Christmas Blues - Tamar

It’s eight o’clock in the morning, I’ve been up for two hours, and Christmas is three days away.

Last night we had our staff Christmas dinner, and everyone made fun of me because I pronounced Daiquiri wrong. Our dessert waiter knew the four of us from the craft store in Steveston and is coming in the New Year to take crochet classes. And why not? Lots of guys crochet now. Pauline ended up under the table; I’m sure everyone wonders how the hell that happened, but I’m not telling. Some things are best unknown.

I can’t type this morning, my head is all stuffed up and my throat is sore and scratchy. I don’t have all the gifts bought yet and am not looking forward to heading to the mall with my husband after work, to fight the crowds and have him waiting impatiently while I check every store for the perfect presents for two of my girls.

I have nothing wrapped, I have nothing baked. Did I mention Christmas was three days away? I have to work for the next two, my bank account is overdrawn already, and I can’t breathe through my nose.

It’s raining with the promise of more rain, I have no bus tickets and am only hoping and praying that there is enough coin in my purse to scrounge up bus fare, my feet are cold, and I would rather be in bed.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Ha ha happy new year! See you at the Olympics!

Stuff I Learned From My Brother - Roxie

I am the youngest of three in my immediate family. My brother is four years larger and my sister, in the middle, is older by two and half years. Being the youngest and having both brother and sister was ideal for me. I could be a tomboy with my brother and do girly things with my sister like play with Barbies and paper dolls and dress up in our mother's old clothes and high-heel shoes.

Some of my fondest memories are of being a tomboy. My brother and I often took advantage of living out in the country in Spring, now a suburb of Houston. Back then it was twenty miles north of that sprawling metropolis. We moved in 1964 when I was nine and Daddy commuted back and forth to work in Houston. I believe he wanted to raise his family where it was safe and easier to keep track of us. There were only two other houses in the entire subdivision when we moved in. Our development was of the large lot variety where the minimum lot size was an acre. When my grandparents moved into the area we split the acre behind both of our houses allowing an acre and a half for each of us. My stay-at-home Momma planted a huge garden year round on that half acre. We had corn, bell peppers, watermelons, cantaloupe, green onions, sugar snap peas, ornamental peppers (those were hot and looked way too much like bright colored candy!), tomatoes, lettuce and even potatoes and radishes. We ate very well! She was a great cook and gardener, my Momma.

Our one-story red brick home was on Haydee, a dead end street. Nestled amongst tall loblolly pine, sycamore, and live oak trees, it was perpetually in shadow. My favorite was the sweet gum with its stickery gumball fruit. In the summer, being the tree-climbing monkey that I was, you would often find me swaying in the small branches at its highest point. Probably hiding from my brother. I would torment and bug him endlessly until finally he would chase me up a tree, usually the sweet gum. Since I was a teeny little nine-year old girl and he was a strapping thirteen-year old boy he couldn't follow me to the highest small branches. From my perch, toes and legs firmly wrapped around the tree, I would throw gumball fruit and occasionally even spit on him. I know, I know, I was a brat.

I was an accomplished runner and could shimmy up that tree faster than you could say "I'm gunna getchoo fer that!" We'd be yelling and cursing each other the whole time. I learned some of my favorite words from him. I'm fluent in curse.

“You little brat, can’t you just leave me alone.”

“Why? You’re not doin’ anythin’ anyways.”

“Yeah, but I want to do the nothin’ that I’m doin’ without you hangin’ aroun’. You can’t follow me ev’rywhere, you know.”

“Why not? Don’chu like me?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’re just a big fat meanie then.”

“If you don’t go away I’m not goin’ to take you huntin’ tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you will. I’m yur good luck charm, you said so.”

“Right now you’re bein’ a lil’ bitch!”

“Ah-um, I’m gunna tell Momma you said that.”

“Go ahead, my word against yours.”

“She’ll believe me, I’m not a liar like you.”

“Jus’ get the hell away from me.”

“Fine, I’m goin’ then, butthead.”

That’s when the chasing would begin and I could simply run faster than him. He hated that.

We would leave early on a summer morning, b-b gun in hand and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches stuck in pockets and not come home ‘til sunset. We'd pick blackberries that grew wild and swim in the man-made lake at the front of the subdivision. Tall reeds along the edges and a thin layer of algae on top, we'd plunge right in amongst the snakes, turtles, bass and who knows what else due to the murky water, I don't even want to know. Someone had made a raft so you could pole your way to the middle of the lake and dive to your heart's content. That's where my brother taught me to swim. By teaching me I mean one day when he was utterly tired of me hanging around his neck, the proverbial albatross, he picked me up under my arms, swung me around a couple of times to get momentum and threw me off that raft as far as he possibly could and said, "Now sink or swim." He had, of course, taught me what to do prior to that act of rebellion but it was always easier to simply hang on to him, right? That's the day I learned how to swim. I believe I eventually got even with spit.

A red boy's bike was my means of transportation. I demanded to have a boy's bike and, of course, it HAD to be red. I believed it was a sturdier bike being made for a boy and all, so that's what I wanted and got. We'd fly up and down those mostly deserted roads and I became adept at balancing, not even touching the handlebars. Hands flung wide, hugging the wind; I'd compete with him to see who could go the farthest hands free. You never knew who would win our daily races on the long straightaway main road. We were both so eager to be the victor, I remember us being pretty evenly matched, although he may have let me win sometimes so I'd continue to play that game, one of his favorites.

