Merry Christmas!!!

Well, the big day finally arrived. Presents were wrapped, cards were written out, recovery from extraordinarily amazingly large dinner the night before was done. All that remained was to wake up and enjoy the day. Well, up we got, and as my gifts had been, oh, a plane trip to Florida, and wining and dining galore, and a surprise helicopter ride into the bargain, I really wasn't expecting anything. I had bought Mom and Wayne a set of espresso cups and saucers, which is what they wanted, and I got Tia, the Diva, errrmm...dog, a completely indestructible Santa Squeeze Toy which they promised me (at the ritzy guide-dog dog shop where I got it) she wouldn't be able to destroy. All of which goes to show you; you can still be surprised on Christmas day, especially when you least expect it.

So Mom and Wayne loved the cups, and after that was opened, I was handed a gift from Tia. An entire BOX with TWO layers of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, which has basically been a staple of my diet since I got down here. (Honestly, why don't I just buy stock in the company?) I quickly ate six of those, and then was told that Santa had left me something under the palm tree with the Christmas lights by the doorway. I went over to the doorway, and sure enough under the tree, on the vestibule, WAS something. A package of doggy-wipes. How thoughtful, considering that I don't HAVE a dog as yet, but if I ever did get one, it was nice to know that I'd be prepared for those sudden walks outside. NO, I was told suddenly, NOT THAT, the OTHER gift under the tree, the WRAPPED one. Oh. That looked a lot more promising as it was signed "From Santa". I KNEW I'd heard hoofbeats the night before....

So I picked it up, took it over to the couch, and found myself unwrapping an HD Mini/Movie/Still camera. It's amazing and the size of a cellphone. Seriously, this is one of the BEST presents I've ever received. This is going to be so much fun to use. I can make movies of people I know and places I've seen, and store them all up and kind of end up with a video library if I ever go travelling....AWESOME.

Tia then got HER present that I'd given her. It took her all of half an hour to completely disembowell Santa and scatter his squeaky innards all over the floor. Since his suit was red felt, all that shredded fuzz made it look like Charlie Manson had been celebrating Santa's arrival all over the living room floor. Still, Wayne said it was a new record; the last squeeze toy they had gotten her was made in a material that was used in bullet proof vests. She managed to tear through that in about an hour and a half. So I guess I should be flattered. She is nothing if not persistent.

Spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, finished my HECTOR book, which at least I enjoyed rather more than the Ishiguro novel. It was very charming and fun in that lovely lighthearted way the French have when they're not blowing up atomic bombs in Tahiti.

We then got ready for dinner at my Mom's cousin Patricia's, with her husband and his daughter and husband, and their adorable ten month old Gabriel, who had the most adorable ears, curliest hair, and longest lashes I've ever seen on a baby. I ended up spending most of the evening playing "Drop the Napkin on Gabriel's Head", a more sophisticated version of "Peekaboo" for those of you not in the know, and seeing if I could get the kid to try crawling. He was desperate to get somewhere, judging from the flailing of his arms and legs, but he hadn't made the necessary connection of knees to the ground yet. On the other hand, had he been in the water, he'd have given Mark Tewksbury a run for his money.

So we had a lovely supper, lots of laughs and then headed back to the ranch for a few more after-dinner desserts, and then watched that Yuletide favourite, "The Lion In Winter" with Katharine Hepburn and Peter O'Toole. Some people watch Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed make gooey eyes at each other, oh no, not my lot. We watch Hepburn and O'Toole throw daggers at each other and plot regicide over the eggnog and presents. It's just what we do.

Then, after a lovely, satisfying day, bedtime. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Day Six, Or How to Look Inconspicuous With a Giant Red Knapsack

On the sixth day, I walked. I got Mom to drop me off at St. Armand's Circle again, and I went to the bookstore I was at the day before, a small independent store, with very loud proprietors, they sold mostly best sellers, although you'd find some surprising stuff in the Literature section, which they kept separate from fiction. I don't know how they distinguished it, maybe mass market paperback from the rest, who knows? At any rate, I DID want to buy something, (me in a bookshop without buying something is like asking Jamie Oliver to keep his clothes on in a cheese shop....oh wait, wrong analogy there. Sorry. Note to self; internal thought, internal thought...) and spent a good half hour browsing.

Now browsing in a bookshop is NOT like shopping for anything else. It isn't like buying clothes (they either fit or they don't, they either make your ass look like a football field or they don't, fait accompli) or furniture (which people inevitably do in couples, I suspect, largely so they can fight in public) or even music, (nobody in his right mind buys an album he hasn't heard the music to) although one might be tempted to think so. I often think of book buying and book reading like going on dates. A bad cover can discourage you completely (if I ever get anything published, I am having complete approval on all covers going out on any books I ever publish) but aside from that, unless you KNOW the book (you've seen the movie already, read rave reviews about it) or read it years before, it really IS terra incognita, and you kind of have to play along for a bit. You get the tone of voice in the first few chapters, and you see if you like the voice; is it elegant, goofy, funny, terribly moving, or irritating as all fuck? This is important to note. Buying a book, you obviously can't stand there in the store and read the first few chapters, but you have to have a head for sizing it up, rather like you do on a date. Some dates, you take one look and think, "Oh no. How soon can I feign a migraine?" With others, (or so I've been told) you're practically raping each other with your eyes over the aperatifs. Books can be like that. You might gripingly get through them, chuck 'em across the room and never see them again. Others change your life, and you take them with you everywhere. It just depends on the book, just as it depends on the person. At any rate, I ended up grabbing two, Kazuo Ishiguro's NEVER LET ME GO, and a French novel called HECTOR AND THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS by a psychiatrist named Francois LeLord.

