The Obscenity of Objects

I always feel dirty washing my hands at Kurt and Guillaume's.

Instead of a soap dish by the bathroom sink, they have a contraption from Guillaume's native Provence. Affixed to the wall, a rod protrudes onto which you slide and screw a special egg-shaped soap.

The design is clever in that it frees up room around the sink and keeps the soap from turning sludgy.

But the action required to work up a lather seems like the kind of thing that could get you arrested on indecency charges if performed in a public bathroom.

Sacré bleu!

And don't even get me started on the moves required if ordered to wash your mouth out with soap.

Tip of the Day

Never place a bottle of wine in a flimsy plastic bag already containing thai basil and kaffir lime leaves you bought in Chinatown, and then sling said bag over the handlebars of your bike.

But should you choose to do so anyway, hook the bag over the handle closest to the curb. That way when the bag breaks and your bottle hits the pavement, and assuming the bottle somehow doesn't shatter, it will roll under parked cars, instead of moving ones.

Then when you get home, you can uncork your miracle bottle and toast to surviving another day despite your demonstrated lack of common sense.

Things Overheard While Riding My Bike

Northeast end of Parc Jeanne Mance, due south. Mid-afternoon. Young woman turns to her friend and confidently affirms "FOUR."

Northbound on the Rue Clarke bike path between St-Viateur and Bernard. Evening. Hooded figure yanks dog leash. Pinched female voice exclaims to either me or the dog "Faites attention!"

Eastbound on Rue de Castelnau heading towards Avenue de Gaspé. Windy, overcast afternoon. A slight man in his fifties is gesturing wildly to someone walking away from him on the sidewalk. Cigarette dangling, grey pompadour swaying, arms flailing, he yells "No cheese!"

"NO CHEESE!"

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.