My brother also taught me to shoot his b-b gun. We'd set up a paper target under the sweet gum tree and practice, practice, practice. Sharp shooters had nothing on us. I pitied the poor squirrel, rabbit or bird that was unfortunate enough to come into our sights. We rarely missed. Sometimes when my brother was particularly irked with me … again, he'd shoot me with his b-b gun in the back. The back was all he could hit because I'd be running as swift as a deer away from him. It never hurt; I think he waited until I was far enough along before pulling the trigger. Perhaps he was using me for target practice. Spit comes to mind again, not sure why.

Growing up in Spring, Texas, was an exceptional way to begin my life. My brother prepared me for many trials and tribulations that have been set before me. I'm a stronger woman because of him, I get along with the male species in ways that some of my female friends envy and have even been considered "just one of the guys", a compliment I cherish. PLUS I can spit pretty dang accurately, an asset I've yet to figure out how to use to my advantage, but when I do I'll show my big brother how it's done.

Saturday Morning at the Aberdeen Centre - Tamar

Yesterday morning, DH and I decided (well, I actually decided) to check out The Aberdeen Centre in Richmond. Now, one may think this is a place where one could buy a kilt or listen to the bagpipes, but one would be quite wrong. This is actually a huge Asian mall - surprise surprise!

(One store stood out from all others - on the third floor, a place called Strawberry Cones. Guess what they sold?)

When we first came to Richmond, we went to the old Aberdeen Centre, which was a very Asian mall, full of Asian smells like dried fishy stuff that cured all sorts of diseases and other fishy stuff from the food court. We were followed around by Asian security guards who thought maybe we were there with the sole purpose of stealing Asian things, which of course we weren't. We were just interested in the many cultures our new hometown had to offer, and ready to try new things - except of course for the smelly things that either cured or sustained life. My little Scottish mother felt quite uncomfortable in these surroundings, so we left promptly, with the guards nipping at our heels like little shi tsus.

(No, not ice-cream...)

Now, 15 years later,a brand new block-long building replaces the old mall, with three stories of shops, and glorious views of the mountains from the huge food court. Parking was relatively easy, which was not surprising when we realized that it was only 10:15 and the mall didn't open until 11:00 - on a Saturday morning.

(Not frozen yogurt, either...)

At 10:40 we both got tired of waiting and decided to head out. It's amazing how many vehicles were now looking for a place to park, most of them in the wrong lane and getting very friendly with each other. Howard couldn't back out right away as one lady and her van were just sitting behind our rear bumper, having a wee chat on her cell phone with someone about something. She finally pulled over into the correct lane, and we exited the mall - for some reason I was thinking about the bumper cars we used to ride in at the carnivals of my childhood.

(And not fruit and veggies...)

The mall was interesting enough for me to plan another visit, but next time I will go by bus and leave my poor little car at home! And I may even stop at Strawberry Cones for a big slice of pizza!

Beware the Deflated Balloon - Tamar

Sunday was a beautiful fall day, cold because it was the end of November, but sunny and blue-skied. I wrapped myself up in coat, gloves, hat and scarf, and left Pauline in charge of Crafts'n'More to go for a wee walk to the Cannery Cafe to buy lunch - the best egg sandwich in the world - and pop into the Thrift Store to hunt for treasures.

Now, there are certain things we seem to do naturally as we walk - kick a stone, maybe, or step over a puddle or a curl of dog poop, stop and smell a rose. I discovered one thing, however, that one should never do, and I know I will never do it again.

It's okay to step on bubble wrap, or an empty potato chip bag - they give off satisfying sounds as you stroll along. But on this Sunday, when the sidewalk was filled with Sunday tourists and shoppers, I should never have stepped on a balloon.

I know it was only a balloon, a deflated little dark blue balloon with silver stars, but I didn't realize it had a smidgen of air left inside, so when I stepped on it, it released a loud, if not noxious, fart. It's really strange how many people didn't see the balloon, just the little round woman who stepped on it - and moved away with their noses averted. Meanwhile, I did what everyone does in these situations. I too scrunched up my nose and increased my speed, although my first instinct was to hold up the balloon and shout, "It wasn't me, it was this stupid balloon."

I guess I knew no one would believe it was a balloon, not when little old ladies are full of gas anyway. Usually. So I continued my walk, feeling as guilty as if I were the real culprit, a little bit wiser than when I left, a little more cautious as to what I would step on in the future.

I Would Choose the Snow Geese - Tamar

Would I rather fly with the snow geese or ride a bus?

I noticed on my way to work last week that the snow geese were back in Steveston. Everyone enjoys a respite in this little village, and to see hundreds of these birds undulate across the sky in the spring and the fall is just one of the things that make Steveson so special and unique. Unlike the Canada Geese who honk their way below the clouds in v-shaped military formation, the snow geese just glide like the ribbons held by cute little gymnastic teams going for the gold, and each trick, each routine, is different from the previous one - I am awed as I watch.

Now to get to work in Steveston, I had to ride a bus. I suppose I was lucky enough to get offered the last seat in this tin can full of people, but since the person in the window seat had to remove her dripping wet unbrella from the seat so I could sit down, I had the most uncharitable comments running through my mind as to where she could put her umbrella from now on. I moved toward the back of the bus, and squeezed into the middle of a 3-seat bench, trying to make myself small enough so I didn't contact the two elderly women that were bracketing me.