I wandered around the circle, looked in a few very tacky art shops, and finally just walked down the street and out to Lido Key, where the beach was. It had to be one of the cleanest beaches I'd ever been on. Not very many people on it, as it was rather windy, but it was sunny and warm for the most part. I put my towel down, unpacked my bag, lie down and started reading my books. Did that for about an hour, when I realized I was getting hungry, and so I packed up my stuff, and walked along and found this wonderful confectionary restaurant thing in the middle of the beach. The guy who owned it was a young guy from Buffalo, and as it was off-season, it was just him and two other guys running the whole shebang. Very chatty and personable, and very funny. I hung around and gabbed with him while waiting for my lunch. Which was reassuring, as you knew it hadn't been just sitting there all morning, collecting flies, but that they were making it fresh, thank heavens. Anyway, I took my lunch and sat down at a stone table under some shade and started reading my book. Then I had the strangest feeling I was being watched. I looked up, and sure enough, I was. A large white heron, quite beautiful, was standing not two feet away, staring at me with his lovely long head tilted at an angle, as if to ask, "Well? Where's MY lunch?" I had seen this tilt of the head on every cat and dog (and a fair number of humans too) that I'd ever lived with, and I knew it meant, "I'm being cute for your benefit. Give me something."

Having been surrounded by cuteness all of my life, I was pretty much immune to it. SO, I just looked at him (her?) square in the eye (eyes? they were on either side of his/her head, which would account for the back and forth tilting of his head when I spoke) and said, "No. Now go lay down." Which is what I said to all the dogs and cats (and those few humans) that had ever come begging at the table. I didn't know if it was going to work on a long-legged snow-white heron, but it couldn't hurt. He circled around me for about another five minutes, saw I was immersed in my book, and then just took off and flew away. THAT was impressive. Had I known he was going to do that, I might have just given him a French Fry. But since I was eating chicken strips, I thought THAT might have been faintly cannablistic, so I refrained.

After lunch, I went back to the beach, but the wind had picked up, so I went back to St. Armand's and found a tiny little Irish pub, where I had two beers and had a lovely chat with the waitress/bartender. Her boss was a bit of a micro-managing control freak ("Wipe the counter THIS way, not that way.") but she just shrugged, smiled, and went along with it. Mind you, perhaps I was just overly sensitive to female, middle-aged, micro-managing control freaks. But I finished my drinks, had a lovely chat, and went to meet Mom over at the Columbia restaurant, and then we went home. I had a lovely supper, watched some TV, and then crashed early. AGAIN!

Christmas Eve!

Well, yesterday, I spent the morning in the kitchen. Mom had planned a massive turkey dinner, and these things take, among other things, planning and serfs to do things like bake brownies and peel potatoes. I just meekly went along with everything, as a) I love an amazing turkey dinner and b) getting in the way of the Madame when she's got a feast planned is about as foolhardy as telling Mussolini the trains WON'T run on time. She IS a Cancerian after all, and you KNOW what they're like in the kitchen. (I don't know what sign Mussolini was; something compatible with trains I shouldn't wonder...)

At any rate, it was fascinating to watch the Mad Genius in action. Mom did this sort of thing all the time when I was a kid, as there was always a crowd of relations to feed, but as time wore on, and people moved away and/or passed on, there wasn't the impetus to go all out, and so I remembered the hullabaloo, but not the actual work involved. Now to put it plainly, I certainly couldn't have managed it, not without six days of prepping, making a mess, and two nervous breakdowns to complete it all. The difference I think, is that my mother honestly loves cooking. She finds it relaxing, challenging, absorbing and really, it's a kind of work of art for her. She frets over it, fights with it, outwits it, and when it's all said and done, (and we're all sitting there at the table, thinking we've died and gone to gastronomic heaven) has mastered it completely. I've watched her play tennis, (she's an excellent tennis player) and her game is the same way. Fierce concentration, total control over what she's doing, wonderful intuition and she enjoys it all at the same time. Extraordinary to watch.

After that was done by noon, (all of my stuff anyway) I sat outside and finished my copy of Ishiguro's NEVER LET ME GO. Which was depressing to say the least. It was well written, but my God, why is speculative fiction (you're not allowed to call it Science Fiction anymore, I guess it's just too redolent of three eyed green aliens and slimy things to be taken seriously...) so endlessly depressing? And not necessarily so. I won't give away the story, (it's coming out as a movie, if it isn't already) but all I will say is, from what I understood of the story, they could have escaped. They just resignedly accepted their fate, and said, "Oh. Too bad." If that's Ishiguro's viewpoint on mankind, that we're all too lax and lazy, and too cowlike to care what happens to us, my God, what's the point of writing at all? Much less a story so complex and introspective and deep as this one is? Has the state of our collective consciousness gone so cynically far downhill, that hope, a mere chance for survival, (or even fighting for it) is seen as so absymally passe that it's laughable? It would appear so, according to this novel anyway. So yes, you'll say, THIS is what you read on Christmas Eve? I know, ludicrous, isn't it? Ah well, not every one can be a home run out of the park. On the plus side, I've read three books since I've been here, and I'm in the middle of the fourth. If I can finish six by Wednesday, we'll know I'm superhuman. Six books in eleven days, plus helicopter rides, walks along beaches, eating like a pig, and sleeping besides. Not bad.

