No More

It was the end of a bad workday. I was tired. I was cranky. I was looking forward to going home and enjoying a G&T, some dinner, and a bubblebath. Unlocking my front door I thought to myself "I made it. Home free! See ya later, outside world. Things are finally looking up for the ol' Dig Digger!"

Before letting myself into the house, I reached into my mailbox.

And was greeted with this:

That's right: addressed to me personally was More magazine, the "only Canadian magazine that celebrates women over 40".

Oh More magazine subscription offer!
How do I hate thee?
Let me count the ways!

1. Get your demographics straight. I don't know who sold you my info, but you've hit too young. I may have started the downward slope to 40 but I'm not there yet.

2. This sort of thing could alienate the type of woman who might otherwise buy your publication.

3. I will never be the type of woman who buys your publication.

4. And you can't give it to me free for a full year either.

5. The GO girl! thing is lame.

6. The letter from the editor starts off with "Dear Fascinating Woman".

7. And it promises me that I'll learn "the latest about everything from hot fashions to hot flashes."

8. The whole thing makes me think of weekday morning TV talk shows.

9. And I haven't watched weekday morning TV talk shows since the late 90s.

Hah! Take THAT, More magazine, you and your attempts to prematurely age me. Why, I haven't enjoyed a rant this much since my weekend complaint about young girls nowadays being slouchy and prone to wearing t-shirts as dresses.


Uh-oh ...

Spice Up Your Life

[Kim at Kurt's before the other dinner guests arrive, hanging out in the kitchen as he assembles spices for the salmon. Kurt tries to shake coriander into a measuring spoon and sprinkles it across the counter instead.]

Kurt: God, I hate this stupid container.

Kim: Yeah, what a mess.

Kurt: The design is crap. Look at this, you can't even flip the lid open. There's just a hole punched in the corner. But then the spice gets caught in the ridge and winds up all over the place.

Kim: Not well thought out, is it?

Kurt: No, it's not. Cheap, flimsy garbage. That's why I keep some of my mom's old spice boxes and refill them. They knew how to make things back then. [Brandishes an Empress box of cloves.]

Kim: Wow! Cloves were $3.89 in the seventies?

Kurt: They were a luxury in Yorkton.

Kim: Before the global food revolution.

Kurt: Back when ships helmed by bedouins navigated the spice route.

Kim: Hey. I thought the bedouins were a nomadic desert people who probably didn't have much to do with ships.

Kurt: You wanna be fed tonight?

Kim: Yeah.

Kurt: Then stop interrupting my story.

Kim: Ok, fine. The bedouins traveled overland to Saskatchewan in caravans.

Kurt: Setting up makeshift markets by the train tracks. You didn't bring your children there.

Kim: The prices were outrageous, but you paid them.

Kurt: How else could we have fully enjoyed mom's glazed ham with canned pineapple rings and maraschino cherries?

Kim: How indeed? Your mom went to great lengths for ham.

Kurt: That she did.

[Pause]

Kim: I'm glad you're not making that tonight.

Kurt: Me too. By the way, I've decided to deny you the salmon after all.

Kim: I don't know why I keep coming here.

Kurt: Me neither.

Diggers Unite

This weekend I attended a family reunion held at neighboring cottages in Ontario. It was co-hosted by an aunt and uncle, and a couple to whom I must somehow be related. This is pretty representative of the crowd of sixty-plus attendees: intimates interspersed with complete strangers.

Mom, dad, grandmother, sister, brother, sister-in-law, brother-in-law, nieces, aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, second cousins once-removed, random boyfriends and girlfriends, and a host of others I wouldn't know if they sat beside me on a bus.

Any embarrassing displays? No. Not enough booze for that. Although some protested my uncle's insistence that lunch be deferred so he could explain his research into the family tree. Like, who cares who we are and where we're from? Pass the potato salad.

It's good to catch up with people you've known all your life. In recent years my aunt has found her calling teaching therapeutic yoga, and she described the challenges she's faced starting her business. And my younger cousins no longer retreat behind closed doors to talk of things beyond adult comprehension. People have married and started families. Some have new jobs, others have been laid off. Everyone looks different from the last time I saw them.