Please don't travel by bus if you keep your winter coat in a box of mothballs. Please don't travel by bus if you've just eaten a bucket of curry and drank a pitcher of garlic. Please don't travel by bus if you've retained all the cigarette smoke you've ever exhaled as a souvenir of every smoke you've had since you were 12 years old and used to sneak behind the barn with your older cousin to light one up.

But, more importantly, most importantly of all, please don't travel by bus if you have a virus, are coughing and sneezing constantly, and tend to release foul bubbly farts with each muscle spasm that forces all your little baby viruses into the air around you.

Leading to the question - would I rather fly with the snow geese or ride a bus. Well, faithful reader, you go figure out than one for yourself.

Lady in Red by Roxie

The bright red halter dress fell slightly below the knees of the brunette woman as she walked brusquely through the grocery store entrance. Her red high-heeled shoes tapped out a tempo to the sway of her perfectly rounded hips. The slight shimmy of her full breasts exposed by the low-cut dress caught the eye of both male and female throughout her general vicinity. Her wavy shoulder length hair swayed in time as well. The exotic smell of her perfume wafted behind her and several nostrils quivered and heads turned to follow the scent, even if just for a moment. Her darkly lined chocolate brown eyes were large and her impossibly long natural lashes underscored their enormity. Ruby red lips and nails completed her fashion statement. She held a small leather red clutch tightly between her body and upper right arm, as if to ward off any attempt to snatch it from her person.

She entered the produce department and quickly navigated her way through that section, obviously uninterested in the healthy fruits and vegetables. When she paused at the wine section, two store employees, one from that section and one from the neighboring meat department and both male, quickly stopped what they were doing and inquired if there was anything they could do to help. The produce manager had followed her at a distance, just to watch the show she was clearly going to provide, in his opinion. He wasn't wrong.

She merely glanced at both of the men and shook her head with a distracted low pitched, "No, thank you."

The meat guy frowned and went back to his department; clearly disappointed he wasn't going to have more interaction with this vision.

The wine guy simply went back to stocking his section and as she turned away he couldn't help but take a strong inhale of her perfume. His eyes closed. She sauntered away.

She proceeded toward the rear of the store, obviously unfamiliar with its layout. She exuded a hands-off demeanor, a just leave me alone and let me find my way look about her. The store employees were content to simply watch. No one cared where she was going or what she was looking for, they just wanted to observe. And since she obviously didn't want to be disturbed, they left her to it. All eyes followed her until she was out of sight. The produce guy kept his distance but continued to track her. He thoroughly enjoyed the reaction both employees and customers had when they saw this red dressed woman.

She crossed the length of the store and finally found what she was looking for, the greeting cards. She smiled when she found the aisle. The smile transformed her utterly and completely. No one who saw it could do anything but grin madly back. She began browsing through the birthday section pausing occasionally to read one. Finally, she released one of the most pleasing giggles and at last a hearty laugh. The sound carried two to three aisles away. Anyone within hearing distance found his or her way to her aisle, just to see the person who could have produced such a profound reverberation of joy. She had apparently found the perfect card. Absolutely unaware of the crowd she had drawn, she held it in her slim fingers and pressed it to her bosom, smiled sweetly, eyes closed, as if remembering some long-ago moment of perfection.

After only a moment or two she placed the card back in its proper place and proceeded to wind her way back the way she had come. She stopped at one point and looked around, as if suddenly realizing where she was. Eyes wide she quickly headed for the exit door and stalked out. She hadn't bought a thing.

The produce guy exited after her just to see what kind of car she drove, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had vanished. He stood there for a couple of seconds and thought he may have smelt her scent but it was gone, like an early morning dream, just gone.

Our Trip to Alice Lake - Tamar

On a hot lazy summer day last August, when everyone had a day off work (a very rare happening,) our whole family headed up to Alice Lake for an afternoon of picnic, fresh air and water fun. Now since Howard doesn't like to drive, and I don't like to drive, and I fear driving over bridges, and there were enough tall and short people to fill up three cars, of course I ended up driving, but only on the premise that I would drive behind one son and in front of the other. That way, if I took a wrong turn by ending up in the wrong lane, one would notice, and if I followed the other, hopefully there would be no wrong turns involved at all, and we would eventually get to our destination.

Driving through strange city streets isn't my favourite thing, so instead of taking in all my surroundings, I leaned forward in my seat, back ramrod straight, grabbing the steering wheel with shaking fists and never blinking, not even once. Not admiring the comfortable way Neil drove, zipping down busy streets and weaving in and out of traffic, but trusting Steve, who was behind me, to make sure he stayed glued to my rear end to prevent other cars from getting in the way when I changed lanes to zigzag the shadow left by Neil.

We finally left the city streets behind, and hit the open highway, heading north to Squamish and then to the Provincial Park at Alice Lake. Traffic thinned out, thankfully, but what traffic there was seemed to be flying by at amazing speed. Even Neil was going like a bat out of hell.

"Jeez, I'm going almost 90, what's wrong with everyone! I can't keep up with Neil!"

Howard said, "Well, the speed limit is 100, you know."

"Oh."

"Crap!" I exploded as another car zipped around and positioned itself between Neil and me.

"If I were driving, no one would get between us," Howard commented. For about the eighteenth time.

Sometimes we get heartburn from swallowing words instead of bacon, and I had to still the urge to drive off a very steep and inviting cliff. After all, my kids were watching.

And then the scenery hit, and the amazing panoramas of this beautiful land brought out the conversation between the two of us.

"Oh wow, look at that..." The mountains growing to the sky beside us, the water splashing blue and white below us, the houses like Lego blocks grabbing the hillside as it tumbled to the sea.

