Life is too short. That’s what everyone always says. How many people really believe that though? I know I said it myself many times throughout my life, but now that I am nearer to the end, I do believe it. I believe it whole-heartedly. It is that firm belief that has placed me here, right now, in this predicament or adventure. I prefer to look at this as an adventure. If I didn’t, I would still be sitting in that chair by the window, sweating in the heat of that stuffy nursing home waiting for death.
This is not how I had pictured living my final days when I was young, full of piss and vinegar, indestructible and hardly able to harness my energy. Even then, I liked to live life on the edge. I was never the criminal type, but I enjoyed challenging convention.
The clink of the guards keys moving toward me interrupt my reverie. He stops at my cell. There is a look of pity in his eyes and his voice is almost soft when he speaks. Those two things are in direct contrast to his physical appearance; big bulky muscles fighting against the cotton fabric of his uniform, short blond hair, hacked off near the root, tips standing out in defiance at the sides of his head-the balance hidden by his hat, thick legs anchored by heavy, highly polished black boots.
“You have a visitor, Mr. Carmichael. Come this way please.”
“A visitor? I wasn’t expecting anyone. I don’t have many friends left or family, for that matter. You know that is the problem with living too long, young man, you end up alone, outliving everyone. It’s not that much fun.”
Again, I see that look as I pass him. It’s starting to make me angry. I don’t need sympathy from anyone.
I hear the clink of the cell door close. A sound that I am sure, I will become accustomed to, like the sound of the clicking wheel on the nurse’s trolley as it passed my room, on the nightly journey up and down the halls of the nursing home. In the beginning, I never thought I would get a night’s sleep from that sound, but soon enough it faded into the background, faintly audible.
I stop and wait for the guard to unlock the next set of barred doors. Not knowing exactly where we are heading, I feel a hesitation in my normally steady gait. I fear that it will be yet another symbol of my weakness to the steroid Hercules behind me and my irritation is mounting. I yearn to keep it under control. A snap, right now, here in this place would not be wise.
The final door opens and I walk into a small, grey coloured room with a simple wooden table in the middle. A middle-aged man, in bad need of a shave sits at one of the chairs, papers spread across the top of the table in a haphazard fashion and he hardly looks up as I walk in and take a seat across from him.
It takes what seems forever, for him to raise his head and look at me. I stare at him straight in the eye, willing him to do the same. He can’t, his eyes shift from the papers, to the door, to the floor, to the ceiling and all over the room, each time they meet mine, they quickly move as if my gaze is too strong to handle, searing.
I know he introduced himself and I heard lawyer, but I didn’t hear anything that he was saying because he is so nervous. It’s bordering on ridiculous. Where did he come from? How did he ever pass a bar exam? Maybe he has just returned to work after a lengthy illness and he is realizing he cannot do it.
“….as I said Mr. Carmichael, these charges are quite serious. It could mean that you may never see freedom again. I need to know everything that happened. It’s the only way I can hope to find a way to defend you. The evidence is very incriminating. They have you on video camera, your voice on a tape recording of a conversation with one of the other suspects, and they have a statement from one of the bank tellers who gave a very detailed description of you. I’m curious about one thing, Mr. Carmichael. Did you know what you were doing? Did you know that you were committing a serious federal offence by committing a bank robbery? If you realized all of that, why in heaven’s name did you use your own name?”
His eyes are on mine now and I can see the frustration in them as well as hear it in his voice. I almost feel sorry for him. I feel badly that because of my follies, he is now challenged with the task of getting me off. It is not going to be easy. He is frustrated because he cannot figure out my motive. He is probably thinking right now, “What would motivate a man at his age, 83 years, living a comfortable life in a safe, sterile environment, to rob a bank and risk ending up rotting in a cell?” He has his job cut out and for that, I am sorry.
I make no apology for living though. I do not have the time or the desire to tell him why. He will know himself one day. The past five years of excitement are worth, however many more years that I have to live, in what others may view as misery. Misery was my life before I met Donald. Because of Donald, I can honestly say that I have lived the life of a king. All that money, the trips, the food, the wine, it helped me forget about my loss for a while.
My dear Marjorie, god bless her soul, is probably angrier than a hornets nest. However, she must know the loneliness I have felt since her death. Surely, a love like ours does not end when one of the partners dies. I won’t believe that. I know she is waiting and soon enough I will join her.
“….as you can see Mr. Carmichael, it’s going to be very, very difficult to defend you and hope to get you off without having to serve any time. However, my hope is that the Judge will be sympathetic to your age, health and up until this string of bank robberies, an exemplary, clean record.”
“Thank you, Mister, uhmmm I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Mr. Jones.”
“Yes, thank you for everything Mr. Jones. I appreciate you coming to see me and anything that you can do will be just fine.”
“I really don’t think you comprehend the seriousness of the situation Mr. Carmichael.”
“No? I don’t want to sound flippant Mr. Jones, but I do understand. I understand everything. The problem is that you do not understand. That is your job and your journey. Mine is over.”
Friday, February 09, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
My First Kiss...
My first kiss was with little Bobby from across the street. He was five, the same age as me. We were also around the same height. Bobby had curly brown hair, was pudgy in a cuddly sort of way and very cute (or so I thought).
I tricked Bobby into that first kiss by talking him into participating in a new game of "pretend". My idea was to re-enact Snow White. I would pretend to be Snow White and he could pretend to be the Prince. We really didn't need the dwarves because they do not enhance the 'kiss' scene but Bobby didn't know that was the only part of Snow White that we were going to play and I did not tell him.
Since it was my idea, I got to be the director. Bobby had to do whatever he was told. He was very co-operative. Before play could begin we needed to find the perfect spot. We were playing outside the basement apartment that my family lived in on Brookside Dr in Toronto.
Bobby really didn't know what we were going to re-enact so he thought that we could commence just anywhere. I turned down his suggestions because I was looking for something that could double as Snow White's bed (coffin).
The ground was covered with snow and it was a beautiful sunny day. Bobby was standing in the middle of the driveway bugging me to make a snowman. Turning around and walking back towards the house, I suddenly could see exactly what I had been looking for. The window well was the perfect size and shape.
I jumped into it and laid down. Bobby was looking at me and asking what he was supposed to do.
I explained that I had just eaten a poisonous apple and that I was dead. He would come along and find me and because I was so beautiful, he would decide to give me a kiss.
Bobby hesitated but did agree to play along. When it came time to kiss me, he never even stooped to get close. I never felt his lips on mine. He just stood there telling me to stand up, that he had kissed me and it was over. He was anxious to play something different.
I refused. That was a ripoff. I wanted to feel his lips on mine. The kiss had to be real, otherwise what was the point in playing?
After a few moments of debate, Bobby finally agreed. He knelt down beside me and planted a big kiss right on my lips. I remember the excitement and fear that someone might have seen us.
Those lofty emotions were short lived. My father almost immediately, yelled out the door for Bobby to go home and for me to come inside. He would not relent even with my loudest protests.
Inside the apartment, my father wanted me to explain what we were doing outside. I started to make up something and he cut me off. Before I got through the first sentence of the second lie, he cut me off again and warned me that I would be punished for lying.
I can still feel my burning cheeks as I stood telling my father that Bobby and I had been playing Snow White and that he had kissed me.
With a straight face, my father told me that he knew that and turned to look at the window where the reenactment had taken place.
I burst into tears and ran to my room.
The next time I fooled Bobby into kissing me, I made sure that we were in the park behind my apartment and not within view of any of our windows.
I tricked Bobby into that first kiss by talking him into participating in a new game of "pretend". My idea was to re-enact Snow White. I would pretend to be Snow White and he could pretend to be the Prince. We really didn't need the dwarves because they do not enhance the 'kiss' scene but Bobby didn't know that was the only part of Snow White that we were going to play and I did not tell him.
Since it was my idea, I got to be the director. Bobby had to do whatever he was told. He was very co-operative. Before play could begin we needed to find the perfect spot. We were playing outside the basement apartment that my family lived in on Brookside Dr in Toronto.
Bobby really didn't know what we were going to re-enact so he thought that we could commence just anywhere. I turned down his suggestions because I was looking for something that could double as Snow White's bed (coffin).
The ground was covered with snow and it was a beautiful sunny day. Bobby was standing in the middle of the driveway bugging me to make a snowman. Turning around and walking back towards the house, I suddenly could see exactly what I had been looking for. The window well was the perfect size and shape.
I jumped into it and laid down. Bobby was looking at me and asking what he was supposed to do.
I explained that I had just eaten a poisonous apple and that I was dead. He would come along and find me and because I was so beautiful, he would decide to give me a kiss.
Bobby hesitated but did agree to play along. When it came time to kiss me, he never even stooped to get close. I never felt his lips on mine. He just stood there telling me to stand up, that he had kissed me and it was over. He was anxious to play something different.
I refused. That was a ripoff. I wanted to feel his lips on mine. The kiss had to be real, otherwise what was the point in playing?
After a few moments of debate, Bobby finally agreed. He knelt down beside me and planted a big kiss right on my lips. I remember the excitement and fear that someone might have seen us.
Those lofty emotions were short lived. My father almost immediately, yelled out the door for Bobby to go home and for me to come inside. He would not relent even with my loudest protests.
Inside the apartment, my father wanted me to explain what we were doing outside. I started to make up something and he cut me off. Before I got through the first sentence of the second lie, he cut me off again and warned me that I would be punished for lying.
I can still feel my burning cheeks as I stood telling my father that Bobby and I had been playing Snow White and that he had kissed me.
With a straight face, my father told me that he knew that and turned to look at the window where the reenactment had taken place.
I burst into tears and ran to my room.
The next time I fooled Bobby into kissing me, I made sure that we were in the park behind my apartment and not within view of any of our windows.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Assignment Number 1
*The assignment instructions were to write about a significant event in your life and to try to evoke an emotional response from the reader. We were instructed to use all of our senses when writing e.g. smell, taste, hearing, seeing, feeling*
Through the shrieks and screams of the kids racing around the park, I could hear the distant clang of the town clock. Beads of sweat covered my forehead and I stopped to wipe it while I counted the rings. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, it was already seven o’clock.
