Dear George

George Clooney
Movie Star
Smokehouse Pictures
Villa Oleandra, Laglio, Lake Como
or Somewhere swanky Hollywood, CA

Dear George;(If possible address your letter to a specific individual)

(State position applied for)
I am a highly motivated (not really) single woman with more than 40 years of practical experience in the field of singledom. In addition to exceptional dating expertise (by exceptional I mean I've been at it an exceptionally long time), I'm acknowledged for being resourceful (taught my dog to ring a bell when she needs to go pee), adaptable (look at me, I'm old and writing a blog – okay, it's not on Tumblr so my adaptive skill do have limits) and self-directed (sometimes I need a strong hand, but we can agree on a safe word before things get too far) with the ability to handle challenging situations (tonight I had to choose between a chilled white wine or a beer to accompany my tacos) as a result of well-developed communication skills (big lungs, wink wink) and organizational capabilities (I never mix up my forks and spoon in the cutlery drawer).

(Sell yourself )
Recognised as a competent old maid who knows how to develop and maintain working relationships with exs, friend's partners (Not to brag, but I have met your friend Richard Kind. He was looking for a book on Steven Sodheim. I helped him find it.), and other dog park attendees, I am also a hands-on manager (I can cure hiccups and hypnotise chickens with the laying of said hands), and critical thinker (not be confused with being critical which I get from my dad, but I'm working on it), who can quickly learn new systems, develop expertise (I can throw the dog's ball across the park and it rarely ever bounces into the bushes) and produce significant contributions (this one is just resume padding, mostly I like to hang out and read books). To that end, I am now seeking to align my experience and my skills with a someone looking for talented spinster that knows how to deliver outstanding beau monde.

My resume is available upon request. Some of the key strengths I offer include:.

tested experience in a variety of settings with the ability to put people at ease (this generally includes alcohol), make them comfortable when they are feeling anxious (perhaps a nice chilled limoncello) and elicit cooperation from people under less than ideal circumstances (I've gone on many holidays with my extended family and I have yet to murder anyone, although this often includes alcohol as well).
the experience (I have up to 15 years more experience than the last person to hold this position) to remain highly focused (as long as I have my contacts in, otherwise things are a bit blurry) and self-possessed (while I don't believe in ghosts and the third eye many people believe… come to think of that's a different possessed, never mind) in a fast paced high stress environment (although I have been know to stress eat…)
exceptional managerial (some would say bossy), interpersonal (not everyone would have noticed the sadness in your eyes as you and your friends Cindy and Rande made your way to the Venice film festival, being a third wheel can be difficult), and communication (my dog speaks Portuguese, Spanish and English and she learned all that from me) skills.
(Request an interview)
I would appreciate the opportunity to discuss my qualifications more extensively in an interview. Of course you may contact me directly at any time. Thank you for your consideration.

Treena (& Kootenay, my dog comes with the package)

Cool Beans

Sunday mornings spent hanging with my niece. Writing stories, colouring, reading stories, dancing to made up songs, and having pretend tea parties attended by Buzz Lightyear.


Walking the dog on a warm summer evening.


Seeing a motor home pulling a trailer with a giraffe, three black horses and a giant chicken.


Tomato and feta salad with a nice bottle of white wine.


Curry dinners in the park with new friends.


Sunny evening reminders of how beautiful Vancouver can be.


www.adogabroadayear.wordpress.com
(for images related to this post)

Get Out Of My Way

It was sweet.

Their arms were linked together. He was wearing slippers. She was wearing a homemade cardigan, which looked out of place in the 23 degree weather. If you stacked them on top of each other they would barely break seven feet tall.

They were headed to the bus stop.

They were headed very slowly to the bus stop. On the way they slowed down, folded and unfolded a sheet, conferred with each other and sped up their shuffle.

Speed… well I guess I can use that word.

It would have been cute, if they weren't between me and my bus. Knocking them down and leaping over their prone bodies would be the only way I would make the bus. But then I would be the bad guy.

