A total write-off summer starts here

Friday afternoon finds me sitting on Judy’s front lawn with Judy and Cindy, eating pretzels and drinking red wine out of two different bottles. Later, Cindy’s friend Erica joins us adding prosciutto, aged cheddar, Portuguese water bread and a bottle of white wine to the picnic. Erica doesn’t have to say much before I decide I like her. I get the vibe right away that she’s smart, no-nonsense and confident.

This is my first time meeting Erica, officially. She was with Cindy on Wednesday night at George’s going away drinks thing at The Tavern but the entire time I assumed she was Carol, Cindy’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. Apparently they’re off again. Cindy figures this time it’s for good. When I ask her why she thinks they keep going through this cycle she says, “because we know we don’t have a future together”. I wonder what it is like to have a future with someone you don't think you have a future with.

We all take turns talking about relationships. Judy has this “it’s complicated” thing going with a guy she calls Knucklehead (and he is one). She complains about not being able to find a guy she actually wants to have a relationship but she can’t figure out why she hangs on to Knucklehead.

“Because he’s familiar and easy to fall back on,” I say.

Pointing at me Erica says, “She’s exactly right”. I now know why I immediately liked Erica. I can feel myself in her shoes though because I know her story. Smart and good-hearted as she is, she wants someone who cannot want her back. She breaks my heart.

Cindy drives me home on a flat tire that we don’t realize is flat until someone pulls up beside us at a light and tells us. This happens twice. It really is flat. I get into my house, slip off my shoes and go crash on my bed. I have an hour before I have to get ready to meet up with Lisa for 9. My eyes flutter open at nine. I’m not ready to move from my bed yet but how do I tell Lisa, “sorry, can we skip tonight, I was drinking on a front lawn after work this afternoon and now I’m ready for two Advils and my PJs”?

When I get to Lisa’s she moans that she’s exhausted. She had a rough day—some family stuff to deal with—and she has to get up early in the morning. She had considered calling the night off too. We laugh at our pathetic-ness as we walk to The Academy where we plan on seeing Matt and his band play. Unfortunately, we’ve managed to miss Matt. By 11 Lisa says she can’t keep her eyes open anymore so we head home. I crawl into bed and I can’t sleep. Of course.

On Saturday I get up with some ambition. Feeling like I poisoned my body the night before, I decide I am going to go for a run to try to sweat all that crap out. I grab Nan (my iPod Nano) but she’s dead. Of course. She’s always dead when I want to take her anywhere. Such a flake. So I have to run listening to traffic noise and the music in my head. Usually I run in the park but this time I just go around the neighbourhood. It’s a good run. I feel really good, and surprised, considering it’s been over a week since my last run.

When I get home I change into old shorts that used to be my favourite but now don’t fit. I then get out the lawn mower and cut the grass. I don’t know why, but after coming home from a run I am always in the mood for grass cutting. I guess it’s like doing my cardio and then some weights. I know I'd pick grass cutting over snow shoveling any day.

A guy on his bicycle wheels by on the sidewalk. I notice him and he notices me. He looks familiar but I can’t for the life of me figure out why. He smiles. I don’t because I am trying too hard to figure out if he’s just being friendly and neighbourly (or flirty, although in the sweaty and grassy state I’m in, I can hardly imagine this to be true), or if I am supposed to acknowledge him as an old friend. I am also wrestling with the lawnmower that is pissing me off because the wheels are too low causing it to keep getting hung up on every little hump in the lawn. Maybe he was that guy from the bus I exchanged a few words with last week? I don’t know why, but this sticks in my head for a while. I think too much.

Lawn taken care of, I shower and put on fresh clothes. My last weekend purchases from JC Penny are making their debut—denim capris and a periwinkle blue t-shirt. Before I leave a song comes on the radio that makes me want to dance so I practice my moves I learned in Yoga Booty Ballet class. You are fun and funny, I tell myself. I get into Truck and head downtown. Destination? The downtown library.

Lisa thinks the fact that I use the library is something that makes me interesting. She told me this on a day when I was feeling particularly un-interesting. I find this evaluation interesting.

I want to pick up some back issues of literary magazines. I recently decided that I am going to try to get something published so that when I call myself a writer, I actually have something of merit behind that statement. I have given considerable thought to this goal and formed a real plan for it. This week I compiled a list of lit magazines to send short story submissions into. All of them suggest reading back issues to get an idea as to what they look for when considering a submission.

I know that to be a writer you have to be a reader. I haven’t been reading much lately. Ironically, I think school turned me off of reading, especially off of “literature”. I don’t know if I can actually be literary. I don’t even know if I care to be. I just want to be a good story-teller. Does good story telling really need metaphors, allegory and symbolism? Can’t I just hook you in and make you laugh? I think that’s where the real money is. Not that I’m doing this for the money. Fame maybe, but certainly not money. Anyway, by reading what actually gets published, I figure I’ll also be awakening my underdeveloped literary mind and maybe, just maybe I’ll be able to squeeze out a metaphor or two.

I pull two copies each of two different magazines. Sadly, there just isn’t much to choose from. One of the magazines is clearly for aspiring, amature writers while the other is for the ones who have not only arrived, but established themselves. This is great. I have picked out where to begin and where I want to end up. I make my way to the fiction section of the library and browse. I let my eyes settle only on the books with a maple leaf on the spine, a marking reserved for Canadian writers. I pull out a few collections of short stories and a few novels. I check out my armload of literature, load it into a reusable shopping bag, and head for a rooftop patio to start my self-directed studying.

The idea of sitting alone on a rooftop patio, in the warm sun, getting lost in self-discipline was appealing to me until I actually did it. It takes forever for a waitress to come over and take my order because it seems that the couples and groups that walk in after me are the more appealing customers. I had forgotten to reapply sunscreen after my shower so I can feel the heat of a sunburn building on my arms. Also, I am the only person up there alone. Everyone else comes in pairs or trios. I wanted to feel cool and independent but I kind of just feel dumb for paying to do what I could be doing at home for free. An hour later, I collect my readings and head home.

That evening I build an outfit around one of my new pairs of shoes and head out for dinner to help celebrate Tonia’s birthday. I talk to one of Tonia’s friends who shocks me when she tells me she’s 37. She honestly looks like she could be 10 years younger. She’s beautiful, smart, funny, well-traveled, and yet has so far struck out in the love department.

“It’s Winnipeg men,” she says. “Anywhere else, the guys approach the girls in restaurants, clubs, on the street. Here, the few good guys know that they are in high demand and that they can have their pick of great women. They don’t even have to try.” This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this theory. I don’t know that my buddy Rob, definitely one of the good ones, would agree though. Then again, he wasn’t born here. Stupid Winnipeg. On a pessimistic day if you ask me, the guys of this town fall into one of three groups: those who go to Folkfest and eat three square meals of granola, those who can open beer bottles with their toes and those who idolize Peter Pan and will never never get their shit together and grow up.

After dinner there is talk of going down the street to Billabong for more drinks and merriment. I don’t know what is wrong with me but I don’t want to go. I know that after Friday I certainly had my fill of alcohol for the weekend so that part of the plan isn’t winning me over. I’m kind of tired too. I know on Monday I’ll probably hear about how this whole crew of fireman came in for drinks and everyone went home with someone, but I take my chances on heading home early anyway.

I notice how comfortable my new shoes are as I walk down the sidewalk to Truck. I acknowledge two guys with a small smile as they walk past me. As I write this now I know two things that matter: summer has arrived in Winnipeg, finally, (or at least for a few days) and I am going to write something great.