Bad Visual

Everyone was taking pictures like crazy at Memère's birthday party.

Pictures with the kids (my aunts and uncles).
Then just the boys.
Now just the girls.
Then all the grandchildren.
Next ... great grandchildren.
Then each family had pictures taken with her.

Towards the end of this picture spree,
I could see it was wearing her out.
I sat down next to her.

"You're getting tired, aren't you?"
Memère smiled. "A little."
"And just a little fed up?" I asked.
"Oh, more than just a little!" she exclaimed, laughing.
I'm sure she felt a bit like a tourist attraction.
But she was a trooper, laughing and joking with everyone.

Standing next to my dad, I pass my camera to cousin Alex.
"Will you take a picture of me and dad?" I ask.
"What about your mom?" she replies.

I look over.
Mom is busy talking to her brothers and sisters.
I don't want to interrupt.
So I wave my hand in her general direction.
"Screw her," I say, making my dad laugh.
Cousin Alex says ... just as she snaps the picture ...

"I bet your dad does too."





ACK!
Sweet Jeebus!
Now I have a visual.
My eyes are burning!!

My dad laughs uproariously.
I cover my face with my hand,
trying hard to block out the image now burned in my skull.

Too late.
The image is caught forever.
Both mine and theirs.

My therapist is going to have a heyday with this one.

Memère's Birthday Party

As you know, we celebrated Memère's 99th birthday this weekend.
I was prepared for the worst.
Some people in the family have been saying she's going down hill.
I don't know who these people are talking about,
but it ain't Memère!

She is just as feisty as ever.
Doesn't she look great?


Notice that she's clutching a little change purse.
One of those purses that you squeeze to open.



This is going to be a long day for her.
I figure she may want to rely on a little strength,
Memère is a staunch Catholic -- she still takes Communion every week.
I fully expected her to be carrying her crucifix.
So I ask her (in French, of course, but I'll translate for ya'll)

"So, Memère, what's in the purse."
I nod my head at her hands.

She looks down at her purse.
Then leans over to me and whispers,

"It's money. We might play cards later. I want to be ready."

We both laugh uproariously.
I tell her I have to take a picture so that I can tell my friends.
I show her the picture after I take it.
She laughs and is quite pleased with herself.

"You tell your friends that I won!" she says.

I hope I'm just like her when I grow up.

Like Auntie, Like Nephew

Nephew #2 sends me text messages on a regular basis.
He doesn't have his own cell phone.
He uses his mother's.
(that's cousin Alex for those of you who aren't following along.)

The first few times he did it, it was really odd.
I'd get a text message from Alex that made absolutely no sense.
"We're winning 2 - 0."

Um ... OK ... Huh?!

He finally clued in that he was freaking me out
and started preceding his texts with "Nephew here ..."

I get several text messages a week from this kid.
It's great.

He graduated from High School on Wednesday.
Alex sent me a text message to say that they bought him a cell phone.
Knowing that I'd want to be the first to send him a message,
she sent me his number.

So, I sent him this message:

Hey kiddo! It's Auntie Mo. Congratulations on your graduation. I'm so proud of you! XO.
PS. And congrats on the new fone. Sweet!

What do I get back in reply?

Hey.

Clearly things have changed.
He has his own phone now.
He doesn't have to use his mother's.
Who has probably told him,
Yeah, you can use my phone to text Auntie Mo,
but not all your friends.

So now that he can text his friends,
I'm at the bottom of the list.
*sigh*
Oh well.
It was good while it lasted.

Despite the one-word response,
N#2 seems to be doing well with his writing.
It must run in the family.

Alex sent me an email the other day.
N#2 brought home various pieces of poetry he had written over the school year.
He received the highest marks for imagination on this one:

"Writer's Block"

You can't think of anything
Trying to finish your poetry homework
Can't even think of a topic and it's due tomorrow.
I have writers block.

It's the worst thing in the world to have
Harder to deal with then a broken arm
More annoying then the hiccups.
I just can't think of something to write.

I go over tons of possible topics
I can't think of anything to write after the title
This is so FRUSTRATING!
I ask everyone what to write about and no one can help me.

There are so many distractions around me, can't concentrate
It's like I have the attention span of a squirrel
It's driving me cray!
I got it, the one thing that makes me tick like a clock is writers block.