"Watch the road!"

"Oooooooh, look at that, I've never seen the ocean that colour! And it's the perfect mirror of the sky!

"Keep the damn car off the shoulder!"

"That must be the Chief. That's the mountain Neil used to climb, I bet it is. Wow. It's pretty high..."

"Jesus, keep the bloody car in your own lane, why don't you?"

And so on....

If I weren't driving, I would probably have yanked the gear stick out and hit him over the head with it, but I just shut up and kept all the glory surrounding us to myself, until we finally turned into the gravel parking lot and I removed my shaking limbs and love of nature from the frigid atmosphere of our car.

Alice Lake is glorious - water mirroring the sky, a tree-lined setting, snuggled between green mountains, a perfect place to spend time on a hot summer day. Tanner turned into a water bug, and spent most of the time bobbing on the waves with his mommy and daddy, and Lizzie was enthralled with filling both her bucket and her diaper up with sand from the beach. Chris's preference was being chased up and down the beach by his poor old nanny, who was trying, unsuccessfully, to haul his droopy wet shorts up, as they were sagging down to his knees.

Sun-burned and tired, full of egg sandwiches, chips and pop, we packed up and drove back home in the late afternoon. Howard drove home with Steve, Chris and Lizzie, and Nikkie drove home with me - a much more relaxed journey than the one that took us to the lake!

Hungry? - Tamar

While walking in Vancouver, I noticed an amazing number of restaurants, and what amazed me even more than the number, was the variety of cultures they represented. Chinese, Japanese, Italian, Moroccan, Greek, Ethiopian, Vietnamese, East Indian...and on and on and on. No Newfie restaurants though, come to think of it. However, what amazed me even more than the number, and the variety, was the crossovers from one cuisine to another, and that’s when I realized, that of all possible foods from all over the world, Italian,especially pizza, must be the most popular.

For example, we have Uncle Fatih’s Pizza. I would think Uncle Fatih would be more of a curry and butter chicken kind of guy, wouldn’t you? There is no problem getting pizza or pasta from the Chinese, from the Greek, from the French – you name it, everyone wants pizza on their menu. If there were a Newfie restaurant here, though, there would be no pizza on it. We remain true to our own culture.

And to go back to the Ethiopian restaurant I saw – I wonder what they serve. I remember having to eat everything off my plate when I was a child, as children in Ethiopia were starving. Maybe I’d try an Ethiopian restaurant for starters, but I guess I’d hit an Italian place to really satisfy my hunger. I wouldn’t even have much faith if they offered an Ethiopian pizza. All the children’s leftovers have to end up somewhere.

If I wanted to partake in a High English Tea with all the trimmings, like buttery scones with strawberry jam, then of course I would go to one of the many Chinese cafes that offer that service, along with the spicy noodles and wonton and chow mein that decorate their menu in picturesque detail. And of course, I could also order a take-out pizza to reheat for my dinner.

So, if you ever get hungry in Vancouver, make sure you have your wallet and a good supply of Rolaids. From fish to falafel, from chop suey to cheeseburgers, there will be something to satisfy even the pickiest of eaters!

Lesson 6 - “I’m not deaf, I’m ignoring you.”

by: Roxie
The man behind the counter looked just like Bruce Dern, only smaller. Longish gray wispy hair, blue eyes, gray stubble, wire-rimmed glasses, a cap, faded blue jeans, white shirt behind a white apron and brown cowboy boots. I was just another customer eating a solitary lunch in hopes of overhearing an interesting conversation for this lesson. I ordered a tuna fish salad and a glass of water and sat down over by the front door but near the ordering counter. The most interesting conversation was actually with the Bruce Dern look-alike and this is how it went. "Has anyone ever told you, and I know they must have, that you look like Bruce Dern?" "Since I've had this place open, ‘bout four months now, I've had ‘bout twelve people tell me that. I don't think I like it much, I don't like the way Bruce Dern looks." "Well, I think he's a handsome man, he has played some pretty weird roles and made an effort to look the way he does. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Take it as a compliment." "Why, thank you, ma'am." I sit down to eat my salad trying desperately to overhear a conversation two women across the room are having but there's a radio on right behind me and I'm not having much luck eavesdropping. Lori, you should be ashamed for making me do this. "Is that radio on, I cain't hear much a anythin' any more." "Yeah, it's on. Did you get your loss of hearing from going to too many rock concerts when you were younger?" "Nah, I think it's from so many gun shots at the rifle range, shootin' and not protectin' my ears." "My dog has that, too." "Why thanks, ma'am, yur comparing me to yur dawg now. First you tell me I look like Bruce Dern and now I remind you of yur dawg." "No, that's not it. When I yell at him sometimes he just kind of looks around and doesn't seem to know where I am. I think he's totally deaf in his right ear." "Nah, that's kind of like a marriage thing. You know, I'm not deaf, I'm ignoring you." "Ah, that explains a lot of my marriage then." (laughing) "Yeah, that's why I'm not married anymore, I think." (laughing, too) "So, would you listen a little harder if you had a second chance then?" "Heck no, I wouldn't wanna be married to that'un anyways. But you now, I might make a little more effort. Hehe" "Are you flirtin' with me?" "Yes'm, I shore am. Is it workin'? "No, but at least it's making me giggle." "Aw, now, that hurts me to my core. Now yur laughin' at me." "I think I'm gonna ignore that and I'm not deaf either." He laughs, I laugh, and then he has more customers. While I finish my salad I hear him making nice with the customers, a very friendly guy. He always says, "Thank you, ‘preciate yur biznes" to each and every one. His place has a nice feel to it, too. I'm sure I'll go back. More importantly, the food was delicious. When I get up to leave he says, "Thanks for comin' back." I'd been there a couple weeks ago for the first time with a friend and he apparently remembered me. That's always a nice thing to happen. I attribute it to plain ol' southern hospitality. "Thanks, bye now." I wave as I leave. I'm not sure if this qualifies as the assignment but it certainly depicts the dialect I hear all the time ‘round here.
11/11/2009 14:20:44	reply
Replies:
by:Your Instructor
You had me with that title, Roxie. This is great. You've got a gift for dialogue. This is the best piece of writing you've done for the class to date. Wonderful job. Lori
11/11/2009 14:40:38