Again they stopped and pulled out their sheet of paper.

Oh. Dear. God.

I gave up any hope of making my connection.

- Can I help you?

-Yes. Yes. Please. Help. Need bus. They pointed to a number on their sheet.

I tried not to sigh out loud. They were looking for my bus. The bus that had just pulled away.

- Just follow me. I smiled and motioned to them.

- Yes. Yes. We follow.

I slowed my steps to match their shuffle. We had ten minutes to cover the forty feet to our destination. I liked our chances.

At least with them following me my desire to yell GET OUT OF MY WAY has subsided.

--
treena and kootenay
adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

I want to be cooler than I am

We play tag in the traffic and jostle for position in the four-wheeled exodus of city dwellers. The sky blue monte carlo convertible pulls up beside me and then falls behind. We repeat this for an hour.

Someone miles ahead of us has misjudged how much space they needed to change lanes and the resulting fender-bender has slowed traffic to a crawl. We have a lot of time to play this game.

I chose my car because it is practical. Bear's (my fit's) back seats fold up and I can fit a bike or the dog there.

When I bought my TV the sales man wanted me to pay $$'s for delivery. We won't be responsible for damage. You can't lay the TV flat to transport it. He quoted me the price of delivery  and repeated his warnings over and over and over.  He couldn't fathom that I might have understood him the first time and organized transport with the position limitations in mind. The boys who carried the TV out to the car were amazed when I folded up the seats and the TV slid neatly behind the front seats. "You'll be fine" they said.

Bear also gets great gas mileage and has low emissions, both sound reasons to influence a car purchase. And did I mention the back seats? Not sure why other car manufacturers don't do this.

The blue monte carlo is not practical at all. Sky blue convertible that drinks gas, that car was chosen because it is awesome.

Bear was chosen because she is practical.

Kootenay and his dog play I see you as the cars play tag. His dog is some sort of border collie mix. The pooch looks smarter than I am. It sits there in the passenger seat allowing the wind to give it's hair a perfect Farrah Fawcett blow out. I swear it smiles at us passers-by.

Back and forth we go until the traffic thins and we lose sight of each other.

I want to be cooler than I am.

I drive a practical car. The apartment I live in was chosen for practical reason. It's big, light and they like the dog. But, you could never consider the neighbourhood cool.

I do have a very impractical dream of living in europe near a beach. But practical me gets up every day and heads to work instead of making any earth-shattering changes.

When we pull into the Coquihalla rest stop I see the blue car. The collie and it's owner are off in the field playing frisbee. They each have Sigg's water bottles. The owner pours the collie's in a small stream and the dog laps at the water as it falls to the ground.

Kootenay and tumble from my car. K laps up her water from a bowl I keep in the trunk, rubs her wet beard across my skirts and makes for the open space.

This guy and his dog work with hand signals. As he and I chat he uses the signals to call his dog, put it in a down, release it from a down, and when Kootenay wanders off following who know what, he sends his dog off to find her and herd her back.

It's all a little humiliating. My dog gambols about sniffing at butterflies and chasing clouds. His dog cheerfully catches their frisbee, occasionally taking a break to check on K, making sure she hasn't wandered off.

The owner and I trade dog park niceties. Kootenay, what's yours? Shep, that's a nice name. Nine, and yours? Four, and you've only had him for two years.

Then K and I pack up and are back in the car.

I follow this tumblr account Men And Their Dogs. Shep and his owner would be at home on this site.

And here lies the essential truth. He is tumblr. I am wordpress.

He is arty pictures that cool folks reblog to each other.

I am self-involved ramblings that a few friends read.

For the images associated with this post see

 http://adogabroadayear.wordpress.com/2011/08/16/i-want-to-be-cooler-than-i-am/

treena and kootenay
adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Just when I thought I was out

When you're "cured" of cancer you spend years hoping it won't come back. Then you spend years pretending that you have stopped worrying that you spend so much time hoping it won't come back. Slowly, you start to believe in tomorrow.

