What a dreadful title eh? So much has happened over the last 12 hours and I couldn't come up with a common theme. Maybe you can help! Submit your title idea. I shall award a prize for the winning entry!
I know. You're skeptical. You're thinking the prize will be a big wet kiss on the lips or a year's supply of haggis or something equally unpalatable. Well - as with all things in life - you takes your chances don't you?
Booby bites
So I awaken around 8 this morning - 6 hours after slurping the last dribble from a bottle of Australian Shiraz and stumbling off to bed while my pal Spooky crashed on the couch - out like a light. She wouldn't help me with the wine. Had to do it myself. She's not allowing herself alcohol while on medication. Her doctor prescribed antibiotics - a very serious dose - after she kept passing out and crumpling to the floor in the wake of the nastiest spider bite I ever seen. Got her right on the boob. I kid you not. She first told me about it Friday morning over MSN Messenger and insisted on sending a picture of it.
'Come on! What's your email address? Don't make me have to look it up!' she typed.
'fwg@dontwannaseeyourboobs.com' I replied.
She wasn't fooled for long. She looked up my proper address and sent me a gallery of boob-bite photos. Four of them. And - like - gag me with a spoon. The damn bite looked just like a third nipple only bigger and redder with a giant pustule instead of a - uh - whatever - you know - a nipple nubbin.
Okay - have I killed your appetite yet?
"Who wants to see pictures of a spider bite on my friend's boob!" I shouted to my office companions - which prompted an immediate chorus of "No thanks!" Not one taker. Go figure.
Okay - back to the present. I get up and check on Spooky. She appears to still be asleep. I do a bit of writing. A scene from the Elvenkind novel. At 9:30 She knocks on my bedroom door, returns some bedding. I go shower. We're out on the road at ten. Writing group starts at 11. It's a 45-minute trip to Orangeville - home of the Headwaters Writers' Guild. (Is that a pretentious name or what? I wanted to call it the Lost Apostrophe Writing Group on account of the massive confusion and disagreement over the proper placement of the apostrophe in 'Writers'. Before the 'S'... After the 'S'... None at all...)
So - 10 o'clock. Curse me and my disorganization - or procrastination - whatever. Discrastinization? Now we don't have time enough to stop somewhere for breakfast. Double dang-it. We've at least got time to stop for take-out coffees and bagels at the first coffee shop along the way. We pass by Starbucks and Second Cup without a glance but that's okay 'cause I don't think they even have bagels. Then we miss Tim Hortons which is fine with me 'cause I think they're crap anyway. We get on the highway 401 and I suddenly recall that we're totally out of gas. I'm talking the last fume.
Donuts denied
We exit the highway at Hurontario Street and hit the nearby Petro Canada. There happens to be a Tim Hortons next door so we have to hit that too. Spooky actually claims to enjoy their coffee. I can't deny her it forever. She waits in the car reading the Elvenkind piece I'd just written. I run into Horny Tim's without any inclination - without the foggiest notion - that this will be my very last time ever entering one of their establishments!
I wait in a long long line. Finally - my turn.
"I'll have a large double-double and a medium decaf, both with a shot of hazelnut. And a whole-wheat bagel, toasted with cream cheese and a 20-pack of Tim-bits - just the dutchie and apple fritter kind please." She punches all this into the Timmy-Ho's super computer and two other staff, eyes glued to their respective computer monitors, spring into action. One grabs a bagel and inserts it in the THBS (Tim Hortons Bagel Slicer). The other grabs a pair of coffee cups and heads for the THHD (Tim Hortons Hazelnut Dispensary). My gal, the origami queen, slips an apparently flat and featureless slab of boxboard into her hand and whoop-whoop-whoop, with a flurry of manual deftness and nary a glance at her hands she has turned the sheet into a fully functioning double-flapped timbit tote box (THFFDFTBTB).
I whip out my debit card - to the collective gasp of 43 staff and 181 customers.
"We don't take debit!" says the origami queen, obviously shocked. She's wondering how this foreigner could have actually made it an entire 11 kilometers from Pearson International Airport without discovering the two most important things to know about Canada. 1 - that you can't take two steps without bumping into a bloody Tim Hortons - and 2 - that they only take cash.
"You've got to be kidding!" I say, slipping Mr. Debit back in his pouch and reaching for Mr. Mastercard.
"We only take cash." She says.
"That's absolutely ridiculous!" I say, clearly pissed off. "I don't have any!"
"Cancel that order!" she hollers into her headset microphone.
"I hope when cash becomes obsolete this shit-hole company goes with it!" I bark. "I'm never coming back to one of your stores again!" I turn and march away and out the door, already feeling guilty for having given her a hard time when it's surely not her fault that she works for a shit-hole company. Times are tough for some people. I'm normally not so insensitive.
Runaway beards
Now we're really running late so we get to the library's conference room at 11:10 with empty tummies and no coffee. Our mates are already seated around the big table and there's a stranger among them. He's an older man with an enormous white beard and moustache that entirely blankets his face - south of the nose, that is.
'Who the hell's this new guy?' I'm thinking. We just added two new members in the last month to make us probably the largest bloody writing group in the history of the universe - which, by the way, is no feather in our caps. Efficiency is important. Getting 5 minutes floor time per writer during a two-hour meeting is simply no good. I'm a little irked. I would later find out that no one actually invited him to join. He seems to have showed up at the library asking about us and was sent right along by whatever library worker we're gonna have to be tracking down and tying down and neatly drawing and quartering when we get a chance.