I’ll have to leave in half an hour or I won’t make it home by 8:00. I hope Jackie and Anne will come home too. They promised they would on the way over here. I don’t want to walk all the way by myself. Where are they?
Searching through the crowd, I finally found Jackie and Anne sitting in the Gazebo, the home-free zone with a couple of boys I did not know. They reluctantly came down the stairs to where I was standing to find out what I wanted.
“I have to get going soon, are you going to leave with me?”
“You’re leaving already? What time is it?”
“It’s just past 7:00 but I have to leave around 7:30.”
“I don’t want to go yet, do you Jackie?”
“No. My mom said I could stay out until 9:00.”
“Shelly just stay and go home when we do. You won’t get in trouble.”
“Yes I will. I will be grounded if I show up late one more time and how can I call home, there isn’t a pay phone around here. Besides, I’m not supposed to be over here. Dad thought I was going to your house, Anne.”
“Oh alright then, I’ll go with you, come and get me when you’re leaving.”
Anne raced off to join in the game of war. I stood where I was, watching, not wanting to lose track of time.
In retaliation for my friends deserting me at the last minute, I visualized their faces on any small pebbles or stones that lay in my path, before my foot propelled them high into the air.
I could smell a hint of winter in the air and my shoes made loud echoing noises as I stomped down the sidewalk toward home. Now I was sure to be late because I spent too much time trying to convince them to leave with me.
I picked up the pace as I mulled over our friendship. My sense of betrayal and abandonment left me distracted and oblivious to everything else. I had no idea how far I had walked.
Surprisingly, I was almost halfway home when I finally took notice of the darkening sky. Small stars twinkled against the indigo night sky directly above, while ahead in distance the sky was still a beautiful turquoise shade with streaks of red from the sinking sun. Dark silhouettes swooped wildly around the steeped pitch roof of the Presbyterian Church on the next corner.
It would take more than bats to scare me into the roadway tonight though. My emotions were running rampant and I was not in the mood for feeling like a wimp. I was twelve, not a child. I held my breath and almost broke out into a run as I skipped quickly past the dark shadows of the Church. A sense of relief and accomplishment filled me when I was past the danger zone, unharmed.
I turned to glance at the neon clock in the window of Charlie’s Variety. My timing was perfect; it was only 7:45 p.m. Fifteen more minutes and I would be home.
I can’t wait to tell Mom and Dad how Anne and Jackie wouldn’t come home with me because they said I had a baby’s curfew. Maybe then, they will let me stay out until 9:00, like all the other kids. It is so stupid to have to be home by 8:00pm. I am the only kid in Senior Public that has to be home at that time.
Oh, oh, there’s the haunted Gowan home. I’d better cross the street or maybe I should walk out in the middle of the road. It’s so dark and creepy here. All these trees and this tall hedge, anyone could sneak up and wait for you, you wouldn’t even know it. I have a creepy feeling that someone is going to jump out at me when I get to the driveway. I bet someone I know has seen me walking and they’ll try to scare me because all the kids talk about this place being haunted. Anne never walks on the sidewalk. We always cross the street. It’s not haunted, it’s a vacant house. I shouldn’t listen to all those silly, stupid stories from kids. What do they know?
Okay, I’m staying on the sidewalk. I’ll just walk straight. I won’t turn and look when I pass the opening in the hedge. There isn’t anyone there. Look straight ahead. Don’t look. Keep walking. Walk faster. Here it comes. The driveway is just ahead. I still have time to cross the street and nobody would know. No. I should be able to walk past this house without being afraid. Nobody would ever know I was afraid. I should cross the street. I have time. The driveway is getting closer. Cross now. No, I’m not crossing the street. Here it is. Do not turn your head. Don’t look. Do not look.
“ARGGGHHHHHH! WARREN YOU SCARED ME! What are you doing? Waaaait, who are, what are you doing? Who ARE YOU?! ”
Oh my God! What does he want. Why is this happening? I don’t believe this, why is he grabbing my arm…NO, YOU’RE NOT PULLING ME BEHIND THOSE BUSHES…STOP…RUN SHELLY, PUSH HIM AND RUN!!
“HELP, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP, HEEEELLLLLLP…I’M BEING ATTACKED, HELPPPP, ARRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHH, HELLLLLLLLLLLP, HELLLLLLLLLLLLP ME”
Let go of me… oh my God. Where are all the people? Don’t they hear me screaming? Why isn’t anyone coming outside to see what is going on. I have to get away.
“HELP, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP, HEEEELLLLLLP… ARRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHH, HELLLLLLLLLLLP, HELLLLLLLLLLLLP ME”
Stay away from me… Let me go…who are you? Why are you doing this? Get your hands off my neck!! Oh my god! What is he doing? What does he want? LET GO OF ME!! …oooooompf, ohhhhhh…he pushed me…oh no, NO, NOOOOOO… FIGHT Shelly! Don’t let him do anything to you. Don’t let him TOUCH you…
“HELP, HELP, HEEEELLLLLLP… HELPPPP, HELLLLLLLLLLLP, HELLLLLLLLLLLLP”
He’s coming down on top of you Shelly…do something, do anything, MOVE IT. This could be it…You’re going to die! Get HIM OFF OF YOU! NOW!
TAKE THAT! Holy shit I think I got him in the balls! Get up! Run away before he attacks again! Hurry, get up…RUN Shelly, RUN …Where is he?! Whaaat? He’s running away! He’s running away! He’s running away from me! Oh my god! I have to get out of here! Get out in the road! Scream…Keep screaming until someone comes out of their house! Oh my God, I was just attacked, oh my god…
Here comes a car…Flag it down, wave your arms…scream louder! You have to stop this car to be safe…he might still be there!
“Shelly?!? Is that you? What the hell happened to you? Shelly?! Get in the car, calm down, slow down Shelly, I can’t understand what you are saying!”
I couldn’t believe my eyes when the car stopped and Jim, my crush, rolled down his window. The look of concern in his eyes made me burst into tears and for what seemed like a very long time, I tried to get control of my vocal chords so that I could tell him what happened. Jim managed to decipher my broken speech through my sobs, by yelling out a barrage of questions, that I could answer by shaking my head no, or nodding yes. The minute that it became clear to Jim that I had been attacked, he jumped out of the car with instructions for me to stay put, quickly disappeared into the darkness in the same direction that my attacker had fled. I couldn’t stop shaking and crying. It seemed like hours before he returned.
“Did you find him?”
“No…he’s gone. There was nobody there. Are you sure he went that way?”
“Yes, but he was on a ten speed.”
“I’m going to take you home and then I’ll come back and drive around to see if I can find him.”
My father thanked Jim profusely for saving me. Jim denied doing anything and yelled for my father to call the Police as he jumped into his car to go back to the area of the attack in search of the creep.
The Police questioned me until late into the night about what he looked like, what he was wearing, what I was wearing, why I was walking alone, did I always dress like that when I was out, where had I been, who had I been with, on and on and on.
After the gruelling questioning, they insisted that I look at hundreds of mug shots to see if I recognized him. After awhile, all of the pictures began to look the same, they all blurred into one another with no one looking unique. His face that had been in my memory bank was gone. The only thing that I could see when I replayed the scene over in my mind was a faceless man. The faceless man, as I first saw him, standing behind the hedge, waiting. I could see the faceless man grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the dark yard behind the bushes. He was still faceless as he started to come down on top of me after he had thrown me to the ground. Even the shock on his face when I kicked him in the balls, was gone.
Thirty-three years later, I still have no idea what he looks like or who he was. I don’t know if I went to school with him, if he watched me throughout the years while I lived in that town, if I dated him, or worked with him, or ordered dinner from a restaurant from him.
I have had to come to terms with that, not knowing and I hate NOT knowing.
Through the shrieks and screams of the kids racing around the park, I could hear the distant clang of the town clock. Beads of sweat covered my forehead and I stopped to wipe it while I counted the rings. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, it was already seven o’clock.
I’ll have to leave in half an hour or I won’t make it home by 8:00. I hope Jackie and Anne will come home too. They promised they would on the way over here. I don’t want to walk all the way by myself. Where are they?
Searching through the crowd, I finally found Jackie and Anne sitting in the Gazebo, the home-free zone with a couple of boys I did not know. They reluctantly came down the stairs to where I was standing to find out what I wanted.
“I have to get going soon, are you going to leave with me?”
“You’re leaving already? What time is it?”
“It’s just past 7:00 but I have to leave around 7:30.”
“I don’t want to go yet, do you Jackie?”
“No. My mom said I could stay out until 9:00.”
“Shelly just stay and go home when we do. You won’t get in trouble.”
“Yes I will. I will be grounded if I show up late one more time and how can I call home, there isn’t a pay phone around here. Besides, I’m not supposed to be over here. Dad thought I was going to your house, Anne.”
“Oh alright then, I’ll go with you, come and get me when you’re leaving.”
Anne raced off to join in the game of war. I stood where I was, watching, not wanting to lose track of time.
In retaliation for my friends deserting me at the last minute, I visualized their faces on any small pebbles or stones that lay in my path, before my foot propelled them high into the air.
I could smell a hint of winter in the air and my shoes made loud echoing noises as I stomped down the sidewalk toward home. Now I was sure to be late because I spent too much time trying to convince them to leave with me.
I picked up the pace as I mulled over our friendship. My sense of betrayal and abandonment left me distracted and oblivious to everything else. I had no idea how far I had walked.
Surprisingly, I was almost halfway home when I finally took notice of the darkening sky. Small stars twinkled against the indigo night sky directly above, while ahead in distance the sky was still a beautiful turquoise shade with streaks of red from the sinking sun. Dark silhouettes swooped wildly around the steeped pitch roof of the Presbyterian Church on the next corner.
It would take more than bats to scare me into the roadway tonight though. My emotions were running rampant and I was not in the mood for feeling like a wimp. I was twelve, not a child. I held my breath and almost broke out into a run as I skipped quickly past the dark shadows of the Church. A sense of relief and accomplishment filled me when I was past the danger zone, unharmed.