Supper was a feast, one of those dinners you mention whenever you're served an inferior version of the same in years to come. "Remember that Christmas Eve supper Mom made, back in 2010? Now THAT was a turkey dinner!" Which of course, will probably only incense whoever's slaved at the gelatinous mess you're trying to consume at the time. Ergo, you'll probably want to file that tart remark under, THOUGHTS: INTERNAL USE ONLY, along with "What was she thinking with THAT dress? She looks like a truck stop collision!" or "His hair almost works, except that it keeps sliding off..." You know, choses comme ca.

Where was I? Oh yeah, so after supper, (and how we cleaned up afterwards, I don't remember, or maybe I didn't, I think I just crawled off to the living room sofa to die) we flaked out in the living room to watch George C. Scott in A Christmas Carol, which was alright, although George's accent kept fading in and out, which was a shame, because he looked the part, he was funny and moving in it, but either keep the English accent, or lose it. The ghosts were fine, but a little goofy looking, although Edward Woodward was the best of the lot. The ghost of Christmas Future, which is supposed to be REALLY freaking scary, just looked like a bunch of Isadora Duncan's old scarves wrapped around a lamp-post, with a very thin mannequin's hand periodically pointing blandly at something. Frankly, George was scarier.

Then I wrapped my presents, and spent some more time reading my new book HECTOR AND THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS, (it's a French book, quite charming so far, it was big seller in Europe, although the English translation reads somewhat like the Madeline books, only for adults, or fey thirteen year old prodigies...) and went to sleep. I thought I heard the tread of reindeer hooves on the roof before I nodded off......

Day Five, or How Mom Hit Her Head and Why Helicopter Doors Are Very Thin...

Well! THIS turned out to be a surprising day to say the least! Mom had been hinting SOMETHING was going down today, but to her credit, she kept it a secret all week! Not an easy task for a woman who can't keep from spilling the beans on your Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve! (Don't even get me started on what she's like about guessing her OWN gifts!)

I was game for anything, but figured it would be a trip to the Ringling Museum, or the Aquarium or something, all of which would have been fine with me. Instead, we made a right at the Sarasota airport, and drove in from behind the hangars. I panicked slightly, "What have I done? Are they sending me back early? In steerage?!? I'm only in shorts and a t-shirt! I'll freeze to death!"

Nope.

I was blithely informed that THAT (the helicopter above) was what I'd be going up to my death in. But only for half an hour, and then I could come back.

Oh. O.K. I managed to look a little excited, but the truth was, I never liked flying. Oh, I can do it, but it's not one of my favourite past-times. (Even with Pixie dust.) When I'm in the air, I'm fine, but I don't like takeoffs and I don't like landings. Still, a surprise was a surprise and Mom was bouncing up and down, she was so excited. In fact, she was so excited, she tripped over a parking block and took a tumble, bruised her side, and whacked her head on the pavement! We helped her to her feet, and her head hurt, and she scraped her elbow, but otherwise she was fine. We kept an eye on her for the rest of the day, but luckily, she was fine, just would feel bruised and slightly sore for a few days afterwards.

We got inside the hangar, which was full of other planes and helicopters, including a bi-plane. (Not a word, Ron.) We all got weighed in, (I won't tell you what I weighed in at, but it was ten pounds heavier than I was a week ago. This southern food thing is DEADLY if you're trying to keep thin, not that I am, but if somebody WAS, well, sorry Chuckles, you're outta luck...) so that the weight distribution could be calculated for the flight. After awhile, we went out, and got in, and my God, but this thing was made of papier mache! Actually, it was fibreglass, but a very THIN fibreglass, the doors felt as if they really were made of paper! Still everything locked up, and we were secure inside, but when you opened or closed the doors, you always had a shock of realization at how THIN the doors were. My nervousness wasn't helped any by our pilot Jay saying that in the summer, because of the heat, they took the doors OFF while flying. Ack. But Jay's an ex-Navy Seal, so I guess to him, it's all "familiarity breeds contempt" and all of that. For me, it just bred an iron grip on my seat handle.

The flight itself was very smooth, it didn't feel like flying at all, (except when we made a U turn to take a closer look at the Ringling Museum on the bay, and THEN you felt as though you were flying, at least, your stomach did) it was more like the feeling you get on a Ferris Wheel, the feeling that you're just being picked up and deposited somewhere. I liked it MUCH better than flying in a plane. For one thing, it's a lot smoother, and for some reason, being able to SEE much more made it a lot more comfortable. You had a clear sense of where you were. In planes, all you have is a small window (if you're lucky) and turbulence to let you know that the terra ain't so firma anymore under your feet. And with the headphones in a helicopter, it drowns out the noise of the engines. On a plane, I was always conscious of the jet roar. But it was a clear day, and fascinating to watch Jay, zip us around over downtown Sarasota and the bay, steering with something that resembled a steering mechanism on a lawn mower. Really, it was just a kind of a bar, that stuck out like a gear shift out of nowhere. I still don't know how he steered with it, but then, there wasn't time to watch EVERYTHING. We saw, among other things, someone's $40,000,000.00 bayside home in Bird Key, (yes, that's right, a HOUSE worth forty million, really, it just looked like a really tacky Mexican hotel, but there you are) a freshly sunken sailboat, schooner really, it was quite large. Jay looked down with surprise and said, "Hey! That wasn't there, two hours ago."

