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?

I'm not saying my bus driver is actually Mussolini.

I'm not saying my bus driver is actually the reincarnation of Mussolini. But Driver is about 60. His english is peppered with little things that let you know he spoke another language before he spoke english. His t's and d's sneak out from between his tongue and the front teeth. And his hand gestures to car drivers is a cross between on opera director and a roman salute.

If your wake involved you hanging upside down in a gas station, would a bus driver on a crowded university run be a quick leap for your soul to take?

Our bus would not truly be considered a police state, but I dare you to ask Driver a question about change.

A young couple visiting us from Asia got on the bus this morning.

Excuse me Mr. Driver. How much for ride?

Driver points to the sticker where the transfer or money go.

-You see my sigh-een?

-Yes. I see. Excuse me Mr. Driver. How much this, please?

As the couple smile nervously Mr. Driver turns to them.

-No change! Off-a my bus.

So, while I am not actually saying Driver is a reincarnation of Mussolini, I always have my transfer ready when I step onto the bus in the morning.

--
treena and kootenay
adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Father's Day

I see Dad. He pauses outside my hospital room. My eyes are closed but I can hear him outside the room. Our relationship has been tested these past months. I am fourteen. Our interests have been diverging for a while, but cancer has driven us further apart.


Travelling Dad

When I was diagnosed he believed everything would get better. He believed hard enough that I was afraid to not believe.

"She's not asleep. She's counting. It's how she copes." I hear the nurse quietly talking to him.

I draw a firm line between hospital time and my time outside the hospital walls. Dad-time is outside the hospital. He pushes me to dive back into life after each treatment. I worry about him seeing me as sick as I am today. Will he still think I can do anything if he sees me so sick that I don't have the energy to cry?

I can hear him take a moment, before entering, and breathe. He is trying to be present.

"I have a cold. That's why I'm not at work today." He feels the need to explains his presence in my room on a weekday. At thirty-six he's defending his choice to say home from work, as if his child in the room here isn't reason enough. "I was worried about coming in. Germs. How are you counts?"

I hear worry in his voice and wonder if he is looking for a reason to go home? "They're okay. But the nurse can get you a mask. Then we don't have to worry. I had my treatment about an hour ago. I should be feeling sick soon. Company will be nice."

I close my eyes. When I open them dad is sitting in the chair by the window.
The smell of the snack cart going down the hall means that any break in my concentration will mean the start of a cycle of sick. Today will be a victory if I can keep from throwing up more than three times.

"What can I do?" Dad asks.

"You can read to me. I started counting the holes in the ceiling tile, but the sunlight from the window hurts my eyes. I need to get thru the next three hours, then things will settle down. And by things I mean my stomach."

I try to be still while dad reads to me. If I move, the grip I have on the nausea won't be able to hold back the waves of sickness.

His reading is halting at first; the words and rhythms are a big step away from his comfort area. The sound of his voice is my anchor today. He reads me back to the world.

For the images associated with this post see www.adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Happy Accidents - Good Food and Great Wine

The best part of travelling is the happy accident, that moment when everything seems to be going wrong, you surrender your control and end up not where you were going, but where you are meant to be. I had one such accident in St. Paul de Vence.

I was on my way from Nice to St. Paul de Vence to meet a work buddy's partner. Unfortunately a rude bus driver, a local trying to scam a free ride, and windy road combined to make me late. I missed my date with Andre.

To drown my sorrows I turned to wine and food. Ahhh. The French life.

I settled down to eat lunch feeling a bit sorry for myself. Luckily I was surrounded by family.


le Vieux Moulin

We sat down in le Vieux Moulin and proceeded to have the best lunch of our month-long trip.


Daube de Boeuf à la Provençale et Polenta crémeuse

The kids and Dad played it safe and ordered hamburgers. These hamburgers didn't come with french fries though. Ironic eh, given we were in France. Instead the accompanying dish was polenta. Two travellers, a few tables away, with a distinctive American accent, complained about the polenta. I didn't actually hear them say freedom fries, but…


Daube de Boeuf à la Provençale et Polenta crémeuse

My sister and I went for the seafood risotto. If I can ever cook rice this well I will die a happy person.


Risotto aux Scampis et calamars, Persillade

The waiter convinced us to have a bottle of rose wine with our lunch. I was a rose snob until that moment. I had never met a rose worth drinking. Now I can't wait for the summer weather here in Vancouver so I have a good reason to try out new ones. If you ever run into a bottle of Rimauresq Cru Classé AOC Côtes de Provence. Buy it and give me a call. I've been practicing my risotto recipes.

