More Turds

I should’ve known better than to mention Nick’s crap the other day . . . Today was a bad day . . . I can’t even talk about it . . . Three hours outside . . . one pair of scissors, two rags, a soapy bucket of water and hair brush . . . a ball of doggy waste the size of a grapefruit . . . and now Nick is balding in spots.

In better news, after working until six this morning, sleeping four hours, spending another four in the company of my beloved pet and then working all afternoon and evening again, I finally have something to show for it. What do you think of the new look?

Mood: stiff neck

Drinking: nothing yet

Listening To: the grumble of my empty stomach

Hair: pulled back in a severe face-lifting ponytail

@#$%@$$!!!

Late last night, as I worked into the wee hours yet again (I’ve seen 4am every day this week) my sneaky suspicion materialized — I’m going to have to touch up EVERY PAGE published so far this year, EVERY SINGLE PAGE!! It’s not enough that I took the whole week to change the background and navigation for the site which is really 10 little sites making one big site (AKA a lot of terribly tedious bad on the arthritis in the hands work) . . . now, I’ve got to go back in and change the formatting on every page in order to make it work with the new background. Do you know how many pages that is? A LOT!! I’m losing my freaking mind . . . AND I have to write fiction to meet with the girl’s on Friday (I’m getting emails about it) . . . AND the WFNB newsletter is due soon (I’m getting emails about it) . . . AND I haven’t pubbed BnM in two weeks and I really need to do it soon (I’m getting emails about it) . . . AND I’ve got press releases back-logged (I’m getting emails about it) . . . AND my mouse is wonky (I emailed a guy about it but he hasn’t replied) . . . AND then there’s the family personal crap that’s gone into high-gear with my grandfather’s impending death and my mom being freaked out . . . I just want to curl up and go to sleep.

Mood: stressed to the max

Drinking: tea for now, seeing wine in my immediate future and brandy before dawn

Listening To: the throbbing of the headache in my temple

Hair: Coming out in clumps

Footnote from my Past

Tonight Kaitlyn sent me a poem she wrote that reminded me of one I had written when I was just a little bit older than she is now. I think I was 14. I kept that poem for some reason, I think because I liked the idea and thought it might come in handy one day. As poems go, it was never that great. Over the years I’ve taken it out and toyed with it a bit. It’s the inspiration now for a story I haven’t finished yet . . . a story about an old woman who waits for a long lost love to return to her. I’m not sure it’s a poem anymore (a prose poem perhaps? flash fiction?) Whatever it is now, here’s the latest incarnation from 1999.

The Visitor

Knock — a single rap and then no more. Quick, soft, then gone — like a message spoken in haste, a mistake quickly retrieved. Is it real? Or have I imagined your knuckles upon my door? Like in my dreams, the echo brought to life by the wilful strength of my mind. Has my lost love returned? Or have my ears been fooled by my wish? Perhaps a tree’s severed limb has been thrown against the door, like a bit of an innocent soldier’s flesh flung from the trenches of war. A storm has captured the night. Thunder crashes amidst lightning flashes, like bombs launched but destined to remain in the sky forever, never landing. Lightning paints the world in unnatural jagged silver-white sheets. Trees bravely fight the fierce howling wind. The birds and little forest animals, overwhelmed and outnumbered, have long since surrendered and defeated without protest skulked home where they hide waiting for peace. Electricity cut by the enemy, clutching a candle, my knuckles white, I creep to the door hoping it is you but believing it is the tree.

Flash — a face pale and wet is framed in the window for one startling moment, frozen in the storm’s paralysing photograph — then gone, the night swallowing it whole. Your face, beyond the reach of my candle’s weak flame, but I know it is you. I run to the door, fumble with the locks and fling it open not caring that the wind having found the weakness in my armour will invade my fortress. And there you are. Tired. Battered by the storm. But not beaten, not wounded, unscathed and alive. You are alive and returned safe to my arms, soaked and chilled through the bone, but here with me, my dream incarnate. You are the same with hands callused and strong, body towering and lean, face hardened and sharp, eyes dancing with —