Wrecked in the Wal-Mart Parking Lot - Roxie

I didn’t really need anything from Wal-Mart. It’s just that I had makeup on and presentable clothes and had a small list of things I had wanted to get from Wal-Mart for a while. Mundane things, no big deal really. So I got myself in my truck, my beautiful, unblemished, silver metallic 2007 Honda Ridgeline with less than 14,000 miles on it. Still like brand new. So I drove to Wal-Mart and parked left of the space where you bring your shopping cart after unloading it. I normally try to park next to one or at the end of a lane or the very first space in a lane. I figure you’re only exposed to a ding from someone’s car door slamming against yours on one side that way instead of both sides being vulnerable. See, I think of these things to protect my beautiful, untouched, and unblemished, like brand-new truck.

I gathered the things I needed inside the store. After checking out I headed for my shiny, silver bullet colored automobile and loaded my two bags in the rear behind the driver’s seat. The gentleman next to me was waiting patiently for me to pull out so I hurried along to do that and wham, that’s when it happened. An elderly lady was pulling out in the opposite parking space behind me and we literally meet right in the middle. She didn’t see me and I didn’t see her. I obviously have a blind spot I need to deal with. Crunch, scrape, twist, grind – we both pulled back into our respective spaces to get out to see the damage. After saying a few choice words I won’t repeat here, I climbed out. Both of our bumpers were punctured and I have to say that mine was worse. A 2004 Ford Crown Victoria is a tank, my friends, a big, hardy piece of metal. Remind me to avoid them.

Greta is probably in her late 60’s or early 70’s, a tall, imposing woman with reddish gray hair and a sad face. She had a piece of paper in hand, her insurance information, I presumed. I got mine out of the glove box and asked, “What do we do now?”

She said, “I guess we exchange information and turn it into our insurance companies.”

So we exchanged info and both apologized for any wrongdoing we were responsible for. I suspected the insurance companies would say it’s a no-fault deal and the fixing of each vehicle will be up to the owner. I told her that and she agreed. She also said she wasn’t surprised this happened after the day she’d had. That made me feel even worse. I said, “I am so sorry. It sucks. You’re lucky I’m not a bitchy person, this could be a lot worse if I were a mean lady.”

Her reply was, “Well, maybe we were supposed to meet.” That took me off guard. She also said, “It should have been a semi truck that hit me.” Awwww!!!

She said she wasn’t even going to tell her husband what happened. When he noticed it she’d just fake surprise and not have a clue as to where it could have happened … maybe someone in the Wal-Mart parking lot hit her and left. Which was actually the truth, that last part at least.

We agreed to call each other if we decided to report it to our insurance companies and I mentioned that I kind of doubted it but I’d call and let her know either way.

When I got home Randy was pulling in right behind me. I got out of the truck with not only a sad face, but also tears in my eyes. He said, “What’s wrong.”

I whined, “Look at my bumper, I hit a woman in the Wal-Mart parking lot. My beautiful truck has a big fat boo-boo now.” And then I cry. Great big fat alligator tears trickled down my cheeks. I had taken precautions to prevent my truck from getting a ding in the door and then this happened. Makes a door ding seem like a great alternative. Oh, woe is me.

I brushed the tears aside and asked Randy what I should do and he suggested I simply get estimates on the repair and not turn it in to the insurance company at all. I went inside to call Greta. She didn’t answer so I left a message for her to call me. When she did I told her we weren’t turning it over to the insurance company and we’d just leave it at that. She agreed that’s the right thing to do.

Then she said, “Things can always be worse, Honey. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe we were supposed to meet this way.“

I asked what her husband said when he saw it and she said, “We’re not speaking today so he doesn’t know and I’m not telling him. It’s been one of those days, as I said earlier. AND he called me stupid, too.”

I responded with, “Well, I talked to you earlier and you didn’t appear to be stupid to me at all, so I don’t think you’re stupid in the least, maybe he’s stupid.”

She cackled at that one. “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again some time.”

“No, No, don’t even SAY that, we don’t want to bump into each other again!” I giggled, “We’ve already done that.”

I wish I could meet new friends a little differently. We agreed to get together for coffee some time. So, in conclusion, my not so shiny, not unblemished, not perfect truck is marred BUT I may have met a new friend. Greta is right, it can always be worse. At least neither one of us was hurt and may have been helped in some small way. At least a semi truck didn’t hit her.

Only time will tell where this “meeting” will lead.

Prequel to Evening in Paris - Tamar

(I posted Evening in Paris in October. You can find it if you scroll down our blog!)

