I have every single symptom.
And it's not getting any better or going away.
It's getting worse and it's getting bigger.
As I emailed L. today, and emailed my sister, recent events surrounding issues with my family, etc, have caused me to ask, Do I have a black cloud following me around?
I am just not even close to being ready to deal with all of this in terms of the death and detrius of one parent, and the looking after (ie, parenting) the other parent.
I'm really trying (and by trying I mean watching trash
tv every night, drinking too much chardonnay, falling asleep,
then getting up at about 4 for no reason) but I've reached a bit of an impasse where I truly have lost sight of what I can do for solving these problems. It's like my bag-o-tricks in empty.
I try to keep a clear head, but this isn't the kind of stuff you
talk about with 'people' you know. This is the kind of stuff that sometimes you can't even talk to about to your closest friends. And another thing, most of my friends have alot of happy stuff going on right now, and I hate being that 'wet blanket'. And then I remind myself that I have had different sorts of challenges than most people I know, and I have different ways of dealing with said challenges (my favourite being social isolation and bottling things up; pardon the pun).
Yes. I do believe in God, I do. But jeez. He just doesn't make
it easy sometimes. However, I know that a life with a bunch
of scoops of vanilla ice cream isn't for me. And as I read on another
blog this week, these times of trial are how you go from "bland"
in life to "Oscar-worthy". Not that I agree with most of the nominations
(or understand them). But once in a while, they choose a gem.
Is my life a gemstone? A hard rock (not a diamond) right now.
Rocky, uphill, and hard.
And I'm engaged. Should be the happiest time of my life.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Journal 84 The kind of marriage I want
You turn and touch the light of me.
You smile, your eyes become my sweetest dream of you.
Oh, sweetest love,
My heart is not a beat away from you.
--Harold Pinter, love note to Antonia Fraser
"There was nothing I did not discuss with John."
--Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
Though both the women in the above photos, Lady Antonia Fraser (whose diary-style I decided to imitate when I began this year to title most of my posts as Journal and then a number, chronologically arranging them); and Joan Didion, are now widows after long (33 and 40 years respectively) marriages to men who were also writers, I idolize their
marriages.
I idolize them as people, as real adults, the type of real adult I aspire to be everyday, who doesn't behave like a Real Housewife, who doesn't make fellow human beings feel like pieces of furniture, or like they are housepets.
I often worry, in this 'age of insanity' (age of inanity) the one we, as a collection of generations are destined to be living in (God help me) that these adults are dinosaurs.
Well, I want to be a dinosaur. I want to enjoy cocktail hour after a solemn day at work, one where thoughts were important. I want to discuss my day with my husband and hear about his; I want to work with him on solving all the worlds' problems over dinner together.
From what I have read, that is what these couples did.
Oh, and they were soulmates, and madly in love.
That I already have, and that fire I will continue to stoke.
To being a real adult, and the mantle of responsibility it entails.
"Christ, you know it ain't easy"
--The Ballad of John and Yoko
(they had their issues, yes, but God they also had some fun with the world, didn't they?)
When interviewed by Vogue in the age issue a few years ago she said "your life is not "up there"--your life is all around you". She was talking about how people in New York would go to the outside of her apartment building to look for her and that they would say "she's up there!" and she, Yoko, would be standing right behind them.
Something we should all remember.
You smile, your eyes become my sweetest dream of you.
Oh, sweetest love,
My heart is not a beat away from you.
--Harold Pinter, love note to Antonia Fraser
"There was nothing I did not discuss with John."
--Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
Though both the women in the above photos, Lady Antonia Fraser (whose diary-style I decided to imitate when I began this year to title most of my posts as Journal and then a number, chronologically arranging them); and Joan Didion, are now widows after long (33 and 40 years respectively) marriages to men who were also writers, I idolize their
marriages.
I idolize them as people, as real adults, the type of real adult I aspire to be everyday, who doesn't behave like a Real Housewife, who doesn't make fellow human beings feel like pieces of furniture, or like they are housepets.
