Friday, December 28, 2007

"...soon will be making another run..."


I have been busy, busy, busy, like never before. So many things are happening. New jobs, new contracts, perhaps a new house, and waddaya know, Lee - the not-so ingenious engineer - father of my children, is taking me to court because he thinks he pays too much child support. Bastard.



Whatever. I hired a pitbull-lawyeress and will see him in court on January 16th. The hell with em', I say.



Meanwhile, I will be spending the next week on the Carnival Valor, in the carribean, with my cruise buddies. I plan to have lots of fun, to put it lightly.



When I get back, I'm starting everything anew (as you can already see it's started already :))



Happy new year to all my friends, known and unknown, all over the world.




B.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Bumps in the road

I bumped into the Lieutenant last weekend; walked straight passed him at the Heart & Crown, didn't even notice him. He, on the other hand, stopped me by putting his hand on my shoulder as I was walking out. I was with Keith, and we just had a few pints. He was sitting at the bar with one of his buddies.

-Hey there Bridges; how are you?

-Oh! er...hi...

-How was your dinner?

-My dinner?

(For some reason I thought he was referring to my diner with another beau, i.e. the Professor. An awkward silence ensues. Penny drops.)

-Oh! My dinner....the dinner at my place, three weeks ago....yes...well it was great, I served lobster, we all got drunk, everybody had a blast.

-That's great.

We both smile. His buddy, whom I had never seen before, looks at me, then at Keith, and says to the Lieutenant : "You guys work together???"

Awkward silence again. Lieutenant looks at Keith with a cheeky smile; someone's who suspects something fishy is going on, and replies.

-No; we met at the Lieutenant's Pump, you know, on Elgin. So Keith, how's your wife?

-She's a bit hungover actually; we had a late night. We're on our way to meet her.

I look at him and say nothing. I just smile unawaringly. Another awkward silence. Enough. That's my cue to wave the boys goodbye.

-It was nice to see you; you boys play nice, now!

I wink at the Lientenant whilst merrily walking out. Keith follows me out the door.

- Your guy just gave me that look....

- What look?

- The look of the guy who suspects another guy of having an affair!

- What????

- Everytime we bump into him, we're alone together, Bridges...and he gives me that smile...

- Well he knows you're Monica's husband...Surely he doesn't think....No...really????

Keith looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

That can't be good for either of us.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Souvenirs d'enfance au goût du jour


Moi aussi je me fais éditeur.


Merci à la 'vraie' Martine pour le lien :)


Friday, October 26, 2007

Meet the Professor

A few weeks ago, as you may remember, I met a very nice gentleman, a British gentleman for that matter, who works as a prominent professor & researcher at Carleton University. On our first time out together, we had a wonderful time, chatted alot and ackowledged a mutual interest. But as the evening went on, he got a little drunk (I think he must have drunk about 5 or 6 wine glasses; I guess he was nervous) and transformed into Dr. Jekyll right before my eyes. From the perfectly courteous professor talking about his life in England and the reasons that got him here, stranded in Ottawa, ( I told him not to worry; everybody is stranded in Ottawa, mind you) he transformed into a gutsy ladies' man with nothing to loose - He blurted out I'd like to fuck your brains out at some point - cue to my jaw dropping - me not knowing how to reply. Up to that point, I was having a perfectly non-sexual and interesting conversation with the most interesting man I had met in a long time - and not waiting for a reply from my part , he kissed me passionately - over the table and his 6 empty wine glasses at Big Daddy's. I was not expecting such a hot & heavy turn of situation at that point of the evening, but to my own surprise, I was quite turned on by such a curveball. I'm usually the one who shocks and I love to be caught with my guard down. It doesn't happen very often.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Trop féministe?


Stéphanie, my office colleague told me that I'm too feminist because I said that social bonds between genders are always, always implied in any type of social relation whatsoever.


Perhaps I am.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Irony, life is all about irony

I have been crazy-busy in the last few days. I am looking to buy a new house, looking to find a new job, and possibly if I'm lucky, a new boyfriend. (actually I never really stop doing that - I just pretend I'm not). Various events occured which contributed to point me in the right direction; I have found a great new house not too far from where I live, so the kids don't have to change school (of all the things I really can not be arsed to do is go through one year - yes, one year - of the trials & tribulations of uprooted children...it is quite unecessary) a new-build townhouse, with 3, yes, three complete bathrooms and a lovely fireplace and an open-space kitchen and dining room - my dream come true - that could be ready as soon as next March. I'm a happy camper.

Then, job-wise, I have been offered a few opportunities, all of which were interesting, but not enough to get me out of Kopinski. Plus, when Mr. Kopinski heard I was looking to better my situation, he offered me a raise, a pass for the indoor parking (see previous post), tickets for a popular show in town and somehow, the documents I have been getting lately are much more interesting then what I'm used to. Plus, I kinda like the guy. He puts up with my diva-ish behaviour from time to time, and it makes me feel at home. And it doesn't hurt that I had a $500 bonus on my paycheck this week. Thank you Mr. Kopinski; I love to feel the appreciation, especially when you put it that way.


Love-wise, two weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting a very interesting chap. I sometimes go to these single dinners for professionals downtown Ottawa, just for the sake of it. It's not very often that I get to meet people I would like to see again, but last time, I met a rocket-scientist, quite litteraly. He's British, arrived last January, is an engineering professor & researcher at a prominent university in town and is quite charming. Can you believe my luck???? A single Englishman in Ottawa??? Well cut my leg and call me shorty.

We have a date tonight. Café Paradiso.

Tomorrow, rugby finals.

Life is good.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

Divas @ work

From: Bridges Lafleur
Sent: October 3, 2007 10:00 AM
To: Mr. Kopinski
Subject: just a thought

…and it would be very nice to have a parking pass for the underground lot for the winter, if possible (I think one shall become available soon?)


From: Mr. Kopinski
Sent: 3 octobre 2007 10:12
To: Bridges Lafleur
Subject: RE: just a thought
Importance: High

Only available for full-timers when they come up…seniority is also factored in…but…one never knows…

From: Bridges Lafleur
Sent: October 3, 2007 10:12 AM
To: Mr. Kopinski
Subject: RE:RE: just a thought

Fine then!

From: Mr. Kopinski
Sent: 3 octobre 2007 10:13
To: Bridges Lafleur
Subject: RE:RE:RE: just a thought
Importance: High

Do I detect a bit of displeasure/attitude…?


From: Bridges Lafleur
Sent: October 3, 2007 10:14 AM
To: Mr. Kopinski
Subject: RE:RE:RE:RE: just a thought

Your detection abilities are very acute, Mr. Kopinski! Do I not count for as much as a full-time translator??? I have been working here for two years now! I produce more words translated than some of the translators who sit here 40 hours a week!!! I'm not asking for much! Winter is coming and I hate to walk in the snow in my high heels from my car to the office! I desperatly NEED a space in the underground car park!! Please don't make me feel like I am asking for you to unhook the stars for little ol' moi, with all due respect!!!

From: Mr. Kopinski
Sent: 3 october 2007 10:16
To: Bridges Lafleur
Subject: RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: just a thought
Importance: High

ALL RIGHT BRIDGES!!!! Enough with the diva act already....I'll have your parking pass ready next week. By the way, I have assigned a very important file we just received for you. Top secret. 8 000 words. Due Tuesday. Surely you can pull it off?

Monday, October 01, 2007

In praise of cold showers



Who says romance is dead?


This morning in my mailbox. At 9 h 30.


Bonjour Bridges,


Hopefully you had a great Sunday! And that you managed to reorganize your house... :)




(An unexpected desire to clean & reorganize my house on Sunday was my - sad but true - reason for not wanting to see my aspiring prétendant monégasque on Sunday)


In regards to our Friday evening, I hope I didn't provoke something you didn't want to do … !! I wouldn't want you to think I'm one of those obnoxious parisian men you spoke to me about!



