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I have a new interactive blog! Now you can comment on my blog entries. My old posts will remain here for the world archives, but all new posts will be available here... http://lesleycrewe.wordpress. |
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Entry date: January 28, 2010
I've decided I'm the most sentimental human on the planet. This
is not a good thing. My husband cuts articles out of the paper so I don't have
to read them. He knows I break down and cry about everything, especially if it
comes to children or animals.
But I think menopause has sent me over the edge. I now cry over
salt shakers, dusters and sponge mops.
It's all these damn television commercials turning inanimate
objects into pitiful heartbroken creatures, pining away for their old jobs and
the fact that no one wants them anymore. That little salt shaker who walks
around alone because Sidekicks has decided to be less salty, is very upsetting!
He's crying in the rain! Alone! In the dark! How can we be so mean!?
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And that poor sponge mop.....he even brings flowers to the snotty
bitch and what does she do? Slams the door in his face! The duster has to watch
as his owner closes the blinds right in front of him....the blinds he used to
dust for the ungrateful hag!
I'm going on strike. I refuse to wash my floors or dust my house
with new fangled gadgets. My old mop and dust rags are downstairs at this
very moment, secure in the knowledge that they are appreciated for all their
hard work. I will not turn them away and send them packing just because they are
old and inefficient.
I'm old and inefficient! And I think I'm pretty salty too. Do you
see anyone around here trying to get rid of me? Well, do you?
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Entry date: January 16, 2010
I cleaned out my kitchen pantry today. You have to be in the mood
to attempt this project, because you can become defeated quite easily. I don't
know any woman who doesn't sigh at the sight of eighteen opened cereal boxes.
But I can't blame the kids. They're gone! Well, maybe I can blame
them, because when they do come home for the very odd weekend, I always run to
Sobey's and buy their favorite cereal, only to have it languish on the shelf
until they return, by which time they both declare it stale.
If I'm being truthful however, this lot of cereal was ours. All
the fuddy-duddy stuff the kids won't eat....Bran Flakes, All Bran, Bran Buds,
Fibre 1, Go Lean, Kashi Granola, Corn Flakes and Shreddies.
I did a taste test with each one. All were in varying degrees of
freshness, but I was on a roll, so I biffed them all. There's something so
satisfying about stomping on cereal boxes to flatten them for recycling.
I always get a bit carried away.
Now if I was Martha Stewart, no doubt I would've combined all
these cereals and "pulsed" them in a blender and put them in a bag in the
freezer to add to oatmeal, hamburger, stewed apples and the like, thus assuring
our required fibre for the day, but who am I kidding? I'd forget about it
instantly and throw the bag out a year from now after moving it around the
freezer endlessly in search of something else.
So I did what I always do, which was combine it all in one cereal
box liner bag, bang it with the end of a rolling pin (another handy tension
reliever), and marched outside to throw it on my dad's old trailer top out back.
It really is a handy kitchen island used by our Homeville crows.
We can get over fifty crows at a time. I must admit there are
mornings when I'd like to throw an alarm clock at them, but they are so darn
funny, I forgive them every time. Today was an example.
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There were a few stragglers in the trees late this afternoon when I headed out with my slippers on. My feet got wet because I'm too lazy to put on boots, but since this is what I do every single time, I'm used to it. I threw the bran cereals, whole wheat crackers and a box of gluten free cereal (UGG) on the top of the trailer. I ran back in the house, changed my socks and looked out the window.
I swear there are three crow scouts that are always sent out
first to survey the pickings. One of them is a normal size. The other two are
the fattest crows I've ever seen. I feel an immediate kinship with these two
porkers. They land on the same big overhanging branch of one of our giant firs
out back. There is no bark left on this branch from all the comings and goings.
There's something about the cereal combo they're leery of. I
think it's the gluten-free stuff myself. They spend the entire time looking
at the cereal and then at each other.
"Are you going to try it?"
"I'm not going to try it. Are you going to try it?"
"Let's ask Mikey. He hates everything!"
The two fat crows look at the thin one at the same time. I
SWEAR!! And then Mikey flaps down on top of the trailer and walks around the
stuff, sniffing it out. He eventually picks something up and eats it. He looks
up. The other two look down and only then do they join him.
End of the cereal problem, once their forty-seven relatives come
by in the morning.
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Entry date: December 10, 2009
I swore I wasn't sending Christmas cards this year. That's it!
I'm done with the whole miserable process. It's too expensive, labour-intensive
and tedious beyond words.
So what did I do? I sent the stupid cards.
WHY? Why can't I stop? Why the massive guilt trip when I
contemplate doing away with something that most people don't bother with
anymore? And why should they? We can contact every human being on the planet in
a matter of seconds if we want to. Email and these blasted new phones can reach
out and touch someone 24/7.
So why the need to go to the store and buy Christmas cards with
Frosty the snowman holding a margarita in a conga line of fun-loving reindeer?
Actually, I avoid cards like that if I can possibly help it, but
sometimes you have no choice when you leave it too late, which I inevitably do.
I'm now stuck with a truckload of cheapo cards.
Then I hunt for the xmas card list but I can never find it, so I
take my trusty old address book that looks like it's been through the Boar War
and try and remember all the people I'm supposed to send to. Even if I write out
sixty cards, the first one to arrive in my mailbox is from someone I didn't send
to. This happens every year without fail.
It wouldn't be so bad I suppose, if I just wrote our names on the
bottom of the card and stuffed it in the envelope but I insist on writing one of
those horrid Christmas letters everyone hates. It's my mission in life to bore
the pants out of everyone I know. And then I have to add a few personal messages
on the card itself. I always feel sorry for the people at the end of the list,
as my handwriting deteriorates as I go, getting bigger and loopier with each
passing minute.
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Then the sticker shock at the post office when she talllies up my total. I could've gone out to dinner for the amount I spend.
But I don't know. I think it must be the ritual I cling too. And
the fact that most of the cards I send are winging their way to friends I don't
see very often. It gives me a chance to remember the good times we had together,
as I write their names on a card and wish them a Merry Christmas.
And now that both my parents are gone, I feel a great
responsibility to let their friends and relatives know what's been happening in
the lives of their children and grandchildren. I brag on their behalf, because
gosh, someone has to.
But I think the real reason I keep doing it is because I love
receiving Christmas cards. They're my favorite decoration. We have wainscoting
in the kitchen and the edge provides the perfect place to display all the cards
we get. I save the really beautiful ones and use them year after year. They've
become old friends, especially the ones that were sent by people who are no
longer here.
When I take them down in January, the place looks too bare,
lonely even.