I turned to glance at the neon clock in the window of Charlie’s Variety. My timing was perfect; it was only 7:45 p.m. Fifteen more minutes and I would be home.
I can’t wait to tell Mom and Dad how Anne and Jackie wouldn’t come home with me because they said I had a baby’s curfew. Maybe then, they will let me stay out until 9:00, like all the other kids. It is so stupid to have to be home by 8:00pm. I am the only kid in Senior Public that has to be home at that time.
Oh, oh, there’s the haunted Gowan home. I’d better cross the street or maybe I should walk out in the middle of the road. It’s so dark and creepy here. All these trees and this tall hedge, anyone could sneak up and wait for you, you wouldn’t even know it. I have a creepy feeling that someone is going to jump out at me when I get to the driveway. I bet someone I know has seen me walking and they’ll try to scare me because all the kids talk about this place being haunted. Anne never walks on the sidewalk. We always cross the street. It’s not haunted, it’s a vacant house. I shouldn’t listen to all those silly, stupid stories from kids. What do they know?
Okay, I’m staying on the sidewalk. I’ll just walk straight. I won’t turn and look when I pass the opening in the hedge. There isn’t anyone there. Look straight ahead. Don’t look. Keep walking. Walk faster. Here it comes. The driveway is just ahead. I still have time to cross the street and nobody would know. No. I should be able to walk past this house without being afraid. Nobody would ever know I was afraid. I should cross the street. I have time. The driveway is getting closer. Cross now. No, I’m not crossing the street. Here it is. Do not turn your head. Don’t look. Do not look.
“ARGGGHHHHHH! WARREN YOU SCARED ME! What are you doing? Waaaait, who are, what are you doing? Who ARE YOU?! ”
Oh my God! What does he want. Why is this happening? I don’t believe this, why is he grabbing my arm…NO, YOU’RE NOT PULLING ME BEHIND THOSE BUSHES…STOP…RUN SHELLY, PUSH HIM AND RUN!!
“HELP, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP, HEEEELLLLLLP…I’M BEING ATTACKED, HELPPPP, ARRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHH, HELLLLLLLLLLLP, HELLLLLLLLLLLLP ME”
Let go of me… oh my God. Where are all the people? Don’t they hear me screaming? Why isn’t anyone coming outside to see what is going on. I have to get away.
“HELP, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP, HEEEELLLLLLP… ARRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHH, HELLLLLLLLLLLP, HELLLLLLLLLLLLP ME”
Stay away from me… Let me go…who are you? Why are you doing this? Get your hands off my neck!! Oh my god! What is he doing? What does he want? LET GO OF ME!! …oooooompf, ohhhhhh…he pushed me…oh no, NO, NOOOOOO… FIGHT Shelly! Don’t let him do anything to you. Don’t let him TOUCH you…
“HELP, HELP, HEEEELLLLLLP… HELPPPP, HELLLLLLLLLLLP, HELLLLLLLLLLLLP”
He’s coming down on top of you Shelly…do something, do anything, MOVE IT. This could be it…You’re going to die! Get HIM OFF OF YOU! NOW!
TAKE THAT! Holy shit I think I got him in the balls! Get up! Run away before he attacks again! Hurry, get up…RUN Shelly, RUN …Where is he?! Whaaat? He’s running away! He’s running away! He’s running away from me! Oh my god! I have to get out of here! Get out in the road! Scream…Keep screaming until someone comes out of their house! Oh my God, I was just attacked, oh my god…
Here comes a car…Flag it down, wave your arms…scream louder! You have to stop this car to be safe…he might still be there!
“Shelly?!? Is that you? What the hell happened to you? Shelly?! Get in the car, calm down, slow down Shelly, I can’t understand what you are saying!”
I couldn’t believe my eyes when the car stopped and Jim, my crush, rolled down his window. The look of concern in his eyes made me burst into tears and for what seemed like a very long time, I tried to get control of my vocal chords so that I could tell him what happened. Jim managed to decipher my broken speech through my sobs, by yelling out a barrage of questions, that I could answer by shaking my head no, or nodding yes. The minute that it became clear to Jim that I had been attacked, he jumped out of the car with instructions for me to stay put, quickly disappeared into the darkness in the same direction that my attacker had fled. I couldn’t stop shaking and crying. It seemed like hours before he returned.
“Did you find him?”
“No…he’s gone. There was nobody there. Are you sure he went that way?”
“Yes, but he was on a ten speed.”
“I’m going to take you home and then I’ll come back and drive around to see if I can find him.”
My father thanked Jim profusely for saving me. Jim denied doing anything and yelled for my father to call the Police as he jumped into his car to go back to the area of the attack in search of the creep.
The Police questioned me until late into the night about what he looked like, what he was wearing, what I was wearing, why I was walking alone, did I always dress like that when I was out, where had I been, who had I been with, on and on and on.
After the gruelling questioning, they insisted that I look at hundreds of mug shots to see if I recognized him. After awhile, all of the pictures began to look the same, they all blurred into one another with no one looking unique. His face that had been in my memory bank was gone. The only thing that I could see when I replayed the scene over in my mind was a faceless man. The faceless man, as I first saw him, standing behind the hedge, waiting. I could see the faceless man grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the dark yard behind the bushes. He was still faceless as he started to come down on top of me after he had thrown me to the ground. Even the shock on his face when I kicked him in the balls, was gone.
Thirty-three years later, I still have no idea what he looks like or who he was. I don’t know if I went to school with him, if he watched me throughout the years while I lived in that town, if I dated him, or worked with him, or ordered dinner from a restaurant from him.
I have had to come to terms with that, not knowing and I hate NOT knowing.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Right Write!
14/01/2007 11:35 AM
I received a call from the college, on the Thursday prior to my first class which was to begin on Tuesday January 9th. They had decided that three people did not warrant running Writing the Short Story.
My disappointment was evident and the person on the other end of the line quickly suggested another class that I might find interesting. The alternative, titled Creative Writing had eight people enrolled and would be run if a few more signed up. Without reading the description, I instructed her to transfer my enrolment to the other class.
My new writing class is on Thursday evenings. After hanging up the phone, I pulled out the college calendar to read the description:
Explore the technique, style and craft of major writing categories, including fiction, non-fiction and poetry. This introduction to the many genres of creative writing emphasizes personal creativity. Learn how to approach editors and market a manuscript. Take this opportunity to develop ideas and receive feedback from the instructor and other members of the class.
The description of Writing the Short Story is as follows:
Enter the gateway of great fiction through its most challenging form, the short story. Establish your writer’s voice and learn the discipline of developing plot, character, dialogue, scene construction and theme in under 5,000 words. Understand the Canadian market for short stories and how to leverage your short story craftsmanship for other literary forms.
I decided that this twist of fate might work out for the better. Instead of working on one type of writing, I will be opening myself up to other options that perhaps I had never considered.
Still I had a hard time on Thursday keeping my eyes open because of another restless sleep night (possibly from snoring) and I fleetingly considered missing the class. When my alarm had gone off in the morning, I had just fallen back into a deep sleep and I struggled to get dressed and make my way to work.
During the morning at work, I tried to re-energize myself by closing my eyes and leaning back in my chair during an hour-long telephone conference call. My boss kept calling out for me to wake up. I growled that if he hears snoring, then he can be worried, otherwise, I am awake.
I was at the west office that day, so it made no sense to go home first, as the class was a short 20 min drive from there. Well let me re-phrase that, it should have been a short 20 min drive. I forgot that it was a dark night and that I had not been to that campus in more than two years, so my idea of how far along the road it was, ended up being a little skewed.
After a few wrong rights and subsequent u-turns, I did finally find myself in the parking lot of the campus and with help from the volunteers, entered class 225.
My first impression of my new teacher was positive. She is an attractive woman (possibly close to my age) with a British accent! I was thrilled because I am in love with British accents and could listen to it for hours without ever becoming bored. I do not even care what is being said. It makes no difference, the only thing that matters is how it sounds and to my ear, that is wonderful.
My body snapped out of its sleepy state and my mind was suddenly alert. Her name is Rachael Preston. She hails from Yorkshire. I have subsequently learned from Google this morning that she moved to Canada when she was 16 and she has lived in many parts of the world as well as a couple of different provinces in Canada.
She has published two novels and is currently working on a third. The class opened with Rachael handing out five pages of course description and then telling us to turn to page three because she never reads the first two. On page three was the evaluation section for the course and Rachael gave us her version of the evaluation. It was quite different from the college description.
It turns out that we are in a “fiction writing” course. Other than the first assignment, we will not be writing non-fiction and from the sounds of things, I doubt that we will have to write any poetry. I am over the top with enthusiasm. I cannot wait until Thursday to go back.
Besides having a wonderful teacher, the class is relatively small with two older gentlemen, another woman around my age and six kids in their early twenties (or so they look). There was one person missing.
The woman that was around my age sat next to me and she is a hoot! I think I may have made a new friend.
Our introductory exercise was to answer several different questions: What do you do (for a living)? What do you like to read? Why do you write? What do you expect to get out of the course?
My answer to what do I like to read was Historical Fiction and I explained that I particularly enjoy sagas where the characters affect each other’s lives.
Near the end of the class, my teacher looked at me, winked and stated, by the way, I write Historical Fiction.
I received a call from the college, on the Thursday prior to my first class which was to begin on Tuesday January 9th. They had decided that three people did not warrant running Writing the Short Story.
My disappointment was evident and the person on the other end of the line quickly suggested another class that I might find interesting. The alternative, titled Creative Writing had eight people enrolled and would be run if a few more signed up. Without reading the description, I instructed her to transfer my enrolment to the other class.
My new writing class is on Thursday evenings. After hanging up the phone, I pulled out the college calendar to read the description:
Explore the technique, style and craft of major writing categories, including fiction, non-fiction and poetry. This introduction to the many genres of creative writing emphasizes personal creativity. Learn how to approach editors and market a manuscript. Take this opportunity to develop ideas and receive feedback from the instructor and other members of the class.