So I missed my friend, but ended up eating in this charming place.


Bathroom Stairs

It is an old converted olive press building. Now full of charm. I mean even the stairs to the bathroom are charming. May you have many such happy accidents on your travels.

This post is part of WanderFood Wednesday, a weekly blogging event featuring food from around the world. See more food posts and learn more at host Wanderlust and Lipstick's WanderFood page.

for the links and images that accompany this post please see www.adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Soup?

Eating while you travel can be both exciting and terrifying. My family and I sat down for dinner, while travelling through China. I had a touch of the travellers tummy and was late to the table. Everyone was scooping up their soup and looking at one another.

-Psst. Treesa. Have you eaten your soup?

-Nope. Why.

-Look at my bowl.

-What am I seeing?

-I know me too.

-Don't tell anyone. They have already finished theirs.

-But, I'm not seeing things am I? You see it too.

-What do you see?

-Goldfish….

-Me too.

for the images associated with this post see www.adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Now That's Customer Service

The French are not known for their great customer service.

This summer, I was in Nice. I was taking a bus to meet a friend in St. Paul de Vence. Even though the bus fare was the same no matter where you were taking it the driver proceeded to yell at me "quelle ville allez-vous!" My response, in bad school girl French was "lentement s'il vous plaît". Which must have translated to please yell at me some more. Finally someone in the bus line intervened and translated for me. Did I mention that no matter where you went on the bus line the price was the same…

When I was in Paris a waiter spilt an entire carafe of red wine down the front of my white sun dress. When he realized what happened he laughed, handed me a napkin and said "dieu merci c'est vendredi". I guess he had the weekend off. There was not a moment in our interaction where he was concerned about my wine splattered body.

Signs. I work in customer service. I understand the annoyance a clerk feels answering the same question over and over again. To make life easier for customers stores put up signs. I can only image how many tourists were yelled at before this sign was put up.

for the image that belongs with this post please see www.adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Overheard on the Bus - 2

-yeah. summer courses 'cause then I can be done earlier.

-me too. good thing my dad can help me with tuition. I didn't really want to cash in my investments right now.

-why? tax implications.

-no. some of them lost value during the crash. I've reinvested, but they aren't where I'd like them to be.

-what did you invest in?

-I'm not sure. My dad's guy did it for me.

-I handle my own portfolio. I get some help from my dad, but mostly I make the calls. You should totally look at arms companies and private security firms. My earnings have gone through the roof.

-don't you feel a bit dirty with all that.

-hell no. It was great to see Egypt in trouble this year. Israel freaked out and my stocks soared. And man is Gaddafi good for business. Between that and the whole war thing, by the time I graduation I will have enough cash for a down-payment on a house.

-I'm not sure I could do that. You know. It seems a bit icky.

-are you kidding get in now man. With Greece the way it is, and Spain in so much trouble it's just a matter of time before people start freaking out more. You should put some cash in gold as well.

-Well...

-no really. I'll hook you up with my advisor if you want. After all we're business majors. We need to know how to make money.

-I know, but it just seems weird to be betting on chaos.

-what are you talking about, weird? Somebody going to be making money off it. It might as well be me.
--------------------

These girls hopped on the bus wearing their lulu yoga pants and Canucks jerseys, with their hair up in pony-tails, and freshly scrubbed faces. Then proceeded to casually chat about making money off of global unrest.

And people say today's youth aren't engaged in current events.

Gram

Yesterday on CBC, Stephen Quinn was talking about headcheese. Ah headcheese. I never ate you but how you remind me of my childhood.

My Grandmother was good prairie stock. She was 4 foot nothing and she towered over people 2 feet taller.

She and my grandfather were a study in contrasts. She grew vegetables. He grew roses. She surrounded herself with family. I was in my teens before I met any of my grandfather's family. She quoted the bible. He chopped wood.

There was a coal and wood stove in her kitchen. The oven on her electric range was used to store bowls she couldn't fit in her cabinets. The fridge was accessorized with a meat shed, and root cellar. In the event of a nuclear catastrophe her's was the house you wanted to find yourself at. She died ten years ago and I think I just ate her last jar of canned beans.

Years after she sold the farm and moved into the "city" I couldn't bring myself to answer her phone on the first ring. The ring on the farm phone was two short rings and one long. The rhythm of that ring stuck with me well into my 30′s.

Fall was butchering season. The menfolk would go down to the barn. They'd shoot the cow, then give the "all clear" signal. Until the "all clear" was given the kids had to stay in the house.

——————

One shot, but no all clear.