I suppose it wouldn't be Christmas if we didn't grumble about all
the work that goes into it. But it's always worth it. I love my kitchen just
before dinner is served on Christmas day. The red tablecloth, the candles and
pine cones, the Christmas cards and shortbreads, bring back childhood
memories.....
....of my mother at her kitchen table muttering, "Why on earth do
I write these damn Christmas cards every year??"
I miss you, Mom.
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Entry date: October 20, 2009
Okay, I want to know if I'm the only person in the world who has this problem. Every fall, when I'm driving on country roads, there seems to be a slow stampede of fuzzy black and orange caterpillers crossing the road. Where the hell are they going? What's so important that they strike out in spite of the terrible danger to their lives and limbs.....well, not limbs....stubby little feet? I drive to the grocery store like it's an obstacle course, trying desperately to avoid these tiny explorers. I hate to kill anything. I will save flies and spiders, anything in the insect world. They have as much right to their life as I do mine. I really should've been born a Buddhist. |
Well, I could if I wasn't going in the ditch trying to avoid them. Which brings me to an even bigger problem. Trying to swerve around those tiny little frogs that love to splash in puddles on the road during a rainy night. I'm distraught by the time I get home, not knowing if I flattened any of them on my journey. I tried very hard not to. I just wondered if anyone else worries about caterpillers and frogs. Maybe I need a shrink. |
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Entry date: September 1, 2009 September again. My life is going by at the speed of sound, and that sound has been a continuous screech. This change of life certainly IS changing my life because I've turned into someone I don't recognize. I resemble those little dogs on America's Funniest Home Video's.....the ones who bare their teeth and growl low in their throats, just waiting for some hapless hand to try and pet them. Apparently this is the look I give my family when someone asks me a stupid question while I'm trying to concentrate on where I put my car keys or sunglasses, or when I'm trying desperately to remember who just phoned me and what they wanted. I'm also touchy about anyone frigging with one of my many fans...not admiring readers but the kind you plug in. I have one in every room, whirling full tilt twenty-four seven and aimed directly at me. God help the person who walks in front of it. Not that that's happened lately. Most family members avoid coming anywhere near me, which suits me just fine. What do they know anyway? Who asked their opininon? What do they want from me??? (A divorce. Signed John Crewe) Oh, shut up. I feel like someone has set me on fire. The trouble, is I can't find a fire extinguisher. Someone has also stuffed my head full of cotton, so there's no room for thoughts, other than, "What was I coming in here for?" or "Don't even THINK about touching me!" I cry over spilled milk. I go to bed at midnight and get up again at 2 a.m., 4 a.m. and 6 a.m. I spend my time in the bathroom filing my nails. Why, you ask? Who knows?? I'm not even aware I'm doing it. So I finally decide to tie myself to the nearest moon rocket and soar into outer space. Maybe then people will leave me alone. But I can't find one, which is really stupid. I'm sure Costco has a moon rocket but they don't have a store in Cape Breton, which is also really really really stupid. I have no choice but to read a book about menopause. This is like climbing Mount Everest, because I can't retain information. You try and remember what dehydroepiandrosterone is. What the hell is a selective estrogen receptor modulator or a ductal carcinoma in situ???? I thought a free radical was a happy-go-lucky extremist. |
So I try and follow the advice. I go out and buy all the medicine that is supposed to help me. I am now in debt until I die. This is what I have for breakfast: 1 cup of blueberries 1/2 cup fat-free yogurt 1 egg 1 whole wheat toast, washed down with decaf green tea and: Vit C Vit D Vit A Vit E Glutathione Alpha-ipoic acid Coenzyme Q 10 (I smear this on my face at night too) DHA EPA Thiamine Riboflavin Niacin Pantothenic acid Pyridoxine Cobalamin Folic Acid Biotin Inositol Choline Calcium Magnesium Potassium Zinc Manganese Boron Copper Iron Chromium Selenium Molybdenum Vanadium Trace minerals..... .....not to mention antidepressants, anti-anxiety medication, Advil and Tylenol and baby Aspirin. I also have to exercise with weights, walk for miles, meditate, use relaxation techniques, get acupuncture, get enough sunlight, get ten hours of sleep, get therapy, get vaginal estrogen cream, ground fresh flaxseed, quit my demanding job, say goodbye to my toxic friends, quit smoking, stop drinking, take up yoga, find my passion, learn tantric sex, use fresh herbs, use HRT, do Kegel exercises and spend time with animals. Am I on this rocket alone or does anyone want to join me?? |
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Entry date: August 11, 2009
If you can believe it, I forgot to mention our month long trip to England, Wales
and Belgium in May. It was FABULOUS. The only problem is I came home with a bum
foot. John had me climbing up the turrets of every castle on the British Isles.
Not only that, we had to be at it for twelve hours a day! I'd crawl back to our
B & B's by the end of the night, my feet throbbing. I've been back home for a
couple of months, but still the ball of my left foot is frozen, with a permanent
bump that no amount of massaging can get rid of. Naturally I blame John.
But a big lesson learned is that I will never over-pack again. I had WAYYYYYYY
too much stuff with me, and after humping all that luggage into train stations
and on the London Tube, I've vowed never to repeat such ridiculous behavior.
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I had a cosmetic bag big enough to choke a horse. And what did I use out of it? Toothpaste, deodorant and Chapstick! I didn't have time to put on any make-up or body lotion or nail polish....there were castles to climb. All the products I brought for my unruly hair were useless. English fog is the same as Cape Breton fog, and after awhile I realized that no one knew me anyway, so what did I care what I looked like?
I wore jeans, a dark shirt, a jacket and sneakers. That's it!! And yet I carted
around a hundred pounds of clothing and eight pairs of shoes!
Next time I'm going to bring a back pack and NOTHING else.
Well, that's not true. I'm bringing a donkey. That way my feet won't hit the
ground.
