Chillin’ on the carpet at work – don’t ask

Sometimes we find ourselves doing strange things in strange places for the people we love... yesterday morning was one of those times.

What was I up to? You’ll find out soon! Hint: It took three dozen tries to get the right angle (this one was a major miss) 

The closest I’ve ever come to killing a man

I’d just taken off my glasses when I spotted a strange black, spindly looking speck on the middle of my bed. In one swift, automatic motion, like one of those robotic arms at GM checking a tail light, I squinted and leaned down for a closer look.

I remember that fateful day in grade six when I first discovered I needed glasses. My friend and I were running for the bus. “What number is it?” he hollered over his shoulder. I couldn’t tell him. I knew from the look he gave me after he’d turned to check for himself, that from that moment on the only 20/20s I’d be seeing would be quiz scores. Hey, we nerds have had to compensate somehow. It’s no coincidence grades and glasses go together. You wouldn’t believe how high my marks were the year I got braces!

As my nose came closer and closer to the comforter, I thought of how many times I’ve come face to face with that eternal question… dust? Or spider?  I must say though, despite all those jerk-back-and-scream moments, there’s a certain amount of empathy those of us with four eyes can’t help but feel for those poor souls cursed with eight. But, sometimes that’s not enough to protect them when the situation becomes a clear case of ’it’ or ‘me’.

I was over at a high school boyfriend’s house in grade eleven. Even though his parents were home (nothin’ to worry about Mom), it somehow fell to me to deal with the teeny arachnid lurking over their second floor landing. I vacuumed it up with the duster extension while my boyfriend cringed behind me. I decided to have a little fun with him (not that kind Mom).

“See,” I said, swinging the nozzle round to within inches of his face, “it’s right here!”

With a wild shriek, he flung himself backwards down the stairs.

Thankfully, the stairs were carpeted. Even more thankfully, he somehow caught hold of the railing – while upside down! - half a second before his head slammed into the ground. Still, to this day, it’s as close as I’ve ever come to killing a man.

The speck on my bed turned out to be a tiny mess of thread. I flicked it into the corner, where it now lies in wait to freak me out another day. Though luckily, now I have backup.

In praise of ritual…

Vogue & brie topped blueberries for breakfast

Indulge yourself! Create a ritual around your favourites. On my latest trip back East, these three ingredients made my mornings magical: a bowl full of blueberries, a huge hunk of  brie cheese, and one mammoth September Vogue. Although I’m sure Anna Wintour would smack me upside the head for the size of that piece a’ cheese, I’ve always believed in maximizing the moment. Who says we can’t have it all! Well, at least on vacation~wink.

Bonus Link: Looking for something to wet your appetite? Try Calgary Fashion’s in-depth review of The September Issue

The greatest loophole in gastronomical history

This morning’s chocolate craving was fierce, unrelenting, and entirely unexpected. I’m usually the one pining for her own Ikea desktop salt-lick. But the holidays are coming, and my palate is way ahead of the Bay’s Christmas window dressers. How can I concentrate with sleigh-bells ringing in my ears and thoughts of chocolate advent calendars - dose-a-day methadone clinics for chocolate addled brains – getting in the way? No chestnuts though, roasted or otherwise. I’m allergic to tree nuts. Therein lies the problem.

What sick, discriminatory urge drove the first person to mix nuts with chocolate, business with pleasure? What a waste. What a tease. Like this morning… when, just as my craving was peaking, I discovered two boxes of chocolates on our office kitchen counter. Oh sweet relief? One was chocolate covered almonds; the other was the biggest tease of all: Turtles. Ever since that one magical Christmas long ago, when I found a stash of Peanut-Turtles hidden on the bottom shelf of a Shoppers Drug Mart in Ottawa, every ‘pecan’ box has been its own disappointment.

I didn’t panic. I just did the one thing I’ve been tempted to do ever since I can remember:  The Loophole. Yes, I nibbled, ever so delicately, around the nuts. In theory, brilliant… In practice? I’m still alive, aren’t I (touch wood). What’s a little lip tingle in the grand scheme of things? People pay thousands for Angelina Jolie’s pucker. My genetics are primed to give me one for free. Nothing like the tiniest hint of anaphylactic action to sweeten a Thursday morning.

An immortal quote for a not so immortal moment

I found this gem of a quote in the back of The Calgary Sun:

“What you love – becomes your master.”