Observing my father displacing youngsters on the inflatable trampoline boat so he could flop into the water like a sea lion, I also reflected that some people never really change.

********************************

Towards the end of the day my three-year-old niece spies me from across the room and hurtles towards me.

"KIM!"

Hugging my legs she sighs "Oh Kim," as though our time spent apart were measurable in years rather than minutes. She asks a barely intelligible question and gestures towards the door.

"What is it Vera? Do you want to go outside?" She nods. Stepping out into the dusk, she takes my hand. We walk along the dirt road flanked by woods until she slows and puts her finger to her lips.

"Shhhh," she whispers, eyes wide. "The noise." I stop to listen. Crickets sound from all around.

"Yes," I acknowledge. "The noise."

Softly we tiptoe, listening, until it's time to go home.

Hearts of Something

The evening is winding down. The wine's gone, Guillaume's gone to bed, and Kurt's turning off the iPod. Switching stereo functions, the radio comes on. Three seconds of Bridge Over Troubled Waters plays. Kurt turns it off.

Kim: Was that Bridge Over Troubled Water?

Kurt: Yes. I hate that song.

Kim: How can you hate Bridge Over Troubled Water? Who hates Bridge Over Troubled Water? God. You have a heart of stone. Stone and lemon juice.

Kurt: I can't even begin to imagine what your heart's made of.

Oh wait, I know ...

String.

Hairspray.

And bubblegum.

Kim: G'night.

Kurt: G'night.

Sorry Sale

I have a Google Mail account. When I check my messages, Google helpfully offers me advertisements for products it thinks I need. For example, a friend recently sent me a message with the subject heading Yo! Based on the ads for beginner English courses that displayed alongside the message box, my e-mail system has apparently concluded that I am illiterate.

Another recent message from a friend contained the word Sorry. Google took the term and ran with it, returning with the following promotional gold: Sorry Poem, and Apology eCards (“Hurt someone’s feelings? Make your apology memorable with cute eCards!”) Damn, Google. It’s like you can see inside my soul.

I like the idea of the sorry poem. We could all use one every once in a while, right? If you can’t get your hands on a case of beer and a couple of pool noodles, lines of verse can be the next best thing to diffuse tension and bring people closer together.

What I’m trying to say is this: I smell a money-making venture. I’ve been looking for ways to supplement my income, and I think sorry poems are the ticket. Check it out, here’s one with local flavour:

There once was a girl from Quebec

Who was sometimes a pain in the neck

She’d hold too much in

Then make friends’ heads spin

And they’d be all like “Meh! What the heck?”

Oh, wait. That won’t sell. It’s all exposition and no sorry. Maybe the limerick isn’t the ideal vehicle for amends. Maybe I need to try a different form. Maybe I need to haiku.

Pissy bull tips scales

Cherry blossoms float away

Bull says: “Shit. Sorry!”

See? I can totally do this. So the next time you’re in a pickle and duking it out with a loved one, drop me a line and I’ll see what I can whip up for you! 

Note: Will work for food.

MJ

I've been thinking about Michael Jackson today. His passing last month has brought him back from the dead and he is everywhere. Why, just yesterday there was a flash mob event here in Montreal with choreography and everything.

It's like a musical! But in real life! I was sad I missed it until I read in The Gazette that there's another one being held this Sunday, location TBD.

Funny how he's gone from pariah to lamented genius. I suppose you could chalk it up to widespread hypocrisy. But I think it's something different than that, or something more nuanced. In recent years the charges against him, and his overall weirdness, overshadowed the music. In death it's been reversed. It's easier to remember him as who he was before he got all pale and freaky now that he can't get any paler or freakier. And then there were the crimes he allegedly committed. Bodily crimes. As long as he continued to exist in body, it was hard to get beyond his violation of social taboo. Hard to appreciate the transcendent in a man who came to embody pervy weirdness.

Now he's gone. Free of the body, all we have left is the transcendent.

Earlier today I happened to stumble across a great remix by DJ Z-Trip. I defy you to sit still while listening to it.

Long live MJ!

Tip of the Day

No matter how many points you've scored with the boss, and no matter how much professional capital you think you've banked, it's probably still not enough to get away with bringing a half-eaten ice cream cone to your mid-year performance review.