Second shot. Still no all clear.

Third shot. No all clear yet.

The kids looked at each other. We looked in the kitchen. Gram was reaching into the drawer that holds the butchering knives. With one hand she pulled out a knife and a sharpening stone. Her other hand grabbed her white butchering apron off a hook. She threw the apron's top loop over her head, and tucked the knife and sharpening stone under one arm so she could use her hands to tie the apron strings around her.

As she left the house she took the knife in one hand, the sharpening stone in the other and punctuated each step with a blade stroke along the stone. The kids followed her out of the house, careful to stay far enough back that it would be an inconvenience to send us back to the house, but close enough that we could see what was going on.

The menfolk were gathered round a cow. Despite the shots we heard, it was refusing to go down. They looked up. Gram strode past them. One hand reached under and lifted the cow's chin up. The other drew the newly sharpened blade along the cow's neck. It went down.

The uncles, and fathers paused to look at each other and then to Gram, then they got to work. They hoisted the cow, started to bleed it out and laughed at themselves. Gram meanwhile, cleaned the knife on her apron, sharpened it and handed it back to my grandfather so he could use it later to skin the cow.

She got it done.

And, that's the type of woman who would think nothing of wrapping a pig's severed head in a plastic grocery bag, hand it to her 12 year-old granddaughter and send me off to drop it at the shoemaker in town so he could make headcheese.

to see the images associated with this post please check out www.adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Flash ah-ah!

My dog has become my barometer.

I love my dog. She's a great companion. If it wasn't for her I would never have chucked everything and spent a year travelling. Before she came along I was tied to owning my apartment. It was the first home I had ever bought. I loved it. I pictured myself a blue-haired old lady trudging up the back steps to my apartment with my tin of cat food in my hand, wearing a hair net. But, when my coop board offered me the choice between keeping the dog and staying in my apartment I chose the dog.

At the time, losing my home was terrifying. Later, when I was drinking wine with new friends in Portugal I was thankful for her. After all, besides being the impetus for the move she introduced me to my new friends.

Now, before you panic and think I've had as stroke and become one of those people who imbues their animal with "special powers", I mean this whole barometer thing in a totally concrete way.

I no long have any confidence in my internal thermometer. It could be -12, 12 or even 42 degrees outside, I couldn't tell the difference. Sweating is no longer indicative of hot temperatures.

Lots of people have advice on how to avoid and manage hot flashes.

Avoid caffeine.

No hot drinks.

Don't eat chocolate.

Spicy or hot foods are a no-no.

Worst of all, they tell me no alcohol.

Really, do you even know me? These are all things I love. You can take my uterus, but you can't take my pleasures! Maybe I should call them vices? Either way...

When the dog and I get ready to head out to the park or for a walk I look at her. Is she panting? How far out of her mouth is her tongue hanging? These are clues I use to help with the big decisions. Puffy vest? Wool sweater? Or sweat shirt?

to see the images associated with this post please check out www.adogabroadayear.wordpress.com

Hysterectomy!

Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy.

There. I said it. I have been dancing around the word for the past three months.

Operation.

Surgery.

Medical problem.

Those have all been answers I've given to various questions asked of me.

I am not been a person who keeps secrets. If it has happened to me you usually know about it. I have a few dirty secrets that involve surfers, wine, and foreign men, but generally if you ask I'll tell you. But, then came this surgery and suddenly I found myself dancing around what was happening to me.

My sister and I shuffled about the mall a few days after "the operation". I needed to get out of my apartment for practical reasons, new underwear had to be found as everything I owned rubbed and got caught up on my staples, and I needed a mental health quickie, I couldn't stare at the same four wall one more day without throwing a plate through my apartment window. To avoid a dramatic and costly over-reaction to confinement we headed to a nice covered mall that offered underwear and diversion.

First stop was Starbucks. I was overdue for a London Fog. And Treesa need a Chai latte. We are both much nicer people when we feed our vices. A little popcorn from Kernels helped as well.

Then we made our way to pick up underwear. That was about all the excitement I could imagine surviving on my first outing.

I shuffled along found some suitably ugly but comfortable underwear and then made for the car. Between me and the car was a Mac cosmetic store. The combination of exhaustion and the loss of my uterus that caused an undeniable urge to own a new lipstick. A good lipstick and a nice pair of shoes can always cheer me up. A new handbag can help as well.

Treesa stood by and offered her critique of the various shades of retail therapy.

Too pink.

Too purple.

Too dark.

Makes you look yellow.

I settled on "not bad". It was all I hoped for given the circumstance.