“Would you agree?” I asked my ever-so-wise husband.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at me, and kept smiling until I figured out why.

Got a man? Go ahead and take advantage of him!

It’s no wonder men have been feeling emasculated and underappreciated. Their value in our culture has been steadily depreciating ever since Rosie picked up her riveter. We women have come to judge our mates’ usefulness in terms of dishes washed or feet massaged, rather than recognizing, and celebrating, their uniquely masculine qualities. Go ahead, take advantage of a husband! We forget how useful they can be when we’re faced with a stubborn pickle jar, or a set of chilly sheets. Sometimes, a gal just needs something solid to lean on whilst she ties her shoes.

***

It was 6am on a Saturday morning when I threw four generations of feminism to the wind and finally called for help. “Geeeorge, can you come to the bathroom for a sec?”

I heard him groan, then sigh, then drag himself out of the cozy bed in the next room - where he’d generously been donating his time to the warming of sheets. The man knew better than to ask me, Why? I’m a writer; the occasional crisis, existential or otherwise, is part of my job description. He came around the corner, my knight in shining… um… um… Anyways, he was as prepared as any less-than-dressed, half asleep man can be when trudging to the rescue.

George is a fellow who takes things in stride. Finding his half-naked wife squatting over the bathroom sink with a broom braced against the far wall didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. I, on the other hand, was mortified. How, I ask, can one ever regain one’s position as an object of desire after having been caught in such a ridiculously undesirable position?

There we were, our own prehistoric human display in the heavily linoleumed museum of our apartment, me with my blue plastic (microfiber tipped) spear and him with his cro-magnon brow furrowing deeper by the second. He kept the disgruntled, glazed look as I explained that there was a GIANT spider under the head of the broom and that I was too scared to check if it was dead.

My brave husband humored me. He took over at the broom handle and waited till I’d scurried down the hall before lifting the head off the wall.

“Is it dead?” I called from the distant safety of the living room.

“I don’t know,” he answered slowly. ”There’s nothing there.”

He was right. There was no trace of the spider, no stray limbs, no tell tale smear. After a thorough examination, I turned to George and said those seven magical words: ”Let us never speak of this again.” He nodded, and we both went back to bed, into those lovely pre-warmed sheets.

Later in the day, I thought I saw the same spider creeping behind the toilet, but I left it alone. Sure, it’s great to take advantage of your man, even healthy for his masculine pride, but it’s my own pride I’m worried about. Ever try sucking in your gut while squatting on a counter wearing ratty granny panties? No? Can’t think why not? My kingdom for a loincloth! Now, let us never speak of this again.

I know I shouldn’t blog about people at work, but…

It has come to my attention that four out of this company’s sixteen employees – a full 25% – are wearing glasses held together by quintessentially nerdist means. I know we are a geophysical data processing firm, but seriously! I mean really, could we get any more cliché:

Culprit 1: Scotch tape (keeping it simple with what’s at hand)

Culprit 2: Plastic shrink-wrap sleeve reinforced with Scotch tape (because I’m – yes, of course I’m on this list too – an all or nothing kind of gal, in my loves, in my dreams, and apparently in my DIY eyewear repairs)

Culprit 3: Electrical tape (for a more discreet look, because one can never sacrifice style)

Culprit 4: An ungainly silver ball of soldering (because one must have style before one can sacrifice it)

I don’t dare rank us in terms of nerdiness, but you’re welcome give it a try. Oh, and sorry #4, but look on the bright side; I’m sure your repair will outlast all of ours. And anyways, there’s something to be said for a touch of asymmetrical nerd bling – Jay-Z would be proud~wink.

How to toy with your position in the hierarchy of the universe

It was a standoff in the park. The man stood firm, arms crossed, waiting.  His dog sat ten feet away with an orange, freshly fetched Frisbee clamped tight in his jaws. Neither would budge, each waiting for the other to  submit and take that first step forward.

I put my stroll on hold to watch what would happen next. After an incredibly long and awkward ten seconds, the dog made the first move. He crossed the grass and dropped the Frisbee at his master’s feet, then sat back on his haunches and thumped his tail on the ground with what I took to be obvious relief. With his position in the universe reaffirmed, the dog was free to once again relax into his role of loved and dutiful pet.

Here’s a game I play to toy with my own position in the hierarchy of the universe…

As a woman, not to mention a blonde (which has its advantages, don’t get me wrong), I’ve noticed that certain middle aged men, especially those wearing expensive suits, expect me to give them right of way when we’re walking towards each other on the same track lane of sidewalk or hallway. A few years ago I realized I was, unconsciously, nearly always shifting, albeit subtley, to give them room.