Our mates are taking turns introducing themselves and stating what kind of writing they do. I take a seat close to him and immediately it's my turn.
"Hi," I say, reaching over and shaking his hand. "I'm [FWG] and I write hard core pornography." The room erupts with laughter but none from New Guy. His eyes remain expressionless. There's no sign of a mouth anywhere on him. "I'm just kidding," I say. "I write pretty much everything but."
Eventually New Guy is asked to introduce himself. The muffled sound that emanates from behind his beard - presumably from a mouth - seems to say that his name is 'Claire' and he was a political cartoonist and now he's retired and wants to write fiction. Thus he has sought us out. Lucky us.
Pregnant men
We get down to business. We're going to start with a 10-minute prompt exercise. We explain to New Guy how the prompt activity works.
This week's leader, Anita, passes out a sheet of paper to everyone that lists 5 suggested writing topics. Item number 5 is actually just a list of a dozen-or-so words. Sometimes just the combination of two or more words can spark a creative path for a writer's pen, you see.
One of the prompts is "Believing that yourself or someone else is pregnant". Another is "I couldn't believe my eyes, looking at the reflection in the mirror".
I decide to combine these two and I write a brief story. Here it is. It's entirely true by the way.
I couldn't believe my eyes, looking at the reflection in the storefront window. I paused on the sidewalk and stared at the enormous belly, shocked to realize that it was my own, amazed to discover how far I'd let myself slide.
It hadn't escaped the notice though, of crazy Jeanette at the office - who'd long ago stopped asking me to go swimming with her.
I'd been startled when a shadow fell over my desk and I'd looked up to see Jeanette standing before me with that usual half-demented look in her eyes. She leaned toward me, bending, bringing her face scant inches from my own. My hand tightened around the stapler I'd been holding. I'd use it to protect myself if need be. She spoke very slowly, the only way she knew how.
"What are you doing about your weight problem?" she asked.
"What weight problem?" I whispered back.
"You look like you're pregnant." She stated quietly.
"But I am pregnant," I said matter-of-factly.
"Oh!" she tittered, louder now. "You're so funny!"
"There's nothing funny about it," I replied, indignant. "It's the miracle of life."
We read our little stories and finally Nancy asks New Guy if he would like to share what he wrote.
To share is not mandatory, you see - though we almost universally do. Only one time have I declined. I'd gone to a very personal place with a prompt. Still I didn't hesitate to read at first. We have an ironclad bond of trust and confidentiality within the group. I started to recite it but lost my composure and chose not to go on. Simple biochemistry I guess you'd say. It's difficult to shed tears and read at the same time - especially when your handwriting is as messy as mine is.
This happens with some regularity. We've all shared our tears together. Our writing group is as much a support group as anything.
New Guy has very little writing on his page. That's no surprise. Neither did I, my first time out.
"May I just talk instead?" asks New Guy.
"Of course," we say.
"Well - I chose this one - Write about something you feel very strongly about. I feel very strongly about the environment these days. And it really bothers me when people put out a lot of garbage bags at once. I thought I'd write a piece about people who put out too many garbage bags. But I don't think I could finish that in ten minutes. I'd like to take this and do it at home."
"Uh - sure," we say. "If you'd like to."
"So I'd like to ascertain the rules around this. Do I have to use all the words on this word list - Pristine, Feline, Formula, Grecian, Naked...?"
"No - no," we say. "These prompts are just suggestions. There's no rules at all. You can write about anything you want. The point is just to write for ten minutes - just following the pen - wherever it takes you. Some of us prefer to be given a starting point. That's all, Claire. These aren't serious assignments. We just like to get everyone's pen moving - to make sure that none of us fall out of the habit. It's easy to not write for a few days and then start to forget that we're writers. So we make sure to exercise the pen at every meeting - every seven days. It's just a safety net. That's all. Okay?"
New Guy's eyes betray no emotion and no sound escapes the white forest that is his face.
Later though, he speaks up suddenly. "What's this journal you guys are talking about?" he asks. It's very common for writers to keep daily journals, you see. I don't have a diary per se, but this blog serves as my journal. I think Nancy has misinterpreted the question. She holds up her large blue hardcover notebook.
"This is my journal," she says. "I prefer hardcover. What about you, [FWG], you like hardcover too, don't you?"
I look down at my black hardcover notebook. "Yes," I say. "That way I can write on my lap if need be - in case I find myself in a waiting room - or a prison cell."
New Guy has more questions about this blue journal concept.
"She has 200 of them," states Gaetan, Nancy's husband. "She orders them by the case every time she's getting low." I happen to know this is true. Nancy's handwriting is extremely large.
"Would you like one?" asks Nancy. "I've got lots to spare."
No voice or eye-signal comes from the bearded stranger. I for one am at a loss. The significance of the journal is in the intellectual process, not the format of the paper. I'm zoning out of the conversation.
New Guy suddenly rises to his feet and announces that he must be going. It's 12:30. Our meetings run til 1PM. This is highly unusual but perhaps he has other commitments. He slips out the door.
One of our mates begins to read a piece she has brought to share. We're all silent, listening intensely. Suddenly the door opens and she is interrupted.