I often worry, in this 'age of insanity' (age of inanity) the one we, as a collection of generations are destined to be living in (God help me) that these adults are dinosaurs.
Well, I want to be a dinosaur. I want to enjoy cocktail hour after a solemn day at work, one where thoughts were important. I want to discuss my day with my husband and hear about his; I want to work with him on solving all the worlds' problems over dinner together.
From what I have read, that is what these couples did.
Oh, and they were soulmates, and madly in love.
That I already have, and that fire I will continue to stoke.
To being a real adult, and the mantle of responsibility it entails.
"Christ, you know it ain't easy"
--The Ballad of John and Yoko
(they had their issues, yes, but God they also had some fun with the world, didn't they?)
When interviewed by Vogue in the age issue a few years ago she said "your life is not "up there"--your life is all around you". She was talking about how people in New York would go to the outside of her apartment building to look for her and that they would say "she's up there!" and she, Yoko, would be standing right behind them.
Something we should all remember.
Journal 82 This Weekend
It's back to the feelings of "up and down" and they can change, lately, in a nanosecond.
It's like the weather--Thanksgiving Monday I was roof top bound, donning my bikini one last time, reading in the sun, and there was a period of this week where we didn't see the sun for days. And Friday dawned, cool, and clear, the trees starting to show bare. My friend A. was here Friday night, visiting ( I think for both of us the 'highlight' of fall, a little oasis in a pair of busy lives; when I think I am busy I think of her and need to give myself a shake). So Friday night was about conversation, soul-searching, reflecting, and looking at not only our adult lives, since we've known each other (coming up to the tune of almost twenty years), but also all those big-life things: love, death, change, aging. Facing life on life's terms, the things you just 'know' and the things that you weigh in on with all that you have, and still don't get an answer back.
We hit the AGO Saturday am, after staying up talking, tarot-reading, (drinking) Friday night. There is a Chagall exhibit on until January of next year, and it was definitely worth taking in.
Then there were the posturing 'Toronto types' doing their thang at the gallery--always entertaining. One of the features of the exhibit was a small table with pencils and square pieces of paper for the patrons/visitors to express where they felt their favourite place was--you could write something, sketch something, and then leave it behind for others to look at. I was fascinated by this. It was inspired by Chagall's love for his homeland, a place he was quasi-exiled from in his early adulthood. I thought about my favourite place, and various things popped up in my head, all of them, as the majority of the pieces left at the table represented--physical places, towns, cities, countries. I wonder, though, if the emotional places that people may have come up with were too personal, painful, to really share? A favourite place can relate to many things, on an emotional level. A time in ones life, a moment with someone, a special day, all of those things count. I thought about a favourite place for myself, and really, it is usually one where I am in that ideal headspace--my mind isn't tricking me into castatrophe thinking, I'm not 'creating a worry'...I'm just in the moment, I'm running, or I'm reading, or I'm deep in conversation. Those are some favourites of mine, just skimming the surface for now.
Saturday lunch was at a pub across from the gallery with a waiter who had a personality all his own, pub-fare lunch, bad coffee, then a walk back through the oddly-empty Toronto streets, then A. grabbing a cab to the airport to get back home early Saturday afternoon.
I was in my apartment, sunshine streaming in, pleasantly tired, cleaning up and putting dishes away, doing laundry, and really, not much of anything else.
I walked to the grocery store a few hours later, the sky darkening with clouds, (no rain though) and then made a quick dinner while, in the spirit of Halloween, one horror movie after another played on the tv.
I dealt with my mail, read the paper and some magazines, and was asleep by eleven, the previous late night taking its toll.
A baptism for my friend T.'s son started off today, and in about thirty minutes I have to drive uptown with a designer friend of mine to do a quick consultation for a possible new client.