The description of Writing the Short Story is as follows:
Enter the gateway of great fiction through its most challenging form, the short story. Establish your writer’s voice and learn the discipline of developing plot, character, dialogue, scene construction and theme in under 5,000 words. Understand the Canadian market for short stories and how to leverage your short story craftsmanship for other literary forms.
I decided that this twist of fate might work out for the better. Instead of working on one type of writing, I will be opening myself up to other options that perhaps I had never considered.
Still I had a hard time on Thursday keeping my eyes open because of another restless sleep night (possibly from snoring) and I fleetingly considered missing the class. When my alarm had gone off in the morning, I had just fallen back into a deep sleep and I struggled to get dressed and make my way to work.
During the morning at work, I tried to re-energize myself by closing my eyes and leaning back in my chair during an hour-long telephone conference call. My boss kept calling out for me to wake up. I growled that if he hears snoring, then he can be worried, otherwise, I am awake.
I was at the west office that day, so it made no sense to go home first, as the class was a short 20 min drive from there. Well let me re-phrase that, it should have been a short 20 min drive. I forgot that it was a dark night and that I had not been to that campus in more than two years, so my idea of how far along the road it was, ended up being a little skewed.
After a few wrong rights and subsequent u-turns, I did finally find myself in the parking lot of the campus and with help from the volunteers, entered class 225.
My first impression of my new teacher was positive. She is an attractive woman (possibly close to my age) with a British accent! I was thrilled because I am in love with British accents and could listen to it for hours without ever becoming bored. I do not even care what is being said. It makes no difference, the only thing that matters is how it sounds and to my ear, that is wonderful.
My body snapped out of its sleepy state and my mind was suddenly alert. Her name is Rachael Preston. She hails from Yorkshire. I have subsequently learned from Google this morning that she moved to Canada when she was 16 and she has lived in many parts of the world as well as a couple of different provinces in Canada.
She has published two novels and is currently working on a third. The class opened with Rachael handing out five pages of course description and then telling us to turn to page three because she never reads the first two. On page three was the evaluation section for the course and Rachael gave us her version of the evaluation. It was quite different from the college description.
It turns out that we are in a “fiction writing” course. Other than the first assignment, we will not be writing non-fiction and from the sounds of things, I doubt that we will have to write any poetry. I am over the top with enthusiasm. I cannot wait until Thursday to go back.
Besides having a wonderful teacher, the class is relatively small with two older gentlemen, another woman around my age and six kids in their early twenties (or so they look). There was one person missing.
The woman that was around my age sat next to me and she is a hoot! I think I may have made a new friend.
Our introductory exercise was to answer several different questions: What do you do (for a living)? What do you like to read? Why do you write? What do you expect to get out of the course?
My answer to what do I like to read was Historical Fiction and I explained that I particularly enjoy sagas where the characters affect each other’s lives.
Near the end of the class, my teacher looked at me, winked and stated, by the way, I write Historical Fiction.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Wake up Lil’ Suzy, Wake Up!
“Just hold still while I finish plugging in your wires.”
I stared down at my green moccasins with the rabbit fur trim and wondered if the technician noticed how the colour seemed to clash with my flashy, new, pink pyjamas with the psychedelic design. My cheeks started to turn red thinking of how ridiculous I must look.
It was good that he could not see my embarrassment. He may have sensed it, but our eyes could not physically meet at this moment because he was behind me, which gave me the opportunity to pretend that I was not embarrassed and he could pretend that he did not know I was embarrassed. If our eyes had met, we would both know that I was embarrassed, then there would be no use in pretending, and he might get embarrassed because I was embarrassed. Hence, it would have been more embarrassing then it was.
Therefore, I pretended not to mind sitting in a chair with my clashing outfit and a complete stranger poking a stick through my long, thick hair, rubbing my scalp with a moistened tissue, smacking a glob of goop on that spot and then squishing an end of the electrode into the substance.
There were thirteen wires applied to my head, face, shoulders, legs and arms in this fashion. Next, he gathered up the other ends and connected them to a tiny black box that I held in my left hand for him.
“There all done. Are you ready to go to bed?”
I glanced at my wristwatch and said, “No. I think I’ll read for a little while yet.”
“Alright, but be careful. Don’t move around too much or you’ll become unplugged; I have you on a short leash. Oh yeah, one more thing, don’t fall asleep.”
I attempted to slide into bed as gracefully and carefully as I possibly could. However, when I sensed that I was about to fall on the floor with the wires exploding all over the place, I quickly flopped down on my back landing on an angle. I grabbed my magazine and attempted to look nonchalant as though I was quite comfortable.
If I was lucky, I would get tired quickly so that when it was time for lights out, I would fall asleep immediately and then this whole nightmare would be over. The words I was reading from the article were soon interspersed with my thoughts about how stupid I must look until I finally gave up. Nothing was sinking in and I was getting tired of reading the same lines repeatedly.
I could hear a small tapping of the computer keyboard on the other side of the wall behind my bed, so I knew he was near.
“Hello. I’m ready to go to sleep.”
“Ok. I’m going to connect the box to the computer and I will ask you to do some movements so that I can make sure it is connected properly. It shouldn’t take too long.”
I kicked off my green slippers and he covered me with the thin, slippery bedspread. The room was pleasantly cool. I like to sleep in a cold room and without any windows to open; it may have been a problem. I closed my eyes against the glaring fluorescent lights while I waited for the technician to complete the programming. I had already listened to him do it for the other two patients (both male) so I was ready for the instructions.
“Close your eyes and while keeping them closed, look to the left, now to the right, back to the left. Good. You can open your eyes. Now breathe through your nose. Hold your breath. Continue holding, now breathe through your nose again. Move your left leg from side to side, now move your right leg. Good. We are all done. Have a good sleep.”
He turned out the light and pulled the door shut. It was very dark and I was relieved. I wondered how long it would take me to drift off to sleep. I worried about unplugging the electrodes with my movement. Normally I toss and turn all night long. I tried to imagine how short the leash actually was and estimate if it was possibly long enough to allow me to roll all the way over onto my left side and then shift onto my stomach if I so desired (which I usually do). I decided it was probably too short and I should attempt to stay in the same position for as long as possible.
At home, I can be in a deep sleep within moments of hitting the pillow. I am certain that I never slept an hour during the whole night of the sleep study and I am wondering how much they learned studying my sleep when I never slept. I am most certain that I never snored during this restless night and that was the reason for being there in the first place.
I can hardly wait for my follow up appointment on the 23rd to find out.
I stared down at my green moccasins with the rabbit fur trim and wondered if the technician noticed how the colour seemed to clash with my flashy, new, pink pyjamas with the psychedelic design. My cheeks started to turn red thinking of how ridiculous I must look.
It was good that he could not see my embarrassment. He may have sensed it, but our eyes could not physically meet at this moment because he was behind me, which gave me the opportunity to pretend that I was not embarrassed and he could pretend that he did not know I was embarrassed. If our eyes had met, we would both know that I was embarrassed, then there would be no use in pretending, and he might get embarrassed because I was embarrassed. Hence, it would have been more embarrassing then it was.
Therefore, I pretended not to mind sitting in a chair with my clashing outfit and a complete stranger poking a stick through my long, thick hair, rubbing my scalp with a moistened tissue, smacking a glob of goop on that spot and then squishing an end of the electrode into the substance.
There were thirteen wires applied to my head, face, shoulders, legs and arms in this fashion. Next, he gathered up the other ends and connected them to a tiny black box that I held in my left hand for him.
“There all done. Are you ready to go to bed?”
I glanced at my wristwatch and said, “No. I think I’ll read for a little while yet.”
“Alright, but be careful. Don’t move around too much or you’ll become unplugged; I have you on a short leash. Oh yeah, one more thing, don’t fall asleep.”
I attempted to slide into bed as gracefully and carefully as I possibly could. However, when I sensed that I was about to fall on the floor with the wires exploding all over the place, I quickly flopped down on my back landing on an angle. I grabbed my magazine and attempted to look nonchalant as though I was quite comfortable.
If I was lucky, I would get tired quickly so that when it was time for lights out, I would fall asleep immediately and then this whole nightmare would be over. The words I was reading from the article were soon interspersed with my thoughts about how stupid I must look until I finally gave up. Nothing was sinking in and I was getting tired of reading the same lines repeatedly.
I could hear a small tapping of the computer keyboard on the other side of the wall behind my bed, so I knew he was near.
“Hello. I’m ready to go to sleep.”
“Ok. I’m going to connect the box to the computer and I will ask you to do some movements so that I can make sure it is connected properly. It shouldn’t take too long.”
I kicked off my green slippers and he covered me with the thin, slippery bedspread. The room was pleasantly cool. I like to sleep in a cold room and without any windows to open; it may have been a problem. I closed my eyes against the glaring fluorescent lights while I waited for the technician to complete the programming. I had already listened to him do it for the other two patients (both male) so I was ready for the instructions.
“Close your eyes and while keeping them closed, look to the left, now to the right, back to the left. Good. You can open your eyes. Now breathe through your nose. Hold your breath. Continue holding, now breathe through your nose again. Move your left leg from side to side, now move your right leg. Good. We are all done. Have a good sleep.”
He turned out the light and pulled the door shut. It was very dark and I was relieved. I wondered how long it would take me to drift off to sleep. I worried about unplugging the electrodes with my movement. Normally I toss and turn all night long. I tried to imagine how short the leash actually was and estimate if it was possibly long enough to allow me to roll all the way over onto my left side and then shift onto my stomach if I so desired (which I usually do). I decided it was probably too short and I should attempt to stay in the same position for as long as possible.
At home, I can be in a deep sleep within moments of hitting the pillow. I am certain that I never slept an hour during the whole night of the sleep study and I am wondering how much they learned studying my sleep when I never slept. I am most certain that I never snored during this restless night and that was the reason for being there in the first place.
I can hardly wait for my follow up appointment on the 23rd to find out.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Merry Christmas!
I guess I should have come on here yet again to apologize for disappearing into thin air. It seems that I have fallen into that bad routine of staying at work too late and then just going home and falling into bed.
