Suspended Bridges Translation Services

HAPPY and PEACEFUL new year, humbugs !

2008-12-29T11:50:00.004-05:00

The Holidays always make me feel like an alien - everyone is getting ready to have guests over, buying gifts like mad people, and talking about the Holiday spirit - which is supposed - or so I hear - to make you feel warm and fuzzy all over and send good thoughts through the cosmos and bring everyone together - Amen. I for one struggle like hell (and I'm not the only one - if I look carefully around, there are more people trying to cope with this time of the year than there are who are actually enjoying it) to get through it - My ex-husband and I share the school holidays period over Christmas and New year's, and the kids are with him for about a week. During that period, I try to go away on vacation - which worked out fine last year when I escaped on a carribean cruise and had a wonderful, melancholy-free time - but this year, I had to take a trip in early November, not so long after by beau and I broke up, and did enjoy the time off, but in a state of mind that kept me from being "fully" there - if that makes any sense. I did get to meet lots of people, but in the end, I spent alot of time on my own and lots of time sleeping to the rythms of the ocean - and so I have to face the reality of my aversion for the Holiday period, all because it just makes me plain sad, and when I'm sad, I get self-destructive. I over-eat, over-drink, and put myself in all kinds of precarious situations - not good for a girl who usually takes good care of herself the rest of the year. So for all the single gals in the same situation - feeling painfully alone in this period - especially temporarily kidless single mums - Hang in there. Soon the kids will be back, friends will start calling again, and things will fall back into place - At least that's what I tell myself. My best wishes for 2009, and may the new year bring you peace and happiness - with a strong emphasis on PEACE.

Girls' heartaches, from Ottawa to Dubai

2008-11-05T10:44:00.003-05:00

When you think you are the only one in pain, a friend reaches out to you and asks you for strength - the same strenght you are working very hard to find within your soul at the very moment - and, out of love, the only thing you can do is find whatever's left and send it away - in the hopes that it will return to sender - that's how love works.

Ottawa, November 2008

Girlfriend, sweet baby girl - I would tell you not to cry over such a fucking asshole but then again - you have to get it out of your system - so cry, scream, kick box, dance - do whatever it takes to get that nasty energy out of you. He's a bad apple - he will NEVER change, NEVER - so get that out of your pretty little head. YOU CAN'T FIX HIM GIRLFRIEND, ALL RIGHT??? what did you say to me last year....hum...you don't need another project...and what did I do??? I fell in love with a wonderful, fantastic man in the middle of a divorce, fucked up and battered - thinking that in the name of love I would make it all better and I would be loved in exchange - and now, after some joy, lots of sorrow and complications, ups & downs – it all just blew up in my face with "it's not you, it's me, I love you but it's not full - I need a few weeks, I need space” he was crying all the time, he was nasty to me a few times then called the next day to say he was sorry....I went to sleep on some nights wrapping myself in a cover, shivering and shaking, so I wouldn’t feel so vulnerable and lonely - you know the fucking drill - we broke up over last weekend, and still - he said to me he didn't want to lose me. I didn’t want to loose him either but he’s still walking away - FUCK THAT SHIT.
So - you, I - have a choice - we cry and torture ourselves thinking it will get better IT WON'T and we hope he will change HE WON'T and we hope that one day he will love us the way we want to be loved but as hard as it is to say it IT WON'T FUCKING HAPPEN Girlfriend - Letting go is the hardest part....but it's the part that fucking frees you, and I did it with fuckface (you remember fuckface, don't ya??), with anger, frustration, fear and the sharpest self-inflicted pain ever - this time with The Aussie I'm not even going to kick my ass - I'll just walk away - and bite the bullet - I'm going to keep busy and try to hide my pain with a smile, I’m told it works – my cousin J., who teaches social dancing in Ottawa invited me to salsa night on Saturday and I am more than happy to go and dance the pain away - she says I will have to beat interested men off with a stick - and if you think about it - it does sound good (the beating men with a stick part) and I will look for men who make me feel good about myself all over and who don’t ask me to wait, to understand, to walk away no come back no go I can’t but come back – I understand all right – I understand that I don’t understand and that is what makes me crazy.You have a choice, YOU have the power - PAIN or FREEDOM - and it is as black and white as this Girlfriend - this guy is pure POISON for you and if you don't act on it you will slowly die. Dying is not just about your heart stopping - you need light, positivism, security and PEACE. Do whatever you can to get those things, do it with a vengeance - you owe it to yourself because ain't no one gonna give it to you girl - let's talk soon - tell me when - I will be home all weekend with the kids and I will hook up my cam so we can see each other – Dubai won’t seem so far - so I'm there if you need me, tell me when.I miss you and I know that this growing up shit SUCKS BIG TIME - look at me, 36 and 2 kids and still going through the motions. I wonder sometimes why I'm not on fucking antidepressants like the rest of the mortals - maybe because I don't like to hang on to pain and want to get rid of it??? I send you this message from my quiet government office and I give you a big hug - hang in there Girlfriend - you're a survivor just like me, you just need a few more years of practice…