Well, not any more. I walk straight and strong without giving an inch. What happens? Most of the time they realize it’s not worth playing chicken with a girl whose gait suddenly has more in common with John Cena than Audry Hepburn. When they do take the risk, and it’s always the ones who (you just know) trim their nose hair at least twice a week, what happens next is inevitable (and oh so gratifying). I lower my shoulder, in classic football style, and drive right through. I never look back; that would imply I was concerned, or even (the horror!),  somewhat apologetic.

I’m fully aware that it’s only a matter of time before this ‘inocent’ game blows up in my face. Is it worth it? Yes! I do it out of solemn responsibility to my sex, to let the world know that times have changed and the old hierarchy is dead. Of course, it’s a whole lot of fun too~wink. Now if only there was a way to break my husband’s monopoly over the remote control. All I can say is never underestimate the power of a healthy bodycheck.

A ‘Sign’ of our times…

A 'Sign' of our times - as seen on a Monday morning in Calgary

Our Albertan economy is finally feeling the pinch after decades of unchecked growth. Everyone knows someone who has lost a job, or worse. About a month ago on a rush hour city bus, I overheard a conversation between two well dressed business men. One was lamenting over how his high risk investments had virtually vanished.

“Why did you buy into them in the first place?” the other asked.

The man’s answer was spoken matter of fact, with an honesty not often heard on public transit, especially during rush hour…

“Greed.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and quickly changed the subject.

**********

The best way to stay motivated during this time of economic flux, is to push forward with our career plans using creativity to set ourselves apart. Make a list of all your soft skills (ie: social, organizational), to add to your more easily resuméd hard skills (ie: Microsoft Office, masonry). Try to make connections between both sets to expand your general skill set. You’ll be surprised to discover what services you can offer as a uniquely experienced human being, rather than simply a _______ graduate with x number of years working in _______ . Now is the time to market yourself creatively, as a whole person, as… You!

Speaking of marketing…

To my dear SavingCymbria readers, and to those of you just breezing by, I am now available for all your Creative Problem Solving needs. Freelance writing and design (fashion commissions, graphic design, & web applications) are my specialties, along with photography and general creativity consulting for both individuals and businesses. I’d love to hear your thoughts, and thank you all for dropping by!

It's time to get creative with our personal marketing!

The gift of a grey morning on the range

7AM - With work and the city in the distance, this misty playground is all my own...

...well, almost. But he wasn't the only one.

His mate was spying too! Click on the image to play eye spy.

One last look at the real world...

…before ’setting up’ for the new golf season. Welcome back!

(Note: Click through to comments for answer to eye spy puzzle)

How a stone in your shoe makes it easier to get ahead

My new running shoes have a quirk. Small bits of gravel keep getting lodged in the treads. These pebbles cause the infamous Princess and the Pea syndrome with the way they poke up into the padding and scrape along the sidewalk. Yesterday I had one that wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard or long (or at which angle) I dragged my foot on the cement. I tried prying it out with the corner of the next sidewalk square, and even with the edge of the curb.

Finally, after wasting a ton of energy, not to mention looking like a complete yabo, I lifted my foot so I could examine the situation. It took just one tiny, concentrated, flick with the tip of my index finger to dislodge the stone. 

Most automobile engines operate with an efficiency somewhere between 25% and 30% (with up to 75% of the gas wasted!). In previous centuries, piston driven steam engines were only able to convert an average of 8% of their power into kinetic energy. These appalling stats show our historical inefficiency in maximizing energy conversions. Which is to say, we humans do a bang up job at plowing through our resources in whatever way gets us across the street (or eating the chicken) with the least concentrated effort on our part – aka we are addicted to the path of least resistance.

What am I trying to say? There is only one way to get ahead: concentrated effort.

Break out of the “path of least resistance” for a moment and take an new look at your situation. Your percieved parameters are 99% sourced from a brain looking for pattern and security. Just imagine what you could accomplish if stopped dragging your feet on the sidewalk and really took a good look what’s stuck (and why). Just imagine. I know I’m trying. Our futures might be only a finger flick away.

All’s fair in love and… mornings (~wink)

The snooze alarm cut into my shower with a beeping so loud it set my teeth humming in my jawbone.