The backdrop of today is that it's Sunday, and it's been, for the most part, a week of unexplained, free-form melancholia, and stress, but as A. said, and as I sometimes forget, in the frenzy of work, dealing with my mom's house, the bank, the aftermath of death (yes, that word again: grief), it is that roller-coaster ride, robbing me, if I let it, of the ability to just BE, and just LIVE--without feeling like I'm running a race, against myself, against time....against death itself.
But just the fact that I'm sitting here, mid-day, apartment clean, laundry folded, dishes put away, attests to the 'good' of this weekend--conversation and reflection fuelling quiet introspection, reminding me of all the things in this life that deserve so much recognition and gratitude.
I haven't run this week. The touch of the stomach issues I've had put me on a focus to down water and just kind of monitor things--and I focussed instead on sleep, my cure-all. So, running may happen later, or maybe walking will.
I have a few new songs on the ipod, I have a couple of books on order from Indigo online (Joan Didion has a new one out called Blue Nights and Nile Rodgers wrote a memoir called Le Freak), I'm just waiting for them to ship to me.
I also have Natalie Goldberg, and the Thunder and Lightning book, and I am still working on the post about her and her books.
So.
That's the weekend update, for lack of a better term. Up, down, in the middle, and the sun keeps shining.
It's like the weather--Thanksgiving Monday I was roof top bound, donning my bikini one last time, reading in the sun, and there was a period of this week where we didn't see the sun for days. And Friday dawned, cool, and clear, the trees starting to show bare. My friend A. was here Friday night, visiting ( I think for both of us the 'highlight' of fall, a little oasis in a pair of busy lives; when I think I am busy I think of her and need to give myself a shake). So Friday night was about conversation, soul-searching, reflecting, and looking at not only our adult lives, since we've known each other (coming up to the tune of almost twenty years), but also all those big-life things: love, death, change, aging. Facing life on life's terms, the things you just 'know' and the things that you weigh in on with all that you have, and still don't get an answer back.
We hit the AGO Saturday am, after staying up talking, tarot-reading, (drinking) Friday night. There is a Chagall exhibit on until January of next year, and it was definitely worth taking in.
Then there were the posturing 'Toronto types' doing their thang at the gallery--always entertaining. One of the features of the exhibit was a small table with pencils and square pieces of paper for the patrons/visitors to express where they felt their favourite place was--you could write something, sketch something, and then leave it behind for others to look at. I was fascinated by this. It was inspired by Chagall's love for his homeland, a place he was quasi-exiled from in his early adulthood. I thought about my favourite place, and various things popped up in my head, all of them, as the majority of the pieces left at the table represented--physical places, towns, cities, countries. I wonder, though, if the emotional places that people may have come up with were too personal, painful, to really share? A favourite place can relate to many things, on an emotional level. A time in ones life, a moment with someone, a special day, all of those things count. I thought about a favourite place for myself, and really, it is usually one where I am in that ideal headspace--my mind isn't tricking me into castatrophe thinking, I'm not 'creating a worry'...I'm just in the moment, I'm running, or I'm reading, or I'm deep in conversation. Those are some favourites of mine, just skimming the surface for now.
Saturday lunch was at a pub across from the gallery with a waiter who had a personality all his own, pub-fare lunch, bad coffee, then a walk back through the oddly-empty Toronto streets, then A. grabbing a cab to the airport to get back home early Saturday afternoon.
I was in my apartment, sunshine streaming in, pleasantly tired, cleaning up and putting dishes away, doing laundry, and really, not much of anything else.
I walked to the grocery store a few hours later, the sky darkening with clouds, (no rain though) and then made a quick dinner while, in the spirit of Halloween, one horror movie after another played on the tv.
I dealt with my mail, read the paper and some magazines, and was asleep by eleven, the previous late night taking its toll.
A baptism for my friend T.'s son started off today, and in about thirty minutes I have to drive uptown with a designer friend of mine to do a quick consultation for a possible new client.