The water was mostly green, with all sorts of shades and shadows to it, but clean. Earlier, Jay said there was a school of dolphins frolicking about. By the time we got there, at a little after one o'clock, they were gone. Probably on their lunch break, I thought.

At any rate, we flew back, had our pictures taken, and took off for St. Armand's Circle and lunch at the Columbia, which was a family owned Cuban restaurant which had been operating since the mid 1930's. We sat on the edge of sidewalk, and watched all manner of rich persons walking by. The REALLY rich you could tell, were the most plain looking, and unadorned. One couple walked by, and they could have been anywhere from their fifties to eighties, it was impossible to tell. Both in track suits and running shoes, her hair was straight as a string, in a Carrington bob, skin like parchment, bone thin, and he had a tennis visor on, white hair and sunglasses, much larger build, and she leaned quite heavily on his arm. I thought, "Now THEY are rich." Don't ask me how I knew, I could just tell. Unassuming, and almost ostentatiously plain looking, you knew only the really rich could get away with that. The mega-rich are beyond fashion and bling, as they don't need it. It's something in their manner, like they're completely unaware of it existing. Fascinating. The mid-level crowd, with the jewelry and the little dogs and paraphernalia, well, you knew THEY hadn't had their money long, and still weren't that secure with it. They still felt they had to flaunt it. The older, more established crowd, they knew better. One was tempted to ask them about it, but you knew they'd be horrified by the impertinence of such a question. But still, they must be aware that MOST people on the planet simply don't live like that. It's not a question of having that kind of material wealth that I find interesting, (all the toys they have), but rather how having that much wealth influences the behaviour of people when they literally never have had ANYTHING materially to worry about. Most of us mere mortals are always worried about "saving for that rainy day", and how will I pay for this, and how will I pay for the kids' braces, or schooling, or the mortgage or what have you. These people never do and for the most part, never have. I remember reading about Truman Capote's friendships with the very rich, the Paleys, the Guinnesses, and the Agnellis, and I remember seeing pictures of Babe Paley in the fifties in her comfortable shoes, and shapeless coats, and thinking, "She dresses like an off duty nurse." But she was another one of these constitutionally rich people, who set fashions and never, ever advertised it.

So there I was, watching all of this far richer breed of humanity than I, pass me by and thinking about this, and wondering, "Do they all have small dogs as a rule as well?" Seriously, if I saw one, I saw fifty dogs wander by me by the time I had finished my second Coke. Including (and I am NOT making this up) a Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus drive by in a Christmas decorated Harley Davidson with a sidecar full of SEVEN snow-white Maltese dogs, festooned in bows and ribbons and yapping quite happily away. They then parked on one of the islands in the middle of the roadway and people came out to have their pictures taken with them (little kids went apeshit crazy over the dogs and completely forgot their antipathy to Santa) and the money (evidently) went to charity, the name of which I DID read, but have since forgotten. I just wish I'd gotten the camera out faster, as it WAS a sight to see....

Well after that, there wasn't much more that could claim my attention, so, we came home, had a lovely supper, I finished my book on Cukor and then I fell fast asleep quite early....

Day Four, or, If It's Tuesday, It Must Be Sarasota....

Day Four - 10:05 a.m.

Well, I crashed early last night (all that killer sun)

and woke up at around four.

So I got up, had some pound cake, ANOTHER Ferrero Rocher, some nachos and finished PRIDE AND PREJUDICE. Heart pounding to the end,although admittedly, it could have been the chocolate. Very tense indeed, especially when Mr.D's old lady aunt showed up. Elizabeth stood her ground though, and her rejoinders held up marvellously well. I wish everyone could speak like Elizabeth Bennet. The world would be a more syntactical place. I didn't realize that this was all written while England was at war with Napoleon, it just reads as being rather timeless, or at least timeless for 19th century England. But really, you just never knew if it was all just going to blow up in their faces, as HE (Mr.D) wasn't saying anything, and SHE (E.B.) figured she'd screwed everything up by this point, so what else was there to be done? A good lesson though, in not presuming what another person is feeling. Who can really know for sure? A crime I'm guilty of, most of the time, I'm sure.

Well, now I've got Bulgakov's THE MASTER AND MARGARITA, and Malcolm Lowry's UNDER THE VOLCANO to get through. I think I'd like to read NICHOLAS NICKLEBY too, as I don't think I've ever managed to get through any Dickens, and if I'm going to write, (and in the English language too) to not at least to have read ONE Dickens novel is like trying to be a French chef with an aversion to garlic.

Today I'm off to downtown Sarasota, where I'm hoping it will be warmer than yesterday, for all that it was sunny out.

5:48 p.m.

Was in downtown Sarasota all afternoon. Mom and Wayne went wandering off, and I haunted the best damn antiquarian bookstore I've ever seen. First editions of Isak Dinesen, and brilliant hardcover editions of Dickens, Austen, and the like. I specifically went in looking to get NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, (or Charlie Hunnam if I absolutely HAD to) but they didn't have it, (or Charlie) however, I DID see a great Modern Library version of Austen's P&P and S&S, but I already have them both, and I DID just read P&P, so......I bought a wonderful hardcover biography of my favourite movie director, George Cukor, instead.

