Tick/Talk

"Did you eat yet?" my mom asked me on the phone on Friday evening.

"Yeah, I had popcorn," I said. It's that time of year again where when I come home on Fridays I just want to sit outside and eat popcorn for dinner.

"Oh, did you have beer with that?"

"No," I laughed. "Getting tipsy on a gimpy ankle didn't seem like the best of ideas, mom."

"Your dad is worried you're not eating properly," she said. I wasn't sure how serious this passed on sentiment was. Maybe he was serious, maybe he said it jokingly, but don't even get me started on his eating habits. I know my dad worries about me more than he lets on though and I suppose his daughter passing out on a downtown sidewalk last week really didn't do much to give the poor old guy any relief. I did eat that day, for the record. It's the drinking fluids part that I have a strange aversion to and had better learn to smarten up on.

On Sunday afternoon I took a drive up to Gimli with Judy. Before she picked me up I was at my mom's and dad's. I was scratching Elmo under his chin when I felt the sickening little lump. I took a closer look. Yup. Wood tick. A big one. It was white already. Then I looked at his ear and spotted two more, a little smaller. I don't mind ticks normally, but when they get big they do gross me out a bit.

"Go see dad," I told Elmo. We walked together to where Dad was watching a race on TV.

"Elmo has wood ticks." I announced. "Is Gordon still in the lead?"

"No, he's in second. Elmo has wood ticks? What do you want me to do? Go pull them off."

Poor Elmo hates wood tick season. He gets all jumpy whenever you slowly comb through his fur or let your fingers linger a little too long over his ears. Don't try to feign an innocent little belly rub with him. He knows.

Mom cornered him by the back door and I pretty much sat on the poor guy to pin him down so she could do the dirty work. Every time after she's pulled the tick out, she shows it to Elmo to prove to him that she was doing something good for him. I caught a glance of the bugger in the Kleenex and had to put my hand to my stomach while doubled over with disgust.

"Yeah, and who wants a dog?" Dad said.

"Well what am I supposed to get, a hairless cat?"

"It's just like a kernel of corn," Mom said after the two of them pulled another one off. I had to leave.

I don't know where I was when Judy was announcing at her goodbye party last week that she was going to be spending the summer in Gimli. I didn't ever leave the table, but maybe those syrupy sweet belinis got the better of me and I missed that entire part of the conversation. Anyway, on Sunday morning I called her up to reply to a text she had sent me the night before. "Men suck" it said. "Indeed they do," I replied when I called her. It was during that conversation I found out that she was going to be away for the whole summer. The WHOLE SUMMER. I've never had a best friend leave me behind for summer camp or anything like that, but I imagine this is what it would feel like. Major suckage.

Gimli is a small beach/fishing town in the Manitoba Interlake region, about an hour's drive north of Winnipeg. Judy's in the military and landed a term job doing PR work for the Air Cadets training camp there. She wanted to take a load of her stuff up there and check out her summer digs. Along the way Judy told me about her guy troubles with Knucklehead, the on again/off again man in her life.

"The longest we've ever gone without talking is a month," she said. "Without him, I'm not the same. I'm like 10 per cent Judy."

"You know that's the same rationalization alcoholics use?" I said with a sympathetic smile. We see it all the time, don't we? Smart girls with these mixed up guys who just break their hearts. From the outside it's so easy to see, but when you're the girl with that mess of a guy and your heart is in it 100 per cent, it's damn near impossible to operate with logic or any small bit of deserved selfishness. I know. I've been the outside observer and inside idiot more than a few times.

Judy introduced me to a few people she knew on the base. I won't get into it, but boy is she walking into a soap opera up there. I told her she needs to blog all this stuff. She promised to keep an eye out for persons who may be of interest to me. They have parties and social nights up there and we agreed that it would be fun for me to come up and visit. Me. Pilots. I can hear the theme from Top Gun playing already. Hey, didn't Maverick have a motorcycle? Please don't tell my poor father.