I could never get used to the phone ringing in the middle of the night, but I did get to the point where I could sleep through the sirens. The former meant a trip to jail, maybe, or the hospital, or even to the middle of the highway somewhere, where my little red car was waiting for a ride home instead of a tow to the pound. A siren meant the police were once again bringing home one or both sons, and this was a warning sign that they had better get in the house or else.

I spent thousands of nights awake, from the time my boys were the cutest little bald headed people in the world, and they would sing me through the darkness with their needs. When they were old enough to sleep through the night, however, they seldom did. They sneaked out of their cribs in their fuzzy little footed jammies and headed for the kitchen, where destruction awaited in a jar of peanut butter, a pound of ground beef, or a box of rice krispies; or they headed for the living room, and assaulted our sleeping eardrums with the highest volume possible of late night paid commercials for choppers and diet pills.

When, surprisingly, they reached their tween years still alive and kicking, they learned to sneak, and the minute we heard the bedroom window squeak open, and heard the light fall of feet on the ground below, we knew we might at least get one good night’s sleep to make up for the hundreds we had lost over the years.

The first time they were brought home in a police car was a highlight in their young lives. The charge would have been loitering and disturbing the peace, brought about by the two of them knocking on the windows of Myrtle’s Sit ‘n’ Stay Animal Hospital ‘n’ kennels until all the dogs woke up and started barking and yowling. The boys added to the harmony with their highest pitched werewolf howls, the likes of which even Stephen King would never have imagined.

Since there was no physical damage done, but mostly because I answered the door wearing the smallest laciest piece of nightclothes I owned, the policeman decided not to press charges. After the boys were locked in the loft, which was the only place in the house that had no windows, he offered to come around regularly to make sure the boys were contained, and to see what other items in my wardrobe would greet him when he opened the door. I told him to push his eyeballs back in their sockets and leave before my husband dragged his ass out of bed. That was one pretty sight he would never wish to see.

My life turned into a nightmare. There was no way to lead my spawn in a straight and narrow path. I tried religion; somehow, the church burned down. I tried private school; somehow, all the teachers quit over a 3-week period, and there was a rumour the headmaster hung himself on a chinning bar in the gym. Then I tried homeschooling, but the little escape artists managed to play hooky more often than not. Since the local school was not prepared to take them back after the disastrous kindergarten graduation fiasco, there wasn’t much left to do. I decided I was indeed blessed with the children of Satan, and until he saw fit to take parental responsibility and at least use his weekend visitation privileges, my husband and I were stuck with a never-ending life of misery.

My husband actually took a positive attitude in the upbringing of the children. He was positive that evenings spent at Rocky’s Bar and Grill with a side order of stripper was the best way to pass the boy’s formative years. Often when he would stumble up the stairs after the bar was closed, he would meet the youngsters heading downstairs for a nightly ramble through a quiet unsuspecting village. Every morning before I peeled my exhausted body from the sheets, I prayed I wouldn’t find anything dead, bloody, or extraordinarily expensive in my kitchen.

So it was that I lived my life, until the evening I snuck two bucks from hubby’s pocket and headed to the corner store.

Coffee House by the Bay - Roxie

Julian the Parrot immediately greets me with a loud “Hello” when I walk in the door. He does this with everyone he recognizes. Then he whistles in that same catcall kind of way that construction workers sometimes throw my way. He saves that for the ladies. Clever, huh?

I head for my table on the covered patio at the rear where I see several other regulars having their morning cup of java. They smile, wave, say hi, or raise their mug in a welcome gesture. My table sits at the edge where I can watch the shrimp and oyster boats as they begin their morning ritual. Seagulls are swooping about, hoping there will be a morsel or two for them this fine day. Two brown pelicans float patiently in the water for the same reason. A great blue heron seems to lord over them with his haughty expression. He knows he can beat them with his large wings and aggressive behavior. He usually does, too.

Cindy brings me a large brown mug of her fine coffee along with cream and sugar. She knows I doctor mine extensively. She teases me with, “You think this is enough sugar, Honey?” She has filled the container to the brim.

“I’m not sure, Cindy, let me work on this bucket and I’ll let you know if I need more,” I joke back.

The oyster shells crunch softly when she turns to pour refills for the gang across the patio. They are in great spirit today, telling jokes and bantering with Cindy while she empties the hot steaming dark brown brew into their cups. Cindy makes the finest coffee around. I’ve tried to replicate it at home but it’s just not the same.

I’ve decided it’s not the way she makes the coffee, or even the type of coffee she uses. The atmosphere of her coffee house by the bay is what keeps me coming back. Oyster shells blanket the floor. A menagerie of multi-colored plastic chairs and tables rest atop the shells. It’s not uncommon to see someone shimmy and shake the table or wriggle around in their chair to nestle in those shells so there’s no wobble. Brightly patterned napkins and placemats are brought freshly cleaned with each mug of coffee. It’s homey, comfortable and welcoming each and every time you enter those doors.

The aromatic smell of Cindy’s coffee permeates the air immediately upon crossing the threshold of her establishment. She remembers our names and is ever ready to lend an ear for your news, be it good or bad. Cindy is an older woman, probably around 65. But I could be wrong about that. She has more energy than two twenty year olds. Gives me hope.

Today she has donned her famous red “kitchen bitch” apron and several of the gentlemen are teasing her and asking if she’ll be their kitchen woman. She laughs and says, “Maybe.” Clever, huh? She keeps them coming back for more. I admire her very much.

I finish my usual one cup of coffee, leave a couple bucks on the table, and pick up my scribble notebook. Cindy smiles softly and says, “See you tomorrow, Honey.” And so she will, so she will.