In September, when I took a little break from work, I promised myself to not do that anymore. I just seem to get so lost in what I am doing that I don't realize what time it is and that everyone else is gone.
My blogging will commence again very shortly though.
I've signed up for a creative writing course which starts early January and I am hoping that I can use my blog to post some of the exercises or pieces that I may possibly write.
Just want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
If you can't see the photo in the post below, try again later. I think there is a problem right now with blogger. I was unable to post a comment because the word verification picture is not showing up.
It's only a picture of my little girlie kitty cat - Molly.
In September, when I took a little break from work, I promised myself to not do that anymore. I just seem to get so lost in what I am doing that I don't realize what time it is and that everyone else is gone.
My blogging will commence again very shortly though.
I've signed up for a creative writing course which starts early January and I am hoping that I can use my blog to post some of the exercises or pieces that I may possibly write.
Just want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
If you can't see the photo in the post below, try again later. I think there is a problem right now with blogger. I was unable to post a comment because the word verification picture is not showing up.
It's only a picture of my little girlie kitty cat - Molly.
Monday, December 18, 2006
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Saturday, November 04, 2006
Two-Timing Addict
I arrive home late from work after yet another long day. I am bleary eyed as I pull into the garage and make my way up to the apartment.
Thankfully Mom has supper holding for me, so that my free time is not wasted on preparing a meal.
After a day of fielding questions, attending meetings, long drawn out conversations with peer on how to avert day-to-day disasters, I yearn for some mindless recreation.
I am entitled to that. I work hard and I don't think I should feel guilty one little bit.
It's the obsession, that at times, causes me to question how far I will go to satisfy it?
It already pushes me to rush through the daily small talk with Mom and Daughter, so that I can excuse myself and get down to what I really want to do.
Is that wrong? Should I be seeking professional help?
It's not like the two strangers or my friend in Ottawa knew what was going on! Discretion is something that is not used enough these days, it seems. Nobody was hurt because of my addiction.
In reality, because of this obsession and my ability to multi-task, I actually gave of myself to three different people and therefore, unselfishly made a difference in their day, plus satisfied my voracious craving all at the same time.
But the best part was that I actually won BOTH of the simultaneous backgammon games while maintaining a chat with Ottawa friend!
I'm proud! That my friends is an example of multi-tasking at it's best.
But I cannot take all the credit for being a master of multi-tasking. Some of it should go to the inferior chat option in the "XP Internet backgammon" game that allowed me to appear present by occasionally choosing varied text from a drop down menu. Secretly though, I was really concentrating on the other game I was playing in Shockwave. It has a normal chat feature that you can utilize in between the timed moves.
My patient Ottawa friend, who I was chatting with in messenger, should also be thanked for waiting longer than normal for my responses...but truth be known, he was multi-tasking too.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
A Sucker is Born
Everyone has heard that saying "a sucker is born every minute". Well on July 22, 1961 at the precise moment I was born, VOILA!! Yes a sucker.
I am regarded as an intelligent individual at work and in my personal life but every now and then I experience what I refer to as my blonde moments and on Tues night it was no different.
Exhausted from working a twelve hour day I arrived home eager to grab a bite to eat and go to bed. The first day back to work after a long weekend is brutal. I am better off not having any vacation days or long weekends because returning to work kills me. I end up having to make up for that day off by working extra long days for the next week.
My mother had my dinner ready to go and looked at me with scrutinizing eyes. Mothers never stop being mothers. She was checking to make sure her baby was ok.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrnggg, brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnngg, brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnng.
"Jezus it never fails. Every night, just as you are about to eat that damn phone rings.
"Hello", my mothers voice automatically reverted to her phony telephone answering voice.
"Just a moment, please."
With one hand over the handset my mother warned me that it was just a telemarketer and that I should end the call as soon as possible so that I could eat my dinner.
"Hello. This is Ms. Snow. No there is no Mr..."
For twenty five minutes I listened to the gentleman with the Jamaican accent from New York explain that I had won a prize from a ballet that I had purportedly completed last Dec 18th, 2005.
I don't remember completing a ballet and he said the sponsor was the Marriott hotel. Maybe I did. How would I know. It's difficult for me to remember what I did an hour ago.
My instinct was screaming that it was just a scam, to hang up, but my curiosity made me hang onto the phone and listen to him anyway while my dinner sat on the counter getting cold.
My mother was in a rage that I was letting her good cooking decay in favour of listening to a scam artist. To display her dissatisfaction with my choice she continually walked in and out of the kitchen where I was standing with the receiver to my ear and ran the faucets, clanged pots, loudly complained about ignorant people phoning in the evening to sell crap and various other techniques deployed to encourage me to hang up.
When they didn't work, she resorted to yelling out loudly "Hang up the phone on the sucker. He's just trying to rip you off. How stupid can you be?"
It may have been her overt attempts to control the situation that led me to continue the conversation and waste more of my time, but each time she disrupted my train of thought with noise, I had to ask him to repeat the verbiage that I just lost and so it went on and on.
After twenty five minutes of this action, I had the directions in my hand of where to pick up my prize and his name and phone number. My appointment would be just two days away at 7:00pm.
I was a guaranteed winner of either a cruise of the Bahamas, completely paid all air, food, drink etc including the air fare from Toronto to Miami, a 60" Plasma TV, a week at Hilton Head along with golf clubs, or a mini vacation which was accommodation only for a week in either Florida or Mexico.
I knew before I went that I would win the trip without the air.
I really wanted the Plasma TV. I had already argued with my mom and my daughter that I was going to give it to my friend, who had just spoken to me the week before about how he wanted to get a plasma TV and we even mentally rearranged his living room in order to give the optimum viewing angle.
In my mind, it was fate. Why would I have a conversation with someone about a Plasma TV and then within days of that conversation be advised that I had potentially won one.
I am always intrigued by the coincidences in life. Plus I'm a romantic so the notion of this happening because it was meant to, ensured that I arrived at the location on the date and time that had been arranged and no matter how much I told myself it was a scam to sell me timesharing or something else; I could not stay away.
The conference room just off the lobby was filled with people sitting at tables talking to one another. A gentleman announced that the presentation would begin in a few moments. I was given a form to complete and told to wait until someone came to get me.
Within seconds of handing my completed form in, a young woman came and called my name. I stood up and she started to walk away from the conference room. I was waiting for her to tell me to take a seat in the room and that I would be viewing an hour long presentation.
She did not. Instead she advised me that because I was a guaranteed winner, I did not have to sit through the presentation but I could go to the Prize room to draw a ballet and see what I won.
I was impressed. The guy on the phone kept telling me that I would not have to see a presentation and that all I had to do was draw a ballet and claim my prize. Maybe he wasn't lying after all.
Ha! Well he was. I am sure that all the ballots in the cylinder were all the same prize. The same as the prize I won, which was the Mini Vacation to Florida or Mexico without the air fare and with so many restrictions and rules that I can't even be bothered to complete my name and address on the front in order to get the prize.
So it's true. A sucker is born every minute and I'm one of them!
Monday, September 25, 2006
Clapton - ized, Again!
I'm still glowing from the experience last night at the Eric Clapton/Robert Cray concert. It was without a doubt, the absolute BEST concert that I have attended.
I think I may have said the same thing the last time I went to an Eric Clapton concert but this one was better than the last. The thing that set this concert apart, in my own opinion, was the addition of Robert Cray and Derek Trucks.
Imagine for a moment, the opportunity to see three of the greatest guitarists on one stage playing together. It was mind-blowing. Listening to live music is one of my favourite things to do.
Yesterday afternoon, prior to leaving for the concert, I went onto Napster and purchased Eric Clapton's Back Home cd and Robert Cray's Twenty. Jack and I played them on the way into the city. It's a great way to get in the mood.
I'm actually listening to them again now, as I write this.
The Air Canada Centre was packed. We were in section 302, row 1, seats 11 and 12, which was dead centre in that section. It was far higher than what I would have liked, but I consider myself lucky to have gotten tickets. I had been lax in checking upcoming concerts because financially, I felt that I couldn't afford to be going to too many concerts. For that reason, I had been deleting my HOB concert newsletters. I can't remember how I stumbled across it now, but it was quite by accident that I found out that Eric Clapton was coming to Toronto again.
The tickets had already been on sale for a few weeks. I was certain that I had missed the boat. When the search came back with those tickets and I looked at the seating chart, I decided it wasn't that bad. We were slightly to the right of centre stage in a balcony.
Binoculars would have been handy, however, I just kept changing my viewpoint from the stage to one of the large screens placed on either side.
The only negative part of attending a concert like that and being squeezed like sardines into the tight seats, is that you can't get up and dance.
I gazed enviously at the fortunate people in the front row and wondered what kind of lifestyle they live. How do you become a front row concert attendee? Is it something that I will ever attain in my life earning the modest living that I do? Probably not, but one can dream!
I'm still in shock over the fact that Derek Trucks was playing with them. He is one of the best guitarists. He absolutely puts me in a spell with his mind-numbing riffs. I could listen to him all day long.
Robert Cray is another long time favourite of mine, so the fact that I just had all three....wow. That seems so inadequate. WOW! There isn't an adjective great enough to describe the sensation of watching three greats performing, and all three are definitely in their element. They are so into playing the music they love that at times, I'm sure they are unaware of the thousands of fans looking at them adoringly.
Again, I am looking at them enviously. What an exciting life they must lead. I'm sure there are aspects that are tedious, but to get on stage with people that you admire and play together, plus make tons of money doing something that you love, has to be wonderful.
Robert Cray opened the concert and held the audience in rapture with his smooth, subtle style that grabs hold of your attention and never lets go. He had the whole venue riveted with his new "Soon To Be Number 1" hit called Twenty. If you haven't heard it, try to find it so that you can listen to it in its entirety. I am certain that this song has what it takes to be a classic such as Hotel California, Stairway To Heaven lore. There is this wonderful riff that is absolutely addicting. It had me hooked before he was halfway through the song. I was almost disappointed when he left the stage. What?! Disappointed that Eric Clapton was now going to start? Well, yes. For a moment, I was because I hadn't had enough of Cray. I was elated to see that he joined Clapton on stage for a couple of other tunes including the encore which was Crossroads. That was AWESOME! I imagined that Clapton and Cray were both dueling each other for their souls, but both had lost because their love of music was too strong; the devil owned them both.