The backdrop of today is that it's Sunday, and it's been, for the most part, a week of unexplained, free-form melancholia, and stress, but as A. said, and as I sometimes forget, in the frenzy of work, dealing with my mom's house, the bank, the aftermath of death (yes, that word again: grief), it is that roller-coaster ride, robbing me, if I let it, of the ability to just BE, and just LIVE--without feeling like I'm running a race, against myself, against time....against death itself.
But just the fact that I'm sitting here, mid-day, apartment clean, laundry folded, dishes put away, attests to the 'good' of this weekend--conversation and reflection fuelling quiet introspection, reminding me of all the things in this life that deserve so much recognition and gratitude.
I haven't run this week. The touch of the stomach issues I've had put me on a focus to down water and just kind of monitor things--and I focussed instead on sleep, my cure-all. So, running may happen later, or maybe walking will.
I have a few new songs on the ipod, I have a couple of books on order from Indigo online (Joan Didion has a new one out called Blue Nights and Nile Rodgers wrote a memoir called Le Freak), I'm just waiting for them to ship to me.
I also have Natalie Goldberg, and the Thunder and Lightning book, and I am still working on the post about her and her books.
So.
That's the weekend update, for lack of a better term. Up, down, in the middle, and the sun keeps shining.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Journal 81 All over the place
I'm reading Thunder and Lightning, by Natalie Goldberg, one of (in my mind) a series of incredible books that she writes, about writing.
Last night, reading in bed, later than I wanted to be up, I was deep into this book, the 'highest activity of the mind' (that is what the New York Times has classified reading as). I completely agree.
I was gone last night. Gone, into this book, like I haven't been anywhere in my mind except my dreams for the past few months. I'm going to talk more about this book in my next post.
My intense involvement in the book probably contributed to my odd dreams, too.
(Last night, I dreamt that it was mid-October--it is--and that I lived in my childhood home on Crockamhill Drive, our townhouse, with my mom, sister, and Mike--I don't---and we got a call from a distant hospital--(Annapolis--how did he get there?) It was unclear--that my father was dying. I thought, immediately, two things--One, we must get there, and Two, he's...already dead.)
Never the less, in my dream, we gamely tried to take directions down, and the four of us, myself, Mike, my sister, and my mom, all tried to get out the door to this distant place, where, we were informed on the phone that they were reviving my father. I remember shrieking into the phone "He has a DNR!" and then the doctor telling me that my aunt and cousin were there with him, insisting that he be revived and I remember feeling that old anger well up inside me again, absolute poison, and I rocketed out of the house to put a stop to this, having no idea where the hell Annapolis is.
I was telling my friend L. in an email today that in the last couple of days, feeling a little down because I was home, sick, and feeling my companion, grief, settle in a little more comfortably as the days shorten and get colder, that I hadn't 'felt' my Dad's spirit around in a while. I was sure he was busy, I think he's probably really enjoying his life as a spirit, my Dad always wanted to travel and do alot of things but didn't really get a chance to, having a family so young and all that that entailed.
So I was 'missing' not just his physical presence but also his spiritual one.
Cue today's crisis; My mother calling as we had missed a crucial bill payment and I had to rectify it, immediately, as it involved taxes and all that sort of stuff you just cannot mess around with after someone has died. Trust me on this.
I called the bank to get the situation looked at, and since I've had to do this by phone several times before, I knew the drill--they have to verify things like POA, dates of birth, etc., and the best way to get that done is by being as cooperative as possible--like the government, I try to appreciate the fraud that costs them so much on an annual basis, and appreciate the lengths they go to to prevent it and protect their customers.
I was on hold for the first little bit, idly doing some work at my desk while I held the phone, and then I noticed the song that was playing, a sad little instrumental version of Elton John's "Your Song" (I say sad instrumental version because it's a song that his voice lifts to a higher level). I immediately started to tear up a bit when this line (it wasn't sung but I knew it was coming) came on: "I hope you don't mind..that I put down in words...how wonderful life is, when you're in the world..." The bank lady came back on the phone for round 2 of my information just as that line went by. She put me on hold again, this time to "The Living Years" and by then I was glad my door was closed.