I can totally relate to that, kiddo!

As much as I like that one, this is, by far, my favourite:
(Note: he really does have pink fuzzy socks)

"Ode To My Pink Fuzzy Socks"

I awake in the morning
To a loud annoying beeping
I get out of my bed and slip on my
Pink fuzzy socks

My socks look like a bright pink flamingo
And feel like a fat furry cat
As I slop them on
It feels like I am cuddling a big soft teddy bear

My walk to school feels like I am walking
On the clouds of Heaven
They cushion my feet as I spring down the field

I get home from school
Put my socks in the wash
And then go to bed

My socks are as lonely as a stray cat
Sitting, waiting in the dryer all night long
For me to come and rescue them

I lay awake all night in my bed
Watching the clock tick tock away
Waiting for the clock to hit 7:00 am
So I can put on my Pink Fuzzy Socks and start a new day.

The Rainbow Bridge

BJ sent me the saddest text message Tuesday.

Max got sick. Very very sick. I had to put him to sleep this morning. But he's very much at peace now. Thank God. Talk to you soon.

Max was BJ's goofy loveable basset hound. He was the quintessential cartoon version of a basset hound.

Short.
Squat.
Fat.
Sleepy-eyed.
And just a little dumb.

When BJ would talk in his voice, she'd make him sound like a toothless slack-jawed yokel. It really did suit him.

Sadly, this is the second dog in a short period of time that her family has lost.
It's heartbreaking.

I came across this piece quite a while ago, and I fell in love with it.
I hope this helps you, BJ.
Like I said to you, I really do think Bailey is taking good care of him and they're cavorting all over the place together.


* * *

Just this side of Heaven is a place called the Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies, that had been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to the Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals that have been ill and old are restored to health and vigour; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of the days and times gone by.

The animals are happy and content ... except for one small thing. They each miss someone very special to them who had to be left behind. They all run and play together.

But the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks up into the distance. His bright eyes are intent, his eager body begins to quiver. Suddenly he begins to run from the group. Flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted!

And when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face, your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent in your heart.

Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together.

Bonne Fête à Moi

Today is my birthday.
Don't ask.
I'm old.
Oh, alright.
I'm 43.
I've already received more than a dozen FaceBook messages.
Plus emails and texts.
My BlackBerry may implode.

As usual, Birthday Week is hectic.

Monday was Spanish class.
Yesterday I had dinner and drinks with girlfriends.
Tonight, more dinner and drinks.
Tomorrow I have plans.
Then off to Sudbury on Friday to celebrate Memère’s birthday.

And wouldn't you know ...

I get in to work today and Boss #2 immediately asked me to book Night Staff for tonight.
"How late do you think you'll need someone?" I ask, thinking maybe until 8 or so.
"How late can we have someone?"
I try to remember what the current protocol is.
We used to have around-the-clock secretary staff.
"I think 1 or 2 am now."
He thinks about this. "Hmmm. Can we get someone later if we need it?"

Yikes!

Well, at least he didn't ask ME to stay.
I'm having martinis tonight with the girls.
I have my priorities straight.

However, it's clearly going to be a crazy day.
I'm definitely going to need a few drinks tonight.
And something tells me I'll deserve it.

A dry martini, please, Bombay Sapphire, straight up, stirred, with olives.

Just practicing my line.

Wait! Make it a double!!

Bonne Fête Memère!

Today is Memère’s 99th birthday.
Go Memère!
The whole fam damily is getting together in Sudbury this weekend to celebrate.
The Gods willing, we’ll celebrate her 100th birthday next year.

Although she’s not really getting around much, she does get dressed up every day and sits in her chair and watches a little t.v.
She has her hair and nails done every week.
She looks absolutely amazing.



She has visitors every day and insists on playing cards.
We know she's still with it because if it's your turn and you dally,
she'll call you out and tell to hurry up and play.
She takes her cards seriously, this woman, and only plays for money.
Ante may only be a dime, but it's still money.


I overheard The Husband talking to The Boy the other night:

Yeah, we’re going up north for Mo’s grandmother’s 99th birthday.
[pause]
I know! It’s just fabulous.
[pause]
Yeah, well, if it does run in the family don’t count on any inheritance.