"Um - yeah," comes the muffled voice of Treebeard. "Bring me one of them blue journals next week." Nancy smiles politely and promises that she will.
Nice cops
Meeting over, The Dumas family, Anita and myself go for lunch at the Nifty Nook restaurant. I get the Orangeville Grand Slam. It is 3 sausages, 3 thick slices of back bacon, 3 eggs, 3 slices of French toast, home fries and regular toast. I also drink 3 cups of coffee.
Next I take my car to Brian's - my mechanic - because there's a serious exhaust problem. I'm waking the dead - everywhere I drive. Pops meets me at the garage to drive me to the farm where I take Mom's van. I'll borrow it for a couple days. Brian can't look at my pipes 'til Monday.
On the drive home I take Mississauga road. Passing through the municipality of Huttonville - a thoroughly unremarkable place marked only by a pair of signs - one that reads Huttonville and one that reads Maximum 50 KPH Begins. As I come to the crest of the big hill I'm confronted by a fleet of police officers standing on the shoulder motioning everyone to pull over - the cars in front and behind me as well. By the strictest interpretation of their hand signals they seem to be asking us to run them over. I'm wise enough to disobey. I pull ahead of them and then pull onto the shoulder. While waiting for one of the officers to approach I'm busily doing some math.
12 points less the 4 that dropped off is 8 - plus the 3 from a couple months ago is 11. Plus 3 more today makes 14. Whew! Still one away from the magic number - 15.
An officer approaches. She's a young woman. We exchange pleasant hellos.
"Were you pointing at me?" I inquire, vainly hoping that my inclusion here is in error.
"Yes I was, sir,"
"Oh. Do you mind if I ask how fast I was going?"
She nods politely. "75."
"Okay. I see," I say sadly. I realize that's about a $150 fine and indeed 3 points.
"Did you know this is a 50-zone?"
I give her my best 'bad puppy' expression. "No. I didn't. I wasn't paying attention. I'm sorry. I guess you'll want my documents." I pop the glove box. "This is my mom's car, by the way."
"I'll need to see her ownership and insurance - and your license of course."
"Her insurance or mine?" I ask, while routing through the giant stack of roadmaps and napkins that fill the glove compartment.
"Either is fine," she says. I pull my birth certificate and insurance slip from my wallet and hand them toward her. She's hesitant to take them.
"Oh! That's not my license." I make the correction.
I have the distinct feeling that I will not find mom's ownership - that it's in her purse at home. That'll be another $150 - at least. We're at $300 and counting. I'm beginning to regret not running them over.
"My goodness. I don't know where she keeps the ownership. I wish I had a cell phone. I'd call her and ask." Ironically I had a cell phone right up until today. I'd just returned it to Mom 30 minutes ago - expecting my new home phone to be installed any day now (Gawd - there's another story that I won't go into just now...)
"If you find the ownership bring it to me. I'll be in the black car," she says. A glance in the mirror reveals a trio of police cars lined up in the parking lot of the long-abandoned retail building behind me. Two cruisers of the standard sort and one black unmarked car. A Chev Impala of course. Story of my life.
Indeed - I find no ownership. I feel a headache coming on. 'Huttonville,' I'm thinking. 'Land of two signs, one hill and a fleet of blueshirts - and nary a house in sight.' Perhaps I'll have to add this to my list of proposed municipal slogans. You see my buddy, Ben Knight once told me how he likes to make up slogans for those poor towns that have none on their roadside welcome signs. An activity to occupy one's mind during long drives through rural towns, you see. Since bringing this to my attention I've felt a lot of sympathy for those places that suffer slogan neglect. I've started to come up with my own suggestions. For instance: 'Welcome to Orangeville - The town where nothing rhymes' or this one: 'Welcome to Melville - The only village in Ontario taller than it is wide. Home of the world famous Melville speed bump. Be sure to visit the Melville Speed Bump Museum'.
Okay - I shall add this: 'Welcome to Huttonville - The hill is alive with the sound of radar guns'.
Do you have any slogan ideas for neglected towns near you? Why don't you post them here? Let's do something noble with this blog. Let's start a slogan project. They don't have to be as profound and insightful as the examples above. Don't be intimidated! They can be simple. I think Ben's tend to go something like this: 'Welcome to Oshawa: Ah-choo! Gazundheit!' See? It's easy. I hope you'll participate.
Okay - so my new friend returns.
"I want you to make sure you have the ownership certificate from now on - whenever you borrow someone else's car. Okay? We need to know that it isn't stolen. We were able to check on our computer today but we can't always." I nod my head. "I've knocked your ticket down to 60. That's only 10 over the limit. It's a $40 fine and no points."
"Thank you so much. You're exceptionally kind," I praise.
"We'd like you to slow down please - and pay attention to the posted limits."
"Oh - I will. I absolutely will."
"Have a good day."
The curse of the "CRDS HEADER 100/PK HH"
So I lower the cruise control to 19 over the limit and zip on home. Oh - but first I stop at a Home Hardware store to pick up some home hardware. I need two hooks from which to hang two plants from my bedroom ceiling. Well - one real plant - a Spider plant - and one artificial plant. I like to mix and match genuine and fake plants and keep everyone guessing.