It's one of those songs that you hear while your parents are alive and think (well, I did, after my father's diagnosis), 'this is going to be a really upsetting song to hear one day'.
Well, it lived up to that today.
By the way, I still can't get it out of my head, oddly, although the Elton song is one I much prefer. The Living Years won't go away.
Oddly, I wikipedia'ed Annapolis (in my dream it had one N) and it's state motto is eerily similar to New Hampshire, the one I told my dad about gleefully last year when I first visited: "Live free or die" is NH; this is Annapolis:
Motto: "Vixi Liber Et Moriar" - "I have lived, and I shall die, free"
Spirit sometimes does come when it's called.
Thank you Dad.
Last night, reading in bed, later than I wanted to be up, I was deep into this book, the 'highest activity of the mind' (that is what the New York Times has classified reading as). I completely agree.
I was gone last night. Gone, into this book, like I haven't been anywhere in my mind except my dreams for the past few months. I'm going to talk more about this book in my next post.
My intense involvement in the book probably contributed to my odd dreams, too.
(Last night, I dreamt that it was mid-October--it is--and that I lived in my childhood home on Crockamhill Drive, our townhouse, with my mom, sister, and Mike--I don't---and we got a call from a distant hospital--(Annapolis--how did he get there?) It was unclear--that my father was dying. I thought, immediately, two things--One, we must get there, and Two, he's...already dead.)
Never the less, in my dream, we gamely tried to take directions down, and the four of us, myself, Mike, my sister, and my mom, all tried to get out the door to this distant place, where, we were informed on the phone that they were reviving my father. I remember shrieking into the phone "He has a DNR!" and then the doctor telling me that my aunt and cousin were there with him, insisting that he be revived and I remember feeling that old anger well up inside me again, absolute poison, and I rocketed out of the house to put a stop to this, having no idea where the hell Annapolis is.
I was telling my friend L. in an email today that in the last couple of days, feeling a little down because I was home, sick, and feeling my companion, grief, settle in a little more comfortably as the days shorten and get colder, that I hadn't 'felt' my Dad's spirit around in a while. I was sure he was busy, I think he's probably really enjoying his life as a spirit, my Dad always wanted to travel and do alot of things but didn't really get a chance to, having a family so young and all that that entailed.
So I was 'missing' not just his physical presence but also his spiritual one.
Cue today's crisis; My mother calling as we had missed a crucial bill payment and I had to rectify it, immediately, as it involved taxes and all that sort of stuff you just cannot mess around with after someone has died. Trust me on this.
I called the bank to get the situation looked at, and since I've had to do this by phone several times before, I knew the drill--they have to verify things like POA, dates of birth, etc., and the best way to get that done is by being as cooperative as possible--like the government, I try to appreciate the fraud that costs them so much on an annual basis, and appreciate the lengths they go to to prevent it and protect their customers.
I was on hold for the first little bit, idly doing some work at my desk while I held the phone, and then I noticed the song that was playing, a sad little instrumental version of Elton John's "Your Song" (I say sad instrumental version because it's a song that his voice lifts to a higher level). I immediately started to tear up a bit when this line (it wasn't sung but I knew it was coming) came on: "I hope you don't mind..that I put down in words...how wonderful life is, when you're in the world..." The bank lady came back on the phone for round 2 of my information just as that line went by. She put me on hold again, this time to "The Living Years" and by then I was glad my door was closed.
It's one of those songs that you hear while your parents are alive and think (well, I did, after my father's diagnosis), 'this is going to be a really upsetting song to hear one day'.
Well, it lived up to that today.
By the way, I still can't get it out of my head, oddly, although the Elton song is one I much prefer. The Living Years won't go away.