The sales attendant wasn't sure what to make of us. Treesa and I are quite content conversing in sarcasm, but it scares other people.

I don't… But… Well… If you're sure. The clerk uncomfortably responded to our sister patter.

At one point I turned to quickly and laughed too hard. Pain caused what little colour I had drain from my face. Treesa quickly responded with an arm and a chair.

I just had abdominal surgery, I told the worried looking clerk.

Oh. I had my appendix out last year. She smiles.

I thanked her for her help and Treesa got out my bank card and paid for my purchase. It is a comfort to have a sister so close she can use your bank card without asking you for your pin code.

With lipstick, popcorn and underwear in hand, we slowly made our way to the car.

Abdominal surgery? Treesa asks.

I know. I couldn't think of what to say. I shrug.

So now I am practicing saying it. Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy.

I do say, all this honesty is giving me the vapours.

Vignette One

-Ding. Dong.

-Hello I say opening my apartment door to two young men in black suits. Each of them is wearing a small telltale name tag on their left lapels.

-Sister Treena? It's so nice to meet you. Your aunt asked us to visit.

-Hello boys. This would be my auntie Jennie I suppose.

-Why yes.

One replies. But for the fact that only one mouth moves, the two faces are indistinguishable from each other. One could be the other. Although, they are identically unique within our age group. Clear skinned, bright eyed, and joyfully free of any stimulants, these are nice young men.

I can't resist young men on their missions. Our world views are the antithesis of each others. But, it feels like home to have them at my table talking about hockey, books, travel and God. They avoid saying I'm a hell-bound heathen and I avoid saying they are naive and superstitious. For an hour we chat. I drink tea and they sip Ovaltine. I mentioned they are stimulant free didn't I? Then it comes...

-Sister Rivard mentioned, that with the temple so far away, you are finding it difficult to make sunday services.

-She did huh. Distance.

We smile at each other. No hard feelings. They had to ask.

--------------

This friday afternoon she will finally get me to temple. I hope there is no lightening around. A thunderbolt from the sky might challenge my current state of atheism. Although it would be a neat trick and my hat would be off to you Jennie.

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Jennie

-Hello

-Hi Treena. We lost her today.

-I'm sorry Andrea. How are you doing?

-I'm okay. She went peacefully. The funeral will be either Friday or Saturday. I'll let you know when things are confirmed.

Jennie introduced me to angel food cake. For two years, once a month my parents and I would drive to Vancouver. I would spend the week in the hospital undergoing chemo. Jennie would make me a congratulations your week of chemo angel food cake with whipped cream and strawberries. She and Norm, her husband would host all the Vancouver family for a heading out of town dinner.

Board games. Badminton. Bar-b-que. Angle food cake.

It was always a celebration. Making it through the month, making it through chemo, and finding ourselves together again, eating laughing and to celebrate living.

Good-bye.

Overheard on the Bus

-No!

-Really? Come on.

-What?

-No, really?

-Oh. My. God.

-Come on. Like, really?

-hahahahahahahahaha

-Yeah, I know.

-You know I hate that.

-I fuckin' hate when that happens.

-Cheese.

-She said what?

-I would break up with her for that.

-No really. Burger King makes the best burger.

Alentejo Blue

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Portugal knocked on my door twice recently. Once. A friend guided me to Monica Ali on twitter. A second time friends from Nazare shipped me a bottle of Ginja de Obidos. What a lovely way to be cheered up when you are consigned to your couch for a prolonged period of time.

So, while some friends are off eating and drinking, celebrating birthdays on a Saturday night, I am sitting here, sipping a glass of Ginja re-reading Alentejo Blue. And, remembering how lovely Alentejo was.


Monsaraz in Alentejo

The story awoke my desire is to be a foreigner whose place some locals break into so they can swim in the pool. I know, it's a little bourgeois, but…

At the end of The NY Times review the reviewer wants Ali to let the characters out to interact rather than having them silently stew. I am glad she didn't do that. To me it would have seemed very unportuguese for the characters to act out their lives in public. Maybe it's their history of being invaded, maybe it's that until 1974 they lived under a right-wing dictatorship Estado Novo, maybe it's just the friends I made, but to me silently stewing fit the stories perfectly.

Another part of the book that makes me smile is when she talks about older men sitting on benches watching the world go by chatting to each other. Every morning I walked my dog through the town and smiled to the older guys as they solved the worlds problems amoungst themselves. At least that is what I think they were doing. Hard to tell as I didn't understand a lot of what they said to me. Devagar por favor, or slowly please was the phrase I used the most.