I Have a Story to Tell You

"Like all the best families,
we have our share of eccentricities,
of impetuous and wayward youngsters
and of family disagreements."


~Queen Elizabeth II ~

It is Sunday March 6, 2011 and I am at a cafe table in the middle of a mall.  I know, not my "uje", but I thought the shops opened at ten not eleven, so here I am waiting for one of the great sins of our time - the modern shopping mega mall - to lurch to life.

My throat is sore, and I'm congested. Opting for the lesser of the evils I'm having some sort of unsweetened iced drink to try and keep my throat from drying up and dying.  Surprisingly, there is a starling in here, hopping from table to table. Not quite like the cafes of St. Germain, but the bird helps create at least a quirky, if not convincing atmosphere.

It reminds me of the afternoon I spent a few years ago channelling Hemingway at Les Deux Maggots. Ahh, April in Paris! I remember surfacing from the tangled beauty of the Paris metro into a postcard of red geraniums standing at attention in wrought iron window boxes. 

There in the cafe, across from the church, I found a little table under the canopy and began to write. As the afternoon wore on, I managed to make my way through lunch, completely backwards. I began with a cafe americano, followed by an espresso with chocolate cake, followed by chicken, salad, and finally, a lovely glass of french wine.  Actually it was more than one glass of wine, but when you're with Hemingway in spirit, who's counting? 

That was one of the most perfect afternoons of my life, and I'm sure, if you were here beside me sipping a cup of tea and munching on some homemade treaties, the story would take much longer to tell. I would fill in the gaps of the story; like how it was the first time I ever saw geraniums and liked them, that the energy and people in the cafe were amazing, that the waiter was a grey-haired, balding sweetheart whose patience allowed us to converse despite my merciless butchering of his exquisite mother tongue, and why I felt compelled to travel to Paris in the first place.

But this isn't the story I want to tell you. I want to tell you a story that you already know.  After all, what are we but manufactured characters of our own stories?

We go back. Despite our absorption into the individual self, the entertaining tales of our shenanigans in friendship and love are second to the narrative soil of the genes in which we are rooted.  Our mind reaches back in time as tree roots burrow deeper into the rich earth.

Despite our dysfunction, the skeletons tap on the closet doors of our mind and threaten to tumble out along with our heirloom scars.  Despite this delicate balance, we long to know we came from love.  Greater than the shallow love of skin on skin, greater than the dutiful love of being fed and clothed, we long to know we are from a love that binds eternity and purpose.

This morning, enjoying a breakfast of cheese, figs and pastry, a collection of long lost family photos stared back at me from my laptop.  Seven of us, in perfect two-or-three-year-gapped chronological order smiled back at me from my past.  Not one of us was older than 18.  We knew our place in that order, and we held each other up like each thread holds together a tattered blanket.

We knew our stories; That Peter fell asleep under a box on the porch when he was a toddler. Unable to find him, a panicked mom warranted a full search by our local police constable until rolly little Peter stretched and yawned after his nap and inquired as to what the fuss was all about.

And there was quiet Melanie, with her Holly Hobby infatuation and collection of Tetley tea figurines lined up on her bedroom window sill. 

Tim, eldest, quiet, and gentle. Its' funny how the most tender of souls are damaged and lost in the teenaged jungle of feel good temptation.  I looked up to Tim, and I loved him because he was good.

Paula. The second oldest of the crew. Athlete, blond beauty and fashionista. Her dream was to live in the city one day.

Donald. He was my age, but an old soul. Many have said I have an old soul, but if I have an old soul, Donald's was ancient. Even in kindergarten he was repentant. He hummed constantly with the stress of religious guilt.  The other five of us would rib him, but God save you if you weren't blood and wanted to take a swing.  We stuck together.

The baby was Matthew.  He will forever be the image of the curly blond baby holding up the end of the family helix as the seven of us paraded in front of the video camera and up the staircase one Christmas eve.