I love you babes
Your friend Bridges

Balancing on the narrow edge (2)

2008-10-27T11:54:00.002-04:00

It’s only 5:30, but I hate getting ready at the last minute. It’s a process I like to enjoy at my own pace, so I tend to make it last. Standing in front of my wardrobe, half-dressed in black undergarments and stockings, I pick out my shoes before picking out my clothes, trying to ignore the revolting hunger sounds of my growling stomach. I choose a pair of black elegant shiny high-heel vertigo-inducing boots and put them on – without making a thread in my stockings, which is an exploit in itself – my favourites. Elegant, classy, but more importantly, sexy as hell. Perfect to make me look like a mysterious vamp for tonight’s date with Christophe. He’ll only be thinking of one thing when he sees me walking in those boots – having me for desert. Now I only need a dress that won’t make me look too obvious. Come to think of it, when I go on a date, I always end up wearing those boots – for some reason, they seem to answer an existential question which meaning eludes me. I sometimes wear them to write – I feel like I’m walking in someone else’s shoes, and that, my friends, makes my work a lot easier.

Tell us a story, Bridges!

2008-10-24T15:59:00.003-04:00

...oh, all right. But you have to promise this : You will not ask me if this story is real or not. It's a real story, all right? Plus, it's not a story for kiddies, so children, go to bed. This is Sophie's story. Here goes.

Balancing on the narrow edge

Going out and risking it on frozen Montreal sidewalks is not an easy task – particularly in high heels. But not to worry – I made up my mind, nothing can stop me. Plus, if I’m gonna come a cropper, I will do it with style and all the feminine grace that inhabits me – braving glazed frost and biting cold will never have looked so good, baby.

I’m getting ready for a date. I’m excited and nervous – I have never felt this way before a date with Christophe, but this time, it’s a bit different. I have to meet him at his place, downtown, around 7 pm. He is taking me out to dinner in a chic neighbourhood restaurant he goes to from time to time. I’m famished, and looking forward to eating whatever Christophe picks out for me on the menu – he loves to do that, and since he has impeccable taste in everything, from food to clothes all the way to women – he is French after all - I don’t mind letting him have his fun and letting go a little; actually, I quite enjoy the whole control game thing, I’m a good sport, and I know it will be delicious. Christophe knows his food and is quite the snob type when it comes to service and preparation – did I mention he’s French - and I have to be honest with you; I get a big kick out of it.

I love to be guest & lover to a man who has high quality standards – Makes me feel luxurious.

Divorce terrorism 101

2008-09-10T08:48:00.003-04:00

Oh, the tangled webs we weive in divorce. It's not enough to deal with your own pain, sorrow, regrets and anger - you often have to put up with a person you don't understand / love/want around anymore whose main goal in life becomes the constant aggravation and persecution of thee. I was relatively lucky in my divorce - First of all, I was the instigator and not the "victim", and that plays a big part in the whole thing, and was clever enough to steer the process without loosing too many assets. My psychological state - well, that's a whole other story all together - was in shambles, but I worked it through, got help, and managed to save my life and preserve my children's. I was the sole caregiver to my babies, and their father became the every other weekend dad (more so when we moved from Montreal to Ottawa 3 years ago) much to his displeasure and dismay. I wear, still to this day, the stigma of the ex-wife bitch, if the shoe fits, I say, even though the relationship with the father of my children was more of an avoidance of one than anything else - conversations were always very short and impersonnal, limited to "when are you picking up the kids" and "Have a good weekend" with lots of underlying tensions tinted with resentment and blame on his part, and contempt and anger from mine. 7 years have passed since then mind you, so the pain and anger are not as vivid as they used to be - and the recent tug-o-war in court did play a part in reducing his animosity towards me - he took me to court to reduce his child support payments and won - the fact that I was travelling 3 times a year, driving a new car, taking the kids to Universal Studios (because I was now a professional translator, which I was not at the time of the divorce, I was a penny-less stay at home mom) did not help him to see me in a positive light or do anything to make me more likeable - who cares if I was raising the children by myself all the time, with all the expenses, in time & money, that it implies - I don't think his brain would allow him to see it that way - he kept on seeing me as the bitch who ran off to Ottawa with his kids and managed to eat a big chunk of his (however impressive) paycheck. Him winning in court though, I think , did damper lots of animosity directed towards me - it was hard for me but hey, can't win everytime, all is fair in love and war - finally, he had actually WON something against yours truly - therefore injecting a little viagra in his self-esteem - and enough water had passed under the Bridges to give me enough perspective on things, therefore being able to look back and clearly see where I had gone wrong, where I had acted to save my own mental sanity and when I had felt justified to channel the amazon in me - and of course, my share of responsibilities in the whole messy thing. With time, I can honestly say that my ex-husband acted responsibly most of the time, and that he was (and is) a good father, but a terrible, terrible husband. And notwithstanding this "amende honorable", I still can't stand him. But I can live with it.