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Entry date: June 29, 2009
So get this.....my sister and her husband are on their way from Ottawa to Cape Breton to spend the month of July with us. They're towing their sail boat, have a ton of luggage and two dogs in the back seat.....one a relatively new "rescue" pug that is more needy than an infant. I'm waiting for them all excited, and just about to make the dinner I'd planned when they call to say the car is dead. They're in Antigonish on a Sunday. Bloody relatives. So we run around and call in favours to borrow a truck with a tow, and take off for Antigonish, which is 2 1/2 hours away....in the pouring rain. When we arrive, there's my rain soaked sister and brother-in-law in the rain (a tow truck took the car), with luggage all around them standing there in front of the boat, with the two dogs staring glumly at the cars whizzing by. Boy, were they glad to see us. Nancy held up a piece of cardboard that said, "Cape Breton or Bust". Last year when they were here it rained for three weeks. Guess what the weather forcast is this week? RAIN. We have two cats. They have two dogs. It all sounded so do-able over the phone in the dead of winter. |
On top of that, I've had to give them my car so they can get around. Apparently the mechanic said their car is toast. To make matters worse, in a fit of fiscal responsibililty before John retired, I had the phone taken out of our bungalow. What do we need that for? Everyone has a cell phone. I just forgot that anytime I want to call my sister, it's long distance. So now we're just trying to guess when they might show up for supper or when we should meet at the beach. Not like that's going to happen anytime soon. All our grown up kids are coming home for their cousin's wedding in a couple of weeks. We're all trying to figure out where to put them and their significant others. We forgot about Jay. He's allergic to both cats and dogs. We'll have to put him in a tent. His newly pregnant wife however, will not be sleeping in there with him. Family vacations are so much fun, don't you find? |
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Entry date: March 27, 2009 It's really ticking me off that my husband is Dr. Doolittle. The cats fall all over themselves when he comes through the door. They jump up from wherever they're snoozing and run down the hall like dogs when his car pulls into the driveway. Their purring would wake the neighbours, if we had any. I have to put up with watching him walk into the room with one of our felines on his shoulder, rubbing his face and giving him head butts in their frenzy to get even closer to him! John has done nothing to deserve this attention...other than feed them and clean their kitty litter box but I do stuff too. I change their water when I think of it and by the way, it was me who picked them out of the cage at the SPCA. He didn't think I was serious when I said I was getting two cats, so with an attitude like that you'd think the cats would snub him, but NO! The skinny cat lays on his chest at night while he sleeps. The fat cat gets in the bathroom sink every morning, so he can gaze lovingly at John while he showers and shaves. I could be jumping up and down sticking cat treats to my body but they don't give me a second glance. |
But the real horror is that now this animal magnetism is extending beyond the house and into the real world. John build a shed next to our cottage last summer and over the winter a little bunny has made his home under the shed. He also likes to frolic under the bungalow itself. John feeds him carrots and they have developed a nice friendship. So John (the cruel man) keeps saying, "Come down to the bungalow and I'll show you the rabbit." I've driven down to the cottage a total of fifteen times and have I ever seen that damn rabbit?? NO. Because he takes off when I come. I have no idea where he goes, but he always vanishes into thin air when I come down with my camera. The worst part is when John tries to hide his smirk. I feel like telling him "I CAN SEE YOU, YA KNOW!" Mr. Proud As Punch with his furry friends all over him. They can all get stuffed! |
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Entry date: January 30, 2009 I was chatting to my sister Nancy on the phone the other day. I miss her terribly. She lives in Ottawa and I don't understand why she can't uproot her family and come live next door to me in Homeville, Cape Breton. I mean just how selfish can one get?? She mentioned that she and my niece Jessica were going to sit down and watch the season premiere of The Bachelor. This is apparently a guilty pleasure, they've watched the show for years. I however, have never seen it. I don't know what possessed me to turn on the television that night. I think I was lonely and wanted to pretend that they were on the couch with me. So I started watching this thing. My mouth dropped and continued to drop for the entire two hours. This Jason character can't help himself, I guess. He's a man. I don't know many men who would skip the chance for dating a hundred women at once, but where the hell did they get these women??!! |
Are they for real? Do they honestly think that this man could be their husband before they've even met him?? They were all swearing their undying loyalty to him before they even got out of the limousine! I was creeped out! I was even more creeped out when I tuned in the week after and the week after that and the week after that!!! What's going on? I'm not interested in these ridiculous women or this jerk who insists on kissing everyone he hates. I'm only watching to find out who "wins". I've joined the dark side!!! I might throw popcorn at the screen and boo and hiss during the show but the horrifying thing is I'm STILL WATCHING IT!! Someone make me stop! This is ludicrous. I could be writing a book. Instead I'm in front of the boob tube watching boobs! I think I should see a psychiatrist. |
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Entry date: Saturday, January
10, 2009 I'm sick again, or maybe I should say still. A great way to start the new year. I have the energy of a potato. So for Christmas we buy a coat for our darling old dog Harry (who's 16 1/2) because he's very thin except for the twenty pound lump on his right side. The very expensive coat fits him like a glove....a glove with a huge tumor. Harry is too old to worry about his appearance, so the fact that he also has to wear leather boots to protect his dragging feet doesn't faze him either, but just for the record, ten years ago he'd have been mortified! Everything was fine, until we brought Harry inside after his first foray around the yard. One of our cats, Pip, the insane one, took one look at Harry with his coat on and freaked beyond beyond. He literally jumped in the air and when he landed his fur was puffed out to the nth degree. He hissed, snarled and growled and literally screamed before shadow boxing Harry in the face. He then took off like "a scalded cat". Pip proceeded to howl so loudly that hubby heard it from outside! |
Harry was completely stunned and looked genuinely puzzled...like "what the hell did I do?" I'm trying to see it from Pip's point of view. Pip was in the hall, lying on the floor, minding his own business. Harry came up the stairs out of the blue and loomed over him. Now the coat has a collar on it. It's black and if I'm being honest, it looks like the collar on Count Dracula's cape. The black fabric is splayed out behind at a ninety degree angle over Harry's lump, making him look about as wide as a horse. So now we have a problem. Pip stays insane for about three days. Everytime Harry walks near him (sans coat) Pip lets him have it, either verbally or physically. It's ridiculous! So then Pip's brother Neo (the fat cat) gets involved and starts freaking out over Pip's ranting.....just like the sibling who won't go near the action but can't keep their mouth shut either. I need this like a hole in the head. Now we have to dress Harry outside or make sure Pip is asleep before he put his coat on. I thought when the kids left home, the drama would cease. No such luck. |
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Entry date: Tuesday, December