On the way home it was my turn at the confessional but talking gave me no relief or new insight into my history. I've told my stories enough times, walked around and examined them from all angles to the point that I just don't care anymore to look.

"You've gotta get on writing that book of yours," Judy said. "I read your blog the other day and my heart just went out to you."

I was avoiding it all weekend but when I got home on Sunday night I did do a little bit of writing. Not enough, but a start, thanks to Judy's little nudge of encouragement. Feel free to nag me at random with reminders to keep it up. I'm not the best at self-discipline.

I am so done with this week

I think I killed one of the Sea Monkeys.

I was counting them this afternoon but could only find five. I counted again and again. Big Mac was there, the twins were there, Edgar was there and so was Pixel but I couldn't see Perry nor Chico. I peered closely at the bottom of the tank amongst the algae blooms that looked like trunkless trees, or green tumbleweed perhaps. I spotted Chico and then I saw Perry in the greenery. Perry was looking out at me but not moving. I sloshed the water a bit. Perry tipped to the side and then righted up again with the movements of the water. The tail did not flit about.

At first I thought that Perry was just stuck in the algae. I had seen Chico get stuck there earlier today. Chico's tail or perhaps string of poop seemed to get caught on the mossy green fluff. Chico flailed about trying to break free but it wasn't until Mac swam through Chico's tail and broke it that Chico was freed. So I sloshed the water again to see if I could dislodge Perry from the algae, but again Perry just tipped over sideways and then slowly bobbed back right-ways like one of those inflatable clown punching bags.

I rested my head in my right hand. Ouch. The spot above my eye was still bruised and tender to the touch. Had I done this? When I was oxygenating the tank today I noticed twice that a Sea Monkey got stuck to the side of the emptied container, the first time in the measuring cup, the second time in the tank. It was still wiggling so I just quickly poured the water back into the empty vessel and assumed nothing was critically traumatized. Maybe I was wrong? I stared at Perry's beady little Sea Monkey eyes with a heavy heart. How was I going to tell Michael?

My ankle was doing better. Yesterday when I got out of bed pain shot up my leg when I put weight on any part of my foot other than my heel. Once I got it wrapped in the Tensor bandage again though it felt a little better to step on. I figured I may as well go to work, maybe get it looked at by the nurse and baby it with some more ice and elevation. My dad kindly drove me in before he started his day. Some people were surprised to see me there, but you know me, I'm a lousy patient. Besides, I couldn't miss a day of bossing myself around. And what if something important had come up? Then I'd have to tell Michael that I killed one of his Sea Monkeys and I missed something important because I missed work on Wednesday because of a gimpy ankle I injured in a bar fight with some chick who was mad because her husband was hitting on me. Well come on, homewrecker bar fight or bus stop black outs? Which story really sounds like mine?

"We missed you yesterday Jill," Dave, the bus driver said to me this morning. It's nice to be missed. I wore my Nike runners to work and then changed into some kitten heels for around the office. The heels made me have to limp and I was even a little wobbly in them. By lunch time I had given up on following dress code and put my runners back on for some stability. Joanna didn't have to call me Hop Along any more.

I was mad yesterday because I had to miss my Yoga Booty Ballet class. It was supposed to be the last one until fall time as the instructor is going to Italy for two months. I had wanted to give her a card to express my appreciation for the class and her fun spirit. When I started that class I was broken, but it didn't take long for it to help me find my strength and sense of beauty again. That class was a gift that came to me when I really needed it. Yesterday I had to miss it because I was physically broken, or, well, busted somewhat. Sweet Jesus all this giveth and taketh away shit as of late is making me dizzy.

Reflecting upon the ups and downs I've had over the past eight months or so, I said to Joanna at lunch yesterday, "maybe life just decided I needed to go through a few tests before I could go on to the next level, y'know?" I think sometimes we just need a little shake up to push us into something new, make us grow. Normally though I only get about one test a year. Like the job search or the house search. It's been weird lately. I must be on the accelerated track for gifted life learners.