Did some Christmas shopping for the folks, found a fun chewable Santa toy for the dog, which should last all of ten minutes when she gets ahold of it, but, cesslavie. It was in a little pet gift shop which was part of a Seeing Guide Dog training centre located in the downtown core. I walked in, and was immediately greeted by a charming lady who gave me a full five minute pitch on guide dogs, without drawing breath once, my God, even JoJo would have been amazed. Maybe because I was wearing glasses, she must have thought I needed one. All of which was wonderfully enlightening, but I felt awful that all I wanted was a chew toy. But I couldn't get a word in edgewise to say anything! I know! Me! Not being able to get a word in! What were the odds? Anyway, it was lovely to see that it was such a big deal down here, as there are many elderly people who depend very hugely on these dogs and the training services that centres like these provide, so I didn't mind hearing the schpiel at all. I think the gift shop proceipts must go towards funding the training and cost of the dogs, but it was really neat to watch. I remember thinking my Mom would enjoy something like that. Not having a guide dog,(although she'd probably like one regardless) but working with them, and helping others learn to work with them. I should mention it...

Had lunch at an outdoor cafe with Mom and Wayne, and watched life go by. There are quite a few homeless people wandering the streets, and in the sidestreets there's not a lot going on. The recession hit down here very hard, and it's just now starting to come back. Two years ago it was even more of a ghost town. Compared to downtown Toronto, Tuesday morning in the financial and shopping district down here felt like a really early Sunday morning in Toronto before the shoppers hit. Extremely quiet with not a lot of people around. But, it's coming back, and it really IS quite pretty down here, with a lot of preserved old Art Deco buildings which are magnificent. I forgot the camera at home, but will bring it next time to take pickshaws.

I came home, picked some oranges, juiced about four of them, grabbed the vodka and made myself the freshest tasting Screwdriver I've ever had. Then I sat out with the dog for awhile in the yard, and read how George first came to hire a squinty-eyed Katharine Hepburn for "A BILL OF DIVORCEMENT".

And that, as they say, is THAT. The sun takes a lot out of you when you're not used to it, and I may take a (yawn...) nap before supper...

Day Two and Three So Far....Or Beaches, Beagles and Bennets; the Saga Continues

This may be boring to read, and I do apologise if it is, but I guess I'm just putting it up so I can read it later on. One always forgets things like trips and such, I mean, you know you were there, but you're not altogether certain of what you did, or what you said, and so this is good practice for the future. At any rate, it'll give me practice for making the mundane seem entertaining.

Up around nine this morning, went and picked oranges while Mamacita took pictures (just to prove I'd done it!) and then I hung around and I gabbed with Mom while she prepped this veal potroast she was making for supper, and then Mom and Wayne took Tia (the diva-esque dog) for a walk, and I got cleaned up, finished my coffee, cake and FRESHLY SQUEEZED O.J., did a laundry and relaxed on the lanai. (Will's favourite word...)

Then Ma and I went out to this Flea Market out in Bradenton that has EVERYTHING and some of the WORST home made art I've ever seen. I kept wishing Huctwith was there to take it in, but then again, corneal damage being what it is, he might never have forgiven me, considering that he really DOES need his eyes to paint. The place was marvellously tacky and cheap, but fun. The highlight was seeing this elderly senior walk by this T-shirt of Dubya with her husband, and sneer, "A t-shirt of THAT idiot, Vernon, can you believe it? He should be up on warcrimes, NOT on a frigging t-shirt!" I whirled around to shake her hand, but they were gone.

On our way out, I finally saw my first rutabaga. And no, oddly enough, it WASN'T the ex-President.

Our next stop was a supermarket named SweetBay, and it was very, very strange to be in a supermarket with booze and a wine section. Everyone, from the cashiers to the bagboys are very neat, almost 1950's like in their professionalism. It was a little unnerving, as it had almost a Stepford Wife feel to it.

It was chilly out, grey, but after a week of minus -17 degrees Celsius back home, I wouldn't dare complain. Had a wonderful roast for supper, ate at least 37 chocolate Ferrero Rochers with a bottle of Pinot Grigio for dessert, watched Young Victoria (with Emily Blunt, very good) watched half a documentary on the Doors, but it kept the 'rents up, so I turned it off and got back to Miss Bennet and Mr Darcy. (I almost said P&P, but that would have given some of my more DELICATE readers the fantods at wondering what sort of vacation I was up to, especially so soon after supper!) My GOD, but this book is so good! I can't put it down. I was up past THREE reading it.....

Day Three

Up early this morning, which was surprising as I only slept about four and a half hours, but I napped yesterday afternoon (Did I forget to mention that previously? Forgive me, I know you must be SIMPLY DEVASTATED at the omission. Humblest apologies.) so that seemed to do me for my allotted eight hours. I'm lucky that way, as long as I get my eight hours of sleep, in whatever way, shape or form, I seem to be fine. Yes, I'm talking about the blessings and vicissitudes of sleep. It's come to that. Dear God.