There's a row of packages hanging from one of those little metal horizontal poles with a $2.99 price sign on the end of it. Each package holds various assortments of hook devices. I find one that contains two hooks and four screws. Two options per hook. There's the regular screw or the really long kind that has a 'pop-out' thingy on the end so that once it penetrates the open space above the ceiling it spreads out, resting on top of the ceiling. Is that called a toggle bolt? I dunno. Who cares?
Two cute youngsters are working the tills. One boy and one girl. The girl offers to help me. I lay the package on the counter and reach for my wallet. It's not in my pocket. Crap. With all that Huttonville hullabaloo I left it on the passenger seat.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I forgot my wallet in the car. I'll be right back." I take two steps toward the door and then discover there's a fiver in my pocket and a looney too. Anita had given me them at the Nifty Nook after I'd paid for our brunch on debit.
I back-step to the counter. "Here we go!" I say and slap the bill on the counter. The girl just looks at me as if waiting for something. So I pick it up and hold it right in front of her so that she doesn't have to reach for it and strain herself. "Here you go," I repeat. Her eyes shift from the bill to me, back to the bill and over to her computer monitor, which sits sideways on the counter - visible to both of us. It reads:
CRDS HEADER 100/PK HH ........... 9.99
PST.............................. .80
GST.............................. .70
Total............................ 11.49
"Oh," I exclaim.
"It's 11.49," she confirms.
"Oh. Okay. Um. I'll be right back." I fetch the wallet from the car and return. There are now 2 people ahead of me in the girl's line. I wait to the side of the line unsure whether I'll be invited in ahead of them or not. I'm standing there for awhile, debit card in hand when I realize that nothing is happening except that the girl is standing there looking at me.
"Oh - am I still up to bat?"
She nods. I step up and pay my 11.49. She hands me the receipt. I pick it up and there is that mysterious line again: 'CRDS HEADER 100/PK HH'. I can't help but think that this description is inappropriate. I wonder, shouldn't it read 'SCR HOOKS 2/PK HH' or something of that ilk?
"Am I paying for the right item?" I ask. Silently she takes my receipt from me and gazes at it for a while. I see the boy coming over. He takes the receipt from her and takes my little package of hooks and compares the two.
"No, you're not," he says. "This isn't right." He holds the package in front of the girl. "Did you scan this?" he asks. The girl does not reply verbally. She stands very still and keeps her mouth closed. Perhaps a bird has landed on my shoulder and she wishes not to scare it away? I carefully shift my eyeballs left then right. I see no bird. Perhaps she is showing us her best statue imitation. I'm not sure what this means - this statue imitation thing. Neither does the boy. "Did you scan this?" he says, now pointing at the bar code printed on the package. Now he points at the scanner on the counter and then waves his finger back and forth across the bar code. "DID YOU SCAN THIS...! DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M ASKING YOU!"
"Um. I d-" She starts, then pauses. She must be terribly confused about something though her expression and posture betray no signals that she's confused. Very mysterious - this girl. I wonder if there's a not opening your mouth event at the Olympics. If there is - we gotta send her 'cause she's a guaranteed champion at not opening her mouth. She'll kick some ass. She'll bring us home some gold.
The boy rolls his eyes and punches a few keys and scans the package. Two more transactions appear on the monitor - one is a refund. The other reads 'HOOKS+SCREWS. W/TOG....... 2.99'
"We owe you an 8.05 debit refund," he says. I hand him the card and we process it. The girl is still standing there in a daze. Maybe her dog died this morning. Maybe they should send her home. Or maybe they should put her head on that counter over there with all the other vacuums.
"Sorry for the trouble," he says - handing me a stack of little receipt papers.
"Oh - that's quite alright," I say, feeling sorry for him. "Have a good day."
Well kids, that's all for now. Don't forget your town slogan ideas!
FWG
"My parents never have company!" Carrie exclaims. She still can't get over the invitation - which I accepted of course.
The old folks and the tot arrive back at the homestead well ahead of Carrie and I. As we exit the car I'm reminded that I've never made it as far as their front door.
"Um - will the dogs be okay with me coming in to the house?" I ask.
"I dunno," says Carrie.
'You don't know!' I say to myself, exasperated. 'How does one not know such a thing about their own dog?' But then I realize. It's true. They honestly never have company. And being so far out in the boonies they don't get any door-to-door salesmen or charity boosters or purveyors of religious enlightenment. This is truly a momentous occasion. Monumental even! I'm struck by the honor.
We weave between the various standing-water traps, remaining out of leash-range of big dog #1 and we make it to the front door. The little dog - named Zorro I find out - is very friendly. Very very friendly. Not leg-humping friendly but almost. He’s a skinny little short-haired thing, significantly larger than a (oh shit - how do I spell this?) Chihouhou - but I’m told he’s a cross between that and a terrier. He looks to me like some kind of Toy Fox Terrier or Toy Manchester Terrier. He’s all ribs and tail and nervous energy.
The door opens on to the kitchen where the five of us gather - six if you include the pooch. Only then does Zorro notice that someone new is present and he wiggles and trembles and hind-legs it to reach up my leg to say hello.
“Hello pooch-dog!” I say and I grab his little noggin and ruffle him up a bit.
The kitchen is big with a high ceiling and a rooming-house feel. There’s a kitchen table of almost Waltons proportions standing in the beams of no less than six chandeliers. There are pot lights over the counters as well. This is a bright kitchen. You could film a sit-com TV-show in this kitchen - and someone probably should. Something in the spirit of The Ozbournes perhaps.