It's supposed to rain all weekend but that's okay with me. It will give me the chance to stay in, read, write and think of how I'm going to tell Michael about Perry on Monday. Maybe I'll play up the limp for sympathy first.

Hitting sidewalk bottom

It was day three of being the boss of me. This morning a rush job came up on Michael's side of things. Michael used to jokingly instruct Amara to just hide under the desk whenever he went away. This rush caught me today in an email, one that had a big red exclamation point on the side to emphasize the emergency nature of the logo request. thankfully Tracy, the designer he usually works with, knew what the client needed and was able to deliver.

I said goodnight to the Sea Monkeys, changed out of my heels into my ballet flats, shut down the computer, slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for home.

It was a warm one again today, about 29 degrees. My first bus took me past the fountain pool at Memorial Park. People had come there to cool off in the mist. On the bus I was certain someone was wearing Hawaiian Tropics sunscreen because I could smell the distinctive coconut aroma that I love. The smell of summer.

The bus stopped at Vaughn and Graham, across from the old downtown Bay. I pressed the yellow strip on the back door to leave. I stepped off the bus and my right ankle buckled. It was my bad ankle. I've sprained it a hundred times before. Sometimes it just decides to give out. I kind of lost my balance and found myself crouched close to the ground before I stabilized myself and gingerly carried forward.

"Are you okay?" Someone behind me asked.

"Oh yes, I'm fine, thanks."

When I got to the corner of Graham and Vaughn another woman stopped me.

"Are you okay? You took quite the tumble there," she asked. Again, I sheepishly nodded and assured her I was fine. My foot wasn't really hurting and I hadn't heard the sickening ripping sound of the scar tissue I often hear when I've really sprained it.

The light for the northbound traffic was red so I proceeded across the street. As I walked, limping a bit, a black cloud filled my vision. I've experienced this before too after a sprain. I always figured it's just the blood rushing from my head down to the injury. Some minor light headedness that quickly passes. But this time it didn't.

Just let me make it across the street so I don't collapse and get hit by a bus, I thought to myself. Heh. Hit by a bus. Aren't I always afraid that when the going gets good I'm going to get hit by a bus and die a happy woman? Well I guess Fate realized her timing was a little off so she did let me safely reach the sidewalk on the other side.

I grabbed hold of the cool metal light standard and waited for the dizziness to pass. The next thing I knew, I was fluttering my eyes open from the ground, surrounded by passersby.

A middle aged woman with short brown hair and a green shirt instructed me to go have a seat on a planter a few steps away. I remember thinking that I didn't want to sit there, I wanted to go inside to The Bay, get some water from the Malt Stop, and sit down. But she insisted and guided me over. I sat down. People were buzzing around me and I blacked out a second time.

This time when I came to I was on the ground, my head resting on the knee of the woman who had led me to my seat. Another woman, younger and blonde, was on her cell phone calling for an ambulance. Someone asked me my name. Then they asked me if I had a husband or a boyfriend or some family they could call. No, no husband, no boyfriend. No Prince Charming or Knight in Shining Armor was on standby to come for me. Someone said something about a seizure and convulsions. I felt tears well up in my eyes. I was scared. Had that happened to me? Was I going to be okay? This had never happened to me before. The two women were talking back and forth so much I couldn't get my words out.

I honestly just wanted someone to hand me a phone so I could call my mom. I desperately wanted a familiar face there to hold my hand, look me in the eyes and tell me that I was safe, I wasn't alone and I was going to be okay. I'm an older sibling, I'm really good at being brave for other people, reassuring them, talking them through something, grabbing the Kleenex and being the calm and optimistic one. But when I'm alone and I'm scared, with no one to be strong for me, to rationalize things for me and shoo away all the crazy thoughts that pop up in this wild imagination of mine, I tend to crumble pretty easily.