“MEEEEEEP…MEEEEEEP…MEE…”

I must have reset the clock by our bed on the as-if-waking-up-at-6am-isn’t-torture-enough setting rather than the kinder and oh-so-much gentler radio option. The teeth rattlin’ sound from the next room was so piercing I couldn’t concentrate – did I just double shampoo instead of condition?  I could feel the tiny hairs of my inner ears shivering as the high vibrato resonated behind my eyeballs.

Why wasn’t the hubby turning it off? It was right beside his pillow! I tried yelling at him from the shower, but there was no way he could hear me over the alarm. I finally had to take matters into my own hands, and ran towel-bound into the bedroom to turn it off. Finger to button – oh sweet relief!

I ‘politely’ inquired, with hands clamped on terry-towel hips, into the condition of dear hubby’s eardrums. “Dunno,” he said, claiming to have “not really” heard the Philip Glassian cacophony, “Just tuned it out, I guess.”

“What if the smoke alarm goes off?” I asked, suddenly concerned.

As he quieted my fears with tender reassurances about volume and urgency, a strange thought began to form in my mind. If this man can will himself to sleep through an amped up Moby concert gone wrong, what else can he “tune out”? What else has he “tuned out”?

Hmmmm… better make sure I’m all set to blast on “max” next time dear hubby triggers my alarm bells! I’m not taking any chances lol. After all, all’s fair in love and mornings ~wink. 

The Dorian Gray Snowman

I saw a perfect snowman on my walk home last Thursday. He had black button eyes, a carrot nose, and a jolly hollowed out smile. The snowman stood, proudly postured, with his well proportioned stick arms throwing a happy hug to the world.

This Monday morning on my way to work, I passed by the snowman again. He still stood on his frosty lawn, in front of the same ludicrously expensive, beautiful, home. But… Oh what horrors of debauchery that family must have gotten up to over the weekend!

Not only had the snowman had been stripped of his arms, but he had had his eyes plucked out and his nose torn away. His proud stance had melted into the awful droop of a being who has given up on the world, with his head lolling back on sloping shoulders and the rest of him sinking slowly into the earth. And his mouth, that was the most gruesome transformation. His jaw gaped and his bulging lower lip was sagging low, off to one side, halfway down to his chest. I could almost hear the wretched thing howling at me from its slushy maw as I trudged by on the sidewalk.

I must admit the scene cheered me, in a way.

So often we walk by large lovely houses and imagine large lovely families living large, and lovely, lives inside. What a relief it is then, to see how they might not be so perfect after all – that a single one of their weekends could leave a portrait, albeit in snow, so ruined. Of course, the weather did warm up a bit on Saturday, but that wouldn’t have anything to do with it ~wink.

Help – I’ve married a goldfish!

Let me set the scene…
The hubby and I were chatting in the kitchen late last night. You know, just hangin’ round the ol’ fridge shootin’ the breeze. I turned away briefly (couldn’t have been for more than three seconds), to grab something out of my backpack on the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw George making a move for the fridge door.

When I looked back, I saw something no wife should ever witness. Sure, we all know it goes on, in your fridge, in your neighbour’s, but nobody talks about it. Yes, sometimes what we don’t know will only hurt us (microscopic pathogens aside) when it hits us right smack in the face.

To be fair, there was no split lip involved, but the impact of the horror I saw was just as strong. George had the Brita water pitcher in both hands and was doing his best to guzzle directly from the spout. I know, I know, he’s a guy, and I can deal with the occasional scruffy milk top or orange juice container… but a Brita? Doesn’t that bloody well defeat the whole purpose!! “Filtered” water anyone?

And the visual was just too awful. The man had somehow managed to get his lips wedged inside the spout and was sucking away like mad with a panicked look on his face. He’d been caught in the act, after all, and his eyes were bugged like a lidless goldfish. I could see his puckered mouth, bright fleshy pink, through the clear plastic – not a good look for any man, least of all for my Viking George. I’d stumbled onto a tragic Kafka-esque scene… Man wakes up as suffocating goldfish… makes mad dash for fridge… reaches with last strength ebbing…for …the…Brita?

Ya, so I married a goldfish. Well, at least that sounds better than “ya, so I married a guy who sticks his mouth all over the water filter.” Hmmm, t’is better to savour the irony? Or build on the surrealism? That is the question. Or maybe, just maybe, I should stop thinking like a writer and just tell the man to use a glass!