(What parisian men? I remember telling him my story of the danish father met briefly in Paris who tried to stick his tongue in my mouth whilst holding his 6 month old baby in one arm - after a one hour conversation about family, Canada and Denmark - cue to Bridges running away in disgust from the parisian café - but I swear, I have nothing no more personnal dirt about parisian men - but give me a few minutes, I'm sure I could make some up)




I enjoyed that sexual relationship with you on Friday night but I felt a certain hesitation during the act...which is very normal because you don't know me very well.

(WHAT!!!!!!!!!!)

By the way, I have to tell you that I went through a complete STD testing in the last few weeks (blood test, analyse, urinary tract) and ALL (yes, that was underlined) the tests were negative.

(THANK GOD FOR THAT!!!!!!)


Next time I see you, if you decide you ever want to see me again, I will bring the original documents proving the results.

(Don't worry mate; Somehow, now I don't see that happening.)


Despite everything, I don't want to see you again just for the sex, and I enjoyed the time I spent with you in bed and I think your work and your life are very interesting.

Plus, you are very funny and I had a lot of fun discussing with you.

(Thank you luv, er...spread the word?)


Call me whenever you want...anytime..really, anytime, day or night...I enjoyed talking to you...and I don't think for a second that you are like this obsessive girl who stalked me for a week that I told you about... :)

(ER...HELP?!)

OK. Now, please don't see this as a way of thrashing a man's interest in yours truly with floods of sarcasm in the name of self defense triggered by fear of...of....but...

Right about now, I feel like the flicker on the candle as it's being extinguishded by Niagara Falls. And a bit worried that I'm going to be stalked for a week.

I think my unconscious might be sending me signals from the depths. I can feel wires connecting as I write.

(There goes my mobile - well waddaya know - it's the guy who was stalked for a week by an obsessive GIRL - Look at me NOT picking up the phone)

This may be my unconscious talking, but I really feel the urge to watch an old western musical comedy starring Bernadette Peters with the killer, um, title.


3h25 PM : Another phone call. Another message.
3h27 PM : Another phone call. This time from a 'private number'
3h45 PM : Another email.

I think the kids & will be going out tonight.

Saturday, September 29, 2007

Lobster feast & unexpected courtship


Everything is ready.

Rose & Justin helped me do the shopping and get everything ready for tonight's dinner party. Rose picked out each lobster that would be executed in honour of our guests out of the shop's aquarium; Justin couldn't get over the fact that we were actually counting on eating those creepy looking things. 'Mum...I want chicken, ok? Are you sure you don't want to try sweetie? They taste much more delicious than they look you know! The look on his face told me he wasn't convinced. Chicken it is, then. He was way more interested by the sweets in the near-by counter.
As of now, I'm still working on Justin picking up the mountains of Lego that are scattered on the basement floor. I set up the guest bed as well; Surely Monica & Keith will spend the night. There's no way they will be able to make it back to their place after we empty out all the wine bottles that the guests are sure to bring.

Heads up on the start of my weekeend. Well. I went to a dinner party on Thursday (yes, another one, it is the weekend of dinner parties, apparently) and...kinda met someone. A very charming engineer (yes, just like my ex-husband, Lee, but this one actually has a personnality) from Monaco (European!!!! Hurray!!!) who set up shop in Ottawa, believe it or not. Quite interesting, really : he works for the national defense, flies helicopters, was a war pilot in the Gulf war in the early 90's and spends weekends in the south of France from time to time. GREAT accent :) Hum. We met on Thursday, had a blast, he asked for my number, called me up on Friday morning; Friday evening, he came over to my place with a dozen red roses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other (European men have got it going on, girls, let me tell you) by 11 o'clock we were snogging on my purple couch, and this morning he called me up to find out if I had slept well (like a baby, thank you very much, I said, blushing as I was sipping my coffee) and if I was busy on Sunday evening. Needless to say, I can't keep up with the pace of things. Er...Sunday? Well, er, don't know, let me see...(why is it so easy to bitch about men not calling us girls back when we want it so badly to happen and so difficult to deal with when it does happen?)

Sigh....There are lovely roses on my dinner table....

My guests will be here in a few hours.

Did I mention I invited Arthur?

Friday, September 28, 2007

Mickey & friends set up camp


AARGHHHHHHH!!!! Lord help me!


Yesterday I noticed some strange leaf torn-up bits on my downstairs loo. Strange, I thought. But didn't think twice about it. I cleaned it up, and called it a day.

This morning, there was a rather imposing quantity of dust and broken leaves on the loo....I was puzzled, then...er, thought about it, and slowly lift up my head...I looked at the ceiling above the loo.

Dear God.

There are bits of various stuff coming out of my ceiling fan, you know, the ones you have installed in bathrooms that don't have a window, the ones that have an exterior vent? Looks like there are uninvited guests at my place....and I hate mice with a passion...I can't rationalize it for the life of me, they're so tiny, you know, my mum always said Les ptites bibittes ça mange pas les grosses bibittes (Little critters don't eat the bigger ones) they can't hurt me, I know, but they CREEP ME OUT!!!!!!!! I need help!!!

I wonder if Arthur is busy.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Ranking update

Case closed.
The lieutenant left a message on my voice mail yesterday morning saying "I'm sorry it took me 4 days to answer you, but I will pass for the dinner on Saturday. I like to do my own thing, follow my own instinct. If you need to talk to me, you know where to reach me", to which I replied via text message "all right, have it your way - not sure I understand but - be well."
Thinking about it later on and unhappy with our virtual communication process, and confused, I called him back later that evening.
-So, er, you decided not to come? I'm not too sure I understand your "instinct" bit...Are you all right?
His tone was very dry, and surprised that I was actually calling him.
-I just don't think it's appropriate. I want to keep things the way they are. I'm going to Montreal this weekend...it's an instinct thing, you know...
-Er...Ok! G'bye then!
-Goodbye.
Two things : 1) I have no idea what he's talking about, and 2) If he had no intention of coming in the first place, which I didn't think he would have anyway, but still, OR no interest whatsoever in yours truly, WHY oh God WHY did he make this storyline last this bloody long???? A simple "I'm busy, sorry" or "no thanks!" would have made things so much more simpler for me when I actually called him up to invite him over. This just confirms that I know absolutely nothing about men and that obviously, the silly girl that I am can't take a hint. Sue me for caring for somebody who doesn't give a shite.
After that call I deleted "Lieutenant" from my mobile contacts, disgusted at my whole reasonning process.
What the bloody hell is wrong with me?

Monday, September 24, 2007

The dinner party


Meanwhile, I decided to organize a little dinner get-together at my place next Saturday. I invited Monica and Keith, my travel-crazy friends from Ottawa, Stéphanie, who shares an office with me at Kopinski & co and her boyfriend Pablo, and Arthur, my neighbor. I also invited the Lieutenant. Thing is, he hasn't confirmed if he'll be there or not. I spoke to him over the phone last Thursday (yes, he eventually returned my call...I am very impatient and get p.o'ed easily when things don't go my way, I'm afraid) to invite him over, and he seemed flattered and somewhat interested to partake. But, and please help me if you have some insight, said that he was 'unsure' if it was the 'appropriate' thing to do.


-Innapropriate? I said. Don't you eat dinner everyday?

-Of course, silly...he replied. I can't talk about it now, really, I'm at work.

-Er...ok then. Well call me when you've made up your mind, then...Looking forward to seeing you again.

-You too. Bye!

-Bye.


So as of now (it's only Monday morning, let's not freak out) he hasn't confirmed his presence for Saturday. And I for one have no idea what he's talking about. I can understand 'I'm busy', 'I have other plans' or even 'I'm not even going to return your phone call that's how much I don't care' But...'It would be nice, I'm not sure if it would be appropriate?'


Don't get it. I must be missing some crucial information.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

How to kiss a neighbor


Meet my neighbour, Arthur.