I felt pretty ashamed about my tears. I hate letting people see me cry. My ankle was hurting and I had a scratch over my eye that was bleeding and stinging a fair bit. But I'm a tough kid. I can take pain. All sorts of pain. Physical pain, emotional pain, pure embarrassment, I can take it. But I think it was just the fear and loneliness that was consuming me and breaking me down from the inside. Damn those hot tears. Someone handed me a napkin to wipe my eyes. I noticed the blood from the cut, diluted red spots from mixing with the tears. I felt like such a child.

The lady in green told me she was a first responder, a medical professional. She shoo'd away the other bystanders. Told one guy to do up his fly. The wind caught my skirt and I reached down to hold it in place and cling onto what was left of my dignity.

I heard the sirens and the ambulance pulled up. There was talk of me going to the hospital. Everything felt like it was moving ahead of me and I wasn't being given a chance to think for myself. I mostly just nodded along in a daze. I remember when I was out both times that I dreamed. I don't remember what the dreams were or who was there, which annoyed me. Awake, I still felt like I was in one of those dreams where your feet are dead weight and you're trying to run away from something but you everything is in slow motion.

The paramedics helped me onto the gurney. I had never been on one before. As they put me in the back of the truck I tried to call out thank you to the two women who had stayed with me, but my voice was pretty weak and I don't know if they heard me.

In the truck they took my blood pressure and checked my heart and found me okay. The one who does most of the talking and work has longish, silver hair. (I know, couldn't I have at least gotten a hot one?) I told the guy what happened, about my ankle. He looked at it and noticed that it wasn't even swollen.

"You probably just don't have a high tolerance for pain," he said. I knew that wasn't true.

I opted out of them taking me to the hospital. It seemed silly really, to sit in a waiting room for just sprain. I signed the release form for them to let me go.

The other paramedic offered to zip up my bag for me. He picked it up with a grunt.

"No wonder you fell there, I don't know how you carry this thing around," he said. I carry my life in that old bag of mine. I've never weighed my life before but I know it all fits in that blue bag of mine.

"Lunch, shoes, a library book," I rattled off the heavier contents.

"Good thing you weren't wearing those shoes when you fell," the sweet and grunty paramedic said, noticing the skinny two inch heel on my robin's egg blue shoes. They're one of my favourite pairs.

I smiled. "Actually, I usually sprain my ankle on flats," I said. It's true. I'm better in heels.

Sweet Grunty helped me out of the ambulance and then I was on my own. The crowd of helpers, thinking I was going for further medical care, had taken off. I hobbled to the doors of The Bay and looked at my watch. Damn. I'd missed the bus and had no idea when the next one would come. So I hobbled inside the store, limped my way through the cosmetics department as I reached for my phone to finally call my mom. I was sobbing again as I asked her to meet me, explained what had happened. She promised she'd call when she got there.

I limped and sniffed and wiped away tears as I made my way to the parkade doors where I was to meet my mother. I rounded my shoulders, kept my head and eyes down. It didn't matter anyway though, nobody seemed to really notice this limping mess of a girl passing through. Given the downtown location, I suppose there really was no need to question it.

I found a bench, sat down and turned toward the wall to hide my tear stained face. I still wasn't able to quite get control of myself for some reason. I fished out a napkin from my lunch bag and tried to clean myself up. I pulled out my phone to turn the ringer on so I would be sure not to miss my mom's call. My phone was dying, died. Of course.

I hobbled over to the doors out to the parkade. Again, feeling terribly ashamed and wondering about the blood on my face I kept my head down, really not wanting anyone to notice me, to ask questions, to wonder.

Two girls were already sitting on the bench at the parkade doors so I just stood. I noticed a payphone outside so I used my last 50 cents to call my mom to tell her my phone was dead. I got the voicemail because she was driving. I just wanted to hear a familiar voice so I pulled out my Visa, swiped it in the card reader, and called my dad to tell him what happened. I was fine, physically, at this point, but still just shaken up by the whole thing. And lonely.

My mom got there faster than I thought she would. Elmo was with her since she had been at my house with him, preparing the living room walls for painting. She took me home to her place, gave me ice for the ankle and food.