16, 2008 Was in Halifax on the weekend for four book signings. I got laryngitis the day I arrived. I couldn't scream. I had no voice. I fell asleep at the wheel on my way home to Cape Breton. It scared the shit out of me. I couldn't scream. I had no voice. I came home to find hubby hadn't put up the tree yet. I couldn't scream. I had no voice. |
He put the tree up and I decorated it. The cats have already taken down their favorite ornaments. I can't scream. I have no voice. I still have all my Christmas baking to do. I can't scream. I have no voice. But if I did have my voice, I'd say Merry Christmas everyone!! |
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Entry date: Saturday, November
22, 2008 Our power went off this morning, for no good reason. Pardon me, it was raining. Since when does rain constitute disaster?? Just our luck, out here in the sticks, we're on a power grid that is as mercurial as hormonal teenager. You don't dare ask it to do anything, for fear it will freak out and scream "I hate you", before it turns itself off and refuses to come back on. It gives you the cold shoulder....then cold feet and arms and torso, until you find yourself wrapped up in your flannel pajama's, housecoat, old jogging pants, pit socks, your holey old sweater that's ten sizes too big, the scarf you picked up at Frenchy's and every other wooly thing you can get your hands on. Since you can't do anything, you jump back into bed and huddle under the covers. Depending on your station in life, you're joined by whining children and pets who have nothing to do. Then you're forced to play cards or Monopoly. I'd rather stick pins in my eyes. |
There's no water or heat, so you're stinky and caffeine deprived, which makes for heated arguments, with cards being tossed in the air or used as weapons. A loud motherly screech sends the combatants packing, but that's when the door slamming begins. At least I'm alone. Naturally that's when hubby goes outside and gets the generator going. The horrendous noise presses on my last nerve, but it gets worse. Now I'm expected to scurry from room to room and report back to hubby via a shout through a window to see if the water is coming out of various taps. He can't hear me over the god awful noise coming from the generator and I can't scream loud enough for his liking. Eventually he does see me giving him the finger. But I'm not really mad at him. I'm mad at Nova Scotia Power. I'm literally throwing an endless stream of money at them and what am I getting in return? A divorce, if this keeps up. |
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Entry date: Saturday, November 1, 2008 Didn't have any trick or treaters this year. I'm getting a complex. We usually have two kids but even they abandoned me. They probably knew we only had a box of chips to give out. Couldn't buy chocolate bars. They'd be eaten by the snack fairy before Oct. 31st. I survived my book tour....barely. I spent an entire week in my pajamas when I got home and refused to go anywhere. Met lots of nice people and that was great, but you really do get tired of saying the same thing over and over again at signings....."No, I don't know where the washrooms are," or "Yes, I did write these books," or "No, I don't work here," or "The time? It's 2:30." |
I cannot believe it's November! Where did the year go? Is it just me or is time going by at the speed of sound? At this rate I'll be ninety in a couple of weeks. I wonder if I'll still be writing? That's one thing about being a writer. No one gives a damn what you look like, which is wonderfully reassuring, otherwise, I'd never leave the house. Now that my baby girl has left the nest, I did the unthinkable and moved my study into her room, because it's bigger. And while it's nice to have more room, it's still a shock to walk in here. I miss her mess. I miss yellling about her mess. I miss her yelling back about her mess. I miss her. |
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Entry date: Tuesday, September
9, 2008 My husband John retired last week. Our daughter Sarah (and our baby) moved away from home two weeks ago. Our 16 year old dog is getting older by the minute. This is not good news. These "life changes" should have been spaced out evenly a year or two apart. Then I might have been prepared. Add hot flashes and no memory to the mix and you'll understand why I've been a bit moody this summer and couldn't be bothered "blogging." Why upset innocent civilians? Now I must prepare myself for a two week book tour at the end of this month. I'll be flying here, there and everywhere. Did I mention that I'm not great away from home? Off this island? |
I'm a huge sook and I'll miss my pillow and my husband (even though lately he's been putting water bottle caps in ziplock bags because he's cleaning out my junk drawer) and my dog (who requires more attention than an elderly relative) and my kids (the ungrateful brats who don't live here anymore) and my comfy elastic pants that I have to leave at home because no one wants to see me in them when they go to a book signing or a reading. I'll let you know if I survive these monumental changes with my sanity intact. |
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Entry date: Tuesday, June 17th, 2008 Went to the Book Expo in Toronto on the weekend, to sign the advance copies of my new novel Ava Comes Home. It's always a blast to see your book for the first time and hold it in your hand. But I was in a bit of a flap when I first laid eyes on it because I was almost late. The security people at the bottom of the escalator wouldn't let me take my carry-on bag upstairs with me. I told them I was supposed to be signing books in two minutes but they couldn't have cared less. I had to have the stupid bag with me. I'd checked out of the hotel and was heading for the airport as soon as I'd signed the books. After a lot of muttering and trying to find someone to tell me what to do I was directed to Room 202 A. They pointed me in the right direction, (so I thought) down a long hall, only there was no 202 A. There was 202, and 202 B and 202 C and 202 D but no stupid A.
I felt like Harry Potter looking
for the train station's 9 3/4 platform. |
Finally found the darn thing. It was down another isolated hallway and when I got there, there wasn't a soul around. Just a few empty tables. There was a cloth covering the table legs, so in the end I had to shove my luggage under the table and hope that no one was interested in a bright blue Tracker bag. They weren't. Got home at midnight. Our plane was throughly entertained by Krista, age three, who was over tired and wired. She told the flight attendant she didn't want water or juice, she wanted cereal. Krista ended up helping the flight attendant clean up the galley and marched up and down the aisle keeping busy with imagined tasks, while her poor mother held on to Krista's baby brother. She also wanted to sit in the flight attendants lap on her little chair in the front as we were landing but no go. What a doll. I wonder if she'll work for Air Canada when she grows up. |
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Entry date: Tuesday, January 22,
2008 Alright. It's almost the end of January. Time to start my New Year's Resolutions, don't you think? Trouble is, the choice is so vast I can't decide on which one I should do first. Lose weight. Now this is always the sentimental favorite, but I make this resolution every Monday morning, so it's not that exciting anymore. More exercise. Well, I'm not too bad in that department. I walk everyday. That's when I make up dialogue in my head. I used to do it in the car while driving, but I got so engrossed in a crucial scene once, I had a car accident. So I'm not allowed to "think" of books in the car anymore. That's what my husband says anyway, but when have I ever listened to him? Clean my house more often. Nah. |
Stop smoking. Okay, but I really enjoy a furious argument with my kids. They say smoke comes out my ears. Take belly dancing lessons. Sorry....the mental imagery is hurting my eyes. Give up salt. Blah. Stop watching reality shows. I really have to stop this insane occupation. My mind is mush. But I have to keep watching Project Runway. I have no idea why I'm so fascinated with clothing designers since I can't sew a button on a shirt but every Monday night I'm in front of the boob tube at 11 p.m. watching Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn. Maybe I'm secretly in love with Tim Gunn. "Make it work, people!" Go to bed earlier. Can't finish my list. I have to go to bed. |