Nice.

Photos. Shoot!

I booked my photo shoot with Amanda. If you haven't seen Amanda's work, go check out her website and her blog. Amanda has been pursuing her love of photography, taking courses, raising a newborn and trying to work a real job -- all at the same time. I don't know how she does it.

I want to have pictures taken for Urban Contessa, with the intention of taking the business along a new path. I figure if I'm going to promote my business to professionals, then I have to look professional (being professional, of course, is a completely different matter). And before you ask, NO ... I am NOT doing the boudoir photo shoot. It wouldn't be pretty. Amanda would be doing a whole lotta air brushing.

The photo shoot is September 17.
That gives me about three months to lose 40 lbs.
No problem, piece 'o cake.

Oooo! Cake!!

Crap ... this isn't gonna work.

The Accidental Messenger

I have recently begun following Marc over at Daily Writing Practice. He provides a daily prompt to get the writing juices flowing. He seems to lean towards poetry. Although I like poetry and enjoy writing it, I prefer to write short stories. Hopefully that won't irk him too much. If it does, I'm sure he'll let me know. Right, Marc?

The other day, his suggested prompt was "the miles between us". Oddly enough, the night before, my dad had left me a voicemail message that brought me to tears. Marc commented on my submission, saying "if that wasn't non-fiction I'll be even more impressed." Sorry, Marc, but truth, as they say, is stranger than fiction. And, quite frankly, I don't think I'm that good a writer.

This is what I wrote. I know my brother reads this blog. So, Budge, get Dad to read this today and wish him a Happy Father's Day for me. I'll see you guys next weekend when we celebrate Memère's 99th Birthday. That's right. My grandmother turns 99 this Tuesday. More on that in a few days. In the meantime ...



The little red light flashes on my mobile, indicating a voice message. I sigh. I didn’t hear it ring. “Damn thing never seems to work,” I mutter, as I stab the numbers to retrieve the message.

The annoyingly pompous automated voice tells me I have one new message. I punch two to retrieve it and wait for what I’m sure is some jerk trying to sell me something.

And I hear my father’s familiar laugh. “Hey favourite daughter!” He chuckles into the phone. We have a long-running gag between us. He calls me his Favourite Daughter and I call him my Favourite Dad. The joke being, of course, that I’m the only daughter.

He uses the typical Northern Ontario dialect, a haphazard mix of French and English. “Je suis à la ferme et je jouais avec mon phone. Ton numéro a monté et j'ai juste voulu entendre ta voix. OK. I’ll let you go. Talk to you later. Love you! Bye.”

Clearly, Dad was playing with his new cell phone and accidentally called me. And rather than hang up (he’s far too polite to do that) he left me a message. I could tell that he hadn’t meant to call and was having a good laugh at himself. No one laughs harder at Dad than Dad.

My eyes fill with tears. My parents live a five-hour drive away, and with our respective schedules, I don’t get to see them as often as I like. Hearing my Dad’s voice suddenly made the misery of the past few weeks much more bearable.

I replay the message, whisper “I love you too” and gently press seven to save.

Happy Birthday, Sis!

Tomorrow is cousin Alex's birthday.
She's 25.
Again.
She's been 25 for a very long time.

So have I.
Some day we'll grow up.
Pffft.
NOT!

Alex and I call each other sister.
We each have a brother.
Mine's pretty cool.
Hers is a bit of a pooh head.
Alright.
He's a big pooh head.

But I digress.
As always.
You should be used to it by now.

Alex and I are surprisingly alike.
It's scary really.
When we're together, we finish each other's sentences.
We'll say the same thing at the exact same time.
Then laugh.

We have lots of great memories.
And we're constantly making new ones.


I remember hiding in Alex's cold room.
It was filled with the usual things.
Cans and jars of various food items.
We each took a jar of green olives.
Sat on the floor, cracked open our jars and gorged.
Until we were sick.
We still gorge on olives.

I remember sitting on the well outside the house.
Until two o'clock in the morning.
Eating all the macaroni and cheese in one sitting.
Trying on all of mom's clothes in her closet.
That was a great weekend.

I remember staying up late.
Waiting for Santa.
Hearing him on the roof.
And quickly squeezing our eyes shut.
Hoping he wouldn't notice we were still awake.