Letter to a Friend - Roxie

10/24/09

Dear Tamar,

We’re enjoying one of those stunningly beautiful fall days on the coast. The cool north breeze is blowing wispy clouds quickly away and the sky behind those clouds is the cleanest, purest blue you’ll ever encounter. It’s reportedly been said that Rockport has some of the freshest air in the country and today I truly believe it. It’s noticeably invigorating.

As I walk out the front door I see two white pelicans skimming over Salt Lake and a great blue heron perched on a bulkhead hunting his morning meal. The white pelicans are such a treat to see because they are just now arriving from the north. The entire country and Canada funnels a major migrating corridor right through Rockport and birders from around the world visit each year. Laughing gulls swoop and caw adding their voices to the general feeling of happiness.

Across the street on the vacant tract of land I see and hear RC airplanes emitting a low drone from their tiny little engines. I’ve seen these people before and they usually appear on a Saturday morning. You can tell it’s a Saturday morning because our usually quiet street is busy with the comings and goings of weekend visitors, vacationers and locals running errands.

Next-door stands an unfinished house with plywood boarding nailed over the windows; the vacant lot between us reveals construction materials and tall weeds. I wish they’d finish, it’s unsightly and the weeds harbor mosquitoes by the thousands.

As we continue our walk I notice the breeze has changed from north to south – all in about 10 minutes. In the lull of changing wind directions there is virtually no breeze whatsoever and in that instant I realize I should have sprayed mosquito repellant on my bare arms. They land on me for their morning meal forcing me to walk faster and even jog at one point. There’s one on my arm now – splat – I sure hope that’s my bright red blood and not someone else’s, gross.

As we walk by a rack of trash cans I notice a not so pleasant smell. One of the large gray plastic ones has somehow flipped itself with the lid askew allowing that reek to permeate it’s immediate vicinity. They must have eaten boiled shrimp recently because the peelings are baking in the sun contributing nicely to that nasty odor. We jog by just to get it over with. Too bad the trash pickup isn’t until next week.

Not far down the road on the left stands a typical beach house on stilts under construction with scaffolding completely surrounding it. The painters are working today and busily lather a pretty pale yellow on the exterior. A radio blares Tejano music and Abe and I match our steps to the music’s beat. Every single painter stops and stares as we march in time to the tune. Two of them grin and wave, perhaps wishing they could walk with us.

Next door to that work in progress lies a vacant lot with yellow plastic rope surrounding it. My guess is the owner wanted to prevent the workers from parking on their property. But come on, it’s just a vacant lot, how much damage is being done by the wheels and feet of the workers? Not very neighborly conduct if you ask me.

Two doors down sits another vacant lot with tall yellow sunflowers beaming at the sun as brightly as it beams at them. Their brown middles follow the sun’s path and I congratulate whoever so aptly named them.

Further on I notice an ebony black grackle in the tippy top of a Norfork Pine. The backdrop of the azure blue sky and the evergreen tree emphasizes his dark silhouette. He warns in his strident voice that we are approaching although we exhibit no threat to him or his relatives.

Across the street an older man loads a green wheelbarrow with what looks like large bags of soil. His ratty blue tee shirt and ragged blue jeans indicate he’s ready and willing to get dirty. I immediately notice his snow-white moustache when he turns. The contrast of the brilliant white against his tan skin is startling. If he only knew …

In the distance I hear what sounds like a thousand motorcycles approaching. As I turn to see what the commotion is about I am astonished to see what appears to be a motorcycle brigade coming down our dead end street. There must be 60 of them! Almost all of them wave as Abe sits quietly beside me with his head on a swivel, as if he were watching a tennis match. I wave back at most of them knowing I will get a second chance since they have obviously taken a wrong turn and will be returning very soon. Sure enough, within a few minutes they come back, headed in the opposite direction. The noise is deafening and I’m sure many people have dashed to their windows to witness the disturbing uproar. The head motorcycle guy probably won’t live that one down for a while.

At the end of the road where we turn there stands a woman with a beautiful baby in her arms watching as grandma decorates the front porch with witches, ghosts and jack-o-lanterns for Halloween. The baby appears more interested in Abe as indicated by the huge grin peeking out from the sides of her pacifier. I wave but she doesn’t wave back. Her wide smile says it all.

I tie the leash around my waist as I normally do and on the way back home an elderly gentleman teases me by saying, “It’s easy to run if you have a big dog pulling you like that.”

I laugh and reply, “Yes, it’s much easier.” But really, Abe doesn’t pull me at all; he walks obediently beside me as he was trained to do. What a good boy.

As we stride back the way we came I notice two little boys toting palm fronds, looking for a place to build a fort, I presume. Their dad sports clippers and has been diligently loading the trailer with cut ones. He smiles and says, “Hi!” Maybe he has those younguns helping instead of allowing them to build a fort. I believe both endeavors earn merit.

As we near our gate I hear our wind chimes with their gentle low tone and realize we are truly blessed to live in such a gorgeous setting. With Copano Bay as our constant wide-open view on one side and Salt Lake on the other, I can honestly say I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Pinch me!

Tamar, I would really like you to come down for a visit. It will give you a chance to get away from the bitter cold that has begun up there in British Columbia and you can see for yourself what I have shown you here. Don’t worry; I’ll do the pinching!

Love you! - Roxie

Condom Ramblings - Tamar

The sign on the triple xxx video store my bus passes every morning on my way to work blinks in bright red letters CONDOMS 25 cents, and I wonder...