My mom has come to my rescue twice in the past two months or so. Aside from the pain in my foot, this was the dominant thought in my head that seemed to be giving me grief. I have these grand dreams of independence, of maybe leaving this old town of little boys and little opportunity for something bigger and better. But if I did that, who would be my emergency phone call? Who would come pick me up when I've fallen? Who would hold my hand when I'm scared? Who would drop everything for me? The only people who I know will do that, every time, without question, are my mom and dad.

Maybe I'm not ready. Maybe I'm not strong enough. Not independent enough, tough enough for facing this world alone. And will I ever be?

Monkey business

Michael is on vacation this week which means I am the boss. Since we are a team of two that means I am the boss of me, which gets kinda boring after the first day. Thankfully, he left me with some important responsibilities such as watering his plant and babysitting the Sea Monkeys.

Yes, the Sea Monkeys.

Just after our big department move, Michael bought a Sea Monkey kit. They were slow to start but now he has seven monkeys swimming around in there. Today I decided to take a picture of them and name them all.

Yes, name the Sea Monkeys.

I have been studying them carefully. I've been watching them grow since they were the size of a period, so I have gotten to know them pretty well. First there's Macro, who I will also affectionately call Big Mac, or just Mac, for short. Next there's the fraternal twins, Tuesday and Wednesday. I was originally just going to assign them all a day of the week, since there was seven of them, but then I decided I only really liked the names Tuesday and Wednesday. I call them twins because I had a hard time telling them apart. They both like to hover near the bottom and stare out of the tank at you, kind of like a puppy in a pet store. Wednesday has a longer tail and Tuesday often has a bend in hers as if she is trying to imitate the pose of a mermaid. Tuesday is my favourite. Next is Edgar, a funny, squat little monkey. Chico is also a smaller monkey but with a really really long tail. Perry and Pixel are the smallest of the group, Pixel being tinier than Perry. I actually just discovered Pixel this morning.

Big Mac is pregnant. You can tell because when Sea Monkeys are pregnant they show two black dots at the base of their tails. Michael says sometimes they give live birth. Maybe I should set up a Monkey Cam.

I had to feed the monkeys today and oxygenate the water. Before he left, Michael made me do a trial run of the oxygenating duties. To do this, you have to pour the tank out into another container and then back into the tank. Repeat once or twice. I was nervous about this trial run. The Sea Monkey aquarium is small and oblong. The container I was to pour the contents of the aquarium into was a wide mouth water bottle. I have problems pouring things without dribbling. Sometimes it seems the best way to avoid the dribbles is to do it quickly. So nervously this is what I did, but I still managed to leave a rather significant puddle. Michael, Mr. Laid Back himself, looked aghast (maybe I'm exaggerating, but I think he at least gasped). I felt awful thinking of the tiny baby sea monkeys that were now floundering in that puddle. But at lunch time Michael went out and bought a measuring cup which has a much larger opening, making it much easier and less stressful to pour into. So far, no stress. Oh yeah, and work is going fine too.

Today after work a bunch of us met up at Earl's on Main for drinks on the patio. I do NOT recommend the Bellini there unless you are a humming bird looking for a glass of syrupy nectar. I was going to tell a story about our good time at Earl's but I can't remember any of the quotes except for when Cindy was driving us home and she noticed a rotten egg smell and she said, "that wasn't me, that's my car."

"It's probably from your catalytic converter," I said.

"You know that stuff?" Judy said. "Wow, you're a smart little blond."

Ignoring the dumb blond reference because I was in a good mood I said, "yeah, that's what makes me hot." That's right lug nuts, I know your grease nipples from your drive shaft and I can bake a cake. Hm, should I start using this as my pick up line?

After the rain

I came home on Saturday night, flopped on the floor and tried to clear my mind the way we do in yoga, but I couldn't. My brain wanted to blog or talk about the past or talk about the future or imagine a million different what if situations. Maybe it was the heat getting to me.