So many great memories, Sis.
And so many more to come.
You're always there for me.
You never judge.
You never scold.
You never say I told you so.
Even though you should.
To all of those things!

Thanks for everything.
Happy Birthday, Sis.
I love you!

The two of them

Over at Pictures, Poetry & Prose, one of our recent muses was a picture from Cyndy. I don't know how she captured this picture, but it's great. You really have to go take a peek at it so that the writing makes sense.

I'll wait.

Most of the writers wrote humorous pieces. As did I. I really couldn't help it. The picture just burst with funny. Don't you agree?

The voice that immediately popped into my head when I saw the picture was the voice of the Abominable Snowman. Do you remember that scene? When he finds Daffy Duck and he thinks he's a rabbit. "I will love him, and pet him, and call him George." Use that voice for Fred when you're reading this.

Our suggested prompt: "The two of them stood and talked about their plan..."
My submission ...


* * *


"Psssst! Fred … c'mere!"

"Uuuuh, what, George?"

"See that? Over there? What's that?"

"I don' see nuttin', George."

"Over there! That guy. He's pointing something at us."

"Da guy wit' da silver rectangle tingy?"

"Yeah, him. What's he doing?"

"I duhnno, George."

"It doesn't look good, Fred. What if it's the same thing that Farmer Joe had yesterday? You saw what happened when he pointed that long, skinny black thing at Jimmy."

"Yeah. Jimmy falled over."

"He didn’t just fall over -- he died, you bonehead! DIED!!"

"Oh."

"Yeah, OH."

So what should we do den', George?"

"I think we should hide. Hide behind this fence. Like this. See?"

"I don' tink dat's gonna work, George."

"Just do it, Fred. Duck. DUUUUCK!!"

"I don' see no ducks, George."

Sweet

I've given Laura Jayne permission to use pictures from my picture blog (and this blog) on Pictures, Poetry & Prose. She recently used this picture:



I've become quite interested in the ancient art of Haiku. It's not just your 5-7-5 prose anymore, like back in elementary school. There are tons of rules and variations of said rules, many of which contradict each other. I thought I'd take my first crack at Haiku with this picture. The winner, by the way, was Marc, who wrote a beautiful piece that evoked many wonderful childhood memories. I've begun following Marc's blog, Daily Writing Practice, to help me get my writing groove on.

Our prompt: "Write a poem with a chocolate theme."
My submission:

* * *

heavenly cocoa
melts sensuously on lips
hips widen

Pretty In Pink

Our muse at Pictures, Poetry & Prose was a wonderful picture of a flower, taken by Highlander. No link was provided for Highlander, but if you click here, you can slip over to PPP and check out this great shot. I love the focal point of the cluster in the forefront, and the blurred clusters in the background. I'm still trying to perfect this macro effect, myself.

The suggested prompt: A poem for a flower.
My winning submission:

Harsh words.
Arms fold.
Backs turn.

Feet stomp.
Door slams.
Car drives.

Cry alone.
Hours pass.
Wait up.

Door opens.
Timid steps.
Soft voice.

Trembling hands
Offer flowers.
Peace made.

Exactly how I feel

This is a statue of Winston Churchill.
It stands in Nathan Phillips Square.





As the title of this blog says,
this is exactly how I feel.
All broody and crapped on.

I can't seem to shake it.
I've been feeling like this for a few weeks now.
Although I can't really pinpoint what the cause is,
I know it's likely the simple fact that it's June.

June, for some reason, has become a stressful month for me.
Mainly because my birthday is coming up.
Which is always a reflective time for me.
Not always a positive reflection, mind you.
Instead, it's usually a reminder of what I haven't accomplished.

I know I shouldn't dwell on the negatives.
After all, I'm the one always telling others to be positive.
But it's difficult to keep your baton twirling
when others are raining on your parade.

Unfortunately, all the naysayers are currently people close to me.
And it would be hurtful,
and spiteful,
to tell them to sod off.

As much as I want to,
I don't.
Oh, I shout it all the time in my head.
But my mouth stays closed.
Lips pursed.
Teeth grinding.

Maybe if I said it politely.
With a smile.
It wouldn't seem so offensive.