Eric Clapton proved over and over again that he is the master. His age has not depleted his talent in any way. As mesmerized as I can become when Derek was doing a solo, or Robert when Eric would ease in at the end of their solos; I couldn't help but feel that I was witnessing one of the greatest events in music history.
I would highly recommend that you get tickets to see this concert when and if it lands in your neck of the woods! You will not be disappointed.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Trailer Park Girls...
Deb and I are sitting at this lovely turquoise painted picnic table enjoying a rowdy game of Gin Rummy.
After calling my mother to get the rules of play, we dealt the cards and the laughter began.
I want to listen to Bob Marley but Debbie doesn't. We have to find a common ground on the music or the afternoon sun and glow from the alcohol will be lost.
"When was the last time you sat outside at a picnic tableon a sunny Thursday afternoon playing cards?"
"Honestly Shel? I can't even remember."
"Neither can I! This is absolutely perfect!"
"Turn up the music when you're inside getting our drinks!"
We have settled on CCR.
The drink is Coconut Rum and Diet Fresca with Cherry - Superb!
It doesn't take long to go through half a bottle of rum. I decide to finish the rest of my wine from last night. Not too sure what the next drink will be but I'm thinking it will be Vodka and Diet Coke with Lime.
When Debbie's friend from work heard that we were contemplating on spending a couple of days in Southampton, she graciously offered her trailer in Sauble Beach which is just an 8 min drive down the highway from Southampton. This has turned out to be a very inexpensive mini vacation. Other than our food and beverages, the cost is only $10.00 per guest.
The trailer park is Carson's and it is very beautiful. I'm surprised at how big the park is and pride of ownership is evident with the neatly manicured sites. This isn't "The Trailer Park Boys".
Eight hands later, the score is 91 to 71 for me and Debbie has grown weary of the game. We move to lawn chairs, which we position so that we are catching every ray of sunlight possible.
We are now listening to a jukebox CD that was sent to me from Mick in the UK as part of a music exchange with fellow bloggers last year, or was it the year before? I can't remember now, but the music is perfect for this sunny afternoon.
I am completely satisfied with my life in this moment. It's perfect. The heat from the sun, good drink, wonderful music, what more could a person ask for? I lean my head back against the back of the chair and close my eyes. The sound of the wind blowing through the leaves transports me back to another time and place. I'm laying on the hammock in my grandparent's yard sleeping on a sunny, summer afternoon.
I'm really happy that I made the decision to take two weeks off. I was debating on whether I should or not because I did not have any concrete plans, but my body was telling me that I needed to escape the stress of everyday work life to recoup.
It's turned out to be a very relaxed yet interesting little break. I've enjoyed trailer life, cottage life and time at home in between.
Now it's back to my normal routine except that I am making a promise to myself not to stay at work late everynight. It's not good. It doesn't get you anywhere and the only thing that I seem to get out of working so much are bigger bags under my eyes.
Vacation
Here's a sunset from Sauble Beach. I've just returned from a mini vacation. Will update more soon!
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Tit for Tat
Part of my morning battle into work each day comprises of a race around the block to the local Tim Horton's for my Extra Large Double Double.
I started to drive out of my way so that I would be on the right side of the road which allows me to make a right hand turn into the drive-thru line up.
This line up can sometimes snake its way down Caledonia. The people attempting to join the cue from the left are quite simply, left out. They usually have to opt to walk in because there isn't an easy way to turn left and bud into a line up half a block long.
I learned an alternative route soon after joining this office and every day I race off the 401, south on Dufferin to Orfus, West on Orfus to Caledonia, North on Caledonia to the line up for Tim Horton's. Quick and simple, until earlier this week.
The entrance off Caledonia was closed for construction. The only way in was to turn right on Bentworth (a street I pass on Dufferin to get to Orfus) and drive through the parking lot to the drive thru lane.
By the second day, of having to drive past the usual entrance to the second one, I had made a decision that the next day I would turn right on Bentworth and come in that way instead.
I chuckled to myself as I left my fellow racers on Dufferin. Suckers. They don't realize that they can't get in that way. See ya there!
With a smirk still on my face, I pulled my car quickly onto the lot and around the corner of the building to find a line up out the original driveway, snaking down Caledonia.
Shit. They fixed it. Damn. A day too late. To make matters worse some bitch in an SUV must have realized by the look on my face what I had done and she laughed as if to say "Ha, ha!" as she pulled her vehicle closer to the one in front of her so I couldn't sneak in.
There was an older gentleman in the vehicle behind her though and he waved at me that I could go in front of him when there was movement in the line.
It warmed my heart to realize that there are some people out there still with some manners and compassion.
"$1.58 please."
"How much is the order for the man behind me?"
"Pardon?"
"I want to pay for the man's coffee behind me, how much is it?"
"Oh, I see. It's $1.20."
"Ok, here you go!"
I retrieved my coffee and sped off chuckling about what the man would think when he went to pay and was told, "No money, that lady pay for you!"
I believe that good deeds should be rewarded in some small way and he made my day!
Thank you Gentle Stranger!
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Too Early
It can't be 4:30 a.m. It feels like 8:00 a.m. Maybe I should get up and blog for a bit and then go back to bed for a few winks before I have to get ready for work.
No, I'll lie here and try to relax. Think of nothing and soon I'll be back to sleep.
Stop bugging me Molly. This isn't the time for play, I'm supposed to be sleeping. I only have 2 hours before I have to get up.
4:45 a.m. 1 hour and 45 min till wake time. I can't believe how wide awake I am. What time did I go to bed last night anyway? It was at least 11:00 p.m.
Why am I so wide awake. I haven't been in bed long. Usually I require a good 8 hours of sleep to feel this rested.
I should get up now. Take a shower, have breakfast and go into work real early.
No, just lie still and stop thinking and soon you'll be back to sleep.
Think of something that is relaxing. Visualize yourself lying on a sandy beach. The crash of the waves in the background are lulling you to sleep. Yeah, that feels great. Feel that sun on my skin. Ahhh, this is working. Before long I'll be sleeping soundly and the additional hour and a half will do me the world of good.
When I get into work, I need to take care of that HR issue first thing. Fax those documents before you even log on the computer. Then make yourself scarce and work on the overtime. I wonder if so and so is going to be back today. If she doesn't show, make sure you take the files out of her workload and hand them out to the rest of the staff.
I better make sure that Mr. Funny deals with Miss Promises because that whole situation is driving me crazy. Oh damn, I think we have a meeting this morning with Boss Man.
5:08 a.m. Shelly what the hell are you doing? How did you end up from the sandy beach to thinking about work again. Stop that.
Get up and get ready for work. You aren't even tired. You can go into work early and take care of that paperwork before any of the staff get in. No, I'm not going into work early dammit. It feels like I just got home from the night before.
Why am I so wide awake? What did I eat last night? Did I have coffee before bed? I wonder why coffee doesn't really affect me? Maybe it does now and you just don't know.
Ok, just relax. Stop thinking about work. Think about something else. Think about something relaxing...
5:30 a.m. Jeezus Cuhhhhrist. This is NOT working. I have to get up in another hour. Maybe I'll stay in bed till 7:00. I don't have to drive the daughter to work so no need to rush. Piss on it. I'll just take my time. I just need to get back to sleep.
What was I dreaming about before I woke up? What in the hell woke me up anyway?
8:00 a.m. SHIT! What day is it? Where am I supposed to be? Am I working today? Why didn't my radio turn on? DAMN IT.
Instead of being totally early, now I'm late!
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Trying Something New
I'm always open to trying out new things so when MSN asked me if I was interested in changing my hotmail account to the new Windows Live version, I thought what the hell. Might as well.
I've already changed my yahoo account to a new beta version so why not Hotmail.
After I changed over, there was information about other Windows Live services and one of them was Windows Live Writer (Beta). It allows me to create posts without being logged into blogger. Once I am satisfied, I can then upload to my blog.
I'm thinking this might just inspire me to blog more.
We'll see. Of course, that totally means that Windows Live Writer will have to start going to my job each day and working the long hours that I have been for the past year or so.
I'll let you know how it works out!
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Sugar and Spice and Everything...NICE?!?
I am not a nice person. I always thought I was but I was told today that I am not. I am crass. I think it is funny how we do not exactly see ourselves the way everyone else does. It is curious, is it not?
I must admit that my behaviour lately has not been very nice. I am blaming it on the heat. It could be hormones though. On the other hand, maybe I am stressed from too many late nights at work. Are you catching onto the pattern here? How I blame everything except myself? That is right. I operate that way. Never accept full responsibility for anything you do unless you are caught red handed. Even then, you can probably talk yourself out of a jam if you are a good talker.
I digress though. This was not going to be about me deflecting responsibility, but about my anger and me.
I am not sure, if I really have an underlying problem or if it is just the heat. I must add here that it has been incredibly hot in Toronto. Today was the hottest day this summer. It was 36 degrees Celsius but with the humidex, it felt like 47. Last night felt like the hottest night.
I work in air conditioning, drive in air conditioning and live in air conditioning, so I suppose the heat theory does not quite add up, except that I was outside when I lost my cool.
I worked late again. This is becoming a bad habit. Because of working late and being tired, I forgot to do two important tasks; go to the bank and get gas. I knew it was going to be an early start in the morning so I made a decision to go back out after eating something for supper.
My mother has been nervous ever since they announced on the news that a woman was recently raped and savagely beaten just down the block from our apartment building. Now whenever I go out, I have to hear about it. I have to listen to the “don’t come home late” lecture repeatedly.
I know she cares and that is not the problem, it is just that I feel as though I am a kid again. She insisted that Melissa go with me because by the time I started to head back out the door the sun had already fallen and it was dusk.
Melissa was not excited about going to the bank and getting gas but she could tell that my mom would not let go of it, so she grabbed her purse and out into the scary darkness we went.