Panick attack

2008-07-08T10:30:00.004-04:00

There are many reasons why a person decides to blog - it's all over the Web, actually - everyone feels the need to display, to tell a story, to become a character in their own little recreation of their lives. I'm no exception. There is a need there to expose myself in public for reasons that still elude me - and are probably far less glamorous and intricate than I would like to think. My reasoning on the whole question is that I need to write, I simply have to, and to see myself through the eyes of strangers - even if they don't manifest themselves, I know that they're there and that perhaps someone, somewhere, will catch something that I didn't see, that I didn't want to reveal or in the least, will they just feed my need to justify my own insecurities. There is a comfort in thinking your own self-righteousness is being validated - every time you post something, another brick goes up - how convenient to build a wall around you, thick with words and justifications that no one can erase or prove wrong - how could they really, a text is a text and only belongs to its author - the reader can take it or shove it - it's indestructible in a way - oh, and if you don't believe me, please refer to the fine print - it's a wall so big and real it's available on the Web - and there for all to see just in case they didn't understand what you were/are all about.

I think my wall is just about to fall apart - Someone just might have seen right through it.

The cowboy & the nutcase

2008-05-31T09:03:00.007-04:00

Do you remember a few months ago - I mentionned meeting an american cowboy from Kansas city - uprooted and now living in Minneapolis - on my last cruise to the carribean?

This was end of February, early March - after entertaining the idea of a long-distance "relationship" for a few weeks following the cruise and talking via webcam almost every night, he invited me over to his place and sent me a plane ticket, making sure I didn't have any endless lay-overs, shelling out an extra two hundred dollars to get me a direct flight . "Let's see how this could be in real life, he said. We'll both be working during the day, this wouldn't be a vacation - but we could spend our evenings together - just like a REAL couple, in REAL life." What I didn't know at that point - is that he didn't have one. My cowboy had no life whatsoever.

A few days before my departure to Minneapolis - in the dead of winter, mind you - Rose & Justin were spending their March break with their father - we had a webcam conversation that left me panicked. From what I remember, I asked him about his personnal history with his previous wife/girlfriend: - "why did she leave baby, what happened?"- some random piece of information any sensible woman flying 3,000 miles to spend a week in her virtual boyfriend's high-rise condo in the American mid-west and concerned with her personnal safety would be concerned about - anything, really - anything to give her a reason not to get on that plane, to bail out, you know what, it's not a good idea after all, let's just stop this here, shall we? Thank you, it was fun, see you on a next cruise perhaps - yes he seems nice but he might be a psychopath kind of thing - just give me a reason to not go through with this, will ya? - Any evasive ready-made conventional answer would have been ok really, would have made me feel like I was dealing with a semi-normal human being - so I was there, at the other end of the webcam, watching him, waiting for him to answer something, anything - but instead, his eyes turned mean, he fumbled, pointed his finger at me via the magical world of cyber communications and screamed at me. "That's not of your fucking business! Stop asking me these questions! You poke, and poke, and you don't shut up! What difference does it make! You bitches are all the same! You always need to get your way!" I was startled - horrified - and started crying. "what...D...I didn't mean to...why are you so mean to me...what did I say..." and then he made a hand gesture that meant "whatever ", looked at the computer screen, and in a fit of rage, unplugged the webcam, therefore ending abruptly our surreal conversation. Now that's a first - I've never had a guy hang up on me live on camera. Not pretty. And totally uncalled for. I just layed there in my bed, laptop on my thighs, stunned - and worried. What the fuck is up with that dude???