The group of seven. Sharing stories only the seven of us will know, along with all of the plot twists, treachery and jubilation that all families experience.  But these are our stories; before the drugs, the alcohol, the pill, marriage, divorce, breakdowns, and birthing another generation.

This morning as I ate my breakfast, those seven children looked back at me.  We were smiling. We were innocent. We did come from love. Despite the individuals we are now, and giving the world another generation, we go back, weaving this new blood into the family story.

A Gnomeo and Juliet Family Day

"If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton,
you may as well make it dance."

~George Bernard Shaw~

Ah, good old Family Day. The proverbial bone thrown from a connivingly dictatorial provincial government. Not as conniving and dictatorial as their blue cousins, but very close.  Family day, the holiday in the middle of the vast January-February-March winter doldrums landscape we all look forward to. It was either a day off, or 50% off at the LCBO on Superbowl weekend. This is much less expensive for the government to fund.

What an awe inspiring idea - a day to spend quality time with your family.  As I watched my now almost-taller-than-me-son set up our Wii for the Amazing Race game (which we lost after the second challenge), I got teary. This is it. My family of four never happened. My huge extended family has disbanded, and here I am on Family Day with my family of two. Two is a bit ridiculous to call a family - isn't it?

I looked at my son's frame, his long legs the spitting image of mine at his age, and I smiled. Yes, this was it. This tall pre-teen, my dopey white cat, and my cantankerous parrotlet were my family. Tucked in for the afternoon, we were all happy in our cozy little home.  Kitty the bird was perched half in, and half out of her bird bath, Leonard was curled up on the stool at my feet, and my son was giggling about creating Mii's of myself and his dad.  Life is good.

The morning started with a good sleep-in, which, as you know, is quintessential to any fabulously lazy day.  We struck out for the movie theatre to see, what I'm sure will become a film classic, "Gnomeo and Juliet" (Elton John the executive producer no less).  Surprisingly, the film was a hit with both myself (middle-aged mom and my pre-teen son). Just enough stupidity and kitsch to hook us both and make us laugh.  The previews set us up to see another four films; Hoodwinked Too, Rio, Rango and Winnie the Pooh.  Talk about culture vultures! We're so cool.

If you know me, you can count on my uncanny ability to screw up movie times. I can look up movie information in the paper, on the web, by phone, and always manage to get the times mixed up. Today was no exception. We arrived 45 minutes too early.  With the long sleep-in, I had skipped breakfast hoping to grab a diet pop and popcorn at the theatre. Nothin's says you're an adult like popcorn for breakfast, but hey, I'm just a very old kid. My son, entering his I-need-to-flex-my-preteen-man-muscles has been bugging me for a couple of weeks to take him out for wings.  Nothing says "I'm-a-dude" like chewing meat off a bone. Ick.  

With our 45 minute wait, I noticed a Wild Wings restaurant just across from the theatre. I didn't even bother to ask. I was screwed.  There was no avoiding the tearing-the-meat-off-the-teeny-tiny-bones-with-my-teeth  now. I was starving, and heck, it was family day after all.  Being the cool mom that I am, or the embarrassing mom (depends if you ask my kid, or you ask me), I said, "C'mon kiddo, let's get some lunch". 

"At Wild Wings?", the little man said surprised.  "Yep, I'm starving".

We bellied up to the manly wooden tables, complete with paper towel roll and bucket for the bones. Oh lord. Our selection of wings were the "Brown Eyed Girl". We chose them because they weren't supposed to be spicy, and the song reminds us of my crazy gal-friend Monroe. Wings and potato skins ordered, we watched some curling and read our horoscopes in the paper. My son felt sufficiently satisfied that this was a guy's place to eat, and I sufficiently regretted filling my stomach with greasy wings and potato skins.   I would have much rather tucked in with my popcorn and diet coke, although it likely would have cost more, and left my stomach feeling the same as it felt now - ready for revolt on all borders.