Arthur lives right next door to me. His front door stands about 15 feet away from mine, and once in a while, the postman will leave his Financial Post in my mailbox by mistake. Arthur almost never leaves his house; he works from home, and when he does go out, it's to go across the street to visit Frank & Cathy, the neighbours. Arthur is in his early 40's, and is very handsome, in a 'poète maudit' kind of way. I wouldn't say he's the strong silent type; I think he's more of a suffering silent and recluse type. A poor lonesome Swedish cowboy that wants to be left alone until he figures out where it is exactly he should be heading.


I started to talk to Arthur again not too long ago; I would say a few months, maybe six or seven, even though I've lived here for 2 years now. The first time I ever spoke to him was over the fence from our respective gardens. He was with his wife and I was with fuckface at the time. They were welcoming us to the neighbourhood and offering us cold beer on a hot June day. Fuckface and I had just moved in our new house and were getting acquainted with our new neighbours while the kids were trying out their new bikes. Happier times for Arthur and me.

At first I thought Arthur was one of those redneck Ontarians; didn't strike me as someone I want to put on the list of my favourite people. In the short period of time Fuckface was around, he managed to get into arguments with Arthur for reasons that elude me right now. All I know is I remember my boyfriend saying the neighbour was an asshole, and didn't make anything of it. Turns out, two years after, that Arthur is quite knowledgeable and funny. He has a sarcastic sense of humour, which I love. He doesn't get out much though, or at least he hasn't for the last 2 years anyway. Now, I know all this because I've invited him over a few times for a drink, or for barbecues over the summer. He even helped me out gut my upstairs bathroom when I decided to retile it. I wanted to do it on my own, you know, female power and all, but I hit a wall when it all came down to taking out the old tiles. I was stuck, couldn't do it alone, and was about to cry of despair when I thought of my nice (yet very quiet) neighbour Arthur. Sometimes, it's nice to have a man around the house (not necessarily IN the house, but you know, around it) Especially when you have to smash out a tile floor with a hammer. He was happy to help me, I was forever grateful, and we spent half a day in my tiny bathroom. We wore construction goggles that steamed up every 3 minutes; you can imagine how attractive that made us look. We cracked jokes about 'banging' all day, drank beer and played music really loud. It was a fun day.


Arthur and I both went through very dark periods in our lives at the same time. Two years ago, about two weeks after Fuckface abandoned me in the house we had just bought together to zoom back to England, Arthur's wife collapsed on her basement floor. Just like that. Without warning. Brain clot. She was 38. Now Arthur, who had only known one woman up until then, suddenly became a widower at 40. I can't imagine what he went through. The days that followed the death of Arthur's wife drove me a bit insane; even if I didn't know her very well, I could feel the grief of the family members that reunited in Arthur's house through the walls, and since my own mental state was not too good at the time, I did the only thing I could to save my life. I pretended I didn't know what happened in the house next door. It made me too sad. I couldn't handle more sadness, especially not one of gigantic proportions. Let's just say that on our street corner, at that time, there was a dark cloud hovering above both our houses. I eventually got over mine, but Arthur is still struggling.


Over the past few months, I got to know him better, and grew quite fond of him. I always had a thing for loveable tortured types. Last Friday, I bumped into him as I was taking out the recycling bins. We chatted a bit, and, what the hell, I invited him over to watch a movie later on, when the kids would be asleep. Bring some booze, I said, and a stupid movie. We can just get pissed and laugh at the TV. Sounds like a plan, I'll see you later then, he said.


At 9h30 he knocked on the door, with beer in one hand and School for scoundrels in the other. Perfect, I said. I'll make popcorn, you open the beer.We snuggled up on the couch, watched a bit of the movie, laughed at how bad it was, drank beer, and chatted a little. I talked about how difficult it was to meet sensitive men; he talked about how he had no idea about anything that had to do with dating. He's not ready, he said. He seemed terrified about the whole concept of being with somebody else. I wanted to hug him and to stroke his hair. I told him he should have no problem meeting someone new, he was so attractive, intelligent, and funny. (Attractive, intelligent, and funny....hum....) You know Arthur...I really want to kiss you right now. He looked at me for a few seconds, not too sure about what to answer. It's not a good idea, he said. We're neighbours. Oh, I said. Then we looked at each other for a while. Tell me again why it's not a good idea?

Friday, September 21, 2007

Defensive counter measures, part I

I've been meaning to write all week, in fact, since I came back from my week-end in Toronto, but didn't actually get around to it. I was too exhausted, occupied, and to be honest, couldn't be arsed to talk about things that I knew would take me a few days to digest properly. A lot has happened in the past few weeks on a personal level. I have been caught up in a whirlwind of non-stop daily chores that I imposed on myself to keep me from reveling in personal turmoil - nothing dramatic, really - just friendships and basic human relations issues that forced me to look at myself and how I choose to nurture my friendships - what I look for in a friend, how I choose to support and reciprocate said friendship (or not, for that matter) and how I react to being hurt by sometimes unsuspecting friends. Let me start by analyzing my Toronto experience.

My previous post stated my somewhat "platonic" friendship with Al, my supposedly gay NY pal. Well, it turns out this Bridges has no idea what she's talking about. This, to me, just confirms that I know absolutely nothing, nothing I tell ya, about MALES. Not only isn't Al gay, (just writing this makes me want to scream out BUT HE IS! HE IS!! I'm convinced he is!!!) But he hooked up with this "older woman" from the group, who lives in Montreal. Now...I'm upset about this - obviously, I'm writing about it - and shocked. I just don't understand why it has such an effect on me. I was never attracted to Al in that way - I'm certainly not jealous about the whole thing, that's not where it hurts - After all, I'm the one who left for NY and Toronto with the set idea that I was meeting up with my ambiguously gay friend - but I ask myself...maybe, just maybe, did I hope for him to turn to me and declare his undying love for me? (No, that's not it. I just wanna burst out laughing thinking about it) Did I wish for a true friendship with a male that doesn't stink of underlying sexual innuendos? Am I just ego-bruised that he hasn't tried to hook up with me? What the hell is wrong with me then?


All these existantial questions triggered the need to set up defensive counter measures undertaken to protect myself. I am hurt, don't know why yet but damn, I feel something and it's not pleasant - it leaves a bitter repulsive taste in my mouth - therefore I have to act upon it. I feel threatened. And stupid. I stopped answering his text messages and didn't return his calls, despite the "WHAT DID I DO? WHY ARE YOU MAD AT ME??? that has been flashing on my mobile for the past three days now. I ignore him. I play the offended biatch. I am cowardly and childishly walking away from a problem - obviously one that is forcing me to look at myself from up-close - too up-close, that is - to save my life. And I can't explain why I feel compelled to save it; I just run.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Off to Toronto


As I write this short post, I'm getting ready to leave the office and zoom off to the Ottawa airport so I can catch a quick flight to Toronto, la ville-Reine, as we say in Quebec. I will be meeting up with about 20 pals from my April cruise, and of course, with my sexually ambiguous latino friend, Al, who was kind enough to have me over at his place in New York city in April. Apparently, or so Al wrote to one of his friends through a group message board, that we have a "weird brother & sister thing going on". I have no idea what he's talking about; to me, he's just my unawaringly gay friend from New-York. Mind you, we've slept in the same bed a few times now, and not even a glimpse of a ghost of a pass was attempted. He is quite attractive, and girls will agree with me: sometimes, you just don't "feel" the heterosexuality, no matter how cute the guy is. It's more of a brother & sister thing, okay, I'll give him that; but perhaps it's just weird to him; for everybody else, including yours truly, it's a given...


Catch up on Monday.


Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Cabin fever

For some reason, I seem to suffer from cabin fever every September. After all the hoopla resulting from coming back from vacation in Florida, the back to school frenzy (shopping for schol suppplies in crowded Wal-Mart alleys, searching desperatly for the specific notebook Not this one mummy, it's not the right colour-size-length-odour-ingredient content whilst trying to follow a way-too specific list of endless supplies from the school) and the inevitable cleaning out of the wardrobes (clothes now too small/ugly/worn-out for the kids, simply not wearable anymore according to my standards for myself), I streched my autumnal urges as to fixate on buying a new, bigger house for me & the pups. Crazy, you say? That's what my mum thought.

