Category Archives: Not your average writing

Serge calls me tonight sounding chipper, yet there was a note of caution in his voice.

” I have some news, sweeeteee.” he said

” What? ” I responded, expecting to hear he’d be coming home early.

” There’s a chance I could stay longer. ”

” How much longer? ”

Pause.

” Like, maybe until mid-April .”

” WHAT? ”

” Ow, my ear. ”

” Mid-April! I’ll be finished school by then! ”

” Well, it’s perfect timing then!” He was trying to be positive about this.

” Forget it! That’s too long! ”

” I know, I know, but I’m one of the top designer guys, and there could be big raise in it for me. It’s a great opportunity. ”

What’s a raise compared to lonliness? An empty apartment? A cat who meows constantly because she misses him too? How can I prepare for an unexpected three and a half more months without him? And let’s not forget he’s been gone since before Christmas! 

What am I gonna do? This SUCKS! What’s the use of having a boyfriend if he’s never home?

 

Let’s see if that picture worked. Yes, look at that, a rubber boot! That is my next purchase. I am sick of coming to work with wet feet, and drenched pant hems that take forever to dry. I am wearing Hush Puppy ankle boots that claim to be water proof, but they are not, as I discovered after the past few morning soaker rainstorms we’ve had. 

A good test to see if your boots or shoes are waterproof is to walk in the rain for about an hour, through deep puddles and muddy paths that you can’t avoid, and see if your socks are dry when you remove them. Note: if the tag on the shoes reads Water Resistant, they will not stand up to this test! I don’t know why they bother with the water resistant promise, as that means it will only protect you against minor dampness, a dribble of H20, when in reality you have to deal with torrential rain or melting snow. 

And it ain’t a warm liquid substance either. The other night, I was running for the bus in the pouring rain, and the very bus I was running for drove through a massive puddle, sending a tidal wave of street water over me. I thanked the driver for the free shower as I boarded the bus, cheerfully, since it was dark and there was no way he could have purposefully done that. The look of shock on his face was priceless as he profusely apologized, and said he was only going twenty clicks. I just laughed and blamed it on bad timing. Needless to say, my feet were not dry when I got home.

My rubber-wear longing grew when I awoke the next morning to the sound of what sounded like pebbles pelting on my roof and the wind howling outside. I nervously peeked through my curtains to see if it was true. It was – the trees were being tossed about like a dog’s stuffed toy while the rain ripped through them.  I stayed clear away from the sidewalk edges as the bus lumbered towards me.  While riding, I noticed a young girl wearing a full suit of black rubber –  a long coat with matching pants and boots. I was envious as I felt the wetness of my umbrella by my feet soak through my pants. 

As I made my way through the woodsy, puddle-riddled path in the last leg of my walk to work, my socks and pants from the knees down were soaked right through. They took all day to dry; that’s from 9:00 am until 4:00 pm. I even had to remove my socks at around 2 pm because they were still cold and damp. I couldn’t get warm all day as a result of that dampness seeping through to my bones.  Now I have that cold back that I’ve been faithfully fighting for the last week-and-a-half with Cold FX. The remedy is working, but boy is it fighting. My cold just kind of hovers in my head, slightly pressurizing, swelling, aching, phlegming, dripping, but not the full-fledged killer of a raging head cold. Now it seems to be leaving, but that could change in about an hour after an unexpected wet sneeze erupts. 

I went to the Shoe Warehouse after work last night to try to find the coveted galoshes, but had no luck.  I wouldn’t have been caught dead in these kind of boots five years ago, and would have turned my nose at the sight of them in a store instead of searching for them like gold in a mine tunnel. You know you’re getting old when you actually shield yourself against the elements.  In my twenties, I used to wear a plunging V-necked, unlined, short leather jacket, mini-skirt, thin nylons, shoes, no mittens or scarf, in a -15 degree Ontario winter with snow on the ground and a windchill factor hovering in the air.  I didn’t care if I froze, as long as I looked sexy. That was enough to keep me warm. 

Now at the age of 37,  I can courageously leave the house with my hair unwashed (I wash it every other day now, to prevent dryness), a thick hat on my head, a long, buttoned-up coat (yet still stylish – I’m not eighty yet), waterproof boots, and fleece-lined gloves. If there’s ice and snow, I’m terrified of slipping, and need to wear boots with good treads. Funny how  in that decade leading up to my third, I never fell while traipsing in my treacherously narrow, smooth-bottomed black leather shoes I wore in the dead of winter.  Instead, as fate would have it, at the ripe age of 32, I slipped on an invisible tiny patch of ice resulting from a dripping eaves-trough hanging over a set of wooden stairs.  My treadless sneaker-clad feet were at eye-level as I landed smack on my tender tailbone. Bruised and bedridden for a week, I vowed to start wearing winter footwear.

