spoke too soon

I should know by now to stop talking.
If I'm not talking, I'm not setting myself up to be wrong.

Europe is off - I know, it seemed unlikely, but it's for the best. Ma mere has only one (one!!) chemo treatment left, and there is no reason to sabotage her recovery by exposing her to every snot nosed kid on the plane, in the airport, and in all of bloody damp, dank, England for the sake of a quick vacation before radiation. I think cancer has finally dampened our fun, but it really took a long time. I think we (specifically my mom) has done a great job of having a brilliant time despite. In fact, my first blog entry was the day she got her wig. And that was a fabulous day. Really, chemo and cancer have been great excuses for lunch dates and missed classes and green ginger tea dates at Starbucks (though I've missed the copious amounts of wine we used to drink). All in all, I'd say cancer 1: Carroll family 18. We're kicking ass. Plus, who wants to go to the UK in the spring?

Also - I had a beer today. I don't regret it for 1 second. It's been the best evening of my spring so far. I drank it with one of my top 2 favorite people, sniffing lilacs and berry cigars, watching the sun dip behind the Idylwyld bridge. It was a perfect way to spend my Saturday evening. I didn't even mind that Mark brought Jose the dog... maybe I don't hate hairy beasts as much as I once thought.

I'd say the novel is going well, but I'm taking a less fatalistic approach. I'll say nothing and hopefully my silence will not impede its progress.

another day, another dollar

Quel relief! I made it through the may long without having planted a garden which means I'm not a washed up, middle aged, garden planting, RRSP buying mom!

In fact, I'm still broke, still under-payed, still irresponsible, and consequently, still young. Phew.

Not to mention, I get to go to Europe in less than a month!

Yep.

Straight up.

Not even lying.

Europe.

Me.

I'm so excited about this prospect, that I consider running down the street naked screaming. I'm not sure why, but it seems like the only thing that would match my internal glee. Unfortunately the non-grown up, non-savings account, non-debt free part of me is regretting all that wine I drank this term. Europe on a shoe-string is certainly the reality. Oh well, I'll be there, in a beret, drinking cappuccinos and writing my novel.

The future starts today friends, as if I won't be a famous novelist now? Come on! I'll be writing on the beach at Montpelier!

Don't worry, I won't let it get to my head. I'll be a benevolent celebrity who still lives in a small city and drives a Sunfire...ugh, no, no - the Sunfire will definitely go. But it will be nothing fancier than a Volvo - I swear.

Though coming across a money tree in the meantime would not make me any less humble either.

the Infamous May Long Weekend

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have arrived. Middle-aged-dom welcomes me with open arms and I'm racing, in sensible shoes, towards it's gentle embrace. Despite my attempts to stay as radically far from the slippery slope of growing up I find myself grasping at the grassy precipice (quite literally) on the brink of tumbling into full on lame ass grownup. That's right friends, I'm planting a garden this year.
It's Kritie's fault really. She's pressuring me into it. I don't like gardening, but she makes a valid argument for the responsible use of our land and an appropriate destination for our compost. Ugh. I just loathe the idea of wearing muddy shoes and wide brimmed hats while digging in the muck because it's a practical and economical idea. I'm against economically, environmentally sound decisions! At least I was once.
Anyway - I got a wicked forearm workout Round-up-ing the dandelions. I guess that's the upside. Either way d-day (aka may long weekend) is rapidly approaching and you all know what that means - the garden must get in. The official countdown of my waning coolness has begun.

Three's the charm

I broke three pairs of sunglasses in one week! One pair spontaneously combusted in my purse, one pair I sat on - and the other pair miraculously appeared in my bed (under my knee)! You'd think at least I had a really steamy story to justify the latter, but I really honestly cannot imagine how a pair of sunglasses appeared under the covers in my made bed. I never even make my bed! Maybe it was sabotage.
All I know is that I have one pair without a second stem, one pair with a cracked lens, and one with a cracked frame, and so I've been wearing the ones with the cracked frame and I feel like I am mentally retarded. People look at me and point. They whisper to each other "Does that girl know her lens is cracked?" (Uh, yeah! It pinches.) It's too bad, but I can't seem to justify risking a forth pair in the span of eight days. That's preposterous.
So that's my story. You can tell my life is reaching an unprecedented low as I've resorted to stomping on my eye wear to spice up my life. I guess I'm not as interesting as I allow myself to believe. Pretty soon I'll just lieing instead - at least it will spice up this blog too.