At any rate, I got up, made myself an awesome breakfast, (as Maman said, "You get waited on the first day, after that, you're on your own.") took the dog for a walk, or rather, she took ME for a walk, she knows her route cold, where we met and were accosted by a very friendly Beagle/Jack Russell terrier mix, whose name I didn't catch, he was too busy drooling. Tia didn't think much of him, he charged, Mom picked T up, and I just knelt down and laughed at our new little friend, and he forgot about her, and crawled all over me and licked my face like mad. I adore Tia, but she's a bit of a snob, and basically despises all her own kind. She thinks even less of cats. Ah well, some people really ARE meant to be only children, you know. The walk was lovely. The subdivision around here is really lovely with gorgeous homes, AND, they're all dirt cheap. Well, whatever the $200 grand mark is worth these days. Never having been able (or inclined) to count that high, I wouldn't know, myself.

Took a drive into Bradenton, and wandered up and down the beach. It was chilly, but beautiful. Saw all sorts of wild and wacky homes in shocking shades of bright pink, yellow and marine blue on the gulf on Anna Maria Island, which is just west of here. Then home for tea in the garden, and after looking nervously for snakes (a neighbour found a Bull Rattlesnake sunning himself in her lanai the other week, can you imagine, the cheeky bevenomed sneak,...err snake.) I sat down to see just WHAT Miss Bennet was going to do about Mr. Darcy. She's warming up to him at last, I see....but frankly, I think she's more difficile than he is, and far quicker to judge harshly. But considering what an idiot family she's born into (with the exception of her sister Jane) I suppose she's lucky with just being a cynic. It could have been far worse.

Am sipping my tea as I write this, and expect to read some more after this. Will keep you posted as to how it all turns out. Sister Lydia (Ms.B's youngest sister) just ran off with a bounder, about which Elizabeth is understandably perturbed, but personally, I think a dose of underage marriage will do the little brat a power of good and grow her up some. Nevertheless, it just goes to show you, you can't trust a man in uniform with a flighty girl of sixteen. Frankly, I'm not altogether sure you can trust ANY man in uniform, but since none of them have tried to elope with ME lately, I of course, cannot be a verifiable source on this subject.

Tune in tomorrow.....

Vacance # 1 in EIGHT Years.....Day One

Got up early this morning at Dad's place before taking off to the Buffalo Airport. Which meant I was staggering around walking into coffee tables by 8:45 a.m., bleary eyed and half blind. Himself was awake since some unGodly hour (probably six) having already brewed the coffee, ground the flour to make the bread to toast, cut sixteen chords of firewood, went two miles to grab a newspaper and probably saved a few orphan skeet shooters along the way,("You're holding that rifle the wrong way, son." "Gee, thanks Mister!" "Think nothing of it, all in a day's work.") before returning home to find his eldest child crankily muttering and peering closely at the toaster for not toasting faster....("Perhaps if you plugged it IN, Son..." "I knew that.") We had a great time though, and laughed a lot, and he put this whole joblessness state into perspective; "I think you should avoid the mistake of not having fun this time. You've been given a second chance this time. Enjoy it. You won't get it again." Wonderful to hear, and a relief, especially coming from a parent.

As if to put the fear of God into me, the weather en route to Buffalo from St.Cat's got icky, messy, snowy and downright PMS-teenage girl-ish. In short, it was just unpleasant. Customs were charming, and the customs officer was basically Steve Carrell's twin. He wanted to know EVERYTHING, what I was reading, what my job was, how long I'd be away, did I want to work at his job etc. etc. So that was fine. Got to the Buffalo airport, where I attempted to work out the processing machine (you swipe your passport, and if you've ordered your ticket online, it just spits out your boarding pass) and THAT I managed. It was reading the damn thing afterwards that left me flummoxed. I stood there, shifting from one foot to the other, like a middle aged toddler, with a lopsided goofball grin on my face, trying to look as attractively spaztic as humanly possible, when some kind US Airways official, seeing my confusion (you'd have to have been blind not to notice it, I was doing everything but a Dustin Hoffman Rainman impression) promptly explained the whole process to me. ("Proceed to THIS gate. WAIT there for the plane. Get ONTO the plane. FLY away.") He was most helpful.

I got to the gate and found there was another plane en route to Charlotte, where the stopover was. Hmmm. Was this like the bus terminal at Toronto, where they just move everything up, and you grab whatever bus is going to your destination, regardless of when they say it's leaving? Maybe they were going to put more planes on today. Maybe it was a busy day for Charlotte, North Carolina. Maybe there was a sale on. Who knew? So I asked the US Airways guy (I can't BELIEVE how patient airline people are in the face of mindnumbing stupidity like mine) "Ummm....I hardly ever fly, so this may be a dumb question, but has my flight been moved up, like a bus? I mean, it says for 1:30, and it's only 11:30, so do I get on this one or do I wait?" He laughed and assured me there were two more flights for Charlotte, and mine was the next. Of course, this made sense, and even if it hadn't, I should have known that I had a specific seat on the plane. But then, the idea of a seat reservation hadn't occurred to me in the confusion of just getting there. One forgets the logical details when one is nervous. At least, I do.

Then I saw the plane I was to get on. It was the smallest plane I'd ever seen. The crowd was murmuring about the size of it. It was twelve windows long. I'd been on buses that were larger. Oh well....I said to myself, "Well, this is a good thing, it's easier to fly a smaller aircraft. Not so many instruments probably, and they're probably a lot easier to reach.") It's amazing what we justify to ourselves in the potential face of imminent death. It's also amazing what goes through your head when you're looking out the window and noticing that you're suddenly several thousand feet up in the air, you think of things like, "OK. If we fell out of the sky NOW, we'd definitely be dead. Thirty seconds ago, maybe not, but NOW, definitely."