Bridges, penses-y deux minutes!!! Tu vas pas déménager ENCORE juste pour le fun de déménager! Ça a juste PAS D'ALLURE TON AFFAIRE!!!!
(Trans. "Bridges you can't be serious - You're not going to move AGAIN just for the sole purpose of moving! It just doesn't make any sense!!!!)
Well, after looking around and actually meeting up with a few estate agents in the neighborhood and visiting a few houses in my budget range (approximately 1400-1700 sq. ft. and at least 3 bedrooms), I came to the conclusion that Oh my God, mum was, for once, sort of right. Moving would be too much stress on the kids and the difference between my actual house and the one I could potentially buy is very limited. Changing quatre trente-sous pour une piasse (four quarters for a loonie) seems alot of effort for too little benefits. Problem solved. But the urge to start a new domestic project was still lingering...What's a Bridges to do????
Well, I decided to redo my whole bedroom, mind you. I spent the whole weekend painting the walls, my furniture, the trims, everything but the kitchen sink (who has a kitchen sink in their bedroom I ask you) and shopping like a mad woman at IKEA, Rona's, Loblaw's (yes, Loblaw's for home decor, I know, it seems daft) and other various shops around Ottawa for bedding, curtains, paint and miscelleneous decor tidbits. The result is quite pleasing, and quite drastic. I went from a boudoir-looking bedroom with purple walls, dark velour bedspread and golden accents to a fresh, clean looking contemporary bedroom with shiny black furniture, crisp white 4 star hotel quality linens and silvery grey walls.
How's that for cabin fever?
Do I really have to mention that I'm exhausted from my weekend, and that I still have paint in my hair?

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Catching my breath


Ouf! as soon as we got back from vacation, the kids went back to school, Rose starting 4th grade and Justin proudly entering his first....my babies are not babies anymore, or so it seems, judging by their refusal to wear clothes mummy picked out for them and insiting on choosing everything by themsleves...Of course Rose, as a girly-girl, has been throwing clothes related fits every morning before school since she was 5, but now my son has joined the fuss-parade! At least now they'll only have themselves to blame when they have "nothing to wear" in their closets...

Vacation was a success, and although it was incredibly hot, we managed to live the high life for one week, and while I was spraying my kids with 50 FPS suntan lotion, I forgot to save some for me...Result? A peeling tummy due to the inexperience of wearing a bikini. Sure beats frost bite though.

What's next?

A weekend in Toronto from September 14 to the 16 along with some cruise buddies.

Oh, and a few existantial updates in the next few days.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Bridges & the kids off for vacation


The kids and I will be off until It's time for them to go back to school, On August 29th. Meanwhile, we will be visiting the Toronto Ex (my son wants to see the Guiness world record of the highest Lego tower being built) and spending a week in Orlando, Florida, at the Hard Rock Hotel & Universal Studios, right next door!

Au revoir!

Monday, August 13, 2007

Vos doigts trempent dedans

Le test de grossesse positif traîne toujours sur la table à café, en attendant de choquer quelqu’un d’autre. Assise mollement dans mon fauteuil comme si de rien n’était, les jambes surélevées, je tripote nerveusement la télécommande de la télévision, en tentant tant bien que mal de trouver quelque chose qui retiendra mon attention pendant plus de trois minutes. Que de la merde. Déjà que la télévision nous offre la « télé-réalité » en direct tous les soirs, le jour, c’est encore pire. Regarder une animatrice /sexologue nous parler de pénis et de vagin sur un ton nasillard de maîtresse d’école, la bouche en cul de poule, est vraiment une expérience psychotronique. Dans l’état où je suis, je m’attends à voir surgir un caméraman du décor et lui foutre un vibrateur dans la gorge, la tirer par les cheveux et se mettre à l’enculer par derrière en pleine télévision. Ça lui donnerait un peu de crédibilité, tiens; cette femme dégage autant d’énergie sexuelle qu’un parcomètre expiré. En tous cas, ça lui enlèverait le manche à balai qu’elle a dans le cul. Et puis ça me changerait les idées. Ça, madame, c’est de la télé-réalité! Et en plein jour! Écouter de pauvres crétins raconter de quelle façon ils ont été abusés sexuellement dans leur jeunesse est vraiment le summum du bide télévisuel. C’est tellement pathétique; je n’ai absolument aucune sympathie pour ces cons et conasses. Je les méprise tous autant qu’ils sont. Ces gens n’ont vraiment rien à faire de leurs journées pour raconter leurs névroses sexuelles et leur flagrante bêtise à une matante cochonne. La majorité des ces idiots inventent tout, de toute façon. Aussitôt que quelqu’un daigne écouter ce qu’ils ont à dire, que les projecteurs sont braqués sur eux, ils sont prêts à tout pour demeurer dans la lumière aussi longtemps qu’ils le pourront, quitte à se confesser en chantant et en giguant, for entertainment purposes. Quand la réalité se mire à travers la lentille de la fiction, est-ce la fiction qui devient réalité, ou le contraire? Si on invente sa vie, vit-on dans une fiction? Comment peut-on savoir si la réalité est vraie si personne n’en est témoin? La vie des gens semble parfois tellement triste et moche que seul l’outre mesure de malheur la rend intéressante. Et le fait de raconter sa vie à la télé rend le quotidien important, puisqu’il retient l’attention. Quelqu’un, enfin, nous regarde.

Je les plains, je pense même téléphoner à cette animatrice misérable afin de lui dire à quel point son émission est plate, plate, plate. À mourir d’ennui, à se pêter la tête sur les murs, à se planter une fourchette dans la main gauche, juste pour voir si on peut encore sentir quelque chose.

Je porte la même robe de chambre depuis deux jours, et je n’ai pas pris ma douche depuis que je l’ai enfilée. Je ne fume plus, ne boit plus, ne me fait plus vomir. Je passe mes journées à dormir. En fait, si : je vomis tout de même, mais cette fois, je n’ai pas besoin de me foutre le doigt dans le fond de la gorge. Les hormones de grossesse en effervescence ont le même effet sur mon estomac qu’un index bien placé sur l’aluette. Je me force à manger, même si je n’ai pas faim. Les seules choses que je peux avaler sont maintenant des biscuits soda salés, et des cornichons Mrs. White. Je sais, c’est le truc le plus cliché qui soit. Mais d’écouter l’inconscient collectif est la seule chose qui m’empĉche d’être tout à fait seule en ce moment. J’aurais pu choisir de bouffer de la crème glacée aux fraises et du smoke-meat, mais ça fait engraisser, et puis ça se vomit très mal.

Je suis tout l’envers de qui j’étais. Avant, j’étais une enseignante aspirante-écrivaine perturbée, maintenant je suis une écrivaine engrossée perturbatrice et une enseignante expirée. Je n’ai pas travaillé depuis une semaine, lorsque que j’ai annoncé à mes patrons du cégep que j’étais enceinte.

Impudique et sous le choc, j’ai déballé tout mon sac devant mes collègues lors du dernier meeting des profs. Tout le monde me regardait comme si j’étais complètement folle. À leurs yeux, j’avais perdu la carte, l’enseignement collégial m’avait fait perdre la boule. Je leur ai tout expliqué, pourtant, sur le ton le plus égal qui soit. Aucune trace évidente de stress post-traumatique, ni de dépression pré-partum. Je leur ai raconté que j’étais enceinte d’un amant dont j’ignorais le nom. Comme les gens des départements de littérature sont friands d’histoires croustillantes, mon auditoire était suspendu à mes lèvres, et nul ne pouvait me contredire ou remettre en question la crédibilité de mon histoire. Je faisais maintenant partie de ces gens médiocres qui téléphonent aux émissions en direct afin d’étaler leurs traumatismes et leurs déboires conjugaux sur la place publique. Ma réalité devenait maintenant fiction. Ou était-ce le contraire? La ligne entre les deux devenait de plus en plus mince. Comme le caoutchouc d’un condom que je croyais à toute épreuve.