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Entry date: Friday, November 2,
2007 I'm blah. I'm a hormonal, menopausal blah woman. My hair is falling out and I'm grumpy. I'm trying to read The Wisdom of Menopause book that Oprah told me (personally) to buy but I'm too blah to turn the pages. I can't even do hot flashes right. They start at night and I feel sort of hot, then hot enough to thorw the blankes on hubby's sleeping head, but five seconds later I'm freezing to death. This dance keeps me flapping all night. Our cat Pip is really ticked and now sleeps with one eye open all night in case I fling him to the floor. |
I can't remember anything anymore. This is not a good state to be in now that Christmas is only seven weeks away. Let's face it. Women are Santa Claus. And if we're standing around in store aisles saying "What the hell did I come in here for?", that spells trouble for the entire extended family. Crap. I can't remember what else I was going to say, so I'm going. |
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Entry Date: Monday, September
10, 2007 I think there's something wrong with me. I'm minding my own business while browsing in a shoe store at the Mayflower Mall the other day when I absent-mindedly pick up a red purse from the display. A young salesgirl comes over and waxes poetic about the bag. I look at it again. Okay. I'll buy it. (I don't need a red purse. I already have one.) I then accompany hubby to Halifax last week, and while he attends business meetings, I go to spend his hard-earned money. I shuffle over to Park Lane and go into a store called Envy. Since none of the clothes fit on my right leg, I start to look at the purses. There's one I really like until I look at the price tag. I reluctantly put it down. Another enthusiastic salesgirl comes bouncing over. She starts showing me all sorts of bags, no doubt sensing that I have all the time in the world and nothing else to do. Then she pulls out a few others that are hiding on a bottom shelf. "These are last season's bags." I didn't know there was a shelf life for a purse. She hands me one. It's god-awful, in a sort of fascinating way, with a lot of metal and hangy things. It's also really heavy. I'm about to hand it back when she says, "It's a Kathy Van Zeeland bag". I don't know who Kathy Van Zeeland is. She tells me they're very expensive and cool and everyone wants one. They do? |
I look at it again. It's $175 marked down to $50. Suddenly it looks pretty good, if you ignore the basket weave and the large gold studs lining every inch of it. My chatty salesgirl senses my hesitation and launches into a speech about these bags being the greatest things since sliced bread and every trendy woman wants to own one. Her colleagues concur. Really? Now I know nothing about fashion and have never been on the cutting edge of anything, but I bet my very fashionable daughter would get a great kick out of the fact that her mother has a Kathy Van Zeeland bag. I can see her face as she claps with delight. "Okay, I'll take it." I remove everything out of my old purse and put it in my new purse. I pick it up. I might as well haul a Sobey's bag full of milk cartons around with me all day, but I pretend it's not heavy and that my shoulder doesn't ache, because I'm a cool person. I come home and can't wait to show Sarah. I enter her room with the bag. "Look what I got for fifty bucks...a Kathy Van Zeeland bag!" "Who's Kathy Van Zeeland?" To top it off, I just realized the stupid purse is red. |
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Entry date: June 10,
2007
Spent the entire weekend in
muck. Others would call it gardening, but I'm no Martha Stewart,
with her pristine surroundings, proper implements and vast knowledge
of plants.
The only plants I know the name
of are dandelions and daisies. Everything else is lost in a fog. But
I ventured in willingly to Farmer Clem's on Friday and
optimistically grabbed a cart. One turn around the perennial aisle
and my enthusiasm waned because I get instantly overwhelmed with the
variety of plants on the display tables.
I pretend to read the little
cards about how to take care of my flowers but I don't retain
anything. The names of them blur together and I have a horrible
habit of trying to think of all the places I have to grow these
suckers, all at once. This sort of planning actually makes you stop
dead in the middle of the aisle, to the chagrin of other customers.
But there was another woman in the shade plant section who was also
as still as a statue. I gave her a wane smile and she rolled her
eyes back at me. We were kindred spirits.
The next awful dilemma is when
I look at the forest of plants I've accumulated and start to
mentally tally up the cost before I get to the register. Since
math was never my long suit, I give up on that too. It just "looks"
like I have too much, so I start taking away some of the more costly
items and am usually left with a few sick looking impatiens and
a geranium or two.
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Well, that's no good, so I start over and pick up some more stuff. I have to plant flowers in my rock garden, window boxes, front deck box, at two cemeteries, the front door basket, pots and get some hanging plants to boot.
I come away with an alarming
array of mismatched items. I try not to notice that I have every
shade of plant imaginable and not one of them really goes together.
But for some reason, every perennial plant I bought was white.
That's going to look really stupid, but I paid for the darn things
so in the ground they go.
The only thing going for me
today was that it was freezing cold and foggy, with a heavy drizzle.
The black flies were tucked up in bed, so that made my life a lot
easier. But by the time I finished, my pants were wet to my knees,
my fingers were frozen and my running shoes were ruined.
My "casual" method of planting
would drive true gardeners up the wall, since I use only one tool
for everything. A spoon thingy...I forget the name of it. And yes,
it does result in a few casualties and the odd six foot plant stuck
in amongst the ground cover specimens, but I don't think my
hummingbirds or bees mind.
Why stress myself about what
things are called and what they need to survive. I throw Miracle
Grow on them once in a blue moon and water the really desperate
looking specimens and in the end I think we're both happy, but I'll
never know, will I? Plants don't talk. Well, maybe they do and
they're just not speaking to me.
Probably out of spite.
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Entry date: May 12,
2007
Oh my gosh.....a robin is
building her nest in our old fir tree in the front yard!! It's so
low that you can walk up to it, but I won't of course. I don't want
to spook her. There's nothing more irritating then having the
in-laws poking their noses into your new digs!
But I'll be able to watch the
proceedings from the deck, with a pair of binoculars.
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This is the second time robins have built so close to the house. A few years ago, a robin made her nest in our cedar tree next to the deck. I just had to look out the kitchen window to see everything. There were three babies that year.....Huey, Dewey and Lewey. They were adorable!! And I was like a mother hen when they finally flew out of the nest and lived on our front lawn for a few days. Their parents worked morning noon and night to keep them fed while I spent my time on the look-out for cars and cats.
Well, this was the perfect
weekend to discover this nice surprise. I must send Mrs. Robin a
Mother's Day card and wish her all the best.
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Entry date: May 8, 2007
My backyard has become a movie
set for the Alfred Hitchcock classic The Birds.
I go outside to hang towels on
the clothesline and can't hear myself think. Between the yellow
finches, the purple finches, the crows, the junco's, the purple
martins, the chickadees, the mourning doves, blue jays and sparrows,
the racket is overwhelming. Not to mention the four squirrels who
chase each other up and down tree trunks all day, chattering to beat
the band.