No. Eyes not dancing at all. Eyes lifeless and dull. What has happened? Have I remembered the eyes wrong? Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . But . . . Your smile remains the same, broad and so white against your tanned skin. It’s so joyous to be held in your arms again. Your embrace has not been forgotten or altered in the depths of my memory. Still warm. Still comforting. Still safe. The words upon your lips are the very words I always wanted to hear, words you withheld before. The words flow loose and free, finally released, but not forming the question as I dreamed. Still, the words nonetheless — You will be my wife. Oh, I will. I will. Your lips lower and part meeting mine. Your kiss so sweet and soft like clover, freshly mowed grass. I do remember your kiss. I remember craning my neck to lose myself in that kiss. But this kiss . . . This kiss is cold as death and rank as a rotting corpse. It is not you. This man I kiss, this man I’m to wed is not you. “Who are you?” I scream clawing to escape. And the thunder crashes. And the door is blown open. And the wind surrounds the candle’s flame, killing it. And the lightning flashes freeze framing the demon. Then blackness. Darkness smothers me as the demon laughs loudly above the roar of the wind. The wind tamed and powerless in the demon’s presence.

Awake. The sun shines. The birds sing. Squirrels chatter in the trees. And I lie alone in my tiny bed thankful I’ve only had a bad dream. Nightmares my darling, from missing you so much. But now it is the day and I am safe and the day is beautiful and bright. Nothing in the world could ever be wrong. I stretch and yawn, well rested despite my horrible dream. And it is only then that I notice, only then that I see it, only then that I feel it . . . on the third finger of my left hand —

A golden wedding band.

Mood: somewhat withdrawn

Drinking: water still, we’re out of the good stuff

Listening To: With or Without You, U2

Hair: I can no longer bear to look at it in the mirror

Nerds & Turds

Turns out the Nick Nolte Diary is not being written by Nick Nolte, which makes it slightly less fun to read. I should have guessed earlier that if it sounded too much like Nick Nolte it had to be aspiring screen writers. Get the full scoop from E! Online. Taia, thanks for the heads up on that one. If they continue to blog though, I think I’ll keep reading. It’s still pretty funny. Or I could leave those nerds high and dry and head on over to Jeff Bridges’ site. They’re doing some interesting stuff over there . . . apparently, they scan in his handwritten notes, which is kind of different.

So tonight while I waited for my supper to cook (I made bacon-wrapped chestnuts smothered in garlic butter and mozzarella — Yummy! And great when you’re doing Atkins, which I’m not . . . so, just a big old clogged artery in a bowl.) Anyway, I was sitting in the living room channel surfing when Mom drove in. Of course when Nick heard her car he jumped up and ran past my chair to bark in the window. I heard a thud. He skidded to a stop and half-turned to see what was up . . . and to both our horror, there was a turd lying on the floor. His belly hit the ground and he sneaked over into the corner where he threw himself down with a huge sigh. And I cleaned up the little mess. He’s a long-haired beast (part sheep dog I think) so this kind of thing can happen every now and again, lingering bits caught in the hair come loose when he bounds or jumps. What’s really funny is his reaction when it happens — Oh the horror! He becomes so embarrassed he just goes and hides, sighing really loud, and looking around occasionally as if to say, “What are you looking at me for? Nothing going on over here.” This I can laugh about — solid, dry, good for making fun stuff . . . It’s the times that he’s been sick with the runs or constipation . . . yeah, those times, not so much fun.

Mood: perplexed

Drinking: water, straight up, no chaser, of the bottled variety, but not a name brand

Listening To: Big Balls, AC/DC

Hair: Let’s not go there today, ok?

Worker Bee Mode

What an insane time I’m having with work. We’re in the process of changing to a new design. I had a new issue ready to go on the weekend but I held it back a little because Jen had a new column coming in. In the meantime Joy had started working on the design change, but she didn’t get it done by the end of the weekend and then she was off this week. So, I’ve been unable to publish the new issue because some of the site had the new look and some didn’t and I’ve been left having to make all the changes myself. The design part is so not my thing! It’s just so friggin’ tedious and takes forever on dial-up. Anyway, enough griping, I just thought I’d better pop in and let you guys know I haven’t run away and joined the circus . . . Yet! 🙂

Briefly, in other news, I spent a relaxing evening at Carol’s house earlier this week. I collected some of Kaitlyn’s art for an article I’m working on about her. And we watched a movie — Freddy Vs. Jason, which was a lot of fun. I’ve always loved Freddy, he’s got the best one-liners and with my nightmares he’s always been the horror villain I could relate to the most.