Sucking on chicken feet – good times?

Uncooked chicken feet...mmmmm

“Want to go out for Dim Sum?” my husband asked me. “They have chicken feet!”

I couldn’t believe how excited he was to try this rather bizarre sounding delicacy. He talked about it with the same breathless, bright eyed anticipation he normally reserves for the newest (and all too frequent, if you ask me) innovations in golf club technology. As for myself, I’m a gal as thrilled by novelty as the next, and chicken feet are about as novel a breakfast treat as you can get around Calgary.

Except of course, for the fabled monkey brains my hubby was also looking forward to trying. At least, until the two friends treating us to Dim Sum explained how they are traditionally served…The monkey is sedated, then its skull is sliced open and the brains exposed through a hole in the table while the poor animal dangles underneath. Thankfully, I didn’t find any suspicious holes in our table. Believe me, I checked! Just imagining my knee brushing against something soft and furry (and still warm!) under the table makes my skin crawl. Yep, I’m all for novelty, but playing footsie with my food (while I’m munching on it!) is where I draw the line.

Cart after cart of steaming, bamboo cradled, deliciousness was wheeled by our table. My husband waited eagerly for the chicken feet, tiding himself over with shrimp dumplings, sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaves, beef balls (not the prairie oyster kind!), and all kinds of other goodies. Finally, the feet arrived.

All eyes were on the round bamboo steamer as my George lifted the lid. Inside was a glistening pile of what looked like thick spongy sprigs of red coral, smothered in a sticky sweet and sour sauce. Our friend Bill, at a huge advantage being Chinese, dug right in. Chicken feet were old news to him, and he happily started slucking off the skin and spitting out the bones.

“Oh,” I said, in an unbelievable moment of idiocy, “they have bones?”

After sticking my own foot in my mouth with that bit of genius, I figured sticking something else’s foot in there would be no great leap. I stared at the strange sticky toe thing in my fingers – too slippery for my chopsticks. All I can say is thank goodness they trimmed the nails! After a moment’s hesitation to get my courage up, I slipped the foot between my lips. “AAAGH!” The closest description I can give you is this: imagine a ‘Parisian’ kiss with your husband/wife gone terribly, terribly, wrong. I’m squirming just thinking about it. I tried biting down through the spongy, goose-bumped, tongue-like mass, but I had to spit it out as soon as my teeth touched bone. I will say, though, the rest of the table got quite a kick out of my full-body-spasm reaction.

What did George think of the chicken feet?

“They’re ok, I guess,” he told me after, “but really, they’re just skin and bones, so what’s the point?”

I smiled. Yes, any woman would be tickled pink to hear those words from her husband. But in terms of other toes to tickle, I think we’ll stick to our own, at least for a while : )

(Image Source)

Learning basic psychology… from a potato

There are some people who, when left alone, begin to die. There are others who, given the space to breathe, finally have room to live. The proof is in the potato…

Years ago, I walked into my kitchen and was struck smack in the nose by an awful odour. The source? A long forgotten bag of potatoes under the sink. The rotting vegetable matter had somehow transformed into a filthy fermenting liquid in the bottom of the bag – Gross!

More recently, yesterday to be exact, I was washing dishes when the long ago memory of buying a potato (for a never-actualized dinner months ago) drifted into my thoughts. With trepidation, I got down on my hands and knees and cautiously opened the bottom cupboard door – I should really work on my habit of hiding root vegetables in strange, inaccessible corners (must have a little bit’a rodent in me, thanks mom? ~wink).

I shrieked and fell backwards! Pale octopus tentacle things were reaching up at me out of the bag! AACK! What the? I braved another peek. Sprouts, they were sprouts – finger thick and ten inches long! I never invited them into my kitchen! I must admit, though, I did feel a certain kinship to this introvert potato, who had thrived when left up to its own devices. I even felt a wee bit guilty when I covered it with empty cans and orange peel in the garbage. The more sensitive among us need to be careful about who we let into our space – not to mention our kitchens! We must remember that even a potato’s noble struggle for self actualization must not be allowed to get in the way of our own.

Now, what’s for dinner?

Risking it all atop the Calgary Tower

There’s a switch in the cloakroom – forty-five minutes one way, sixty the other. “Is that where you control how fast it goes around?” I ask the pretty hostess.

She nods. “We speed it up at lunch,” she says, “because people have less time.”

