51:00.002-04:00

Glug ting sip mmm ahhh clink

Waiting to Board the Cake

2009-03-25T13:42:00.009-04:00

Once, I was married for a few months; a second time I came close. All my horoscopes and fortunes predicted these events. When I was fifteen, an old lady in a cardigan glanced at my tea leaves and declared I would find love on the West Coast. An allegedly psychic friend predicted the colour of my future love's hair. Neither mentioned that one of these partners would be female, but aside from this large detail, the fortunes were dead right.

My affairs seemed cast, unavoidable, helpless against the bossy Fates. I celebrated the end of my marriage with reckless make-out sessions, unconsumated flings, and eventually settled down with the woman who'd kept me in martinis and platonic dates during the rough break-up months.

Then we, too, parted ways. I removed her diamond from my left hand, and another cascade of dating ensued: young men who'd loved me from a distance while lamenting "If only you weren't so gay!"; a (male) client whose file I pulled after the office Christmas party; random girls gone wild in pretty lipstick and men's neckties. All of this, thank goodness, remains safely stowed in my twenties, when flimsy intimacy didn't seem short-sighted, didn't seem exhausting, didn't seem slightly grotesque.

Now, those episodes are just pecadillos, mischievous and fun but tiring and empty. At nearly-36, I join girlfriends for after-work cocktails, and as nights grow sloppy, we play a game called "What Would It Take?" As in, what would it take for you to become someone's kept woman? Like the novel Sister Carrie, without the disadvantages, depression, or premature death.

We dream up arrangements that permit us to be kept without being compromised (as if by its very nature, "kept" does not imply "compromised"). Of course, we want genuine affection, not some arms-length situation rooted in gifts and gratuity-sex, but since the right men aren't coming along, we cook up interim plans.

"If he buys me cute shoes, is handsome and thinks I'm keen, but gives me space to do my own thing and leaves me alone during the week, hey, I'll suck cock on Fridays," Agnes once declared. The bartender overheard and cut off our service although we weren't even approaching drunk. I'm sure he could tell things would only grow more crass the more martinis he poured on top of our attitudes.

I once baked a wedding cake for a pair of friends--in due course, their situation reached an untimely end with him waking one morning to announce, "I think I liked getting married more than being married." My sister is recently divorced. My brother is raising his son with an ex. Several seemingly settled friends have joined me in singlehood these past few weeks. Rather than feeling weird, alone, left out, I stand in good company--on my own feet, a little shattered, a little fragile, but good. I'm neither a ruined woman nor a shrink-wrapped bride-to-be waiting to board the cake.

These days, men are telling me I'm pretty for the first time in my life. And, now and then, I agree. I'm not sure what this means--their attention, my cautious nod that yes, maybe, I kinda look rather fine. Perhaps they detect a glowing halo of biology, beckoning me (and them) to something more solid. Tick tick tock.

Or, maybe, I've just learned to wear the right shoes, cosmetics, pantyhose, and smile.

Good Eggs: Quarterly Update

2009-03-24T17:58:00.001-04:00

In January, a good friend declared 2009 the Year of the Good Egg. With the first quarter behind us and a new season just arrived, let's check in on the state of the eggs in my life:

1. Birdie: my kitten moved in mid-January, and although there have been some schedule conflicts (she prefers to spend the hours from midnight till sunrise batting at my eyes and nipping my fingertips, whereas I am more the "night sleeper" type) and growing pains (there was a swift and merciless slaughter of all plant life while she claim-jumped my shelves, ledges and tabletops), I know Birdie is a good egg at heart.

2. Coop: my nephew is three days younger than my kitten, and for their first few months, they developed neck and neck. They discovered things together (licking, meowing/ mumbling, grabbing/ scratching) and struggled similarly with issues concerning sleep (sleeping through the night or not, being picked up and mauled each time they tried to take a nap, being scolded for yowling when the bigger people were trying to get some rest). They both love to swim in the bathtub, and both are fond of avocado and spoons. Recently, Birdie pulled ahead and as they approach six months this week I think she might be more skilled at pouncing, but Cooper is taller and chunkier, and I think he pays better attention when you call his name. Good egg.

3. My good friend Joel: in October, he married the love of his life, and after the ceremony, shared his "three lists" with the assembled guests. Apparently his mother recommended he compile these when he felt lovelorn and confused and unclear which direction to take. Basically, you write down all the things your life partner MUST have, the things you HOPE he or she has, and the things it would NICE but not essential to find in this person. Recently, as I floundered to make sense of a trashed relationship that I once believed was a "forever" kind of thing, Joel reminded me of his lists, and his mother's second piece of advice: write down anything you want, but make sure you know which thing goes in which column. Joel? Also a good egg.