Yeah, you're right.
Probably not.

Bugger it!

Red Ball Project - June 9, 2009

The Red Ball was at First Canadian Place on Tuesday.

Lady Fairchilde, Robi and I were standing across the street.
Getting some general perspective shots.
Waiting for a TTC Streetcar to go by so it can be included in the shot.
We're patiently waiting.

Some guy walks by.
What's with the red ball?" he asks.
He looks confused.
I put on my best poker face and said:
"It's art."
He gives me a You've-Got-to-be-Kidding look.
I raise my hand to stop him.
"I know," I said "I don't think it's art either.
But just look at that.
It's a huge red ball.
That's cool, man!"
He glances over at the ball.
He's not convinced.
And walks off.

About five minutes later, he's back.
He's taking pictures with his cell phone.
See [nodding sagely to myself].
The Big Red Ball is addictive, isn't it?
I'm all smug now.

I have some close ups over at my photo blog.
If you're interested.
Even if you're not, go take a peek.
Humour me, alright?

Español – clase número sies

Monday's Spanish class was about body parts.

Señora Sierra handed out a photocopy of a body and a face.
She would say the body part in English, then give the translation en Español.

The arm ... el brazo
The leg ... la pierna
The foot ... el pie
The fingers ... los dedos

Then we moved to the face.

We were all furiously writing.
Not much was said.
But the class wasn't exactly quiet.
There was a constant hum of noise.
Pens scratching.
People muttering the Spanish words under the breath.
Others asking their desk mate to repeat a word.

The face ... la cara
The eyes ... los ojos
The ears ... los oídos
The hair ... el pelo
The teeth ... los dientes

Then ...

The lips ... los labios

There was an awkward silence in the class.
Not just your everyday run-of-the-mill silence.
This was a thick, heavy, oppressive silence.
No pen scratching.
No whispering of repeated Spanish words.
No one was even breathing.

My eyebrows went up, but I continued to stare at my paper.
You can believe a million things were going through my mind.
A lot of really? and hunh, how about that?

There was an unspoken agreement in the class.
No one made eye contact with anyone.
I think we all knew if we did, we were all going to start laughing.
Señora Sierra waited about five or ten seconds while everyone digested that.
Maybe she expected some sort of reaction.
I don't know.

Then she continues.
We all start breathing again.
Pens scratch.
Voices murmur.

The eyebrows ... las cejas
The eyelashes ... las pestañas

And I hear the girl behind me whisper to her friend:

"Well ... that makes sense, doesn't it?"

A fly on the wall

When Lady Fairchilde and I went to Nathan Phillips Square for the Red Ball Project, we wandered around to see what else would catch our eye and be a good photo opp.

This definitely caught my eye.
And is a helluva photo opp.

Is this Flyie Style??




These two were so preoccupied that they let me get quite close. LF tried to get close too, but this proved to be too much. The Bottom Fly scuttled off, with the Top Fly still holding on. Props for stamina!

I bet they knew we were taking their picture and didn't want it to end up on the Internet, a la Pamela Anderson.

Too late.
Wait 'till the other flies hear about this one!

Total Eclipse of the Fonze

I'm a country music fan.
I know.
I know.
Stop groaning.

I grew up listening to it.
It's in my blood.

I didn't always listen to it.
I listened to pop and dance when I was younger.

But when I stopped understanding the lyrics, I switched to country.

God.
You know you're old when you say you can't understand the lyrics.
Pretty soon I'll be shouting "Turn that racket down!"
And telling "When I was a kid ..." stories.
*shudder*

My preferred country station is Country 95.3.
Lea Cater is one of the morning DJs.
(Check out her blog at Country 95.3)
I've talked to her a few times.
She's really sweet.
I sent her a table runner when she bought her new house.
She says she loves it.
She may be saying that just to be nice.
But she did put it in writing on my Facebook group.
So it must be true.

Lea posted this video on her Facebook site.
I was in stitches while I watched it.
It has to be one of the funniest things I've seen in a long time.
The Fonzarelli comment had me burst out laughing with a loud HA!
Which got some odd looks, seein' as I was at the office and all.

Yeah, I was on Facebook at the office.
So what?

Red Ball Project - June 5, 2009

The Red Ball Project has hit Toronto.