At least when it rains, when it really rains,
(flood gates open, heavens naked, river washing)
impatience waits huddled up in hidden doorways.
Perfect strangers, frightened children, wait.
Safe from the water, (only water!) poisoned water?
And I can walk,
Hair stuck to face and arms,
Socks drowning in sunken boats,
Down the road.
I can run,
through the empty streets
and no one fights to share my catwalk.
Back straight.
Head high.
Shoulders square.
Arms swinging.
Lips grinning.
Alone.
Eyes poke out from under overhangs.
Dry lashes, safe suede coats.
Envy waiting.
Bemusement waiting.
Strangers waiting.
And I'm alive, cold and wet.
Chest heaving,
lungs aching,
mascara running,
tongue tasting angels' kisses.

Delirium indeed

de·lir·i·um [di-leer-ee-uhm]

1. Pathology. a more or less temporary disorder of the mental faculties, as in fevers, disturbances of consciousness, or intoxication, characterized by restlessness, excitement, delusions, hallucinations, etc.
2. a state of violent excitement or emotion.

Wow-y friends. Delirium was delirious. And the speedo dudes from the other day were totally in the show - you can see them right here in their fancy little outfits. I'm not going to lie, the real thing was even more impressive than the show at the river. My jaw hurts from dragging on the pavement all evening.

I think today will be the turning point; I'm going to become a gymnast. Now for those of you who have seen the Louise style cartwheel, and wondered how anyone can survive a day with so little coordination, I can feel your disbelief...but have faith. My goal is to be able to stand on one foot while rotating a hoolahoop on the other foot behind my head by next Friday - I'll let you know how that goes. Perhaps the week after that I'll be able to do back flips off people's shoulders; any volunteers?

New Leaf

I started my new novel today. I mean, the one I'm writing. (And the one I'm reading actually, which was a lot better than the last one - I finished The Story of B and would recommend it to you all.)

Anyway, my last disastrous attempt at writing has finally, for today anyway, been laid to rest. The story was a (barely) fictional account of the internal musings of a deranged, neurotic writer named Gwen. (Based on the real life internal musings of someone you probably don't know who is a deranged, neurotic writer with an old lady name).

Ah, but the new novel will be better. So far I only have a title and the first page - but it's there, waiting to be written, just outside the grip of my ball point pen, lurking just beyond the margins of my new notebook. It's coming. I can feel my mind in the throes of labour willing this masterpiece (or piece of you-know-what) to be conceived on the page. I'm excited.

I can't wait to be a real writer who actually writes a whole novel. I mean, if Dan can get away with that Arnold Schwarzenegger stint and make millions, surely I could at least finish something. Though, looking at this blog and that creepy piece of man meat here staring me down - I'm unconvinced that there's hope for me. We'll see how it goes.

Circus in the Sun

Out for a morning meander in the hot, hot sun - what accosts my eyes but the sight of several men along the river bank in speedos. (or shorts tucked into their bum cheeks) "Hmmm, interesting", I think to myself - and so I wander over to see what on earth these men are doing in such scandalous apparel.
Of course my first instinct tells me they are body builders posing for some small town church potluck calendar (on account of the muscles and the photographers), but that assumptions is quickly dispelled not only by the lack of protruding veins and crisco oil but by the queer sight I was about to behold. One of the speedo clad was balancing horizontally on one hand. Imagine - flat out, straight sideways. However impressive this might be, I'm sure you'll agree, was even more astounding considering the thing he was balanced on - his buddy's head.
Wow - weird was a good word to describe the scene.
As I was warned after yesterday's post, the last line of Dan's book took a strange turn for the weird. In light of the day's events, I couldn't help wondering about the possibilities of not only yoga instructors, but perhaps circus performers also. Let that resonate.
Either way, I feel that balancing on a friend's head in a speedo is a great way to tan the fold of your bum. There's really no other way to ensure maximum, equalized tan. (As irony proliferates in my life, I believe only yesterday I said I liked to get a good base-burn, well, I sure got that today and perhaps a touch of the ol' heat stroke as well....awesome.)

Random thought of the day: Burned legs get very, very hot in nylon pantyhose as they trap and recirculate the heat.