Quand j’ai dit à Lee que j’étais enceinte, il m’a regardé avec un grand sourire et est demeuré silencieux pendant au moins cinq minutes. Moi j’attendais qu’il dise quelque chose. Wow! Tu es contente? De toute évidence, lui, était ravi. Comme ça, instantanément, sans trop se poser de questions. Spontanément heureux. Tout de suite il a cru qu’il avait quelque chose à voir dans cette histoire de reproduction. Je l’ai regardé, droit dans les yeux, et je lui ai répondu : « Oui. Je suis contente.» Il a vu que quelque chose n’allait pas; remarqué mon malaise, mes yeux embués mon air stoïque, ma main droite qui se dirigeait furtivement vers mon ventre, mon regard étrangement absent dans un moment qui se voulait être un des moment les plus tendres et intimes de la vie d’un couple. Mais mon regard n’allait tout simplement pas avec l’idée fantasmée qu’il s’était fait de SA grossesse.

Puis, il s’est mis à calculer. Et à transpirer.

Je l’ai vu : c’est à peine s’il ne s’est pas mis à compter sur ses doigts, ses orteils. Je l’ai observé dénombrer les jours et les semaines qui s’étaient écoulées depuis nos derniers ébats. Inventorier les heures de temps supplémentaires qu’il s’était tapées durant les semaines précédentes, les soirs où il était rentré alors que je dormais déjà à poings et à cuisses fermées, réduisant considérablement les chances d’accouplement somnambuliques. Recenser le nombre de fois où nous avons copulé, puis, en dernier recours, évaluer les chances d’avoir peut-être éjaculé dans mon vagin inconsciemment.

Alors, monsieur le mari; selon vos calculs et si la tendance se maintient, le nombre de relations coïtales ininterrompues réelles ou estimées est minime, voire inexistant. Chances de procréer? Less than zero. J’ai vu les chiffres s’additionner et se soustraire devant ses yeux, son esprit alterner entre les faits qu’il tentait tant bien que mal de faire coller à la situation. Mais ça ne collait pas. Il a bien essayé de trouver un élément manquant, un facteur x, une donnée inconnue qui aurait tout expliqué. Un condom déchiré, un oubli sous le signe de la passion, une éjaculation précoce hyper-concentrée en spermatozoïdes ultra-puissants en pleine période d’ovulation, une fécondation du Saint-esprit (version des temps modernes). Mais rien. Rien ne laissait croire que ce que je venais de lui annoncer était réel. Parce que le seul élément qui ferait concorder ses savants calculs serait qu’il se soustraie de l’équation. Et me voir brandir le petit bâton de plastique blanc sur lequel est inscrit un petit « + » bleu mène à la véracité de mes propos. Ce bâton traîne dans mon sac à main depuis une semaines. Je le transporte avec moi, partout ou je vais, tel une baguette magique. Je le brandis au moindre doute sur ma situation. Comme si ce truc délimitait la frontière entre la fiction et la réalité. J’ai cru quelques jours que si je le jetais aux ordures, je ne serai peut-être plus enceinte, après tout. Si je fais l’autruche, telle une ado, peut-être est ce que tout ça disparaîtra? Et puis pourquoi, nom de Dieu de merde, suis-je toujours enceinte si je ne veux pas de cet enfant? Les avortements, ça existe et c’est tout simple, non? Si. Je le pense.

Quand ta fiction te rattrape, c’est que t’as pas couru assez vite.

-Euh…et tu es enceinte depuis combien de temps?

Là, son sourire commençait à s’estomper. À être aussi ambivalent et incertain que celui d’un vendeur de voitures usagées lorsqu’on lui demande la durée de la garantie. Il doit sûrement s’être trompé dans ses calculs, ça lui semble évident. Il cherche, il cherche, mais il ne trouve pas. Son visage s’est assombri, et il a commencé à frotter ses mains ensemble, nerveusement.

-Depuis 8 semaines.
-T’es sure?
-Oui. Positive. Positivement certaine, et enceinte. Regarde.

Je sors le test de grossesse de mon sac à main et lui fout sous le nez. Tant pis si ça sent la pisse. Ouf. Coup dur pour l’orgueil d’un mâle. Masculinité chancelante marquée d’un X bleu.

-Voyons voir…huit semaines, donc, deux mois…Et on faisait quoi exactement, il y a deux mois? C’était pendant le…au…au…congrès…Le congrès de quoi, déjà?

-Le colloque annuel des ingénieurs routiers. Ste-Hyacinthe. Du 21 au 24.

Merde. Son malaise me rend malade. Il est con ou quoi? Ben non, nounoune. Il est juste dans le déni. Tu vois bien qu’il tente par tous les moyens de ne PAS se rendre à l’évidence qu’il n’y est pour rien dans cette fécondation? Qu’il n’est pas le père d’un embryon installé confortablement dans l’utérus de sa femme? Que sa charmante épouse a sauté la clôture, et qu’elle s’est magistralement empêtrée dans le barbelé?

Tu ne t’en souviens plus, tu ne t’en souviens plus…moi je m’en souviens, mais laisse-moi NE PAS te rafraîchir la mémoire : pendant que mon vagin et moi nous tapions le symposium de l’épouse en chaleur délaissée et en pleine période d’ovulation au bar le plus branché en ville, tu étais en plein congrès de l’Ordre des Ingénieurs trompés du Québec. Pendant que je me baladais en mini-jupe en en talons pour chasser le mec afin de le rôtir sur tourne-broche et de me le farcir, tu discutais plans et devis avec tes petits copains. Tu argumentais sur les agrandissements, la mécanique-électricité et tout le tralala, et tout ces trucs plus assommants qu’un viaduc qui nous tombe dessus alors qu’on roule tranquillement en voiture sur l’autoroute. Sauf qu’en me regardant brandir mon petit bâton de plastique, expression perplexe imprimée dans le visage, tu te dis que le viaduc, c’est toi qu’il assome en ce moment. Et comme le patron de cet ingénieur incompétent qui a conçu les plans de ce viaduc solide comme un château de cartes, tu te dis Y’a quelqu’un en quelque part qu’y’a pas fait sa job! Et donc, en ce moment, tu te dis que merde, t’as pas fait ta job. Mais si tes calculs sont exacts et que la marge d’erreur est mince, les probabilités sont bonnes : tu n’y es pour rien. Tu n’es pas le père de cet embryon qui te fait des byes-byes par l’entremise d’une baguette de plastique. Si les statistiques parlent, ce n’est évidemment pas de ta faute si ton couple éclate. Ce sont des choses qui arrivent. Comme un viaduc qui s’effondre sur une autoroute au beau milieu de l’après-midi. Tu n’es pas le père. Le viaduc s’est effondré, et ce n’est pas de ta faute. (Je t’ai) Ta femme t’a trompé, (Je suis) elle est enceinte, et ce n’est certainement pas de ta faute, nom de Dieu de merde! Tu n’y es pour rien! (Je) Elle le porte en (mon) son sein! Dans (mon) son corps! (Mon) Son corps est la preuve de (ma) sa culpabilité! (Je ) Elle ne peut pas le réfuter, c’est de (ma) sa faute!

Eh oui, c’est ma faute. Par ma faute, par ma faute, par ma très grande faute. Mea culpa. Mea Mucho grande culpa. Tu pourras toujours dire, comme cet ingénieur qui a conçu le viaduc écroulé, que c’est parde que tes plans n’ont pas été suivis avec exactitude. Que ça ne s’est pas déroulé selon ton planning. Que si seulement le devis avait été suivi à la lettre, tout cela ne serait pas arrivé. Rien n’aurait bougé. Tout serait construit sur des bases solides, solides et ferme comme le béton. Mais lourd à porter en crisse, aussi lourd que la culpabilité que je devrais ressentir mais qui ne surgit tout simplement pas. Je ne sens rien. Comme ce confrère, tu pourras t’en laver les mains et t’en sortir plus blanc que blanc, auréole sur la tête et larmes de cocu sur les joues. Mais vous ne comprenez pas…Elle n’a pas suivi les plans À LA LETTRE! Not MY problem! Les chiffres ne mentent pas. Les lettres, si. Et les femmes aussi.