The banking went smoothly. No hiccups, no robberies, we were in and out swiftly. Next, we did a quick shopping at Dominion. I thought I had been through a time warp back to the winter when I walked in and felt the blast of heat coming from the radiators in the vestibule. Beads of sweat started to pop out all over my face. I imagined that it was not noticeable and refrained from wiping them off.
The clerk at the checkout agreed with me about how stupid Dominion was for not having a good air conditioner.
“I HATE this place! The air conditioner hasn’t worked in two years!”
I moaned all the way to the car, which felt like a lot further away then when I walked into the store.
Melissa commented that I would not be a good candidate for a vacation in the Southern climes. Obviously, I cannot take the heat. She informed me that it really was not as bad as I was making it to be.
With our fudgesicles packed safely in the trunk, we scooted off to get the gas. I had noted earlier that the gas was 105.8 Cents per litre on my way home from work. Usually it will drop on a Monday or Tuesday evening and I was hoping that I would be fortuitous enough to save a penny or two.
The sign read 105.8. The station was not busy. I debated on driving around the city looking for a deal with my needle close to centering on E, but decided that I would play it safe and just buy it there. Pay full price. What the hell; its payday.
I pulled up to an empty pump and noticed a large post-it-note stuck on the outside warning that the debit was not operating. Another note was stuck on the next pump and the next. I continued around to the other side and was relieved to see there were no signs.
Expertly I opened my tank and stuck my debit card into the machine. Without waiting for the slow written instructions, I pushed the numbers deftly and pounced on the enter key as the words “push enter” began to appear on the LCD screen.
“Select grade to continue.”
I faltered for a half second as I debated internally on the merits of mid-blend over regular. Cheapness prevailed and I selected regular.
Nothing happened. I pushed it again, harder this time. Yet again, there was no response. The screen continued to read “select grade to continue.”
I repeated this sequence over and over again, each time selecting a different grade. It did not matter. The pump refused to give me cheap gas, gas that is slightly more expensive or gas that is significantly more expensive.
I turned toward the gas station where Mr. and Mrs. Gas Station Attendant were pretending to be busy looking after customers.
If only we could make eye contact, I am sure they would recognize the dilemma I was in and come out to assist.
Regardless of how hard I willed them to turn and look at me, they continued with their busy act and refused to turn. I was impressed with their strong will to resist my telepathic commands.
Not to be defeated, I resorted to pushing the “help” button.
“Calling cashier, please wait.”
I wondered what choice I had but to wait, however I was impressed with how polite the gas pump was.
Nothing happened. I did not hear a voice asking me if they could help and the “Calling cashier, please wait” message disappeared.
I pushed the help button again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And, well let’s suffice it to say that I am not entirely sure about how many times I actually did push the button. I was hoping that with every push of the button, that a loud ringing would occur inside the station where Mr. and Mrs. Gas Station Attendant were still pretending to be busy.
The beads of sweat that earlier had made my face glisten beautifully, had now formed small rivulets.
When the gas pump got tired of telling me to wait because it was calling the cashier, it simply cancelled my transaction. It had forced its hand. Now I either had to walk the 20 paces and confront Mr. and Mrs. Gas Station Attendant, or leave.
I marched into the station and demanded an explanation of why they had not answered my call for help.
“There is nothing wrong with the pump,” declared Mrs. Gas Station Attendant.
“How would you know that there is nothing wrong, when you never answered my call for help?”
“Because the screen says it is ok.”
“Well the screen is wrong because your piece of shit gas pump is broken.”
Mr. Gas Station Attendant abruptly interjected that I should have pushed the button for the intercom instead of using the help button. That way I would have been able to communicate with them.
“Then what the hell is the “help” button for?”
“I will be right out in a few minutes to assist you.”
“Forget it. I’ll take my business someplace else. Thank you so much for your GREAT customer service.”
I stormed out of the station and back to my car.
Melissa was killing herself laughing because she could tell by my face and my overly brisk walk that I was in a rage.
I explained the problem to her as I squealed off the lot and out onto the street.
A quick drive around the corner to the next gas station and I felt smug as I noted the price was a whole ½ cent cheaper.
I pulled deftly into the first available pump but stopped when I noticed a barricade of construction cones at the other end. It was confusing. Is it open or closed?
A young attendant was outside directing traffic on the lot and he yelled that it was ok, only that I would have to back out when I was finished.
Not a problem. I can do reverse. I actually reverse my car quite often when I am driving.
Just as I was stepping out of my vehicle, I heard a small beep and noticed a young man parked right behind my car. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed that I was prevented from moving up ahead by the row of cones. I ignored him. The attendant walked up to his window and spoke to him (explained the situation and the fact that he would have to back up so I could get out when I was done).
That last bit of instruction must have been too difficult for him to understand because he backed up a smidgen. Not nearly enough for a person to pull their car out and get it turned.
Again, I was not letting this irritate me. I had the entire evening and he was the one that would have to wait for me to get out of the way.
I finished my transaction at the gas pump. Printed a receipt for my record keeping (threw it casually into the back seat with the rest of the gas station receipts) and put the car into reverse.
I turned to look out my rear window and waited for Goofy to back up. He didn’t, so I didn’t. It was a classic standoff. The entire lot was full of cars by this time, all parked in different spots waiting to get at a pump. The thought did cross my mind that the attendant may have done a better job of managing how many cars he allowed onto the small lot, considering the room that was required for each of us to back up and turn around and exit by the one entrance.
Goofy backed up a little more. I backed up a little more. I still did not have clearance to turn my car around so I waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the attendant signalling me how to turn my wheels. I guess he figured that I was confused and did not know how to drive my car.
That was the breaking point.
“Don’t tell me how to fucking drive my car.”
“It’s not my fault. I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes you did. You are standing there motioning me on how to get out of here when I know perfectly well how to get out. Tell that asshole behind me to back up his fucking car so I can get out.”
Goofy heard me because he had his window open and he dutifully backed out of the way.
Again, I squealed off a gas station lot in a rage. I just needed to get home into the cool air again.
Melissa was questioning me about my mood as we sped home and I quickly informed her that it was not me, it was everyone else. It was all their fault. Anybody and everybody that had crossed my path was responsible for the murderous thoughts that were racing through my body at that very moment.
“I’ll tell you one thing Melissa. Your Nana does not need to worry about any rapist attempting anything with me because I would kill the fucker. He wouldn’t have a chance, the way I feel right now.”
The words were just escaping my lips when I noticed the police cars, fire truck and ambulance parked in the middle of the road, blocking my access to our building.
“I wonder what the Police would say about that,” Melissa snickered.
“Geezus…what is going on tonight?”
“I don’t know Mom, but I just want to go home.”
After taking a detour around the block, we made it safely into the garage, managed to park without incident and make our way back to our safe, cool apartment.
I went right to bed. Perhaps I was overtired.
I must admit that my behaviour lately has not been very nice. I am blaming it on the heat. It could be hormones though. On the other hand, maybe I am stressed from too many late nights at work. Are you catching onto the pattern here? How I blame everything except myself? That is right. I operate that way. Never accept full responsibility for anything you do unless you are caught red handed. Even then, you can probably talk yourself out of a jam if you are a good talker.
I digress though. This was not going to be about me deflecting responsibility, but about my anger and me.
I am not sure, if I really have an underlying problem or if it is just the heat. I must add here that it has been incredibly hot in Toronto. Today was the hottest day this summer. It was 36 degrees Celsius but with the humidex, it felt like 47. Last night felt like the hottest night.
I work in air conditioning, drive in air conditioning and live in air conditioning, so I suppose the heat theory does not quite add up, except that I was outside when I lost my cool.
I worked late again. This is becoming a bad habit. Because of working late and being tired, I forgot to do two important tasks; go to the bank and get gas. I knew it was going to be an early start in the morning so I made a decision to go back out after eating something for supper.
My mother has been nervous ever since they announced on the news that a woman was recently raped and savagely beaten just down the block from our apartment building. Now whenever I go out, I have to hear about it. I have to listen to the “don’t come home late” lecture repeatedly.
I know she cares and that is not the problem, it is just that I feel as though I am a kid again. She insisted that Melissa go with me because by the time I started to head back out the door the sun had already fallen and it was dusk.
Melissa was not excited about going to the bank and getting gas but she could tell that my mom would not let go of it, so she grabbed her purse and out into the scary darkness we went.
The banking went smoothly. No hiccups, no robberies, we were in and out swiftly. Next, we did a quick shopping at Dominion. I thought I had been through a time warp back to the winter when I walked in and felt the blast of heat coming from the radiators in the vestibule. Beads of sweat started to pop out all over my face. I imagined that it was not noticeable and refrained from wiping them off.
The clerk at the checkout agreed with me about how stupid Dominion was for not having a good air conditioner.
“I HATE this place! The air conditioner hasn’t worked in two years!”
I moaned all the way to the car, which felt like a lot further away then when I walked into the store.
Melissa commented that I would not be a good candidate for a vacation in the Southern climes. Obviously, I cannot take the heat. She informed me that it really was not as bad as I was making it to be.
With our fudgesicles packed safely in the trunk, we scooted off to get the gas. I had noted earlier that the gas was 105.8 Cents per litre on my way home from work. Usually it will drop on a Monday or Tuesday evening and I was hoping that I would be fortuitous enough to save a penny or two.
The sign read 105.8. The station was not busy. I debated on driving around the city looking for a deal with my needle close to centering on E, but decided that I would play it safe and just buy it there. Pay full price. What the hell; its payday.
I pulled up to an empty pump and noticed a large post-it-note stuck on the outside warning that the debit was not operating. Another note was stuck on the next pump and the next. I continued around to the other side and was relieved to see there were no signs.
Expertly I opened my tank and stuck my debit card into the machine. Without waiting for the slow written instructions, I pushed the numbers deftly and pounced on the enter key as the words “push enter” began to appear on the LCD screen.
“Select grade to continue.”
I faltered for a half second as I debated internally on the merits of mid-blend over regular. Cheapness prevailed and I selected regular.