After a few years you stop worrying each time you have an unexplained bruise, feel tired for a few days in row, or feel a mysterious lump, that there is a malevolent cause. You start taking an aspirin when you have a fever. You laugh about how busy you've been when you're tired. Your heart doesn't miss a beat when you raise your arm in the shower and give yourself a breast exam.

You stop pondering the fleetingness of every moment. Your breath comes easier. You start sleeping through the night.

Then a friend dies. Another friend relapses. And a person you only know through the news and his political organizing steps down from his job to fight a new round of cancer.

But, everything is fine.

You say good-bye to one friend, you hope for the other,  you wish all the best to the brave stranger and you continue to live your life.

Then your focus shifts.

People start appearing in crowds. You know they aren't the people you once new. You know they aren't ghosts. But, for a moment you when you see them you want to be fooled.

But, everything is fine.

You jump a little when people come quietly into your office.

But, everything is fine.

By the time you walk from the meeting to your office you forget what your task was, and hope you wrote it in your notebook.

But, everything is fine.

You wake up in the morning and struggle with your bed covers. They feel like they're nailed to the floor around your bed. Pushing them aside and rising to start the day seems almost impossible.

But, everything is fine.

You start searching for a greater meaning in what you do. Are you at the right job? Are you following your true path? Is there meaning to this life?

Everything is not fine.

But, you hold on. You try to trick yourself into believing in permanence again.

--
treena and kootenay
adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Under What? Underwear

It is so disappointing.

I found a new pair of underwear. Try them on. They fit. Their comfy. They don't have holes in them, like the ones I'm wearing at the moment. The waist doesn't come up so high that it shows under everything I wear. (damn i wish the waist on jeans was just a bit higher. not mom jeans high, but just a smidge higher.)

So I buy six pairs, go home and start throwing away all the old pairs that time has been unkind to. Once I start tossing the old ones ID get excited. On the first pass I toss out those with obvious flaws.

Hole in the waist bad. Gone.

Bleach stain. You're out.

Stretched into unrecognizable shape. Toss.

Then the second pass through the drawer and still more go to the bin.

These ones ride up. Bin 'em.

These ones are ugly. Garbage.

These ones are unlucky. Out. Out. Out.

Now morning is here. I shower with anticipation. I'll be clean. New panties. It's going to be a good day.

Then I run for the bus. The waist band start rolling down. The elastic in the seat makes it way into an uncomfortable spot. I think longingly of the old tried and true pairs of underwear I threw away and try to remember if I have thrown that bag of garbage away yet.

--
treena and kootenay
adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Walking the streets is a riot.

I look at them differently now, those of boys, hanging around on the streets of Vancouver. The ones by the Roundhouse exit aren't wearing jerseys tonight. But, is that because the season is over or did they lose them to fire recently. I casually scan their faces to see if there are any missing eyebrows.

Tonight they are heading to skateboard bud's place to eat pizza. There were ten of them, but as they head towards the skytrain entrance they peel off in twos. The exits are punctuated by handshakes so complicated they make a baseball coach's signals to players feel decodable.

-Fuck yeah. Call the girls. We'll go out. Just not tonight. Bud (pronounced buuuud) says this hoisting his skateboard from arm to arm. As the final three make their way down the stairs to the train.

-But, dude you wife can't come tonight unless she brings a friend. Ha.

I can't decide if he is trying to assure Dude that it's a joke, or if he's trying to convince himself.

Dude is dressed in black, with black high tops, hoodie and pants. His pants are torn and he holds them together with dozens of strategically place safety pins. He accessorizes with matching pins in his ears and bottom lip. I wouldn't have guessed wife. I don't hear Dude's response. I am busy processing the wife comment.

Dude speaks with the unmistakable lilt of a Québécois accent. The two friends laugh at his response, so no offence taken.

I look at their backpacks. I wonder, do they have new laptops in there?