Alors il m’a quittée. Comme ça. La queue entre les pattes, les valises pleines d’incompréhensions et d’orgueil piétiné, un gros point d’interrogation au-dessus de la tête. Je devrais être catastrophée, défaite, détruite. En fait, je le suis. Je crois. Je nie, ça me semble évident. Et tous les moyens sont bons pour éviter d’y faire face. Je perds tranquillement contact avec mon corps. Je perds contact avec mes émotions. Je me perds, un tout petit peu plus à chaque jour, chaque jour que ce petit corps prends des forces. Qu’il me prend MES forces. Mon corps se transforme tranquillement en une usine de chair humaine, et moi j’attends. Je regarde mon corps se métamorphoser, je sens mes hormones fluctuer, mes états d’âme dégringoler. Et je n’agit pas. Je tripote encore nerveusement la télécommande. J’attends que quelque chose se passe.


Friday, August 10, 2007

No-brainer of the week - gotta love our government's thorough analysis


Whilst translating...


"Numerous statistical studies have led scientists to conclude that exposure to air pollution can increase the risk of lung and heart disease."

OR

"De nombreuses études statistiques ont incité les scientifiques à conclure que l’exposition à la pollution atmosphérique peut augmenter le risque de maladies respiratoires et cardiaques."

Duh. (T'es pas sérieux, toi-là, là?)

Almost as obvious as "Sticking your head under water may increase the risk of drowning"

Ne vous inquiétez point, francophones du Canada : je travaille d'arrache-pied afin de vous transmettre ces informations vitales dans votre langue, et n'ayez crainte, aucune subtilité ne vous sera épargnée :)

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

The exception that makes the rule

Ran into the lieutenant last night - sigh - we bumped into each other as we were both heading for our favorite bar stool. Rita, a fifty-something Scottish bartender-ess who seems to knows the lieutenant very well, greeted him, then me, and offered him a little taste of a new beer from a freshly hooked up keg. What's it like? I said. He had just emptied his glass; he looked around to see if anyone was looking, then streched out his arm to the beer tap and put a little in his glass for me to taste. Nice, I said, smiling. He inquired about how I was, what I had been up to, chatted a bit about the differences between Montreal & Ottawa, then kissed my Botox-free forehead. We'll meet again here, all right? he said; winked, and went back to his table where his buddies were.

Did I mention he's from Montreal, like me? That he speaks French and English very well, like me?

That he's absolutely gorgeous?

Yep.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Honey pots & misplaced wrinkles

At least once every two years, a woman has to go through considerable hell to set up a necessary pilgrimage to the gynecologist's office. It's not the most pleasant of experiences, in more ways than one. First of all, in Quebec, gynecologists might as well be ghosts. Unfortunately for all of us here, gynecologists are one of many specialized health practitioners who are never available for consultation with their patients, unless you are a) pregnant, and even so you might be turned away; b) suffering from an illness that needs immediate attention, and even so you might be turned away; and c) a relative of said practitioner. Oh, there are a few hanging around; sure, you will find them in the yellow pages and yes, you will find a phone number where you can call their receptionists… but if you actually need to SEE one, say, for prevention purposes or general intentions of well-being, (you utopist fool) sorry dudette, but you will have to wait. This is what happened to me a few weeks ago.

-Bonjour Good morning bureau du Dr. Chose /Dr. So-and-so's office puis-je vous aider can I help you
-Yes, I would like to make an appointment with Dr. So-and-so, I -
-How far are you in your pregnancy?
-Oh, I'm not pregnant, I just need an annual PAP smear and prevention tests...you know... To see if everything is under control in the honey pot area -
- (big sigh of exasperation) We do not accept new patients unless you are 12 weeks pregnant… for follow-ups....you can call Dr. what's-her-face; she will give you an appointment. The number is......

Click.
Try again. Other call at Dr. What's-her-face, different bored overworked receptionist answers.

-Yes, I would like to make an appointment with Dr. What's-her-face for an annual check-up, I...
-Our soonest availability is in March 2009...Would you like me to put your name on the list?
-Er...I’m willing to pay…I just want to have an exam done!
-Sorry…March 2009 is the sooner we have. We might have a cancellation at some point though, but we follow our list of patients –
-How many people on the list, miss?
-Um…
-Never mind.

Click again. March 2009. Enough said.

I'm not even exaggerating. Ask any woman in need of a PAP smear in Quebec, they will all tell you the same thing: gynecologists have become a rare breed indeed. So what's a resourceful Canadian girl to do when the Quebec health care system simply doesn’t work? Well, simple. Hop in her car and drive for hours to jump the fence to Ontario, where gynecologists seem to accept your money and are therefore available for honey pot concerns that don't involve giving birth to another baby. Thank God for that.

So. Yesterday morning, I was on my way to small town Ontario, where a male gynecologist would help me achieve my goal of becoming the true health responsible woman that I am. (At least for today.) I have to say, I did not quite expect this in a gyno’s office.

The Dr.'s office is in a little bungalow, not too far from a reasonably sized regional hospital. The waiting room is furbished with nice leather couches and a big plasma screen. Big difference with public health service doctors where you have to wait on ordinary waiting room chairs. I talk to the receptionist, she tells me to have a seat, the Dr. will be right with me. I sit down and look around. A few artwork pieces representing pregnant woman are lying around. While I was waiting for the Dr. to call my name, a few glowing women with round bellies walked past, some of them alone, some of them with their partners. Anything but normal in a gynecologist's office. I stop looking around and pay attention to the plasma screen. An infomercial-type program was on; it seemed to be the only thing playing on it. On the infomercial, beautiful "older" women were talking about how good they were feeling now, and all of a sudden, video segment, before and after pictures, cue to the woman being lustily looked at in restaurants, at the office. She's happy, she's laughing, she had Botox injections and she's saying, hence the publicity slogan, that she did it "For three good reasons. Me, myself and I". I then noticed a huge cardboard sign in the back of the waiting room. Restylane...define yourself...in 10 by 4 panels...God...you couldn't avoid it...I caught myself looking in a little mirror I have in my purse. Wrinkles. All over my face. I was ghastly. All of a sudden I felt old, very old, and by the obvious looks of it, I needed to be facially depleted. It seemed so simple; an injection here, an injection there, take off years from your face, takes 15 minutes to do, who cares if it costs 350 dollars every 3 to 4 months and that it's made of BACTERIA; you can't put a price on female bliss, no? Every woman should do it, right? Injecting bacteria in your body is a good idea, right? Y’a rien là!

May I remind you that I am in a gynecologist's office, surrounded by pregnant women who are told to avoid everything but the kitchen sink (and I’m sure a soon-to-be published study will prove that indeed, the kitchen sink may cause harm to the unborn fetus) to protect the baby to come? Promoting cosmetology to women who are and will be going through the most body-deforming episode in a few months? Am I the only one who thinks these two "health" services don't quite fit together?

I snapped out of it when the smiling doctor called my name.

In the doctor's office I was quickly brought back to reality. A million things were going through my mind as I was laying on the table, feet in stirrups, trying to ignore the fact that some man I never met was scraping the inside of my cervix with a metal thingy whilst making small talk. Will I die of some new form of mutated STD? (Hypochondriac episode) Why is ovulation still so painful at 35? Why am I still irregular after giving birth twice? (PMS is brutal) Do I want to have my fallopian tube tied-up? (No way am I having another kid, shop is closed, thank you) Do I need to have my dislodged IUD removed? (Good memories. Smile to self) My labia minora was slightly torn because of an incompetent beautician a few weeks ago; still ouch. (That’ll teach me to have a Brazilian bikini wax done in some upper-class spa; go figure) Occasional unprotected sex…oops... (It happens) Oh my god, he's going to tell me how irresponsible I am with my honey pot!