4. The ladies: the ladies who have listened and offered advice (or offered nothing but a quiet space and a glass of wine and a sympathetic ear), cooked me dinner to fatten me back up, forced me out of my blanket-cape and trackpants uniform, taken me for cocktails, coached me to (disastrously) ask out that bartender, taken walks in the park even though it's winter, and listened to me rant about endless, heartbreaking crap? They are numerous enough to fill a whole carton. They, too, are good eggs.

5. A friend who shall remain nameless, because I know that's what he'd prefer: he hijacked my Saturday afternoon to show me three of his favourite waterfalls, insisting the day was too sunny, my smile was too lovely, and the air was too fresh to waste indoors working. Definitely a good egg.

Date #3

2009-03-22T19:56:00.005-04:00

I remember the date well--my sister was getting married a few days later, and what happened on date #3 resulted in bandages, a lot of vodka, and a frantic shopping trip for a new formal outfit, one that would cover all the bruises and scabs.

As we sped downhill, you said, "Just keep riding like nothing is happening!"

"Like what?!" I shouted, turning to look over my shoulder. Really, this was like being instructed to not look over there--of course you look; everyone does.

I saw your arm outstretched, your right hand unzipping the knapsack stuffed in the basket at the rear of my bike. I flinched just enough to alter my path an inch or so. You rode into my wheel but somehow kept going.

Me?

I went down like a sack of stones, no time to stretch my foot out and break my fall. Elbow-first, I smacked into the pavement, thinking in slow motion, "Remember Karen! Don't hit with the bone!" My mother's neighbour had fallen the previous summer, tripped over a broken section of sidewalk, landed elbows first and spent the rest of the year in double casts, asking her husband to pull up her pants, wipe her bum, tuck her hair behind her ears to keep it out of her eyes.

I remember lying poised, still clutching the handlebars, then jumping up and brushing myself off. Insisting I was fine. Blood dribbled into my sock. My left elbow was scraped so cleanly it glowed white, pin-pricks of red peppering the cut. You doused me in vodka--arm, knee, ankle, shin--then insisted I take a swig.

In this photo, you can see the scar slashing from right to left, dipping behind the pinnacle of the "h". Until I took the picture, I didn't realise how many freckles I have! And all those wispy, dark hairs.

Last night, I was drinking bourbon with a girlfriend. When she excused herself to the ladies', a man stepped up to the bar and leaned in to order a pint of beer. He smiled. He had lanky brown hair and an out of season coat. He looked, looked away, looked back again. Asked if I would mind tilting my arm so he could read my elbow. Remarked, "'Ouch'? Well. I bet it was pretty ouchy, getting that spot tattooed."

"Not so much," I replied, giving him what I thought was a nice smile. "That part took five minutes and was the least ouchy part of the story."

He cocked his head like I was just plain strange, slid a dollar tip to the bartender, nodded and walked away.

Tough Love

2009-03-22T13:09:00.004-04:00

I am trying to complete a book chapter. It is a week late. This would be ok if the draft was excellent. Alternatively, a slightly shitty first draft handed in on time is also fine. But, my draft is overdue plus rather shitty. That's a problem.

Meanwhile, Birdie is jogging across the keyboard, stomping on the 4 and the 7. She is knocking everything off the desk, bashing the plants around, flicking cutlery across the kitchen floor. Scattering litter far and wide. Digging her claws into the flash of skin peeking out in back between my pants and my shirt--I call this the "ass tray", since it resembles the tiny ashtrays in the armrests on car doors. The ones that flip open with a click, shaped like the spout on a milk carton.

I just caught myself scolding my cat as she perched in my lap and clawed at my hoodie strings, "Come on, Birdie! Kittens who scratch get put down! One more chance and that's it! I am putting you down! That's what happens to bad kittens. Put! Down!"

Paused...

...added, in case she was confused, "Hang on, I mean put down on the floor. Not like put down meaning killed. Sorry about that."

I am unsure whether it's more disturbing that I accidentally declared I was going to murder her, or that I felt I ought to clarify my meaning to a small creature who isn't listening in the first place.

June 7, 2003

2009-03-21T12:44:00.008-04:00

It always smarted a little, the fact that we didn't have a proper anniversary. We did have one, but those early days were tangled in so many things--your break-up, my break-up, a trip to Germany, a lost job, moving house, being confused--that I felt too shy to make a big deal. It made me feel tiny and silly, wanting to mark "us" on a calendar. Like grasping for meaning, bullying for commitment. And so, I let it go, but quietly observed the date in my head, as each one passed. 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007...2008...

Our first date happened by accident. There were costumes and cocktails: a retro flight suit; a pair of high heels; my dykey hair-do; your baby-face; swapping kisses in the corner while a jazz quartet dithered on stage and the sun warned us we'd stayed out too late.