The movie was pretty cute. The story of Romeo and Juliet retold in the land of garden gnomes, except (spoiler comin' up....), no one dies in the end. The Elton John soundtrack was a bit awkward, but how can it be too bad when it's Sir Elton? I mean really, the man is a musical genius, and I love him.  There was on-line dating (Find a Bird), that I could relate to, and monster-truck-like garden tractors that my son could relate to.

I think the lawn tractor was my second-favourite character after the red-over-the-shoulder-thong-wearing-male-gnome. The lawn tractor is "The Terrafirminator - a weapon of grass-destruction". If you watch this and don't laugh, you seriously need to lighten up.

Dinner is on the stove now; my son's favourite sauce and pasta. We'll have some gooey dessert, get out the scrabble board and call it a day. A great day. Macho wings, silly movie, video game, miserable parrotlet, stunned cat, pre-teen kid and mom all added up to one happy family day. So, two isn't such a ridiculous number after all. Two counts. Two makes one great family, with a couple of fuzzy characters tagging along for the ride.

I hope you enjoyed your day, and counted your blessings, whomever they are. How did you spend your Family Day?

Meeting the Parents & the Perils of Super Glue

~ There are no grades of vanity,
there are only grades of ability in concealing it ~
Mark Twain

I don't even know where to begin ....

This is the second week that my son has been away from home this summer and I get all out of sorts when he's gone. Just when I'm getting used to not having to cook, not having to go to baseball, not having to do anything, it's almost time for him to come home.

Last night was the first night during the two weeks that I've had to myself. No work. No friends. No having to be here or there or doing something for someone else.  There was a baseball game however, and I wanted to go see my son play. So, on my way (unusually unrushed), I stopped to pick up a bag of soil for a few summer bulbs that I have neglected to plant, hoping that they will grow just enough to feed the bulb for next year.

So, there I was, happily home after a baseball game with my 30 litres of  soil waiting to be used up outside on the patio.  I tidied a bit, and potted my bulbs. Before closing the patio doors and getting ready to snuggle in for the night, I stood back and admired my work. I needed to get ready for bed, after all, tomorrow was a big day. I was taking my friend's mother to the art gallery and out for lunch. Since we had only just met a few days before, I was a bit nervous about being on my own with her.  In addition to the we've-just-met-jitters, I only speak English with very limited French and Spanish.  She  speaks Dutch and French  and limited English. My spoken  french (that I thought was not so bad until a few days ago actually) stinks.  On top of that, I wasn't going to be driving my own air-conditionless car. I would be driving my friend's car - a car I have never driven before. I laid awake reminding myself to adjust the mirrors.

I awoke with the sound of my alarm. It felt good to sleep in a little bit, and looking forward to spending the day with this lady at the art gallery. I pressed the snooze button for half an hour. Indulgent bliss. It would be a good day I decided, and then I got out of bed.  I staggered to the kitchen in my light blue summer nightie and put the kettle on for a cup of tea.  I opened the patio door , and it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.  There was a nice cool breeze, and the birds were chirping. I filled up the watering can and watered the plants. To my relief, the squirrels (I hate squirrels) had left my newly potted bulbs alone, and in that moment, the world was good. Just in that moment.

Back into the bedroom I went to pull out my outfit for the day, and to the bathroom to brush my teeth. The kettle long past boiling switched itself off as  I showered and dressed.  I was relaxed putting on my eye makeup, thinking of when I bought it with my friend for her wedding.  I strolled back out into the living room, hoping to boil the kettle again and finally have my first cup of tea.

To my left, just outside my patio door, only the width of a pane of glass away from Leonard, my killer giant cat (ok, lazy, spoiled cat), was a squirrel with his little, guerrilla warfare paws clenching one of my bulbs...and chewing it!!!!!! I ran to the door and the little commando took off with the darn bulb! Finally he dropped it (it's an elephant ear bulb about the size of a small teacup) and ran up a tree to be with the rest of the little hairy satans. ARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!! I hate squirrels. I retrieved the bulb, shoved it back in the dirt, and went in to find some cat hair to put over top in an effort to keep the vigilante squirrels away. I hate squirrels.