There are three full-sized fridges in here, all running. I shudder at the thought of their hydro bill. They have a massive collection of tins. You know - cookie tins and the like. They’re displayed on shelves and above cupboards everywhere you look.
We take seats around the great solid wooden table. Vanian joins us too with her little toy models of dragons and griffons and such and a few little tubs of paint with which to paint said models. I’m wondering if this toy is age-appropriate or not but dismiss the concern. What do I know about three-year-olds, after all?
The little pooch takes a seat very close to me in a small fuzzy chair that was probably Vanian’s until recently. She’s only barely outgrown it. I look down at Zorro. He’s a cute sight. I like dogs very much. He looks up and notices me and throws a tizzy. The chair falls onto it’s back as he jumps up and strikes my knee with his little paws. He seems to want up on my lap where I’m keen to have him but my somewhat cultured manners put the ix-nay on that idea. He settles for running about in circles while I right the little chair.
Nancy has previously answered my questions concerning the late Ed Wildman, the much-loved writing instructor whos kind words and deeds still inspire the veterans of our writing group. For the article to appear in the group’s web site I still need to interview Gaetan and Carrie so I start with Gaetan. Nancy meanwhile bustles around, never leaving earshot and she feeds Gaetan most of his answers. I then interview Carrie and she’s a little more assertive. She manages to get some of her own perspectives across.
I see that Vanian has tired of the dragon model and is now studiously painting the kitchen table green. I loudly ask her if she’s allowed to do that. Grandpa turns to her, now enlightened.
“Don’t do that!” he barks. She returns to painting the little model.
We all sit down to do some writing. Carrie throws out a prompt.
“That was the most difficult thing I’ve ever…”
We write. Vanian wants to take part so she’s given a small notebook and a pencil. While the adults ‘follow the pen’ the little girl draws swirls and whirls and scribbles.
Ten minutes. Time’s up. Vanian goes first and recites her ‘story’. I can’t understand a single word. I assume she does - that she’s not just making random sounds - but I never really know. Sometimes mom or grandma offers a translation but not this time. She comes to the end of her dissertation - or pauses at least. We immediately respond with exhuberant applause.
Flushed with success and the overwhelming approval, Vanian decides she hasn't had enough. She launches into a spontaneous epilogue made entirely of words the English language never dreamed of. I notice she now has smears of green paint on her otherwise pink jacket. She receives another hearty round of applause and this spawns a further curtain call at which time grandma sternly remarks that this will be the last chapter. Eventually the adults get their turn to read.
At the intermission I head for the powder room. I discover that the main floor bathroom is actually a full bathroom, remodeled to include a shower stall in an annex once appropriated from a former hallway.
The result is a room full of interesting nooks and crannies - each of which plays host to some of the most spectacular cobwebs I've ever seen. If it weren't for the seven - yes, seven - lighting fixtures in the little room, I would have sworn I was in the lair of Shelob - spider queen from the borderlands of Tolkien's Mordor.
Nevertheless I did my business quickly and left, thoughts of man-eating arachnids hastening my step.
Back in the comfort and safety of the kitchen, I say to my hosts, "You sure have a lot of lights in here."
"That's because Gaetan's afraid of the dark," states Nancy.
'But not of spiders,' I think to myself.
"I am not!" barks Gaetan.
"It's okay," I say. "All writers are afraid of the dark. We have too vivid an imagination." I then try to change the subject. "I like your house. It has a lot of character. It feels like the home of creative people."
"Well you know," says Nancy, reading my mind. "Sometimes you have a choice. You can either do housework or you can write."
"So write!" I say
"Exactly," she says.
"We always wash the kitchen floor, though," says Nancy later, as I stand to leave, having thanked them for their hospitality.
"Yes, I see that," I reply, eyeing the bright white tiles. My eyes follow them toward my feet where I discover, to my mild amusement that I am standing smack in the middle of a puddle of liquid that is a distinct tint of yellow. I'm not alarmed. My shoes are on.
"Oh my," Nancy exclaims. "That was Zorro."
I stand very still, unsure of the protocols of social etiquette prescribed for such an occasion.
"That was Zorro," she says again, as if to assure me. As if worried I might be suspecting some other member of the family.
Luckily I'm only two giant steps from the door so upon Nancy's prompting I slip out without tracking too much piddle around. I thank them for the good time - which it certainly was. These are fine folk. A little eccentric but fine indeed.
FWG
So Carrie turns in the passenger seat and peers into my back seat and frowns. In my back seat there is a box of paperback books, a 17" computer monitor, a spare winter coat, a Coca-Cola duffel bag, both of my brief cases and an old-man hat (which I wear on those days when I'm in no mood for signaling lane changes or submitting to any other driver's right-of-way). Also back there are a sun-bleached box of kleenex, a small cooler, a frisbee (a gift for my dog - a Doberman who is now far too old to chase one but still well-equipped to fully eat and digest one in a few quick bites), a few cans of Full Throttle heart-exploding energy drink (for emergencies only) and a couple empty pizza boxes. Oh and spare dress pants and two good shirts arranged on a single coat hanger behind my head. The only thing not in my back seat is a kitchen sink or space enough for someone to sit.