Our second date happened on purpose, and so I really considered it our "first". This time the costumes were worn by professionals (two dancers, one trombone player) and there were no cocktails, no sunrise. Instead, bicycles and a late-night race through the park.

The next morning was hot. The year's first heatwave. We slunk through town, nervous and smiling, not really talking, just holding hands. Mopping sweat from our palms and adjusting our grip. Streets crammed with people. Such a nice day. A pretty good chance we'd run into someone we knew, and we weren't ready to go public. Not for a long time.

You needed a shirt for a party that night. We popped into my friend's family shop, browsed racks of cool, white shirts, old-fashioned ties, picked up second-hand tap shoes and flipped them over to examine the soles. I think you needed cuff links, too. I draped filmy scarves around my neck and swirled in a skirt. My friend was excited I'd brought a man with me this time, wanted all the details, gave me a sly wink and asked to be introduced. He has dimples in his cheeks. That day, they punctuated his excitement that I'd landed me someone sweet.

His father was working that afternoon, too. He was more forward, insinuated himself between you and me. Took us each by an elbow, slid his hand up my arm to rest on my shoulder while switching to a handshake and squeezing your fingers a little tighter. I remember what he said:

"Son, this here is a beautiful woman. I've known her a long time," (he hadn't, as least not that well), "and you need to be sure you treat her right. Do you see this fine woman? Do you see what you've got? You look good together. Now then, you be sure you treat her good, too."

I blushed in horror, a man you'd never met before, lecturing you the morning after we first got it on. Like he knew we'd been naked a few hours ago, and wanted to ensure your intentions were anchored at "decent". Like he thought his reprimand might avert us from a troubled course. He was a good man; he passed away last spring. In the meantime, he helped me put together outfits for several of our dates, select a tie clip for your Christmas gift, find you a last-minute bow tie when chances of scoring one for New Year's Eve seemed hopeless.

****

Lately, I've been too angry to write about anything but this, or this, or this. But, that doesn't mean I am irrationally rewriting history, filtering memories through fury and casting you as The Total A-Hole. It does mean I am carefully considering who I am, who I was before, during and after "us". It also means that I have a special affection for the good times, and am being cautious about languishing there.

I put things into words to give them solid context, to fix things in time, to order the events of my life. I pan for details that shine amongst the debris of tough times, and pick out the good bits to save in a little box. And, even the angriest of my stories are love notes, messages in bottles bobbing in the water and knocking against the side of your boat.

Haste Makes Waste

2009-03-19T17:27:00.000-04:00

A friend and I were talking about our jobs: loving work, hating work, deciding where we want to work. She sounded impatient for change, eager to jump, desperate for something new. I pointed out that perhaps amidst millions of lay-offs, it might be a good idea to wait and see, hold onto what she's got, and plot a careful course of action.

"I want to quit now now now!" she insisted.

"Beware the temptation to chew your leg off to escape the office trap," I replied. "You've seen those foxes in PETA ads. They look super sad to be three-legged."

She liked this so much, largely because of how disgusting it sounds, how crass and icky and out of character for me, that she made me promise to use it in a story one day. I don't have a good story to go with it just yet, and so I posted it here as a quaint little anecdote instead.

The Academy of Beauty

2009-03-15T12:04:00.034-04:00

In June 1986, we moved house. In September, I turned thirteen. Since school wasn't in session, I was at the mercy of geography when it came to making new friends, and my mother watched in horror as I hooked up with some rather advanced local ladies. They cruised around on BMX bikes, frenched with boys at the skateboard park, and applied foundation and liquid liner with the subtlety of a theatre troupe slathering on grease paint.

I'm sorry to say that I joined in all but one of those pursuits with an eager desperation. But, my summer was almost ruined when I was shut out of one of the most important events of the season: back-to-school shopping at the strip-mall drugstore. Sure, I tagged along, but as the girls browsed the cosmetics aisle, cooing over tubes of gooey gloss, the latest in mascara, and the new line of Maybelline, I stood with hands awkwardly clasped, pretending my kit was fully stocked and ready for the first day of class.

At my house, rules were made for bending. No dates (unless it was a special occasion, like a movie with Darcy before I moved away). No pantyhose (unless it was a special occasion, like a trip downtown with my mother). No cosmetics (unless it was a special occasion, like hell had frozen over). Typically, I would push as far as I could, backing off before it counted as "too far". But this was a new town, and these were new kids. My reputation was at stake, and meanwhile, my parents were killing my chances for a good grade eight by denying me a basic human right.

And so, I resolved to get "no make-up" stricken from the books, not just on special occasions but for good. I begged, pleaded, perhaps even cried. I demonstrated my mastery of debate, laying the foundation with, "Come on, mom, all the other kids are allowed!", working up to the heavy hitters:

"You're so old-fashioned!"
"This is totally unfair!"
"It's not like eye shadow makes you pregnant!"
"I hate this house!"
"This is worse than communist Russia!"