Nope. Instead, he emerges from under the sheet, smiling. Everything seems normal; you will have your results in a few weeks, if anything comes up. Now, about those wrinkles on your forehead - did you know that I also offer cosmetology services - I could make those lines disappear in no time!

There's a fine line between taking care of female bits appropriately - and manipulating vulnerable women into thinking that they need to shed 350 $ to become “hot” again – I can imagine a convention of private enterprise male gynecologists, laughing it up – Listen guys! They have their legs spread out in the open and a metal stick up their &*?%; they’re bound to be attentive! We can push (pardon the pun) our new products in a very convincing manner…Sure - quite the new marketing-to-women twist, no? Pretty efficient, I have to say - your audience is quite captive - I mean - could we be more vulnerable than naked, legs wide-open and in stirrups with somebody scraping our cervix? Why don't you sell me a new car while you're at it dude - and why not - some lipo treatment, a cruise to the islands, new shoes for the kids - At this moment I would agree to whatever you're saying, I'm kinda at your mercy! And I don't like it!

I asked myself this question on the way back home.
Would a woman gynecologist have acted the same?

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Meet the lieutenant

Every woman has been through a similar experience. You hang out in a pub, you drink up; a pint of Guinness, a G&T with lots of G, a few laughs and a sense of adventure. Then, the gorgeous man who you've been giving the eye to for the past months finally decides to follow the hints you have been sending oh-so discreetly at first, until you are as discreet as a Harley-Davidson zooming down your street at 7 in the morning. You can no longer be ignored, and there's no turning back. (I should know, it happens to me everyday. Damn bikers.)

Anywho. You get the picture(s).

Last Friday I was having a few pints with my friends at Lieutenant's pump (Hence the title; give me credit for creative character naming, please) When I had my first "real" encounter with the hunkiest, most handsome man I have ever seen walking down the streets of Ottawa. (Well usually when I see him, he is seated at the bar or on the terrace, but let's not get fussy with the details, shall we?) I was having such a good time at the bar with my buddies that I didn't even have time to get nervous or shy away when he came to sit next to me. I was just giddy, and yes, sue me, very flirty. Couldn't help it. He's just so yummy.

The lieutenant is one of those guys who can officially say they have been single all their lives. Behold the hardcore bachelors: early forties (the salt & pepper hair is more peppery than salty at this point) Hot bods (they have time to go to the gym, they have maids and eat out all the time) great careers (here in Ottawa it's usually in the public service or in IT), messy flats (the maid cleans but doesn't pick up stuff, she wouldn't know where to put it anyway), serial monogamists (no kids but a long list of ex-girlfriends, usually now living in a different city or country) and an maxed-out alpha male attitude to turn on any woman in her normally kooky state of mind, i.e. me, Bridges, a sucker for loveable jerks. But I'm working on it.

SO!
As I was walking back to my car on Saturday morning, trying to figure out where the hell did I park that thing, I was wondering...
Do I still respect him?
Oh yeah.
And yes, um, I would respect him again. :)

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Scandinavian bliss


There's nothing that I love more than feeling like a queen. Once in a while, to relieve the pressures of my oh-so demanding life of work, writing, single-motherhood and, well, uh-hum my official role as public service Goddess (yes, the kids are gone for three weeks, but I like to play on the self-pity, for dramatic effect) I drive off to the Gatineau's on route 5, up to Chelsea, where lies the Ottawa region's best unkept relaxation secret. There lies a Scandinavian spa called Le Nordik, where you can enjoy a steam bath, a hot tub, a massage by a lovely massage therapist, a piping hot sauna, a nice glass of wine, a goat cheese salad in your bathing suit and a freezing water cascade, not necessarily in that order.


There, I spent close to 5 hours soaking up the salt water, the fresh air and the good company of my friend Selany, a beautiful redhead from Quebec city who is now my new office partner.


This morning, we were both too relaxed to care about anything that went on at the office, and liked it so much that we decided to reiterate our outing, without our bikinis this time : we will be heading out to the outdoor patios on Elgin street later on tonight, and gawk at the gorgeous bodies that walk by, taking there will be any. There might even be a chance that I bump into the lieutenant! Who's he? you might ask...well....


Maybe tomorrow.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Unworn lingerie



Going through my closet recently, I paused for a moment to take out some beautiful lingerie that has just been lying there for, well, quite some time. Not that I don't wear any "normal" lingerie on a daily basis, I'm a girly-girl; I like my matching bras & panties thank you very much, but I sometimes buy more expensive, goal-oriented ensembles, just in case. For example, After my old boyfriend left to go back to England two years ago and decided to come back again three months later, I was so excited that I must have spent close to 400 $ worth of stuff at La Senza's to "prepare" for his return. I was planning on giving him good reasons not to leave again; unfortunately, that didn't turn out too well. The passion from our awaited reunion seemed to be watered-down by his own personal existential demise, which, as some of you already know, lead to his cowardly run-off a few weeks later. Oh well, his loss, my gain, and two years later, one of my favorite lingerie pieces, a black & soft pink bustier with matching g-string & garter belt, in a 40's retro style, is still hanging on its padded hanger, tags still on. Why am I not wearing it? Good question. You see, a woman needs to have an occasion to wear proper lingerie adapted for her "special" occasion; she needs to, well at least I need to, know in advance so she can get ready for it. Which lingerie to wear, which clothes to go over it, which stockings, which shoes, how far will I have to walk in those heels, how much further before these stay-ups stockings roll down my thighs, do I look like I'm uncomfortable because that sure is how I feel, all these questions have to be pondered upon before getting it on. (I'm talking about the lingerie here) Therefore, sometimes, the occasion never arises or is very much put on hold. You buy new lingerie, for new occasions, sometimes you wear them, sometimes you don't, and sometimes you just want to leave them hanging in your closet, secretly hoping a worthy occasion will arise sometime in the future. I love lingerie. And what I love most about it is the look in your man's eyes when he catches a peak through your unbuttoned blouse, feels a garter strap through the silky fabric of your skirt when his hands slowly caresses you; his cheeky smile when he knows you did this for him. I miss that. Setting the stage. Dressing up. God, it's been such a long time since I planned these things.


Now it's mostly about not starving to death; when you're hungry there is no need to set up the table, you just go to the fridge and pig out until you get your fill. Every woman knows that when she gets hungry, she tends to eat whatever she can get her hands on. I don't know about you, but hey, that's what's been happening to me for the last two years. No need to set up the table. A bit sad, really.


Meanwhile, I keep filling up my closet with lovely, sexy lingerie that I know will serve its purpose in the future :). And if not, then I will just have to organize a lingerie party where the girls get to wear all that new lingerie still gathering dust in their closets. We'll just have to make up our own audience!

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

What am I, a volunteer call girl?

A few weeks ago, I received an email from an old, shall we say, "flame". I didn't remember who he was at first; our last conversation had taken place over five years ago - so many things had happened in my life since then - his name rang a bell - wait a minute- oh yeah - hey! How are you??? He was basically poking around, checking out how I was, or where I was for that matter, since him & I were mostly "ships in the night" throughout our brief locationship; our dates always occured in Montreal, when I had to participate in some feminist literature seminar or he had to make a presentation at some management workshop. At the time, I was completing my Master's studies in creative writing at UQAM and he was a prominent Quebec public servant, always on the go, always in a hurry. Married with children, of course. You can say it; I'm not proud of it either. But so was I at the time. Hey, don't judge : that was that. People do what they can to save their lives. At the time, it seemed like a good idea.

So. There he is today, asking about me. He's courteous, cheeky. He makes me smile again, and even calls me on my mobile after I unawarily gave him my number. "Hey, are you in Montreal sometimes, I still do business over there once in a while, perhaps we can get together at some point?" Sure, why not, I say. I don't have any bad recollections of that guy, which means maybe I did have a good time with him? It's worth keeping on the back burner, I think to myself. Then, I completely forget about him, until he sends me an email today.


Hi Bridges


I will be in Montreal during the week of July 30th, will you be around?