Thinking of her mother, Carrie says, "I hope there's lots of room in your trunk." I think for a moment. There's a camping bed, 20-to-30 litres worth of oil jugs (mostly empty), a variety of jugs of other automotive fluids, my lacrosse bag and lacrosse sticks, several spare pairs of shoes, several lengths of two-inch diameter tree branches (don't ask), spare tire, jack, emergency road kit and a couple plastic bags full of nerds, tied rabbit-ear style. Nerds - as in styrofoam packing giblets - not computer helpcentre staff.
I avoid the question."We'll put your mother in the trunk?" I ask, incredulous.
"No!" Carrie breaks out in giggles. She's a big time giggler. It doesn't take much to get her going.
"I think we'd still hear her from there." This breaks her up entirely. It takes forever for her to express that we'll have to empty the back seat of some of my junk to clear room for mom.
At East Side Marios - forthwith to be referred to as East Sides we land a nice big table for six. I take a short-side seat and Carrie sits near me - at my end of a long side. We look at her art and I'm impressed. There's some minute [my-noot] detail going on demonstrating a level of patience I could never achieve. I'm even more impressed to find that many of the works are engravings. She has etched the drawings on clear plastic sheets in which ink is pressed into the channels and then transferred to moist paper.
"Are you surprised with my art?"
"No. But I'm impressed." She looks perhaps disappointed.
"Most people are surprised when they see my art."
"Why? Should I have assumed you were less talented than this? I made no assumptions about your level of talent. How would I have known whether you're a hack or the next Picasso or somewhere in between? But like I said, I'm impressed. I like it. Let's get it all on the web site."
I have a beer and Carrie has pop. I order some breaded calamari with an arriabata sauce. I've been right into the calamari lately and surprisingly - East Sides serves the best of all I've sampled. The worst - hands down - is Kelsey's. No surprise there. Kelsey's has truly sucked the big one for quite a few years now. A real shame. They were once quite competent. I normally avoid Kelsey's like the plague but we recently needed to waste 30 minutes before a theatre opened for the movie we'd bought tickets for and Kelsey's was right there in the same parking lot. We zipped in for a quick appetizer or dessert. I ordered the calamari. Not only was it gross and rubbery but there was a tremendous globule of it stuck together and when I tried to operate on it - to separate the various conjoined entities I was subjected to a scene right out of Alien - you know - where the robot guy gives birth to the baby space critter. The breading suddenly broke apart and a bunch of squid-like tentacles came flopping and squirming out at me. 'Jesus Christ!' I yelped, pushing away from the table in alarm. 'Who the hell's eating who here?' I couldn't touch it after that. Seriously. I can be a bit of a sissy now and then.
So Nancy and Gaetan arrive with little Vanian in tow. She's approaching her 4th birthday but doesn't look 4. She's very small with gorgeous red hair and green eyes and tiny button nose. She comes to me making speech-like noises that I loosely interpret as "Hi Rich". Carrie and her dad go outside to smoke cigarrettes.
Nancy wastes no time in beginning monologue #1 while Vanian kicks off her shoes and plays solo musical chairs with the 4 empty seats. At one point she is happily bouncing around on the chair opposite mine - the other 'head' of the table and suddenly her eyes go wide as she realizes her little ass has lost it's familiarity with the seat below and very suddenly those wide little eyes, along with the rest of her, plunge out of sight below the table. I believe the official term for this maneuver is ass-over-teakettle. It's wildly comical but I dare not laugh. The subject of wounded children is no laughing matter in many houses and I wish not to offend.
Grandma, however has no such concerns and splits a gut over it. The little gremlin appears again and is okay.
Upon the smokers' return Vanian takes the seat beside me - opposite her mom. All through the dinner and Nancy's monologue - which needn't have been numbered, by the way as there was only one, it turned out and boy, was it a dandy - the gremlin would kick her feet and make plenty of contact with my knees, making me glad she'd taken her shoes off. She receives a menu. I'm not sure why. She can't read. But she makes good use of it, bulldozing drinks around the table with it. I am particularly susceptible as I have quite the collection - a tall glass of water, a small wine carafe and a wine glass to shepherd around the table in response to all her tactics.
Between defense maneuverings I look at my own menu, having already decided on the Cheese Capalletti. I'm really looking forward to it because I haven't had it in a while and because I know it's a very good strategic move. It is tasty, of small size and inexpensive. This is all good because it qualifies for participation in the all-you-can eat Caesar salad and fresh bread program which is what East Sides is all about.
I need to check the menu though, before ordering as it is a new menu style and you never know if there might be changes to the repertoire. Alas, I plainly see the Asparagus Capalletti but not its predecessor - the simpler Cheese version. I voice my disappointment. Carrie points out that the Cheese version is in fact on the menu. She points to it. It's in a different section altogether.
Now - call me crazy. But if I ran a restaurant I'm quite sure I would put all the capalletti versions in the same section of the menu. Seeing as they are precisely the same thing but for one or two ingredients. But that's just me. What do I know? I place my highly strategic order and Carrie one-ups me with her mastery of the all-you-can eat Caesar salad and fresh bread program. She orders a plateful of pasta and leaves it be when it arrives. She samples some of my capalletti and goes wild on the salad and bread. The bread mostly. We went through eight or nine loaves between the six of us. Then she arranges to have her pasta, largely untouched, boxed to go. She's clever. No doubt. I take notes of course.