Oddly, I wikipedia'ed Annapolis (in my dream it had one N) and it's state motto is eerily similar to New Hampshire, the one I told my dad about gleefully last year when I first visited: "Live free or die" is NH; this is Annapolis:
Motto: "Vixi Liber Et Moriar" - "I have lived, and I shall die, free"
Spirit sometimes does come when it's called.
Thank you Dad.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Journal 79 No Day part two
I'll start by saying I still have the headache and I have taken more pills in the last 3 days than I'd care to own up to.
I will also start by saying I have now completely caught up on all celebrity gossip from 8 issues of Hello, this includes all the royals.
I've barely been able to read the Goldberg book I was so into last week because the headache leaves me so dizzy with exhaustion. I have slept over 24 of the past 48 hours.
Still, I remain optimistic. I managed to log onto work email today and take care of a couple of things, and I have a nice, long, to-do list for the day tomorrow, for the week really.
It's cold in my apartment, but I'm not minding it. I've gone through an entire thing of gingerale, effortlessly.
Anyway. Nothing else to report. Talked to my friend K. about learning more about saying "no" and about turning down invitations without feeling obligated and guilty (this is huge for me. both these things). We also talked about taking too much on (here here) and emotional exhaustion and how stress can be a real trigger for that.
So...I'm taking care to take care.
Here are some photos I took with the kids on Saturday as we walked to the grocery store, and they remind me of two things;
1, I need to colour my hair, not that outrageously, but I do
2, My head still hurts. Do you think these heads get headaches?
My niece thought the heads were from real people. I assured her they weren't. She went on to anthromorphosize them anyway, something I did my entire childhood. Do all kids do that or is it just the really creative, artistic types?
This also reminded me of how differently kids allow you to look at the world sometimes. I walk by this store all the time, but they instantly saw the magic there and took the time to name the colours on each head of hair.
Journal 80 Just whining
I hate the term 'pet peeve' but I have thousands. Some relate to everyday life and life with all the other people on this crowded planet, and some are work-related. Some are just things that are errors in judgement that drive me up the wall (yes, judgement has TWO spellings, as Mike once pointed out to me. This in itself is kind of annoying. Why can't it just be spelled ONE way--like, with that e after the g or without? Hmm).
Years ago I worked with a coworker who habitually listened to her voice mails on speaker.
So, with the wall between us, I could hear the garbled messages, reminding me of my morning clock radio alarm. It was so maddening. Today, I silently seethe as another one shuffles stacks of paper, about 4 inches thick, into manageable piles. The sound sets my teeth on edge. I can't explain it. It drives me mad.
Arriving at a restaurant, any restaurant, to a shrieking child/baby, is another one. I know people love their kids. And let me also add when my own niece and nephew do this I am mortified and often say to them so the other tables can hear "See those people? They are trying to enjoy a nice afternoon/evening meal" (whatever time of the day it might be). So the people at least know that yes, I feel your pain, and no, I don't deny your feelings of frustration. But what I've noticed in these situations, that some parents seem to like and relish the attention. As my temperature rises and Mike mutters under his breath, we noted that one set of parents, whose wild eight-year-old was careening around the quiet Thai restaurant where we were trying to have a peaceful lunch, seemed to stretch out their time, which included their hapless offspring flinging a glass of water all over his table and almost falling off of a barstool, to last the entire time we were there eating, as if enjoying our semi-obvious irritation.
I cursed them, I don't mind telling you.