Hum....a Monday...could work...the kids are on vacation with their father...will go down to Montreal on Sunday, spend the day & evening with Catherine & the girls, then perhaps an evening with Mr. blast from the past and drive back to Ottawa very early in the morning on Tuesday and show up for work at 9am. Feasable. So I tell him "I could be there on Monday if you make it worth my while", thinking, you know, going out on a date, nice restaurant, expensive wine, lovers reunited and all that fun stuff a girl likes to do.


He answers back.


Great! I will be with my son, I just have to drop him off at a soccer day camp and pick him up at four, so I will be available between noon and 3h30. He would find it quite strange for you to be there during the evening, no?


Oh. Guess he's still married then. Er...so...He expects me to drive from Ottawa to Montreal, just to spend 3 and some hours with him in the afternoon after we haven't seen each other in FIVE YEARS??? Let me think about it....No. Thank you. I have better things to do. Then it hits me. That's what I used to do....memory flashes...making myself available for emotionnaly unavailable men at their convenience...Hold it! Recollections of the past slap me in the face, and no, I'm not that girl anymore. I don't even need to be aggressive or offended about it. I just anwer back :


Gee - thanks but no thanks - Something came up, and I will stay in town after all.


Sorry!!


That was easy...his reply came quickly, saying "wow-you sure are a party pooper- it's true it would be more fun to spend an evening together (duh). I will give you a call some other time, ok?


Sure. Do that. Meanwhile, and for a quite a while now, this chick has been calling the shots, and she likes it. I didn't like to be treated like a schedule fluffer then, I don't stand for it now, nor do I make other people feel that way!


Even if it means staying single for the rest of my life. :)
UPDATE : July 16, 2007
Blast from the past :
Bridges - I just read your blog - OK I get it, you will never hear from me again!
ME : Er...ok...what did you get, exactly?

Monday, July 09, 2007

Girl in front of "Girl before a mirror", and hot dogs



I had to ditch my American friends. Their obnoxious ignorance, lack of emotion in presence of the art world's most prized treasures and innate comments like " a 5 year old child could do better" or " Why are all these people waiting in line to see this painting - it doesn't even mean anything" drove me nuts. I had to let them zoom past me while taking my time to stroll around the MOMA, stunned by the Mark Rothko's, Kandinsky's, Cézanne's & Giacometti I had only seen in books and poster shop stands until I stood face to face with her - Picasso's "Girl before a mirror".

Last year in Paris I visited the Picasso Museum, only to walk out of there disappointed. I found out that all my favorite pieces, probably his most famous, are scattered around the globe's most impressive museums, the majority of his work in New York. Well, there she was in "the flesh", after hanging around my house in a much smaller, framed poster like fashion version for many many years. I stood in front of it, speechless, teary-eyed, mouth opened, and stunned by such beauty, emotion and amazingly vivid colours. One minute, two minutes, then three. Amazing. It was so worth it to come to New-York, I thought, breathtaken.

-"Hey Bridges - we're all bored and hungry - we're going out for hot dogs - Are you coming?"

-Uh-huh. Hot-dogs.

I hate hot-dogs - all that squished-up meat left-overs mixed-up with chemicals & spices, boiled by a street corner vendor who uses the same cloudy water day after day - How can anyone think of hot-dogs in the presence of this notorious painting that to me, symbolises all the complexities and torments of a woman observed and dissected by an inquisitive and egotistical man and how she tries to reconstruct her own image of herself through his regard is beyond my comprehension. But then again, maybe it's all about the eye of the beholder. Inspired to create in a dadaist/pop-arty/Marcel Duchamp kind of way, I come up with a spur of the moment creation of my own that represents the interpretation of Bridges' American friends at the MOMA; I'll let you imagine the artwork - it's entitled "Hot-dogs : Americans bored and hungry".

Why am I the only one laughing as I walk outside the MOMA to meet up with my friends?

Friday, July 06, 2007

No sex in the city, take II


As I previously mentioned, I spent last weekend in New York City to meet up with a group of American friends I met on the cruise last April. Alas, my doubts were confirmed; my beefcake Latino friend I had so much fun dancing with on the cruise is as sexually ambivalent as I remembered he was. Is he gay? Is he straight? In this world of sexual "anything-goes", when it comes to this dude, nothing goes. Nowhere. He talks like he's straight, but behaves like he's gay; he spent the whole weekend pointing out the hunks walking down the NY streets to me, talking about any gossip he could think of, asking me if I thought so-and-so was gay, gay this, gay that- In other words, either his denial about his sexual orientation is tougher than airport security at JFK, or he knows about it and thinks nobody notices. Plus, I walked around his house in sexy pajamas all weekend, we shared a hotel room - different beds, don't get any ideas - and not that I want to blow my own horn or anything ( although I almost had to - a horny girl's last resort is her own imagination) I'm no Pamela Anderson, BUT I think I can be quite sexy, and let me tell ya - no heterosexual man close to this babe last weekend would have lasted long - especially not in closed quarters like we were - and he did not even ATTEMPT a pass. Not even a glimpse of a hint of an idea of a pass - nothing. Nada. Not that I care; wasn't too concerned in that department, but I am a bit ego-bruised, I have to say. Enough about sex already - that's not what's important here; I didn't travel all the way to the big apple to get laid (really? OK.) but to discover and admire the modern art world's most amazing pieces; now that, my friend, is worth bragging about.


Tell you all about it tomorrow.


Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Kopinski corporate memos

From: Mr. Kopinski, HR
Sent: July 2, 2007 10:04 AM
To: Mrs. Kopinski, president
cc: Kopinski Translation & co. office
Subject: Odd incident regarding Agatha that took place in mid-June
Dear Mrs, (Since you don't like me calling you honeybunny in our workplace communications my love)

You always tell me that I don't keep you up to date with all the human resources mishaps that unfold in our workplace; further to your request, and since you are the boss after all, here is a recap of our little daily drama here at Kopinski translation. Monique, head of the control centre,(and queen of the trouble-maker tattle-tales, for that matter, what a whiner she is) came to me today and related an incident regarding Agatha that took place in mid-June. Apparently, she was in the habit of changing at the end of the day in her office which is shared by a colleague – Dick (male). Simone actually witnessed this occurrence because she opened the office door and witnessed Agatha standing there in her panties and about to put on her bike shorts (she bikes to work in the summer). Dick's back was towards her. Simone expressed surprise and closed the door. Later, Dick came to Simone and told her that he was very uncomfortable with what Agatha was doing, as he was a devout family man and did not want to be tainted with any air of impropriety. (I am relating the exact words here - nothing even happened for crisse's sake, he didn't even see her from what I know - He said he knew she was doing something behind his back, but he did not turn around and was not sure of it. I called Simone into my office and she confirmed the story. Any ideas to how we should handle this my luv?

Regards,

Mr. Kopinski, Human resources

From: Mr. Kopinski
Sent: July 2, 2007 10:24 AM
To: Kopinski translation & co. office
Subject: Erroneous message sent

Please do not read the message you received entitled "Odd incident" and delete it from your mailbox. It was mistakenly sent to everybody and was meant to be a private message to the president of the company and deals with private human resources matter.
Thank you for your cooperation.

Mr. Kopinski, Human resources

From: Agatha B., reviser
Sent: July 2, 2007 11:03 AM
To: Kopinski Translation & co. office
Subject: Panties in the workplace

Since this is now a public matter, I would like to set everybody straight on my supposedly flashing my panties to my colleague whilst putting on my bike shorts... please note that I usually don't wear any, therefore this incident could not have happened. What happened is Simone nosily entered my office while I was putting a skirt OVER my bike shorts to go and get a cup of coffee in the office kitchen so I could take them off in the following minutes, and that, in the office loos, behind closed door panels. Now, since it is obvious that my office colleague is officially a goody-goody easily-offended twat and that our control centre personnel are conniving snitch-bitches, I am now looking for a new office partner while I look for another "decent" job.
Gotta love those cc's email to all buttons.
Good day everyone,

Agatha B. reviser