Twice Gaetan belches so loud the entire contingent of diners and staff can surely hear. Each time I look around, stunned, wondering if I'm on Candid Camera or not. Somehow we make it through dinner in one piece.
"Are you coming over for a visit?" asks Nancy, all casual like. Carrie is plainly shocked. Her eyes bug out of her head on springs - just like old cartoon characters did in old cartoons.
To be continued...
FWG
Dumases? Dumasses? Dumai? Just what is the proper plural form of the word 'Dumas'?
I once asked the patriarch of the family - Gaetan - for the correct pronunciation of their family name.
"Dumb Ass!" he barked in response. He's very much a 'barker'. I like him. Besides barking he's a sculptor, poet, writer and electrician. His wife Nancy is a scream. She's psychic and an interpreter of dreams and of astrology. She's very spiritual in her own individual non-religious way - a quality I respect.
She calls herself an introvert but she's the most extroverted introvert I've ever met. In fact she's more extroverted than any extrovert I've met if you know what I mean. But as I hate labels I insist that people at least be allowed themselves to choose their own label however they please. So if she says introvert - so be it.
Basically she rarely ever stops talking but to her credit - when she does take a rare break she really listens and remembers everything you have to say. And that's a marvelous quality. I know a slightly less extroverted extrovert who hasn't absorbed a single damn thing I've said to him in 19 years.
So I hear the same stories over and over again but that's okay. I like it. I'm trying to memorize them all so that one day I can recite them right along with her as she's doing the telling. That'll be some good fun.
I like Nancy very much. She's the informal leader of our writing group of which her husband and her daughter Carrie are also members.
So I'm driving along the country road and I see the collapsed barn that marks my destination. It amounts to a stone foundation of four foot height. It's not an uncommon sight in rural Ontario but I have somewhat of a fascination with them. It's the closest thing we have to archeological landmarks in Canada. Our native Indians were all about teepees and wigwams. They never built anything cool for us to find. No 'Chitchanitzas' or the like. I feel a bit gypped over this but of course I don't complain to the few native Americans I know. I'm a little hung up on the whole ancestral guilt thing. So I tread lightly around my native acquaintances. It's hard to know what to say sometimes.
All these barn wrecks really move me in the sense I find them symbolic of the slow and painful death of family farming in this country. I know a few independent farmers and I feel bad about it 'cause they're loveable folk but I realize that the demise is inevitable. That they're bound to extinction no matter how many protests they hold. No matter how much traffic they hamper. No matter how many people they make late for their appointments.
Good grief - what a tangent or two! My apologies. So I pull into the dirt laneway, pass between some trees and park. Now I can see their house - a large two-story 200-year-old brick affair that is starting to show its age. I can also see a two-story wooden free-standing tree-house type structure with an exterior stairway and a balcony. A playhouse that has turned storage shed with the daughters all now in their 20's and 30's.
There is also a wood pile and many miscellaneous junk items lying around - some of a curiosity or even decorative value. Some are possibly farm implements and one or more are possibly antique. There's a big cover to a cistern and three automobiles - all small and grey and perfectly roadworthy.
There's a large wooden rabbit cage on the secluded front lawn. Near it are some seemingly abandoned toys, the odd Tim Hortons coffee cup, rims rolled up of course, and curiously there are about eight large miscellaneous items - unrelated at a glance but that all adhere to a theme. Each is roughly bucket, bowl or tray shaped and flooded with standing water.
Chained to a side door is big dog #1. Chained to the front door is little dog. Neither the rabbit or the little dog require numbering as there are not more than one rabbit or little dog in the family. There are two big dogs, two cats and a multitude of fishes who also need not be numbered as they are fully interchangeable. They're all flat, wet and very poor conversationalists. Actually they might all be named Eric for all I know. I never bothered to ask. Okay, 'nuff said about the fishes.
Carrie suddenly appears half way between the front door and my car. It always happens that way. I never see her as I approach their property and never see her actually emerge from the house. She always just appears like an apparition somewhere in the wider regions of my peripheral vision. I've nicknamed her Spooky which she doesn't mind too much - being a writer of horror among other things.
I'm glad to see her though. I've only once had to go to the door to alert her to my presence and it was a failed experiment that I wish not to ever attempt again. Reason - I never know if big dog #2 is lurking around somewhere ready to come bounding over to me and start going into a schizophrenic tizzy that stems from some combination of two attitudes. One - that he's happy to see me because I'm such a swell guy and his buddy - and two - that he's happy to see me because I look downright delicious and he's quite ready to sink his teeth in and find out for sure.
So Carrie embarks and we back out the laneway and head for the restaurant - East Side Marios. One of our favorites. Her mom and dad and her small daughter Vanian will be joining us but we're taking a head start so that I can look over a portfolio of her selected artwork and poetry to explore the specifics of her pending participation in the writing group's web site.
"My mom's almost out of gas," says Carrie. "So we might have to go back and pick her up. She might call us." She holds up mom's cell phone.