The ice has melted and rain storms are settling in. I care more about the warmth and dryness of my feet than the elegant fashion factor of my high-heeled boots.  Maybe I should get something to shield my face from those brutal winds, like one of those ski hats with holes for the eyes, nose and mouth, or . . . .  No, like I said above, I’m not eighty yet and will retain some dignity to brave the cold. Until my immune system is so weak that I have no choice. Or I could buy a frickin’ car. That’s another thousand word blog entry.

I’m feeling blue. Probably because Serge is away, and I’m tired of missing him. Only two more bloody weeks. I hope he’s okay, and that he comes home safe and sound. I also miss my mother. She passed away two and a half years ago, May 17 2004. The holidays just get harder and harder each year to deal with. I used to be comforted by Christmas because it reminded me of her, how much she loved the season, decorating, glittering ornaments, singing Christmas carols, lighting candles, buying gifts for others. I have found myself to become more generous since she passed, wanting to buy gifts for everyone for no reason at all, just to show how much I love the people in my life. I want to, I enjoy doing it, I enjoy giving and watching the expression of joy on people’s faces, hearing how much the gift touched them and lifted their spirits, enabling them to carry on through a difficult day. That is their gift to me, their gratitude. I love the people in my life, and I am so lucky and grateful to have them.

Despite my joy of giving, I am left feeling sad and empty at the same time, mostly because grief is visiting me. The heavy feeling it brings weighs my heart down, so heavy I can’t get off the couch, or away from the television. My laundry and dishes are piled up high, my limbs become cement blocks when I move them. I feel dizzy and weak, and I know it’s not the flu that I’m getting over. The gifts that grief bestow are countless memories of her, her smile, her laugh, generosity, kind spirit, her music, her sadness and demons that weighed her down in her mortal life. I miss her so. I would give anything to go back in time and comfort her.

I dreamt the other night we were together in the house I grew up in. We went upstairs, which was all locked up and dusty, full of items from my childhood, boxes of papers and toys scattered the hallway. We unlocked the door to my tiny bedroom that was attached to my parent’s bedroom. It was more like a large walk-in closet that could fit a single bed and a shelf. She decorated it just for me – pink and white roses wall paper that even covered the low, slanted ceiling, white painted trim, the little wicker lamp hanging from the metal pipe that stretched from floor to ceiling. There was a tiny box window in the upper-corner that provided homes for transient spiders in its sill, providing them with a view of the treelined street below through the web of ivy that grew over the screen.  We went through my stuff, looking for trinkets I could take back with me. We explored the bedrooms of my other siblings, opened dusty dresser drawers, empty except for a marble or pencil rolling across the wooden bottoms. We found slips of paper, old name tags. We sat on the old quilted mattress that covered my parent’s custom-made bed that folded into the wall in their bedroom/home office, and spoke of old times, when we were happy as a family. Or at least when we thought we were happy.

I gaze at my Christmas tree. I purchased it the December before she died. She called me the day I started decorating it. I answered the phone, “Ho, ho ho!” and she was just silent in return, not knowing how to respond. I laughed and said, “Mom, it’s me!” and she said,”Oh, well, Ho ho ho to you!” in an unimpressed voice. I told her I bought a fake tree, and she was horrified. A fake tree was sacreligious in her book. But I tried to convince her it looked great with all my beautiful decorations. I could tell she wanted to believe me, but just couldn’t. She only knew the bad fake trees of the seventies. They look much more realistic nowadays. But she was still happy for me, and we talked about our plans for Christmas. We both wished we weren’t so far away from eachother.

I was so excited with my first tree, and it is indeed beautiful. It looks like a Christmas card picture; the little white lights glowing against the deep evergreen branches like still fireflies resting for the season, providing their goodwill, lighting the way for the decorations to shine. I hung red and cream glass balls, clear handblown glass balls, handcrafted decorations with deep reds and golds, tall, skinny metal St. Nicks, shimmering, sheer gold and red bows and sashes draping the edges. A soft, woven blanket drapes its base, carefully holding the brightly wrapped presents.

I dedicate the season to Frederika Blaak (DeJong). It’s just not the same without her. I love you Mom, may you rest in peace.

xoxoxoxoxoxox