Summer arrived in Winnipeg this week. This is what we wait for. This is what we dream of in the middle of January when it's -50 with the windchill and the air is so dry you need to submerse yourself in a tub of Vaseline if you are going to have any chance at soft and un-flaky skin.

I picked Lisa up on Saturday afternoon to take her with me to my aunt's place where we would spend the day by the pool. I lugged over my bag of books along with grand intentions of doing some reading in the sun. Does In Style magazine count as literature? Because that was all I ended up actually reading. I also didn't run or participate in any kind of sustained physical exertion, nor did I speak to or even bat my eyelashes at any boys. I did work on my tan though and while lounging in the hot sun drinking tall and fancy drinks I may have found Zen.

On the way home Lisa said, "If I had money, I'd buy a Volvo." She's getting her new lease, a Volkswagen, on Tuesday. It's a grand step up from her Aveo that for crying out loud doesn't even have ABS. Piss poor, Chevy, that is piss poor on your part.

"If I had money I'd get a membership at the Canoe Club," I said as we drove past it, or where I seem to think it is.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I'd go rowing. I'd love to get into rowing," I said. "And I'd buy a Corvette."

"Like Barbie!" Lisa said and I nodded. My Barbie Corvette was blue. It wasn't the real Barbie brand, just one of those cheaper knock-offs, but my mom fancied it up by adding racing stripes to the hood with silver metallic tape. My mom was always doing stuff like that for us. I remember when I really wanted the Barbie with the pink dress that had glow-in-the-dark stars printed all over it. My mom's answer was to decorate a Barbie dress we already had with glow-in-the-dark fabric paint. I think if my mom were to run a match making service, she'd take in all the guys who get passed over, like the shy or awkward ones, give them some racing stripes and send them out on dates feeling like the confident and one-of-a-kind special guys they are deep down. My mom sees the good, the potential, in everything and everyone. She gave me that. I'm undecided some days if I should call it a gift or a curse.

"I could buy a motorcycle for only three or five grand," I said, vaguely remembering a poster I saw somewhere for a used one. I thought this over for a moment though and realized I couldn't actually drive the motorcycle without getting a motorcycle driver's licence, and I never ever want to take another driving test again. It was awful enough the first time. And the second time. And the...I suppose there wouldn't be a parallel parking section to pass though, which would be my saving grace.

A few weeks back NYF and I were talking about his list of things he wants to do before he dies. I think he has something like 43 things on his list right now. I have no such list. I said to NYF, "I am a list girl, I love lists. But I cannot begin to imagine what I want to do for certain. Like, are all the things on your list, must dos? Because today I might say, I want to buy a motorcycle and drive it to Texas. But next week I may completely change my mind on that."

I've changed my mind. I don't want to drive it to Texas. I want George Stroumboulopoulos (or some similar character) to drive it, and me, to the California coast. I don't think this is the kind of thing I am supposed to put on this kind of list.

These are a few of the things that were firing through my head as I tried to clear it on Saturday night. Driving over to Lisa's that afternoon, windows down, music up, all I could think of was, this summer I am just going to have fun. I'm not going to think backwards, I'm not going to think forwards, I'm just going to live in the moment without a care in the world like I am 17. (Although I seem to recall having many big cares in the world at 17, so this time maybe I will do it right). But back home my brain was like a chatty little four year old who wanted to tell a story and ask questions I really didn't want to look at right then. Mostly the whys came up.

The heat and humidity the past few days has been unrelenting. They kept predicting rain that never came. As I lay there on my living room floor, hot and literally bothered, I wished that the sky would open up and the rain would come down, as promised. Give me a break. Even just a sprinkle of relief would be nice.

And I know, of the pain, that you feel the same as me.
And I dream, of the rain, as it falls upon the leaves.
And the cracks, in the ground, like the cracks are in our lives.
They are sealed, and are now, far away.

Iron Maiden, Rainmaker

It rained last night and I let a tear or two slip down my sun-kissed cheek. My brain, the clouds will soon clear. Relief is coming.