The Grudge opens this weekend but I haven’t found anyone to go with me to see it . . . which is probably just as well.

I’ve been reading Nick Nolte’s Diary everyday and loving it. I can hear his voice in my head when I read the pieces, which are always really short and there’s only one every day, so it’s easy to read his stuff. I get a kick out of him.

I have learned that U2 are going on tour and coming to Canada next year. I immediately went to the Ticketmaster website and signed up for alerts. If they play anywhere in Ontario or points east, I’m going! I will not miss Bono!! I can’t see them coming to Halifax though . . . so, I’ll probably be Toronto bound and how exciting will that be! Maybe if I’m really nice and remember to send a Christmas card this year, Taia and Ian will let me crash on the couch for a night 😉

Mood: stiff

Drinking: cold tea

Listening To: Don’t It Make You Feel, The Headpins

Hair: Mom told me today that it looks like Andy Dick’s . . . so, there you go

Roughing it in the Bush

Oh Mrs. Moodie! I’ve never been able to finish your book . . . and now I think I know why. I don’t find your “roughing it” experience to be all that exciting because it’s just old hat around these parts.

This morning as Nick and I trekked about the yard looking for the best bushes to pee on and poop under, I noticed garbage strung from one end of the upper driveway to the other and all down into the ditch. Closer inspection revealed that the back end of the garbage bin had been ripped out. Yes, a bear pigged out on our garbage sometime during the night. (Really, who could resist Jen’s bacon grease?) The way the boards were laying there ripped in two it kind of looked as if the beast had just swatted it with his big ass paw and sliced through the wood like a sword through tissue. So now I’m REALLY afraid to take Nick out after dark, which seems to only make him want to go out more and see what the hell I’m trying to keep from him. It’s a Catch-22.

When we went out to supper and the movies on the weekend, Cindy told me her parents had a bear come onto their deck and right up to the patio doors where he licked the window. They live in the Plaster Rock area where apparently they’ve been having a really bad time with bears into everything, stealing stuff from people’s fridges and freezers on their porches.

Stacy is going on bear safari this weekend in Rogersville area. Apparently, they’ve got it set up so that anywhere from 25-35 bears will come out and feed all at the same time while you watch and take pictures from a treehouse type thing 20 feet above them. That is SO not for me! It’s like tempting fate isn’t it? Isn’t that the part of the movie where the audience starts screaming, “Don’t go up in that tree, idiot! The bears will get you!” And then they groan and shake their heads when the character does it anyway. I suppose it’ll be a thrill. She’ll get some scary pictures. I’m just way too chicken . . . dump trauma from when I was a kid I think.

Mood: All fogged in

Drinking: hot chocolate spiked with brandy

Listening To: The Pretenders, Brass In Pocket on Virgin Classic Rock Radio live from the U.K.

Hair: getting blonder by the day . . . and fuzzy?! What’s up with that?

What a Day!

My sinus infection was nearly the death of me today. I’ve been feverish all day, practically falling asleep in my chair as I tried to get stuff done. I do have this to show for my efforts, but the finishing touches that I anticipated taking an hour or so took about 10 hours in my drugged (and quite possibly drunken) position.

Strange dreams last night of love with a professor . . . my professor. I had gone back to school. The guy was actually a prof I had many years ago (he’s probably dead by now, but hadn’t aged a day in the dream). I can’t even remember that professor’s name now and I took several of his philosophy classes because I enjoyed him so much at the time. Pity.

Although in the dream I seemed to be more interested (quite smitten actually) by his huge trust fund than his charming good looks and warm smile. Could it be I’m subconsciously worried about all the money I’ve been spending lately on trips, books, shoes and dvds?

Mood: fuzzy around the edges

Drinking: brandy

Listening To: my throbbing sinuses

Hair: is that a bit of grey?