Artist, Kurt Perschke, has created a project that makes us aware of the synergy between art and the urban landscape.

Yeah.
I rolled my eyes when I read that too.

I don't consider this to be art.
It's a big red ball.
The thing is 15 feet in diameter.
Weighs 250 pounds.
It's big.
HUGE!

Who cares about the artistic integrity of the redness.
Against the juxtaposition of the concrete jungle.

I may not think that's art,
But that's a huge ass ball
And there's no two ways about it ...
That's frickin' cool, man!!

I was talking to BJ and telling her about the Red Ball Project. "How do they get it in place?" she asked. "Do you think they just roll it down Yonge Street Indiana Jones style?" Then we started musing about how this sucker gets blown up. BJ's making blowing noises into the phone, as though she's blowing this thing up manually. "OK," she pants, "Your turn." I figure they'd get dizzy too fast, so I'm guessing bicycle pump.

The first day of the Toronto tour was at Nathan Phillips Square.
Lady Fairchilde and I took a walk and snapped some pics.











The next location that we plan to visit is First Canadian Place next Tuesday.
Stay tuned for more pics.

The Mayonnaise Jar and the Coffee

I'm not sure where this came from and I apologize to whoever wrote this for not acknowledging your great wisdom. This piece always makes me rethink my priorities and slows me down a bit. It's been a crazy few weeks, both at home and the office, so reading this was a great pick-me-up. I hope it picks you up too. If nothing else, it will take away the guilt of not cleaning the house today!

* * * * *

When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the coffee ...

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

So the professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous "yes."

The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things -- your God, your family, your children, your health, your friends, and your favorite passions -- things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else -- the small stuff.

If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first, the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented. The professor smiled.

"I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend."

Coffee as a Weapon

My GO Train buddy brought my attention to this article the other morning.
Said he immediately thought of me when he read it.

M'Licious sent me a link to the article.
Said she immediately thought of me when she read it.

My rep precedes me.

I really don't know what to think of this. First of all, I know from first-hand experience that what you read in the newspaper is NEVER the whole truth. So I'm a little sceptical about the real story behind this. The guy admits that he cut her off. But did he just cut her off or was he a jackass about it? Maybe he cuts her off every day and she's had enough. Maybe he cut her off and she spilled her coffee. Who knows?

Should the lady have reacted the way she did? Probably not. Would I? I like to think I wouldn't. But getting on the GO Train is a dog-eat-dog environment and people are vicious. You start to get annoyed when the same people, every day, butt in front of you. You can't help but defend yourself. Me ... I just make a point of stepping on their heels.

Besides, I absolutely love coffee. Why waste a good cuppa joe?

Almost like vacation

Robi and I went downstairs for danishes yesterday morning.
The cafe was playing catchy calypso music.
The kind where your hips start to gyrate independently.
I began to cha-cha-cha, still high from my Spanish class.

The guy beside me laughs.
I turned to him.
Eyes wide, big smile, cha-cha-cha-ing.
"It's just like being on vacation!"

He looks at me and very firmly says
"No. It. Is. Not!"

I stop dancing.

"You're right," I said, glancing at my watch. "It's 10 am. If I was on vacation, I'd have a drink in my hand."

He wags a finger at me.
Nods sagely.
"Exactly!"

El Examen es Muy Bien

I wrote my Spanish mid-term last night. The students finished at staggered times, so the teacher marked our exams as we completed them.

I aced it.
100%.
Booyah!

I did study my little heart out for this test.

When I took my French classes, I wouldn't study as hard and I'd come home with 97 or 98 (have I mentioned I'm a bit of an over-achiever?). The Husband would always ask me: "What happened to the other 2%? You speak French, for pete's sake!" Which is probably why the teacher marked me harder.

So needless to say, I felt compelled to call The Husband after class to brag.


Me: "Hola!"

TH: "So? How'd you do?"

Me: "100"

TH: in his best Spanish accent "Das berry goot Chica! See ... choo hab Espanish blood in choo."

Me: giggling"I don't think so."

TH: "Oh chez. Choo hab Espanish blood in choo. Choo can tell by chore hass. Choo have de Heneefer Lopez hass. Ees muy beuno."