I can’t believe the power she has, and here I’d been wasting my time being jealous of her pin-straight, white blond hair. I fight the urge to try the switch. Imagine, one quick flick and somewhere deep inside the tower, giant gears are thrown into motion – diesel? Electric? How do you turn a building? The hostess shrugs it off. But what’s the power over one floor, when, with her hair, she walks out and I’m sure the city turns to her.

I want a taste, and my friend and I have a window seat, so I lean down and pull the grey metal sill slowly round, hauling us hand over hand around the circumference. My friend laughs. I guess that’s why she’s my friend. I’m on top of Calgary, watching a panning shot of New York. Cities are all the same at night, each window a separate distant sun. People from the country say there aren’t any stars in the city. Sure there are, but it helps if you look at it upside down.

My friend orders mussels from PEI. I order the carpaccio. This is a night of firsts, and raw red meat is as daring as they’ll let me get in this conservative town. When our plates arrive, I’m overwhelmed by the sweet buttery scent of my friend’s dish. The heaping pile of black mussels are shining in a pool of pale, summer yellow sauce. The carpaccio? How can a plate of thinly sliced, overly salted, strips of raw meat compare to the vision across the table. Here I am jealous all over again.

“Do you want to try one?” my friend asks, when she sees me eyeing her meal. “They’re so good, slimy, but a good kind of slimy.”

My carpaccio is a bad kind of slimy, and utterly, disappointingly, safe, while the mussels are so irresistibly dangerous. You see, I’m allergic to other shellfish, but, I’ve never actually tried mussels. She would let me if I asked, and the temptation takes all the flavour and fun out of my raw meat. I’m chewing on rubbery, tasteless (beyond the salt), slivers of what had sounded so exotic just minutes ago. All I can think about is how easily one of my friend’s fleshy nuggets would slide down my throat. Can you have an allergic reaction from your stomach? When would it set in? Would there still be time?

“I’m allergic,” I confess, knowing how easy it would be to lie. But how many of us have it in them to throw it all away?

“But,” I say, “can I dip my bread in your sauce?”

Might as well save myself for dessert.

(Image source)

Do you mean to imply I’m not in “Vogue”?

“Thompson is preparing an organic lunch of thinly sliced fillet of beef with salsa verde, shiitake mushrooms, caramelized onions, and crisped mashed potatoes at her renovated, environmentally friendly 1862 brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, decorated with Russian Empire furniture, contemporary Russian art, hundreds of books and prints, and children’s toys and playthings – nothing plastic, naturally.” – William Norwich in September 2008 Vogue Magazine

Just when you thought you had your life together, along comes a “Russian-born and Stanford University-educated” New York photographer’s wife to put us all to shame. Sigh. Gotta love Vogue. They’re always a little tongue-and-cheek about it though. I mean really, a paragraph like the one above couldn’t have been written in earnest. Or could it? Oh William, did you really mean to set the bar so high? Are we humble folk, whose potatoes are merely mashed without the crisping, doomed to wallow in our overly plasticised existences forever? Shiitake…is all I have to say about that.

Embarrassed? No. Mortified? Yes.

Groan. Walking while “story-ing” is always dangerous. Only by the Grace of God and the providence of young writers have I survived a lifetime of walking busy city streets while oblivious to all but the plight of my characters. I thought I was being so careful this morning. I made sure to look both ways (at least I think I did), but there are always other dangers. 

I rounded a corner while deep in the mind, and lilting voice, of one of my more odd male characters. “And then I comfort her”  came blurting out - just as I walked right into the crowd of startled business people waiting at the bus stop.

What can you do? I hid under the brim of my baseball cap and sped through. Writing always finds a way to get my heart pumping faster. lol

Before you can play the guitar… (part 10)

Need to catch up on parts 1 to 9? (Click Here)

…I had to go on rage. The rain squirmed in under my jacket’s cuffs and collar. It crept up my shirt sleeves and mixed with sweat to dribble down my back. Just lovely, I know. It seeped in through my ears and splashed up off spinning car tires, drenching my pant legs. My sneakers squelched deeper into the mud with every step, but I was too wet and mad to care about any of it.

Why can’t it ever be easy?! All I wanted was to play a guitar! Was I asking too much of the universe! Why did it have to be raining? And if it had to rain, why did it have to be raining so bloody hard? And why, oh why, didn’t anyone seem to know that the fabled “yellow awning” I was supposed to be looking for was, in actual fact, a flat BLACK sign!