Of course that's what happens
when you provide the neighbourhood with a free lunch. And don't tell
me they're not working together. They have a system and I swear they
take turns on the early morning shift, trying to get us out of bed.
They hover on the tree branches
and glare at us through the bedroom window. These little finches
might only weigh a couple of ounces each, but put four hundred of
them together with their eight hundred beady little eyes and you can
be seriously creeped out.
I have a ledge outside my study
window where I sprinkle sunflower seeds every morning. A charming
idea once upon a time. A few feathered friends would enhance my
writing experience, and bring serenity and contemplation while I
scribbled away.
HA!!
I now use a shovel to supply
the greedy little pigs with their first meal of the day. Watching
the antics of these tiny beasts is mesmerizing. I haven't written a
thing for weeks! It's like watching a soap opera.
I've learned that females are the same the world over, whether they walk or fly. These little madams spent the entire day shrieking at each other to get off the ledge. The poor males are routinely pushed to one side and most of them give up after awhile and just let the girls duke it out. I've seen less action on Jerry Springer. |
Thank goodness for my crows. There are ten of them who show up three or four times a day to chow down. I know they look like the Hell's Angles, all dressed in black, with their menacing size and swagger but these fellas are the world's biggest sooks. They take off at the slightest noise. The riff raff around them don't even break a sweat and stay firmly planted, pecking away at their seeds. I can't understand it. Have you ever seen a crow parading around on the side of a busy highway? Nothing fazes them. Eighteen wheelers go by and they're out there going, "Na, na, na na na" two inches from the pavement. And yet I'll clear my throat and they jump out of their feathers, all of them tearing off, swooping over the roof and out of sight.
I must admit I have a soft spot
for the chickadees. They're so polite. They take one little seed and
away they go to hammer it against a twig until it opens. Meanwhile
their cousins are stuffing their faces and spitting out shells left
and right. They have no shame.
But my all time favorites
should be here by the weekend. Hummingbirds were reported in Truro
yesterday, so I surmise they'll be in Homeville by
Saturday....Sunday at the latest, depending on traffic. I have their
feeders ready and waiting. Last year we had eight regulars at the
house and just about that many at the cottage. These little guys are
Spitfires with wings, who spend their days dive-bombing each other
in their frantic attempts to keep the feeders for themselves.
Sharing is not in their vocabulary. They remind me of my kids.
But like kids, even though you
growl and grump about the mess and the expense, there's no way you
wouldn't have them in your life. So I'll be out there tomorrow,
feeding the multitudes. Just call me Saint Lesley of Assisi.
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Entry date: March 29th, 2007
From now on, whenever I think
of our trip to Vancouver, I'll think of the word "UP".
I've never looked UP
so often in my life. I spent a week looking UP
at gigantic trees in Stanley Park, looking UP at
the mountains, looking UP at glass office towers
and apartment buildings, looking UP at huge cedar
bushes and looking UP at glorious waterfalls.
Needless to say I had a kink in
my neck the entire time.
But of course I'll also think
of the word "DOWN". I tried not to look
DOWN when I was frozen in the middle of the Lynn Canyon
Suspension Bridge. I lost my voice and my will to live when I
glimpsed the rocky bottom four thousand feet below. I mouthed "Help"
at John who was smugly on the other side waiting for me to thaw and
taking pictures of me to amuse the kids.
It didn't help when three dogs
ran onto the bridge willy nilly with their young gorgeous
owners jogging after them. (athletic couple in serious spandex).
Now when you jog on a
suspension bridge it tends to sway UP and
DOWN. As they breezed by they were nice enough to warn me
to keep my shoes on the metal slats and not the wood steps. "You
won't SLIP that way," the hunk said as he waved
goodbye.
SLIP. Now there's a word that you don't want on your mind in the middle of a suspension bridge. A suspension bridge that's wobbling with dogs and beautiful people and me on it. |
Quite frankly, I have no idea how I got off the damn thing. I only know I had to get back on it to get to the car, something John had failed to mention earlier.
We also went UP
and DOWN on the Grouse Mountain cable car. This is
a sensible thing to do when you're recovering from suspension
bridges. John looked UP and out at the fabulous
view. I looked DOWN and in at everyone's ski boots
until we got to the top.
Fortunately I was able to
recover from these traumatic events by pure luck. When we rented a
car at the airport, the type we requested (old and cheap) wasn't
available. They upgraded us to a Lincoln Zephyr and this baby had
HEATED SEATS!
John being the rugged type,
didn't want his seats heated. Bully for him. I had my front seat
turned on full blast the entire time. It was a veritable toaster
oven.
Some day when I'm rich and
famous (don't laugh....I'm doing The Secret) I'm gonna get me a car
that has heated seats. Of course by then it will most likely be
frowned upon. Everything that gives you pleasure these days is
environmentally hazardous to the planet. So I may be stuck with an
old hot water bottle under my tush, but I'll always remember the
love affair I had with the front seat of that car in beautiful
Vancouver.
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Entry date:
February 20th, 2007
The good news is I've lost ten
pounds. The bad news is I'm going on a road trip tomorrow for four
days. Now past behavior would indicate that this is just the excuse I
need to stop dieting and start a conga line right to the nearest
buffet table.
But I've been watching Oprah
and I now know the Secret! I just have to say I'm grateful to the
fat I carry around and then it disappears. At least I think that's
what she said. Or maybe I have to start saying "I'm thin" forty
thousand times a day, because apparently I am what I think, and then
the fat falls right off.
But every time I say, "I'm
thin" I start to laugh hysterically, and I don't think I'm fooling
my unconscious mind one darn bit.
In case of emergency (i.e. when
hubby opens his pop, chips, chocolate bar, Joe Louis, cashews and
chocolate milk in the hotel room) I've brought my own bag of
goodies. I have those new Thinsations Oreo cookies, I have Crispy
Mini's, raisins, raw almonds, and those thin one hundred calorie
chocolate bars....six of them.....but who's counting.
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I'll be fine. As long as I don't eat all of them at one sitting.
So that's the snack situation
solved. I also have my little WW book that deals with restaurant
menus but this seems to cause anxiety with family members. I can't
imagine why. So I take a little longer to make up my mind. So what?
And apparently they don't appreciate when I tell them how many
points they're ingesting with their fatty, disgusting, really tasty
meals. I've actually been given the finger in the middle of Boston
PIzza! How's that for grateful??
Hopefully I'll have good news
to report next week.