No time for tea. No time for breakfast, a quick coat of my fingernail polish and out the door. Oh. Wait. My sandal looks like the lining is separating. I'll just give that a quick dab of super glue, and it'll be right as rain.  Right. I rambled through a buffet drawer, careful not to smudge my nail polish,  and found the just-in-case bottle of super glue that I always keep in stock, just for occasions like these. I'm so smart.

My pretty black and white polka-dot sandals needed some TLC, and I was going to give it to them.  Oh poop. No hole in the super glue.  In the same drawer as the super glue is a collection of miscellaneous "speciality" utensils. My fingers blindly grabbed a salad fork. Perfect.  I poked one tine in the top of the glue tube, and holy hell, grab your grand kids, was that glue ever under pressure. No sooner had the fork pierced the tube than the glue escaped like Mexicans over the border, and right into the corner of my left eye!!! (I still haven't figured out how to truly convey a screaming sound with words, but if I could, I would do it right here!)Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!! Blinded in one eye, with the fork lodged somewhere in the wall, and the tube of super glue stuck to my left hand, I ran back to the bathroom.  Oh! My! Gawd!

The glue had mercifully missed the white of my eye and my contact lens, but had managed to spray under my eye, on the inside by the tear duct, and on every single one of lashes on the bottom of my left eye. I very calmly said the f word.

Now, here's the irony. As a funeral director, I have had the very uncommon experience of using superglue on human skin.  On purpose.  So, I knew that after it dried it would be easier to peel off.  I walked back to the door, eye glued shut and glue tube adhered to my left hand.  I pried the glue out of my hand, and fixed my sandal.  It's important to note here that the sandal has a high heel. In other words, it slopes down toward the toes.

I walked to the kitchen with the tube now glued to my right hand, eye still glued shut and said a good old fashioned Gaelic curse as I threw my emergency superglue into the trash. Damn glue. Damn fork. Damn shoe. I went back to the washroom, and as any practiced embalmer would do, I took to the tender flesh around my eye with spring forceps (aka known in the real world as tweezers). I think the skin around our eyes  is roughly the same composition as foreskin. Boy does it stretch!!! 

I could only get most of the glue out of my eyelashes by actually pulling my eyelashes out. My carefully applied eye make up no longer looked so very carefully applied. I looked like I had three months worth of morning boogers in the corner of my eye, and that I'd been crying for as long.  With most of the glue removed, and my sight still in tact, I made my way back to the door, slid my feet into my sandals, and then remembered - MONEY! I need to go get some cash.

Off came my left shoe, off came my....off came my....Oh for flip, frigging, mother of gawd's sake!!! I glued my foot inside my cute black and white polka dot sandals. I wanted to cry. I wanted to kick those flipping sandals through the patio door, past my newly planted bulbs, right up the tiny arse of one of those satanic- rodent-devil squirrels! After what I'm sure the neighbour who was walking his dog outside of the patio doors thought was a very elaborat dance routine fit for a Vegas stripper, I decided that I would just leave my foot glued to the sandal.  After thinking about it some more, and staring at my foot hoping that by the grace of some funky, white, hoodo, voodo magic my foot would come unglued, I decided that I'd better free my foot in case the occasion required. With my luck I'd end up being required to take off my shoes for a strip search after rolling my friend's car and scaring his mother half to death on the highway.  I finally managed to pry the ball of my foot out of my sandal with a butter knife. Note: bring your own cutlery next time you eat at my place.

The entire way to the house, I was trying to chew the superglue off my fingers so it wouldn't look like I had the worst case of eczema on the planet. The sandals looked great by the way.