Turn back, you ask? When I was so close? Never. And it was with great sopping triumph that I finally laid my guitar case down in the middle of the Music store. My jeans had undergone the incredibly economical, but indescribably uncomfortable, transformation from medium wash to dark. Claustrophobia, anyone? Water from my green too-cool-for-school newsboy was dripping into my eyes and I could feel my core temperature starting to plummet. Do you think any of the half dozen wandering/chatting employees noticed any of this? Of course not. Apparently, it takes more than a funky hat to get any attention from this class of hardcore music buff. (TW- take note ; )

Stay tuned for part 11!

Before you can play the guitar… (part 9)

Need to catch up on parts 1 to 8? (Click Here)

This wasn’t rain. There was no quantization involved, no individual droplets spread evenly throughout a supporting medium. This was an unbroken deluge sent straight from the heavens. If you ask me, whenever the world soaks through and turns gray and heavy, a person should take themselves off to the nearest bed and curl up with a good book and a bowl of maple syrup drizzled cottage cheese yum… but enough daydreaming. Let’s get back to the action!

There I am, soaked, trudging along beside some forsaken highway on the other side of town (after riding a bus and a city train for over an hour!), in all my tweed capped bag lady glory. You can imagine how delighted I was to discover there were ZERO giant yellow Music store awnings on the route mr tambourine man had prescribed. None the first time I walked it, none the second back and forth, and wouldn’t cha know it, no sign of it even on my third pass after getting more directions from a Cowboy Hat store. Here in Calgary, you’d figure asking anyone wearing plaid would be a safe bet for gettin’ the lay of the land. Not so much. Drenched and exhausted, I finally hauled my 5 ton guitar case into a Second Cup and called the Music store.

I remember hearing a far away voice on the phone saying, “You’re almost here”. But almost isn’t good enough when every muscle in your body is aching from carrying an impossibly slippery, garbage bagged, hand held harpsichord. And I was all out of new ergonomic body/guitar case configurations to help spread the weight. There was only one way I was going to manage the next five blocks…

Stay tuned for part 10!

One more reason to love Agatha Christie

“We are all the same people as we were at three, six, ten or twenty years old. More noticeably so, perhaps, at six or seven, because we were not pretending so much then, whereas at twenty we put on a show of being someone else, of being in the mode of the moment…As life goes on, however, it becomes tiring to keep up the character you invented for yourself, and so you relapse into individuality and become more like yourself every day. This is sometimes disconcerting for those around you, but a great relief to the person concerned.”-Excerpted from “Agatha Christie – An Autobiography”

What’s the first reason?

Before you can play the guitar… (part 7)

Need to catch up on parts 1 to 6 of this blog serial? (Click Here)

He had a pained expression on his face. I guess it’s tough telling anyone their loved one might not make it. He took me through the symptoms: warped neck, loose tuners, broken nut, dead strings, battered body, and that Band-Aid. Do you want to know what it was covering up? Nothing. As in empty space. As in a hole! He stared down at the instrument and shook his head. I had to agree with him. It didn’t look good.

“But it’s a Fender,” I said.

He shrugged and gave me directions to a technician, conveniently located on the other side of the city. “Steve can fix it for you. It’ll cost you about 40 bucks,” he said. He told me that I’d still be stuck with a cheap laminated guitar, but fixing it would be a lot cheaper than throwing in the towel and buying a new one. “And if you’re just learning…” he reasoned, tapping his chin stud thoughtfully.

I asked him if he could at least re-string it for me so I could fool around with it. He said that he could not, in good conscience, replace even one string. “It’ll just make it worse,” he said. And I, of course, believed him.

Stay tuned for part 8!

Before you can play the guitar… (part 6)

Need to catch up on parts 1 to 5 of this blog serial? (Click Here)

A quest like this is all about momentum, and I wasn’t about to let myself get stalled in my mission to play the guitar by the small fact that my guitar could not be played. There was only one thing to do, suck it up and endure the ubiquitous pawn shop guitar “walk of shame” to the closest music store. It’s like your first trip to the salon after a tragic at home Sun-in experience, brutal. They always give you that same look too, that “here comes another sucker” smirk. When will we learn that cheap n’ easy never keeps its promises?