I got to Charlotte, North Carolina, which has a VERY large airport. Our arrival gate was at one end of the airport. My departure gate was at the other end. Fortunately, I had about two hours to find it and make my way through the shopping mall en route to get there. It's so big that airport staff drive oversized golf carts through it, hauling old and infirm people around from one end to the other. ("Driver? Oh driver, could you stop off at the Denny's? I want a bite before my flight.")

Gate 19, my gate was, wouldn't you know it, at the VERY end. Fortunately, I had my copy of Pride and Prejudice to read, and I must say, it is oddly incongruous to read about Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy trading polite barbs while gawking at all the hunky American soldiers and students coming back for the Christmas holidays. Do all Americans under thirty look like football players or GAP models? Most of them back home look pallid, scurvy and malnourished. Lord knows what I must look like to them. I hid behind my book, which I noticed garnished me some attention. Some young jock sat opposite me and stared for a full five minutes at the cover of my book. Not at me, AT THE BOOK. As if it mystified him. I don't know whether he was wondering where the earphones were (EVERYBODY is plugged into some sort of musical listening device down here I noticed) or if he'd just never seen anybody under sixty in jeans and a hoody read a novel before, but he was definitely staring at the phenomenon. Very odd.

My flight to Sarasota was a delight. I sat next to a University of St.Louis student named Mike, who was a business major, a freshman as they call them down here, an only child who was from Atlanta, in spite of the fact that he didn't have one iota of a southern accent, although he'd lived there since he was five. We chatted about Americans and Canadians and what the differences were, and he proved to me again that Americans really, are quite adorable and far smarter than we give them credit for at home. He was subtle, funny, intelligent, quiet and he listened, and had intelligent things to say. He was quite impressed that I was starting life anew, and we agreed that the most important thing was to DO something you LIKED in life. Nice kid. I'll probably never see him again, but it was nice to connect to somebody, and remember, "You know, screw prejudices and preconceived notions, it's with individuals that we deal with in this life; and THAT'S what's important."

Mom and Wayne picked me up at the airport, and it was wonderful to see them. Mom was waiting for me at the foot of the elevator, and I heard her speak before I saw her. Mother never yells, she just said, "Trev" very clearly, and of course, some ancient memory we have from childhood always can hear your Mom's voice in a crowd, no matter how quietly she speaks. I looked down, and there she was, beautiful as ever, all in white, smiling, almost giddy with excitement at seeing me. I was touched, and it was so lovely seeing her there. Nothing quite removes the blahs of everyday humdrum existence like knowing and SEEING that you are loved unconditionally and without reservation. She gave me a big hug and talked excitedly about my arrival and what we were going to do while I was here. It was lovely. I felt about six again, but this time, in a good way. You don't get that feeling very often when you hit forty-two. That you're SPECIAL to somebody. We drove back, gabbing all the way and I could smell the moist night air again, it was warm and I'd forgotten how different the air is down here. Fragrant and delicious. I stayed up a bit, and then hit the sack, and for the first time in a month, slept a blessed eight hours at night. I got up today, and the first thing I did, as you can see, well, was pick breakfast!

Sarasota, Land of the Blue Rinse Meanies, Here I Come!

Well! You'll hate me I know, but I'm outta here Possums! To quote my darling oft quoted Madeline Kahn, "It's twue! It's twue!" I'm off to the land of the Blue Rinse Meanies, of large 1970's Cadillacs, and Blue Plate Specials. Yes my darlings, it's true, after years in absentia, I'm off to visit Maman in Sarasota for the holidays. For eleven days, I shall write, read, sleep, eat, wander the boulevards and byways and beaches, gawk at art deco buildings, avoid being struck by old people who can't see over the wheel of their 1982 Chrysler LeBaron (as they weave from one side of the boulevard to the other) and generally just try to relax, and hope the dog doesn't get devoured by a stray alligator or greedy eaglet on the prowl while we're out walking. (I knew Mother should have gotten a Catahoula Leopard Dog, those suckers can take out a wild boar. Hmmm, that would be a big hit here on Church St.)

Don't cry for me Andy L. Webber, it's on the Gulf, which means, that, (nascent oil slicks aside) the weather should be fair to mildly decent. Which is a helluva lot better than here, which is something akin to hell in an ice-bucket. Dry, cold and without any champagne to dull the pain. Somewhat like being in Stephen Harper's cabinet, I shouldn't wonder.

I'm not a HUGE fan of the Sunshine State (especially when it's not sunny) but Sarasota has always been different in my view. Despite it's reputation for being the destination of the elderly, rich and deaf, (and perhaps because of this) it has, surprisingly, a lovely understated charm to it, devoid of the tackiness of say, Daytona Beach or Miami. True, there are too many condos, and they unfortunately got rid of a lot of historically valuable buildings in the 1970's, but there are still enough around, to give you a fair idea of what this city must have looked like a century or so ago. It was never on par with Charleston and Savannah in terms of it's architectural beauty and historical significance or New Orleans in terms of it's cultural mosaic, but then it was never meant to be. It's not as old, nor was it ever that big. It was just an old coast town on the gulf, where wealthy northerners spent a lot of winters. But it became a city unto itself, and developed a certain kind of charm. Nothing decadent or imposing about it, Sarasota just has an easy going charm to it. At least, that's how I remember it.