Nothing happened. I pushed it again, harder this time. Yet again, there was no response. The screen continued to read “select grade to continue.”
I repeated this sequence over and over again, each time selecting a different grade. It did not matter. The pump refused to give me cheap gas, gas that is slightly more expensive or gas that is significantly more expensive.
I turned toward the gas station where Mr. and Mrs. Gas Station Attendant were pretending to be busy looking after customers.
If only we could make eye contact, I am sure they would recognize the dilemma I was in and come out to assist.
Regardless of how hard I willed them to turn and look at me, they continued with their busy act and refused to turn. I was impressed with their strong will to resist my telepathic commands.
Not to be defeated, I resorted to pushing the “help” button.
“Calling cashier, please wait.”
I wondered what choice I had but to wait, however I was impressed with how polite the gas pump was.
Nothing happened. I did not hear a voice asking me if they could help and the “Calling cashier, please wait” message disappeared.
I pushed the help button again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And, well let’s suffice it to say that I am not entirely sure about how many times I actually did push the button. I was hoping that with every push of the button, that a loud ringing would occur inside the station where Mr. and Mrs. Gas Station Attendant were still pretending to be busy.
The beads of sweat that earlier had made my face glisten beautifully, had now formed small rivulets.
When the gas pump got tired of telling me to wait because it was calling the cashier, it simply cancelled my transaction. It had forced its hand. Now I either had to walk the 20 paces and confront Mr. and Mrs. Gas Station Attendant, or leave.
I marched into the station and demanded an explanation of why they had not answered my call for help.
“There is nothing wrong with the pump,” declared Mrs. Gas Station Attendant.
“How would you know that there is nothing wrong, when you never answered my call for help?”
“Because the screen says it is ok.”
“Well the screen is wrong because your piece of shit gas pump is broken.”
Mr. Gas Station Attendant abruptly interjected that I should have pushed the button for the intercom instead of using the help button. That way I would have been able to communicate with them.
“Then what the hell is the “help” button for?”
“I will be right out in a few minutes to assist you.”
“Forget it. I’ll take my business someplace else. Thank you so much for your GREAT customer service.”
I stormed out of the station and back to my car.
Melissa was killing herself laughing because she could tell by my face and my overly brisk walk that I was in a rage.
I explained the problem to her as I squealed off the lot and out onto the street.
A quick drive around the corner to the next gas station and I felt smug as I noted the price was a whole ½ cent cheaper.
I pulled deftly into the first available pump but stopped when I noticed a barricade of construction cones at the other end. It was confusing. Is it open or closed?
A young attendant was outside directing traffic on the lot and he yelled that it was ok, only that I would have to back out when I was finished.
Not a problem. I can do reverse. I actually reverse my car quite often when I am driving.
Just as I was stepping out of my vehicle, I heard a small beep and noticed a young man parked right behind my car. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed that I was prevented from moving up ahead by the row of cones. I ignored him. The attendant walked up to his window and spoke to him (explained the situation and the fact that he would have to back up so I could get out when I was done).
That last bit of instruction must have been too difficult for him to understand because he backed up a smidgen. Not nearly enough for a person to pull their car out and get it turned.
Again, I was not letting this irritate me. I had the entire evening and he was the one that would have to wait for me to get out of the way.
I finished my transaction at the gas pump. Printed a receipt for my record keeping (threw it casually into the back seat with the rest of the gas station receipts) and put the car into reverse.
I turned to look out my rear window and waited for Goofy to back up. He didn’t, so I didn’t. It was a classic standoff. The entire lot was full of cars by this time, all parked in different spots waiting to get at a pump. The thought did cross my mind that the attendant may have done a better job of managing how many cars he allowed onto the small lot, considering the room that was required for each of us to back up and turn around and exit by the one entrance.
Goofy backed up a little more. I backed up a little more. I still did not have clearance to turn my car around so I waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the attendant signalling me how to turn my wheels. I guess he figured that I was confused and did not know how to drive my car.
That was the breaking point.
“Don’t tell me how to fucking drive my car.”
“It’s not my fault. I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes you did. You are standing there motioning me on how to get out of here when I know perfectly well how to get out. Tell that asshole behind me to back up his fucking car so I can get out.”
Goofy heard me because he had his window open and he dutifully backed out of the way.
Again, I squealed off a gas station lot in a rage. I just needed to get home into the cool air again.
Melissa was questioning me about my mood as we sped home and I quickly informed her that it was not me, it was everyone else. It was all their fault. Anybody and everybody that had crossed my path was responsible for the murderous thoughts that were racing through my body at that very moment.
“I’ll tell you one thing Melissa. Your Nana does not need to worry about any rapist attempting anything with me because I would kill the fucker. He wouldn’t have a chance, the way I feel right now.”
The words were just escaping my lips when I noticed the police cars, fire truck and ambulance parked in the middle of the road, blocking my access to our building.
“I wonder what the Police would say about that,” Melissa snickered.
“Geezus…what is going on tonight?”
“I don’t know Mom, but I just want to go home.”
After taking a detour around the block, we made it safely into the garage, managed to park without incident and make our way back to our safe, cool apartment.
I went right to bed. Perhaps I was overtired.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
My Birthday Gift
Here is a picture of the beautiful bracelet my daughter gave me for my birthday. It's very sparkly and pretty! I just love it.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Blues, Blues and more Blues
I have been away for a mini vacation to the Nation’s Capital, Ottawa, again. This time it was to go to the Ottawa Bluesfest for the first time.
I was browsing the internet in May to look for information on my new favourite musician, James Hunter and was lead down the cyber path to pulling out my credit card and purchasing two tickets to see Etta James in Ottawa last week.
I had heard about the Bluesfest before, now in its 13th year but had never made the decision to attend. When I purchased the tickets, I had no idea who I would take but I decided to ask my daughter if she would like to go. We had not been away together in years and I know that she enjoys Etta James so it seemed like the obvious choice.
Etta James has been a favourite artist of mine for a long time and I did not want to go to her concert with anyone that did not appreciate her music. My daughter was very excited about our trip and arranged for the time off work.
We stayed at the Ottawa Marriott, which is a lovely hotel, but it was a little too far away from the venue, which is held at Confederation Park. The best hotel, location wise, would have been the Lord Elgin, which was right across the street. I will know better next year.
The concert was fabulous. I was impressed with how appreciative the crowd was and there was quite a crowd. Melissa and I had VIP seats, three rows from the stage. We could see the sweat dropping off Etta’s face.
I am still in awe that I have finally been to see my idol. It still seems like a dream. One thing that was a big shock to me was how much weight she has lost. Etta James has always been a big woman but she was just a little tiny thing on the stage. Her voice is as big and full as it ever was and she blew us all away with the strength.
At the end of the show, while she sang her encore, tears started to roll down her cheek, she stopped singing, walked to the edge of the stage, stood for a few moments listening to the catcalls, and applause then turned suddenly and walked off the stage.
I do not think I will ever see her perform again. It seems to me that the weight loss is due to health issues and I hope I am wrong, but something tells me that I am not.
Other things that we did while in Ottawa were:
dined with my friend,
caught Dickie Betts performance the first night we were there,
shopped around the market in the sweltering temperatures,
my daughter tried on every pair of sandals in the Rideau Centre only to decide to wait until she was in Toronto again,
drove the wrong way on two one-way streets almost running head on into a UPS van and then had to do a big U-turn in the middle of the intersection and run a red light to get out of it,
my daughter had her picture taken with Jully Black after we watched her performance,
got lost on our way to lunch at a restaurant that I have been to several times before,
slept in both days,
sang along to great music during the 4+ hour drive there and home.
Etta James Ottawa Bluesfest 2006 "At Last"
Etta James Ottawa Bluesfest 2006 "I want to Ta Ta Ya Baby"
I was browsing the internet in May to look for information on my new favourite musician, James Hunter and was lead down the cyber path to pulling out my credit card and purchasing two tickets to see Etta James in Ottawa last week.
I had heard about the Bluesfest before, now in its 13th year but had never made the decision to attend. When I purchased the tickets, I had no idea who I would take but I decided to ask my daughter if she would like to go. We had not been away together in years and I know that she enjoys Etta James so it seemed like the obvious choice.
Etta James has been a favourite artist of mine for a long time and I did not want to go to her concert with anyone that did not appreciate her music. My daughter was very excited about our trip and arranged for the time off work.
We stayed at the Ottawa Marriott, which is a lovely hotel, but it was a little too far away from the venue, which is held at Confederation Park. The best hotel, location wise, would have been the Lord Elgin, which was right across the street. I will know better next year.
The concert was fabulous. I was impressed with how appreciative the crowd was and there was quite a crowd. Melissa and I had VIP seats, three rows from the stage. We could see the sweat dropping off Etta’s face.
I am still in awe that I have finally been to see my idol. It still seems like a dream. One thing that was a big shock to me was how much weight she has lost. Etta James has always been a big woman but she was just a little tiny thing on the stage. Her voice is as big and full as it ever was and she blew us all away with the strength.
At the end of the show, while she sang her encore, tears started to roll down her cheek, she stopped singing, walked to the edge of the stage, stood for a few moments listening to the catcalls, and applause then turned suddenly and walked off the stage.
I do not think I will ever see her perform again. It seems to me that the weight loss is due to health issues and I hope I am wrong, but something tells me that I am not.
Other things that we did while in Ottawa were:
dined with my friend,
caught Dickie Betts performance the first night we were there,
shopped around the market in the sweltering temperatures,
my daughter tried on every pair of sandals in the Rideau Centre only to decide to wait until she was in Toronto again,
drove the wrong way on two one-way streets almost running head on into a UPS van and then had to do a big U-turn in the middle of the intersection and run a red light to get out of it,
my daughter had her picture taken with Jully Black after we watched her performance,
got lost on our way to lunch at a restaurant that I have been to several times before,
slept in both days,
sang along to great music during the 4+ hour drive there and home.
Etta James Ottawa Bluesfest 2006 "At Last"
Etta James Ottawa Bluesfest 2006 "I want to Ta Ta Ya Baby"
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