My only other trip to the music store had been for a pick the day before. After “picking” (sorry, couldn’t resist) through their vast selection, I asked one of the so-this-is-what-really-happened-to-Kurt-Cobain salespeople what thickness he would recommend for beginners. “Up to you,” he said, “personal preference.” Then he shrugged and walked off. Ya, big help. How was I supposed to have a “preference” at this stage of the game? So I did what every girl does in a pinch; I picked my favorite colour ; )

My walk of shame the next day brought me right up to counter. Mr. Grunge wasn’t around, so I waited for someone else to come and rescue me. My knight in shining, um, piercings came up and introduced himself. He was carrying enough metal, in enough different places, that I had to fight the urge to grab him by the shoulders and jangle him like a tambourine! It’s sad, but I’m pretty sure he would have made better music than what had been coming out of my guitar. I told him my sob story and asked for his diagnosis.

“Don’t bother sugar coating it,” I said. “Tell it to me straight. Is there any hope?”

You’ll never really know your husband

I could draw you map of my husband’s back. It would take hours, but it would be perfect. I’d chart every rise of muscle and bone, every dip in between. Each freckle and follicle would be accounted for. A baby pink pencil crayon would show you the soft blush of his skin after a massage, and you’d learn his magic: that he smells like the warm, delicate layer of sand dust left on your body after a day at the beach.

My husband is a man of gentle grace and stubborn passions. I could map his past for you too, and tell you his dreams for the future. You’d find out the name of the boy he protected from recess bullies in elementary school, and why he needs to order new ‘rifle’ shafts for his wedges.

This is my husband.

But what do I know? I’m just his wife ; )

He and I were being driven home recently by visiting relatives after a supper out on the other side of the city. I was doing my best trying to give directions from the back seat, but I am a chronic pedestrian and can only guide people “as the crow flies”. And since when do crows have to worry about one way streets and highway exits! 

My “darling” husband, an experienced driver, was no help at all. He was stupidly mute. I kept waiting for him to rescue me and chime in on cue with a “left” or a “take Deerfoot”, but he kept right on with his lazy daydreaming, watching the houses whiz by out the backseat window while I did my best to keep us in the same province! 

I felt my temperature rising. Instead of directions, my brain started obsessing on why he was being so frustrating. What did he think this was? Just another job to pawn off on good ol’ pick-up-the-slack-Cymbria? These weren’t dirty dishes, these were his relatives! Don’t get me wrong, I love chatting up my husband’s Aunts and Uncles, but I also like getting home in time for work the next day! Do you want to know the worst of it? His body language was all too clear in letting me know he was getting fed up with me too! Every time I missed calling out a turn, he grimaced in a most un-husbandly way.

When we finally made it home I was fuming. He shut the front door behind him, then gave me a wicked smile that shut me up before I could open my mouth. 

“I almost didn’t make it!” he gasped. ”I thought I was done for when we turned on 17th!”

My husband bolted straight for the bathroom.

Love. sigh. What do I know?
Apparently, not much lol

Before you can play the guitar… (part 3)

Need to catch up on parts 1 & 2? (click here)

Everything I knew about pawn shops, I’d learned from the movies. And sure enough, when I walked in, the first thing I saw was a sleazy looking scruffed up man behind the counter. He leered at me and I smiled back cheerfully. My plan was to play the naïve university student looking for my first guitar. You know, laid back, chill, financially wishy washy. I figured it would give me the edge if things got ugly on the bargaining table. I wanted my ruthlessness to catch him off guard. Just as long as he didn’t suspect the truth, that my backpack was disguising a woman in crisis, one who was leaving his shop with a guitar whether he (or she!) liked it or not.

Wouldn’t you know it, a pawn shop with a dozen acoustic guitar cases on display only had one of the actual instruments in stock! The man brought me fate’s “pick” from the back of the store and I was sold by the first strum. Ok, honestly, I was sold by the name Fender on the neck and the magical fit and balance of the guitar in my arms. The sound was miserable, completely out of tune and made worse by my hack strumming. But the guitar just felt, somehow, right. There was no doubt that before whatever tragic circumstances had brought it to the pawn shop, the guitar had been loved. Its worn blond wood body bore the scars of a thousand campfire sing-alongs, and I laughed when I found a Band-Aid stuck to its side to prove it!

Stay tuned for part 4

Who is to blame for the ‘pen in laundry’ incident?

The facts:

1-party A leaves pen clipped to neckline of polo shirt earmarked for laundry

2-party B does said laundry (note:checks all pockets of party A’s pants)

3-party B discovers ink stained load in dryer

4-accusations fly

Who is responsible?