Oh yes, my winter boots.
Stretching helped. When I stand in them with only stockings on and
band-aids on my heels, they're very comfortable. It's walking in
them that's the problem. I either go nowhere for the rest of my life
or throw them in a goodwill bin.
We'll see.
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Entry Date: February 9th,
2007 I took my daughter's car into town today because she's on her way to Halifax in mine with a bunch of friends. She's twenty years old and single. I can't imagine what she'll get up to. I'm sure the world's biggest pub crawl has nothing to do with it. She's a good girl, like her mother. So I went to the Zeller's mall to take in my new winter boots to be stretched because I can't wear the suckers. Why I bought them I don't know. And I go out in the parking lot to look for my car and I'm looking for it for fifteen minutes in the freezing cold wind before I remember Sarah has it. Then I go for gas and I pull up on the wrong side of the car or the wrong side of the pump...whatever. Then off I go to get very expensive dog food at the vet's office and I'm carrying out a huge bag of kibble and a flat of cans and I'm pressing the do-hickey on my key chain to open the trunk of the car for a good ten seconds before I remember that Sarah's car is old and can't be opened like that. |
Letting a menopausal woman out into society is a dangerous thing. My mind is a sieve and I can't think anymore. I make lists but I don't have a clue what I do with the lists. I find them days later in my purse, but I did look in my purse and I'm almost sure they weren't there, but of course I'm famous for my large bags, or black holes as my friends call them. One thing I do have a lot of in my purse are pens. Everywhere I go, every function I do, I'm rewarded with a pen......which I think is great! I use them to press the keys on my laptop. I just have to remember I only need one or two on any given day and not forty of them. Alright, I've got to shut up. It's Friday night and I have to have a bubble bath before What Not To Wear comes on. I've been watching it for years and I have to admit, some of their rules are really starting to sink in. Like wearing only pointy shoes and boots. The boots I took to Zeller's are pointy and look great. I just can't get my fat feet in them. Of course the comfortable pointy boots Stacy and Clinton talk about cost $600 and not $49.00 on a Naturalizer sale table. Here's hoping the skate sharpening place can help me. The girl said she'd leave the boots on "the rack" over the weekend. When I pick them up on Tuesday, I'll let you know if it worked. |
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Entry Date: February 6,
2007 Weight Watcher update: I gained three pounds. Do I shoot myself now or later?
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Entry Date: February 1,
2007
I started Weight Watchers last
week. This is the thirty-fifth time I've joined. I once came within
two pounds of my goal weight for Lifetime membership. The most
expensive two pounds in history.
The good news is I lost 7.4
pounds the first week. The bad news is I have 90 more to go. You
see, that's the thing with writing. Your fingers get a lot of
exercise but your butt doesn't move all day.
Perhaps if I share my struggle
with the world, I'll be publicly humiliated into sticking to my
"flex" plan. But I wouldn't count on it. I seem to thrive on
humiliation. You can't be a mother and not.
So wish me luck. I'll need it, because tonight I ate some unsalted sesame seeds, knowing that they're a healthy snack, but no one thought to tell me that 1/3 cup is equal to 8 points!!! 8 points!!!! 8 flippin' points for a few seeds. So that blows today all to hell. |
I need inspiration, so I open
my January 2007 issue of Chatelaine to page 46, so I can gaze at
the fabulous picture of Jann Arden. She's managed to lose fifty
pounds while on the road, and believe me, that's hard. I'm learning
fast how hard it is.
So hurray for her and
hopefully, hurray for me. Of course if I lose all my weight, I won't
have any angst left, and no doubt my writing will suffer, so I
better not get too skinny.
Snort...like I'm ever going to
have that problem!!
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Entry Date:
January 12, 2007
Household accidents can be
downright dangerous, if not fatal, but you never assume it will be
you. It's always the guy up the street or someone's cousin who
accidentally impaled themselves on a potato peeler.
I didn't see it coming. I
was just minding my own business and wondering what to make for
supper when it happened.
I have to set this up. My
daughter Sarah was in the livingroom multi-tasking. She was on
the recliner watching television with her laptop in her....you
guessed it....lap. I believe she was on the phone as well but
it's all a blur.
I was in the kitchen
putting a nice handful of very expensive cherries in my mother's
heirloom strawberry bowl, the kind with the holes in the bottom
that sits in it's own saucer. I never use the thing. Why I
decided to on this particular day is beyond me.
Oh I forgot. This is a
crucial piece of information as well. Only a half hour before
this, my husband said, "Do you want me to take the vacuum
cleaner back downstairs?" (He's always considerate like that.) I
hollered "No. I haven't vacuumed yet. I'll do it later."
Big mistake.
I decide to eat my cherries
first. I decide to eat the cherries in the living room. I decide
to take a few moments of well earned rest before I tackle the
stupid vacuuming.
I walk into the livingroom
from the kitchen, my ceramic strawberry bowl held in front of
me. I was about to say, "What's on tv, Sarah?" when I tripped
over the vacuum cleaner hose while wearing slippers.
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Now this is when it turned into slow motion. I felt myself lurch forward and I tried to stay upright, but I had too much momentum going, thanks to the extra twenty pounds I put on over Christmas. I saw the hard edge of my mother-in-law's tea table on my right. I saw the dog sleeping peacefully on the rug to my left. There was no option. It was Sarah or death. Her eyes got bigger and bigger as she realized I was about to fall out of the sky right on top of her.
I can still see my mothers
strawberry bowl fly out of my hand and go sailing over Sarah's head,
cherries scattering to the four corners of the room. But I had
bigger concerns. Like how I was going to land on top of Sarah
without crushing every bone in her body. The laptop had me a little
concerned too. It was really going to hurt my face when I careened
into it.
Luckily for me, Sarah had the
sense to close the laptop at the last second, allowing me to fall
against her soft bosom. What really saved us was the recliner,
because as the rest of me punched into her stomach, the chair
went backward as far as it could go, giving us a sort of trampoline
effect before we came to a complete stop.
Sarah did ask if I was okay.
I'll give her that much. But while I slid to the floor crying about
my broken toe, and yelling for someone to get the dog who's now
eating my cherries, she's laughing her head off and typing on her
computer to report this mishap to three hundred of her closest
friends on MSN. And yes! She was on the phone, because the guy she
was talking with asked her if my toe was swollen and purple.
It was.
Whoever said, "Life is just a
bowl of cherries" has never been to my house and I bet has never had
to clean up cherry juice from a beige rug.
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Entry Date:
Nov.15, 2006
I did the unthinkable last
week. I buckled under the increasing weight of rampant
commercialism and tossed Christmas lights into my Wal-Mart cart.