Dan the Man

In an attempt to acquaint myself with popular culture, I've conceded to the pressure of Dan Brown.
Now, before I say anything about Dan - let's look for a moment at his picture. The guy, for lack of a better word, is a complete chauch. Look at his hair! The mushroom cut? Poor Dan. you'd think that after the success he's reached someone might have told him.
Despite his poor taste in hair dos and the unfortunate bum-chin fate that befell him, Dan Brown has made it to the top of the best seller list for his novels The Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons. (fortunately the good people of North America don't judge a book by its cover, or inside jacket either).
I just need to say I don't get it. I'm reading Angels and Demons right now because Kristie told me to - and I do everything I'm told to do - but I feel like the story is being narrated by Harrison Ford or Patrick Swayze back in a time when it was still really impressive to do very manly, impossible things with an uber-ly macho internal commentary. I find myself reading in my head with this cheesy voice over that sounds like a big, muscley, monotone meat man. I suppose at least it's funny that way. I think next I'm back into my choices. The Story of B by Daniel Quinn is ready for me when Robert Langdon is able to save the Vatican and mac some lithe Mediterranean scientist. (I can hardly wait to see if anyone else will be branded or maimed or tortured - and miraculously survive).

Okay, fine!

Okay, okay, I'm over it. "IT" being the me, the giant pity party in the corner.
I'm ready to have a fabulous spring now. As if I'd be pouting when the buds are out and BBQ's are fired up and I can wear skirts and tan my legs. I mean really, who can be grumpy when their legs are tanned? And not even orange fake baked, but authentic, patchy, farmer tanned!
So, I'll just get over myself now.

Out of control

I've been living on the precipice of panic- my heart beats through my shirt, my head pounds late into the night, my eyes bat long languid blinks. The little storm cloud of doom and gloom seems to follow me around and there's nothing I can do. I feel out of control - mainly because that's exactly what I am beside the world and all the things causing me to panic are out of my control.

So what a timely verse to come across as I am deliberating over what to do in a helpless spot:
1 Samuel 12:16
Now then, stand still and see this great thing the LORD is about to do before your eyes!

I think this sounds a little too much like patience, but in the absence of any reasonable ideas on how to react to my current crises, I guess I'll stand still and see.

Perhaps I'll even have a witty quip or a clever joke before long too. Wouldn't that be a lovely change from the pity trip segment of my life novel.

Bottoms Up

I went to an AIDS fundraiser tonight (to improve my spirits after a pretty downer week I guess).
And as I sit in my cozy little home tonight I am perplexed and overwhelmed. Overwhelmed because people are starving and life goes on. I'm just not sure how we can justify ourselves- standing around in uncomfortable $200 pumps, tipsy on $5 beers, batting our eyelashes at each other at Lydia's while watching images of people dying in squallor. We're a sick, twisted, preverted little group of middle-class, mostly white, North Americans.
And I for one, am guilty as charged. I hate that I'm part of a society that systematically kills more and more of the poor on account of its own greed. I hate that I cannot seem to extract myself from its allure.
My new month resolution is to sacrifice something.
I think I'll sacrifice booze. All month. That's a useless waste of my money. Every time I want a drink this month, I'll put five bucks in the fund. And now that it's here, written on this public post which both of you read, I'll be held accountable to it.
I'm sick of feeling and acting helpless...I'm sure a more sober Louise would be better at saving the world anyway. Beer slows me, wine dulls me, gin, uh - well, everyone knows what gin does, and tequilla tends to kick me in the junk. So cheers - to Koolaid and a new month.
I love the start of an adventure.

tick-tick-tick

This ancient ticking clock is perhaps the most infuriating background noise of all time.
So long as I have something going on, a word to say, or anything to do - I can't hear it. But in this moment of silence it nags at my empty thoughts...tick-tick-tick.
As I sit here tonight in my dad's basement (where I'm babysitting my dad) I am feeling bleak sentimentality seep into my cold feet.
Tick-tick-tick.
This ticking clock feels like foreshadowing for whatever lies on the other side of this evening, this night, this morning. I can't help but feel a certain sense of dread as each moment passes.
Tick-tick-tick.
It's hard to believe that I had a 'normal' life only 4 months ago. I would have never dreamed that my mom would get cancer, and have surgery, and lose her hair; or that my dad would get a blood clot and have hemorrhaging and hernias and look sicker and sicker by the day; or that school would end, and that all the while life would keep tick-tick-ticking right along as though none of this was of any consequence.
And perhaps it isn't. It's just a blip - a few ticks of this ticking time bomb.
I just can't help but feel a slight twinge of uneasiness. I'd just hate to waste one of those moments that tick by so easily, steadily - I'd hate to waste any what with so much life to be lived.