Spring Day

A touch of white

lace and petals bright

on a spring day light

enough to skip

through and dip

small toes into the lip

of a river swift

that gives my heart a lift

enough to bless this gift


of a day
that I never thought I'd pray
to see, let alone foray


Now mine
pure and divine
so sweet and sublime

like a shooting star
I feel this kiss from afar
and know that nothing could ever mar
~this new day~

CAUTION: Hot Monday

It's Monday. Its 31C and feels like 39C. That's 102.2F for you American folk who are enjoying the last of your Long Weekend today.

I have the radio singing behind me, but sadly I have nothing worth sharing with you folks. It is just distraction today. I am trying to block out the music of diggers, chainsaws and steamrollers that comes from outside my window. Construction season has begun and is in my neighbourhood for the remainder of the summer. The sound of backup beepers at a few minutes to 7am is not really what I would consider music to anyone's ears and certainly not how I would choose to be awoken on a Monday morning.

CAUTION: Grumpy Mama on Board

Perhaps I should have looked for an office job this summer? Anyone need a gal Friday? Can I get a do-over?

(Pretty thin for the MFM theme Do-Over, but my concentration is not what it could be as I watch orange-vested construction workers traipse across my front lawn and the pavement dissolves into a muddy gravel pit by my driveway. It's going to be a long summer people. This is only the beginning of my gripes I fear.)

Saturday's Email of the Week: When a Girl's Got To Go

Saturday's Email of the Week

Last week, I was picking on you boys out there. This week, I can't help but share this little jab at the ladies. I haven't quite hung my purse around my neck, but I am familiar with 'The Stance'. I know the rest of you ladies are too! Somehow it is just worse in a public bathroom as well. I don't have any qualms about doing my thing in the woods after dark (too much information - sorry), but present me with a questionable toilet seat and no toilet paper and the world is coming to an end, with me leading the parade! Ugh!! That is the reason why women always carry a purse full of crap by the way gentlemen. This has happened more than once to all of us.


I hope you have a lovely weekend. I survived my trek into the bush last weekend and shall be returning for another night of fun today. Happy Memorial Day to my American friends. Catch you later.

*~~~*

When you have to visit a public toilet, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the cubicle doors. 


Every cubicle is occupied. 


Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the cubicle. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your pants! 


The dispenser for the modern 'seat covers' (invented by someone's Mum, no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your bag on the door hook, if there was one, so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mum would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!) down with your pants and assume 'The Stance'. 


In this position, your aging, toneless, thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but having not taken time to wipe the seat or to lay toilet paper on it, you hold 'The Stance'. 


To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, 'Dear, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!' 


Your thighs shake more. 


You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your bag (the bag around your neck, that now you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That would have to do, so you crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail. 


Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work. The door hits your bag, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest and you and your bag topple backward against the tank of the toilet.  


'Occupied!' you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, while losing your footing altogether and sliding down directly onto the TOILET SEAT. It is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try. You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, 'You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get. 


By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl and spraying a fine mist of water that covers your bum and runs down your legs and into your shoes. 


The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force and you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too. 


At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a sweet wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. 


You can't figure out how to operate the taps with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting. 


You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it?) 


You yank the paper from your shoe, plonk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly, 'Here, you just might need this. 


As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left the men's toilet. Annoyed, he asks, 'What took you so long and why is your bag hanging around your neck? 


This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with any public toilets. It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers that other commonly asked question about why women go to the toilets in pairs. It's so the other girl can hold the door, hang onto your bag and hand you Kleenex under the door. 


This HAD to be written by a woman! No one else could describe it so accurately.

A Heart With Strangers

The email said to arrive at 6:45pm. This was so that we could be assigned seats and told when we would read. As unlikely as it sounds, I arrive a few minutes early (I am always at least 5 minutes late - ALWAYS). But today I am right on time, unsure of what will happen next.

So I park my car and strut a block over in a pair of black heels, unsteady on my feet used to flats or being naked. Makeup graces my face. I realized at the last minute that I would be on a stage, or in front of a podium, or at least somewhere where people would be looking at me.