I no longer have a cell phone. I misplaced it a couple weeks ago, discovered I didn't miss it and low-and-behold a Rogers Customer Service Stalker - whoops! Dear me. My Freudian slip is showing. A Customer Service Rep called me just to say hello - a courtesy call - they call it. Not a goddamn thing courteous about it of course but you know them phone pirates. It's all double-speak with them. My 2-year sentence - whoops! I mean contract - expired recently so she just called to see how I'm doing and if there's anything I need and - I confidently assume - to try to get me to upgrade my phone and start another dandy new sentence - BLAH! - contract! But I surprised her by saying I'd like to cancel my account please. This swung her right into salvage mode of course. She punched the big red panic button and her computer screen switched to the special offer menu.
"May I ask why you wish to cancel your account?" She's thinking I've been flirting with a competitor 'Two timing bastard,' she's thinking. She's ready to play ball. Ready to tease and tantalize me with special offers.
"I've discovered that a cell phone doesn't enrich my life," I said. "I was happier before I had one. I find I'm wasting an awful lot of money on something that just annoys me." She immediately gave in and offered to put me through to the cancellation department or some damn thing. I'm sure these are the people with the special key that allows them access to the Most Very Special Of All The Special Offers menu screen. But I was growing bored with this game and promised to call back later instead.
Oh dear. This post is getting terribly long. Let's pick it up tomorrow, shall we?
To be continued...
FWG
Okay. First off: I don't normally go to this cinema on weekends. I strictly go through the week and I'm not accustomed to there being a crowd. I usually crash out in the front row of the main section (not the very front section) where there's infinite leg-room and no neighbors. Lots of space for coat and other accessories: pop, popcorn, popcorn topping powder (I bring my own seasoning with me so I don't have to miss any screen time running out to the lobby to freshen up that delicious white cheddar dust).
But on this Saturday evening I'm here with my writing buddy, Spooky and her adorable 3-year-old daughter. We sit in the second row, the wee tyke between us and are quickly packed in by neighbors. It's dark in the theatre when some kids come cruising down the aisle toward us and I can see that there are just enough vacant seats beside me for all of them to squeeze in. No buffer. So I grab my extra-large diet coke from the holder a chair-length away from me and struggle to find space on the floor for it. Then, in the semi-darkness I reach for my coat on the seat beside me and carefully manipulate it, trying to find the collar - not wanting to pick it up the wrong way and dump any contents from the pockets onto the floor. That would be disastrous you see. I'm too plump a fellow to be crouching in a theatre trying to reach under seats to find lost gloves/car keys/cell phone/wallet and/or popcorn powder. Unfortunately I'm not fast enough for the youngsters' liking.
"Can you move your coat sir?" says the young girl while I'm obviously already in the process of doing that. I don't reply but shoot her a brief look that clearly says 'Watch your step little girl or I may neatly dismantle and eat you.' This seems effective as I don't hear a peep from her for the next two hours. Most unfortunately there's a plethora of peeping going on elsewhere.
Another little girl behind me somewhere is determined to prefix every scene in the movie with loud comments such as, "Is this where they fall through the ice?", "Is that the one who dies?" and "Is this where he dies?" Nice eh?
The wee tyke blabbers through most of the movie while I squirm with anxiety. I fear that everyone in the theatre can hear her and are planning to quietly murder us right after the show. I start to wish I hadn't parked in such a remote corner of the parking lot where no one will hear our screams. Spooky says "Shh!" to her daughter about 600 times which is very effective because it's surely comforting to our neighbors to hear 'Bluh bluh bluh'-'Shh!' 600 times rather than simply 'Bluh bluh bluh' 600 times. When not saying 'Shh' Spooky is bending over and groaning and grimacing. She has a bad stomach ache after our dinner at Angel's Diner but declines my offer to split the scene and take her home instead.
The older woman in front of us continually falls asleep and wakes herself up with her own snoring - over and over again. The gentleman beside her - oh, this is the best part by far, folks - is mercifully quiet for the entire duration. However he also smells distinctly of urine for the entire duration. God bless the manufacturers of fine Depends products everywhere; Helping seniors get out and about and raising a good old stink. Bravo. I'm not sure whether this was a triggering factor or not but my own bladder - a highly trained movie-savvy bladder normally - wussied out on me to my surprise and dismay and I spent the better part of an hour beneath my folded up coat and snack items squirming and slithering in my chair, afraid to try to weasel myself down the long jam-packed aisle to escape to the men's room.
Oh - the movie? There were these dogs and a whole lot of snow. That's about all I picked up on between distractions. Oh wait. I remember one scene clearly. A sea-lion - no - a leopard seal; some creature that looked suspiciously Jurassic Park-ish, came bursting out of a certain unlikely place; a giant shocking toothy swallow-the-camera perspective that had a dozen small kids in the house leaping terrified onto parents' laps.
A question for you high-flying Hollywood exec types:
Do films about cute doggies that will inevitably draw mostly families and young kids to attendance need to contain a lone gratuitous brick-shitting horror scene? Is there a point to that?
Also sticking out like a sore thumb was the character thrown in to satisfy the unfortunate Hollywood-comic-relief-formula. I'm pretty sure this was the same actor who once boinked an apple pie in the film American Pie. I can assure you his performance in Eight Below was every bit as moving and poignant. We can see he's older now as his face has changed though his acting hasn't.
On the bright side: The dogs and their handlers did some great work demonstrating some meaningful social interaction between the animals despite the absence of English dialogue. Some scenes were touching. If you're a dog-lover you may find this flick worth-while.
FWG