What today can you buy for 25 cents? At our store about the only thing would be a one and half inch Styrofoam ball, and you’d still need some pennies for sales tax. I don’t think there’s anything in the corner store that cheap, and even if there were, it would probably be old, dusty, and stale.

So let’s see. For 25 cents, I bet they are plain. No ribbed, flavoured, lubricated, studded, juicy (?), micro thin, bumpy, glow in the dark (would you have problems finding it otherwise?) condoms here, I bet. Just plain ordinary condoms, probably used for self-service only. But then I guess you wouldn’t need one.

The problem with not knowing much about condoms leads to a search on Google, which means if I come to a mysterious bloody end, the cops will probably confiscate my laptop and find all these condom sites on its hard drive. Oops. What we wouldn’t do for research.

Anyway, these condoms, which are probably made in China, are very cheap and may make a perfect Christmas gift for someone you don’t know very well, but who may expect a present, like a co-worker, or mailman, or maybe your dentist. Just pop in a pretty gift bag and add a tumble of curly ribbon, and there you go.

You can learn a lot on a bus trip if you keep your eyes open.

Bliss - by Roxie

Here I am – in bliss. I’m sitting on the double lounger upstairs with a Dos Equis in hand, a silly dog literally begging for a sip of beer, one of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen, and picture perfect weather. What more could one ask for? I dare say nothing, nothing at all.

Have you ever wished you could fly? I have! Can you imagine it? Floating on the wind, seeing everything below you in perfect clarity, dipping and diving, singing, literally having the time of your life.

I envy the birds I see as I sit and contemplate what flying might be like. Ah, there’s a dragonfly, too. Or is that two dragonflies? Hmm, flying AND mating at the same time, that has to combine two of the most pleasurable activities on the planet. Lucky dragonflies!

I suppose that’s “all I’ve got to say about that” – Forrest Gump.

Saturday at Canada Place - by Tamar

Our Saturday walk brought us to Canada Place, where Howard was thrilled to discover three cruise ships. To add to the excitement, one had just arrived, so we had the joy of watching it tie up at port. In fact, it was so exciting I sat on a bench reading my bus book while I waited for him to scrutinize every inch of the three ships.


After finishing the bus book, (a bus book is whatever I’m reading at the time of the bus trip. I bring it with me so I can read it on the bus. Why waste precious time just sitting when you can read?) I decide to see what’s happening on the cruise ship in front of me. This one has finally tied up, and has unloaded hundreds of people who will rush to the taxi stands and add to the Saturday morning traffic congestion. I notice lots of people buzzing around the lower deck wearing bright orange life jackets, and for a minute, I wonder if something really exciting is going to happen, like maybe a sinking or something.



But no, Howard informs me it is a mere lifeboat drill. Some of the crew pull on blue poncho-kind-of-covers over their life jackets; I guess they’re team leaders, or drill sergeants or something, I have no idea. The crew separates and groups of five or six line up and stand beneath each of the lifeboats. And then they just wait. Some of them fidget, but some of them stand really really still. I have no idea if they get extra points for standing still. The blue ponchoed people walk around, but I don’t even see them taking notes. Maybe they have really good memories.



After a long time, it seems to me, someone announces something over the PA system. We all know what PA systems sound like, whether on a ship or in a hospital; add to that the foreign accent of the announcer, and all I heard was a repeat of blah blah blahs in an Australian accent. I assume the crew could understand, though, as they left their posts and wandered off somewhere. I noticed some of them were wearing chef’s hats. If I ever ended up in a life raft on the middle of a huge ocean, I would hope to share that life raft with at least one chef. At least he would know how to prepare the sharks and octopuses that would try to eat us. Another thing I noticed is that life jackets make people look fat.


When Howard realizes I am about ready to jump over the railing, he comes over and we continue our walk. Because of ongoing construction, we have to retrace our steps, which means climbing up five or six flights of stairs at one end, and down the same amount at the other end.



By this time, even though we had walked very few steps, the number of the ones that went up had wreaked havoc with our leg muscles. We will never climb mountains. We decide to walk around the new Conference Centre, so we can finally, after years of waiting, see the other side of the cruise ships that are tied up at Canada Place. How could life ever get better than this?


We come to a group of people, who obviously weren’t robbed of their cameras last week. They were all taking pictures of an RCMP officer, all decked out in his scarlet dress uniform and little brown hat, sitting on a horse. Wow. He had ridden that poor little horse to the waterfront that day, so they could stand – well, he was sitting, but the horse was standing – in the sun and accept donations for the SPCA. Now, maybe it was only me, and I wasn’t in the best of moods at the time, but I thought maybe if he stood beside the horse, it might be kinder and more apt an advertisement for the society of prevention of cruelty on animals. I wanted to hang around for a few minutes in case the horse took a bathroom break, but by this time, Howard was way ahead of me, so I ran to catch up. Well, I didn’t actually run, but I caught up with him anyway.


I think everyone who owns a sailboat in Vancouver was out in the harbour this morning. The ocean was the most incredible shade of blue, and the sky a perfect cover with a coordinating shade. A breeze riffled the waves, and the hundreds of white sails drifting over the water would have made a beautiful picture. Assuming, that is, that one had a camera.


Because the sea wall walk still was under construction, we had to take a short cut to the road, which of course consisted of about 500 stairs. And Howard thinks I’m happy now that we’ve finally started our walk.


Ha.