What is going on?
Why am I frantic to find clear
outdoor mini-lights with a green cord in early November? Because
when I go to try and buy them two weeks before Christmas they only
have the yucky blinky muli-colored ones with white cords left.
The same thing happened when I
tried to buy a new angel for the top of our tree last year. To my
horror, the construction paper angel that Sarah made in kindergarten
finally fell apart. After I stopped crying and demanded the
kids hurry up and give me grandchildren, I went in search of a new
one a week before Christmas.
HA!
All that was left were $5 crappy ones from The Buck or Two store and $500 angels that resembled something you'd find in the Cistine Chapel. The normal $50 ones had been scooped up by Christmas terrorists Boxing Day 2005! STOP IT! You're making the rest of us look bad. I've been stuck with the same garbage on my tree year after year because I can't find anything decent to buy in December. And all because I refuse to buy Christmas ornaments on 50% off sale tables in January. By then I'm heartily sick of Christmas, as I've been listening to Christmas carols blaring from mall speakers since the day after Halloween. |
I know there are bigger
problems in the world, but wouldn't it be really nice if there was
no mention of Christmas until maybe December 11th?
When I was growing up in
Montreal, one of my best memories was being taken downtown at night
to look at the sparkling and lit up Christmas display windows of
The Bay and Eaton's and Ogilvy's. There were crowds of kids, all of
us in those heavy woolen hats and mitts that weigh ten pounds when
wet. We'd be pointing and ohhing and ahhing and I remember all the
adults were smiling, and not one of them had a camera to capture the
moment. We lived it. It would be really cold and really snowy and
almost December 25th. It was enough to make my sister and I frantic
with excitement.
I wonder how thrilling it is
for little kids to see Christmas decorations for two months before
Santa Claus actually arrives.
Okay....I'll get off my Scrooge
soapbox for now, but I'll still be muttering to myself at the mall.
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Entry Date: Monday,
October 16, 2006
What is it with me and rain?
First it was getting soaked at the Rolling Stones concert, and then
on Thursday I had my radio interview, tv interview and launch during
a monsoon! My hair was a nightmare thanks to all that humidity and I
was sure no one would show up at the launch. Who wants to get soaked
trying to find parking downtown? But 40 people came. I was stunned,
which isn't unusual for me.
Although
if I'm being truthful....which is what blogs are all about,
supposedly.....3 people were with Frog Hollow who were selling my
books, 3 were with Nimbus who publish my book, 3 were with
me...hubby, son and mother-in-law...8 were friends who had been
invited. So that makes what? I'm not good at math.
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That makes 23 people I didn't
know! Wait, make that 22 since I have to count myself I guess. All I
know is that it seemed like a sea of heads when I stood at the
podium.
To make my life complete, it
was POURING RAIN for the entire drive home to Cape Breton. I mean,
sheets of rain. Rain so hard you couldn't see! Tidal waves of rain
caused by idiot truck drivers going 140 kph, carrying monster loads
of lethal things like propane, logs and iron bars. You better
believe I kissed my dirty kitchen floor the minute I got home,
thankful to be alive!
I hope I get over this rain
jinx. I should do myself a favour and buy a good pair of rubber
boots. Or an ark.
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Entry Date: Sept 24, 2006
Okay.
So just ask me how my weekend
went....go ahead...ask me. Okay I'll tell you. My husband
John, daughter Sarah and I went to Halifax for the weekend, where we
picked up our son Paul and went to the Rolling Stones concert on
Saturday night.
Get this.
We stood....STOOD.....with fifty thousand other idiots from 4:30
p.m. until 10:30 p.m in the POURING RAIN.
We had a blast!! Once you're
wet, you're wet. I mean it was miserable and we all wore garbage
bags over our rain clothes and had a huge tarp around us, and our
clothes will never be the same again, and our hair will never be the
same again, and our feet will never be the same again, but how often
do you bond as a family like that? All four of us singing (badly) "I
can't get no....satisfaction!!" as Mick Jagger
gyrated his bony hips about forty feet away! (The stage came towards
us at one point and they got closer and closer...I thought I was
hallucinating with all the weed in the air.)
It'll be a great story in fifty
years....just about when I recover from the ordeal!
The next day I did a reading
from my new book Shoot Me at the Word on
the Street Festival. Since I was stuffed up from my bonding
experience the night before, my voice was a little cracky and weird,
but everyone in Halifax sounded the same way, so who cared.
And of course my children were
supposed to attend the reading, and they sort-of did. Sarah was
pacing outside the building on a cell phone trying to give
directions to her three girlfriends who'd parked about two miles
away by mistake and were running along the Halifax waterfront to try
and get there on time, and Paul and his girlfriend had just woken up
after John called him to say "where are you?" The answer wasn't
supposed to be "in bed."
So three quarters of the way
through the reading I'm trying not to be aware that my out-of-breath
children are running through the venue with friends and significant
others in tow. To make up for it, they plunked themselves into the
front seats and clapped vigourously as I said, "Thank you for
coming" and walked off the stage.
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It's a good thing a mother's love knows no bounds. Not that something like that is very special for them. I've been reading to them since they were in the womb and I'm sure they're heartily sick of it. As Sarah's friends apologized to me afterwards, I told them not to be ridiculous and I can read to them any old time they want. Strangely, they all started yammering to Sarah and the subject was dropped.
I'm starting to get the hang of
these things. After a year in the 'business' and with my second book
to flog, I'm not as freaked out about having to show up for these
events any more. Once upon a time I assumed I'd run away in a flood
of tears if no one showed up for a reading or a signing.
And it has happened.
I had two people come for a
reading in New Glasgow on the most glorious Friday evening in early
summer. Believe me, if I didn't have to go I wouldn't have been
there either. But I had the nicest time. Just me, the librarian, the
book seller (who's children won't be attending university), my
husband, the two ladies and the camera guy. (Yes, it was taped. Just
me and the empty seats.)
And then there was the signing
in the dead of summer in Antigonish. It happened during the Lobster
Festival weekend that everyone in the surrounding counties wait all
year for apparently.
I became fast friends with the
mall's security guard.
But it's all part of this
wonderful journey. I was thrilled to be asked to read at Word on the
Street. What a pleasure to be surrounded by people who love books
and who love to read and who work so hard to promote reading. I
still have to pinch myself when I realize that I'm now on the other
side of the desk actually signing books instead of just buying
them. To meet other writers and know that I am one of them now, is
just sinking in.
I have satisfaction
up the ying yang.
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