Other annoyances include the crazies on the street; before you lecture me about how these people deserve our charity, compassion, etc, know that I DO know this, but when an elderly homeless man spits at you as you walk by, and when a man carrying his bike up the subway stairs, muttering "F*cks, you're all f*cks" all the while staring at you with his too-bright eyes, when someone stands on the corner of Shuter and Church screaming that he wants a coffee, when a man, clearly employed and well-employed, wearing a watch worth more than most engagements rings and is neatly dressed, pees up against a Starbucks wall after what I can only guess was a very gruelling night out, then I stop feeling those friendly feelings of sadness at their plight, and start feeling the more appropriate reaction: Fear. I hate walking / running along the streets in broad daylight feeling afraid. I hate knowing that the taxes I so dutifully pay do not seem to be able to help these people, and that the economic circumstances of the past few years seem to be breeding more and more of them. And if you've ever had the happenstance to wander by the Rat man outside Nathan Phillips Square, well then, all bets are off. He doesn't LOOK like a rat. He HAS rats. ALL OVER HIM. Yes, I ran, screaming, across the street, with Rat man yelling after me, like I was the one with the problem. ( I HATE rats. They terrify me. I identified so thoroughly with Winston in 1984).
Anyway. On to more positive postings (I hope).
Lately my life is work-come-home-try-to-make-healthy-dinner-fall-asleep-by-1o-try-and-write-in-blog-try-not-to-sound-like-lunatic.
Honestly. How does anyone find time to do anything other than work and sleep.
How, I ask you, could I ever even try to plan a wedding like this?
More later.
Years ago I worked with a coworker who habitually listened to her voice mails on speaker.
So, with the wall between us, I could hear the garbled messages, reminding me of my morning clock radio alarm. It was so maddening. Today, I silently seethe as another one shuffles stacks of paper, about 4 inches thick, into manageable piles. The sound sets my teeth on edge. I can't explain it. It drives me mad.
Arriving at a restaurant, any restaurant, to a shrieking child/baby, is another one. I know people love their kids. And let me also add when my own niece and nephew do this I am mortified and often say to them so the other tables can hear "See those people? They are trying to enjoy a nice afternoon/evening meal" (whatever time of the day it might be). So the people at least know that yes, I feel your pain, and no, I don't deny your feelings of frustration. But what I've noticed in these situations, that some parents seem to like and relish the attention. As my temperature rises and Mike mutters under his breath, we noted that one set of parents, whose wild eight-year-old was careening around the quiet Thai restaurant where we were trying to have a peaceful lunch, seemed to stretch out their time, which included their hapless offspring flinging a glass of water all over his table and almost falling off of a barstool, to last the entire time we were there eating, as if enjoying our semi-obvious irritation.
I cursed them, I don't mind telling you.
Other annoyances include the crazies on the street; before you lecture me about how these people deserve our charity, compassion, etc, know that I DO know this, but when an elderly homeless man spits at you as you walk by, and when a man carrying his bike up the subway stairs, muttering "F*cks, you're all f*cks" all the while staring at you with his too-bright eyes, when someone stands on the corner of Shuter and Church screaming that he wants a coffee, when a man, clearly employed and well-employed, wearing a watch worth more than most engagements rings and is neatly dressed, pees up against a Starbucks wall after what I can only guess was a very gruelling night out, then I stop feeling those friendly feelings of sadness at their plight, and start feeling the more appropriate reaction: Fear. I hate walking / running along the streets in broad daylight feeling afraid. I hate knowing that the taxes I so dutifully pay do not seem to be able to help these people, and that the economic circumstances of the past few years seem to be breeding more and more of them. And if you've ever had the happenstance to wander by the Rat man outside Nathan Phillips Square, well then, all bets are off. He doesn't LOOK like a rat. He HAS rats. ALL OVER HIM. Yes, I ran, screaming, across the street, with Rat man yelling after me, like I was the one with the problem. ( I HATE rats. They terrify me. I identified so thoroughly with Winston in 1984).
Anyway. On to more positive postings (I hope).
Lately my life is work-come-home-try-to-make-healthy-dinner-fall-asleep-by-1o-try-and-write-in-blog-try-not-to-sound-like-lunatic.
Honestly. How does anyone find time to do anything other than work and sleep.
How, I ask you, could I ever even try to plan a wedding like this?
More later.
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