I always find I enjoy my visits to the States, and am always a little shocked at how friendly I find Americans, and am slightly discomfited as well. We take such a perverse delight in mocking them up here, that when we actually do meet up with them on their own turf, and are welcomed with such a warm display of cheer and bonhomie, that I always feel vaguely ashamed of my own mockeries. The truth is, I don't know them at all. I only know what the popular media has told me about them. The people themselves, as infrequently as I have met them, I have always found singularly charming and delightful. Now, naturally, you could say I've been lucky, well, of course I've been lucky. But it doesn't make it nonetheless true. From New York City to Sarasota, from Georgia cab drivers to Broadway waitresses, I've always been treated with polite warmth and gracious openness.

I wonder now, if it isn't really a kind of insidious snide jealousy that Canadians have of Americans that works upon us half the time, and I wonder if the media backs us up in that estimation. Like the querulous plain bookworm younger sister of the glamourous, popular older one. We take a secret delight in their failings, but are nonetheless thrilled when they notice and praise us without our having to ask for it. It's a bit childish this notion, but countries are populated by people, not ideas and theories, and people are ultimately, childish. Look around you, and watch a coffee line up at 8:45 a.m. at a Starbucks downtown in the banking district if you don't believe me.

I suppose I'll know the answer better when I'm waiting for a coffee in Siesta Key next week. Anyway, have a lovely holiday all, and I'll see you when I return from the Punic Wars....

MAUD, (YOU'RE ROTTEN TO THE CORE) performed by Beatrice Lillie

And now, I'm going to tell you about a friend of mine...
I was having lunch
With Maud the other day here,
And I told her,
"Maud, I'm feeling kind of low.
My life is just too dreary and depressing,
But why it is, I really do not know."
Then as I spoke,
I saw the truth quite clearly;
I saw myself a vulgar, hollow, fraud.
So then, I had another sip of brandy,
And I leaned across the table, and I told her,
"Maud, we're all of us, just rotten to the core."
(God knows why I hadn't thought of it before!)
I said, "Darling, look at you,
And the sordid things you do!
And the sordid sort of people you adore!"
I said, "Maud, you're full of maggots, and you know it.
Your soul's a bed where worms queue up to breed.
You don't know what life's for, Maud,
You're rotten to the core, Maud."
And Maud agreed.
So then I had another sip of brandy,
And Maud gave a sort of deprecating cough.
But I really thought this thing was so important,
I wasn't going to be put off.
I had a manicure I was late for, and a hangover,
As long as it was broad.
But as I say, I felt this thing important,
So I had another sip, and I told her,
(Hmm. Where are?....oh, there you are.)
Maud, we're all of us just rotten to the core.
You,
.....me.
And the Rhani of Bunghpore.
I said, "Look at Mabel. Stuffed with slime.
And getting stuffier all the time.
Look at Popsy, and that queer old man next door.
Alright, look at Freddy and that club that he belongs to.
Also Maggie, with that squalid little Swede.
You don't know what life's for, Maud.
You're rotten to the core, Maud."
And Maud (I'm glad to say) agreed.
"We're all," I said, "Just rotten to the core.
It's a thing Maud, that you really can't ignore."
"But," I said, (and I nearly cried, because I felt so odd inside)
"We won't be rotten darling anymore."
I said, "It's not too late for us to change, Maud.
You only have to see the lives we lead.
Come on now. From now on, it's clean living!
And clean thinking!"
Then Maud said,
"Get you! You're stinking!"
And I agreed.




Written by Muriel Lillie

An Innocent Abroad....Or a Broad Innocent. Either One.

I didn't realize I hadn't written anything on this thing for a year. OVER a year really. Odd. I usually am pretty narcissistic enough to keep up with forever yammering away needlessly. I HAVE been, but just scribbling in my diary, not that it would interest any of you. I mean, that is to say, there are no mad orgies with Masai tribesmen, or Swedish proctologists. Nothing as gay as all that.

No, I'm pretty much where I was ten years ago, or wait, THIRTEEN years ago when I returned from Ottawa, pretty much penniless, sleeping on friends' couches, and looking for a job. Well, I am jobless again, but not penniless, I'm debt free and I have a lovely apartment. Aside from that material change, I don't seem to have learned much. Or if I have, it's written in code and hidden in the Lower Upanishads.

I seem to have been given a second chance to do something with my life, and to be frank, (O.K. Saucy, YOU be Frank...) or at least obtusely blunt, I am perfectly terrified and don't have the slightest idea of what to do. Or actually, that's a lie, I DO know what I would LIKE to do, but I'm terrified to try it. But I don't seem to have been given any choice. I know I can't do another ten or twenty years of a job I hate. I know I have to do something that I'm passionate about and love, a vocation really, and if I don't, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, (oh, what the hell, who would notice?) I'll go mad. Unfortunately, the things I love have all the material security of being a deckhand on a rowboat in the Nairobi desert. Not necessarily the fiscally safest of choices. And I am forty-two and three quarters. BUT. I've had a number of warnings from the fates to "get off the pot and start dancing, Muriel."

A friend of mine lost a child recently, another friend may have cancer, a few relationships of long standing have sundered, and the people in them have decided to live life for themselves for once. All of this has just reconfirmed the fact that a) life is short and b) you must do all you can in the here and now, and make the most of it.

So here we are Maud, on the verge of another chapter. Time to forge on forward. Where's my hacking knife for all that unseemly subconscious underbrush? Gosh, I sound like Livingston on acid. Wish me luck, Possums.