I wonder when the nerves will kick in, but smile as confidently as I can manage, when I finally figure out where I am going.

Across? Left, no right. Made it!

"Do you need a ticket?"

No, I shall be reading a poem tonight.

"Very good. Go right in!"

Smiles.

Now what? Another friendly face looks my way and I announce my presence again. Nerves jingle a little bit, just to remind me that I will be a part of the event this evening. My role as passive audience will be interrupted by the promised two minutes of fame.

The people don't notice that my heart rate has changed. Everyone who works there is trying to look busy, but the poets who have already arrived sit nervous and alone on a bench. I catch a fleeting smile, but feel alone in this endeavour tonight.

Time to look at the artwork. This is an art gallery after all and colour is splashed across canvases here, there and everywhere.

Mr Pink. Mr Green. Mr Yellow. Mr Red.

Interesting...


My watch tells me that I have been here for 20 minutes. I cling to the Perrier I was offered, but it ain't no wine and cheese affair. More people arrive and I move to another section of the gallery.

Eventually, I find out that I will be reading seventh in the order. Good. That gives me time to see how other people will be handling their readings.

I breathe, smile and perch on the edge of a sofa in anticipation.
...
....
.....

We begin. The organizer is running late; on her way from North Bay. Apologies are offered, but we begin without her. I am okay, as there will be people ahead of me. I will be ok.

Before I get to me, I need to tell you the theme of the evening. Perhaps then it will help you to understand more of where my nerves staunched from. You might understand better than the strangers that surrounded me, although they have walked in similar shoes as well. You see, we were all paying tribute to "Shining Stars". Not the Hollywood kind. Our stars were the people in our lives that we had lost and wanted to honour in some form.  I suspect you know where I went with this theme.

Brad, of course.

The women before me gave long speeches about in-laws, sisters and even lost unknown soldiers from days gone by. They prefaced their poems with pages of warmth and glowing terms.

I had a single piece of 100% recycled Canadian Cascades multi-use paper. It was folded in the middle and slightly crumpled from being in my purse. My story was in my head. If I began it, I would not be able to read  the poem that followed. So I simply announced that I was honouring my husband. He had died almost five years previous from malignant melanoma. And I had a poem to share.

It began,

baubles gifted 

far and few... 

but I cannot share the whole thing. It will be published in a collection with the other poems from the evening. I can tell you that I wavered. My voice caught on the words, but I breathed and continued to the end.

And then it was over.

But it was not. Other people spoke of their losses. No other voices quivered or quaked. I did not notice downcast eyes, but I could feel the hurt that had been there in their grief. We had all lost. I might have been the youngest face, therefore touching to this small audience, but they knew.

Afterwards, gentle voices sought me out to honour my words. They heard my pain. They asked questions, kind in their interest. They shared their own stories. We all knew the emotions well. Despite not being able to conceal that well of grief, even with time and my best efforts, I still managed to be there and add my voice. I probably could not have picked a harder topic to speak on, but I shared my heart with these strangers.

And they felt it.

Saturday's Email of the Week: More Manly

Saturday's Email of the Week

Well my men folk friends, I should save this for you for Father's Day, but I cannot wait that long. I technically came across this video due to an email that was sent to me by YouTube. It wasn't this video that I originally clicked through on, but this was the next one up and much funnier. Are you manly enough to handle it?

As for me today, I shall be heading out of town to celebrate our Canadian Long Weekend. Happy Victoria Day fellow Canucks! I will be pseudo-camping (in a trailer minus electricity or running water), but full-on enjoying the first official Canadian weekend of summer. You want to bet I will have an icy beer, a steak on the fire and my plaid wrapped around me after the sun goes down. Hoo baby, I cannot wait! The girls are excited to try their hand at fishing with my new Manly friend. I bet he will be able to handle an axe a little better than the manly man in this video though.

So if you are North of the border, enjoy all the sunshine that is forecasted to come our way my friends all weekend long. For those of you South of the border, you will get your turn next weekend. Patience! Have a super weekend everyone!