How I knew about commies and their deprived but well-lipsticked standard of living, I can't recall. And there might be a correlation between eye shadow and babies after all, as I soon learned watching classmates dry hump on the bus. A certain type of boy is drawn to a certain shade of blue, worn by a certain type of girl and applied just so.

Several battles later, I achieved a conditional win. I could wear make-up, but only after I learned the correct technique for troweling goop onto my barely teenaged face. Next, I would attend deportment class, presumably as a preemptive measure for the day when high heels replaced cosmetics in my campaign for equal rights.

"If you're going to wear make-up, then you're going to wear it right," my mother said as she opened the Yellow Pages and flipped to B for Beauty Services. "We'll go together--I'm sure it will be fun!" Famous last words.

We enrolled in a mother-daughter session at a nearby salon, and listened while Francine, the beautician, terrorized my quite-young mother with threats of liver spots and sun damage. Next, she cautioned me that only whores walk around with poorly blended foundation ringing their jaws. It seemed that without Francine's help, we were doomed to lead ugly, ugly lives. An hour later, we were sent home with sample-sized everything and were encouraged to stock up on larger tubes and bottles. "After all," warned Francine, "your beauty is at stake!"

In the parking lot, my mother tossed her purse and gift bag onto the backseat, and demanded, "Promise me you'll never let that crap touch your skin again. It'll make you ugly as sure as frowning." And with that, we zipped off to lunch downtown, me scratching at my ill-fitting pantyhose.

Like Francine, deportment class cautioned against sashaying like a tart or wearing the wrong shade of lipstick--surefire ways to give boys the wrong idea and earn the scorn of other young women. Over three Saturdays, I learned to climb stairs without spilling books stacked atop my head; to execute a runway-perfect turn; to cross my ankles instead of my legs. Varicose veins, lurid splotches, and panty-flashing are but three reasons why a lady should never drape one knee over the other.

During a more advanced session, I learned the correct method of knocking on an office door, opening it then closing it quietly behind me, crossing the room and taking a seat on the visitor side of a desk, handing over a folder of papers with my right hand while accepting a second folder with my left, rising from the chair, gliding to the door without turning my back on the office occupant, then politely exiting, being sure to shut the door with a click, not a slam. In other words, I was groomed to become some lucky man's secretary once my education was complete.

I'm sure Francine, the deportment instructor, and my mother all meant well, and showing off my paper-carrying skills is still a snappy trick. I could critique the assumption that overly made-up girls are sluts, or endlessly dissect the construct of "slut" itself. Instead, I prefer to snicker about my lady lessons, and take a curious sort of pride in the fact that I can wield a cosmetics sponge with confidence...whether I grew up to wear make-up or not.

Longing for Grace

2009-03-14T11:13:00.000-04:00

Grace, in all its forms, is a complicated thing.

For instance, the little prayer before tucking into food. We never said it, but I know some people who do. My grandparents. Aunts and uncles. Cousins, too. We were heathens at Sunday dinner, my brother and I tilting our barely lowered heads to pull faces across the basket of sliced bread. Mom kicking us under the table to quash our giggles. I don't know why grace made us nervous--we never took something without "please", never darted off before "thank you". Maybe it felt silly, bowing heads to someone we didn't believe was watching.

Grace felt weird--like testing out swears behind the shed, certain the moment a really rough one passed my lips, a grown-up would materialise, shouting, "Ah-ha! Mouth! Soap! Now!"

Saying grace felt like that. The other kind of grace makes me nervous, too.

Grace can be a way of gliding through space; simple, sweet, lovely. A body moving without snaring itself on something unseen in the air. Riding a current not everyone can locate. Effortless. Grace can't be cultivated; it's a born with it thing. Grace is the opposite of an ache.

Grace and manners are different creatures. I lack the former but like to think I know how to conduct myself well. What, then, of my habit of punctuating stories with fuck or damn?

For instance, this, recently, at a slightly nice restaurant:

Jean jacket, frites crumbs, spots of dribbled white wine. Table linen, water goblet, elbows squarely planted. Talking around a full and chewing mouth, but knowing where to place my napkin when I excused myself to the ladies room. Dainty salad, duck breast, and a story ending with, "and if he's going to be that sort of asshole, he can go fuck himself!"

And my dinner date: hair rumpled, shirt collar askew, using an outdoor voice indoors while discussing delicate issues. But then, her way of tipping her wrist just so, her hands a bit older than mine, edging her chair toward her meal without making a sound, knowing how long to hold the waiter's gaze.

That, strangely, was grace. A complicated thing.