At that moment, red lights were flashing in my mind, and alarms were going off like crazy. RED ALERT - CRAZY NUTCASE ON THE RADAR - I was not going to Minneapolis anymore. No fucking way.

Three days later, my friend was driving me to the aiport - Montreal to Minneapolis-St.Paul. To this day I don't know what kept me going. I was scared as hell. But I had to go and see for myself.

There she is - Happy, traveling Bridges - at the Delta airlines bagage check-in, laptop in case, in a state of mind I like to call fully conscious denial, happy to be flying somewhere - anywhere - with a smile on my face.

Regardless.

Butterfly not

2008-05-15T14:37:00.003-04:00

How long does it take for the caterpillar to change into a butterfly? A few days? A few weeks? A few months, perhaps?

Well in the case of this blog, and of my whole reality into fiction interpretation of one's self, a few months seems just about right. Like many bloggers lost in cyberspace, I lost my train of thought for a few months and unshamelessly abandonned Suspended Bridges for a while. We had a horribly long winter here in Ottawa, life got hectic, and I Facebooked instead of blogspotting. I didn't run out of things to say; just the opposite. I might have temporarily lost interest in my own self-observation and things were unfolding at such a pace that I couldn't even keep up with myself, so, ummm...I bailed.

Too many things went on. Couldn't keep up.

Butterfly reference. Oh yeah. I really don't want to give into that whole butterfly / metaphorical lyricism / transformation crap into much detail, because I can't be arsed to go into a symbolic analysis of the weird things that pop into my head - that's my therapist's job, thank you very much - but I will still mention it since that's the image that popped into my head as I'm slowly emerging from a writing coma. And at the risk of sounding tacky and/or very cliché, I do feel different than I did 5 months ago - caterpillar managed not to get squished after all - and I won't go as far as saying I'm ready to open up my wings and fly - fly, damn butterfly, fly - BUT I will say this :

It feels damn good to be out of that fucking chrysalid. T'was getting crowded in there.

Dinnerworks Ottawa takes the cake...and tries to eat it too

2008-01-21T10:23:00.000-05:00

Ottawa is a very dry place to look for a boyfriend/lover/man, especially when you're an independant single gal with a few marks on your belt and that you have some (very limited, mind you) expectations. Travelling to other cities and meeting men whilst abroad (you don't need to go too far for that matter, Toronto & Montreal are not so far away geographically, yet they seems like a completely different planet when it comes to seducing the opposite sex) always makes returning to Ottawa a very, very harsh return to reality. Last week, after coming back from the cruise and filled with a new outlook on meeting people & relationships (call it the loveboat high) I decided to give Dinnerworks Ottawa another try. Last time was not too conclusive. Make up your own mind...This is a letter I sent to Dinnerworks the day after the meeting. I had spent the evening with the Professor (which you already know about) and a lovely sophisticated lady that was just about as disapointed as I was.

Hello,

Just a quick word to let you know how disappointed I was when (almost) no one showed up at the dinner last night….It was only me, Mary, and this person that shall remain nameless...let's call him circus freak for informative purposes...by the way, WHY oh God WHY does someone like that show up at one of those dinners…I don’t want to be mean or rude or anything, but this guy is one step away from being an escapee from a mental facility….he has no job, has an IQ of about Forest Gump’s average, was popping anti-depressants at the dinner table and is quite revolting-looking….(In another words, when you think you’ve hit the bottom of the barrel men-wise, look under the barrel…) I thought Dinnerworks was for professionals….He has attended many dinners as I have learned from your charming hostess (who was very professional btw) but PLEASE…if nobody else ever shows up at your dinners again...please take a hint that this quality of people attending might, just might be a MAJOR turn-off for future guests…men & women alike….It is very insulting for the women present…to be paired up with circus freaks when you are expecting to meet "professionals"...

Thank God the Professor showed up 40 minutes late; we managed to have a pleasant dinner, me, the Professor & Mary (the other person was pretty much shut out unfortunately; it was quite embarrassing)

I would like to be reimbursed the 59$ that I paid to attend the dinner; and I don’t plan to attend another dinner unless I am sure that this creepy-looking gentleman is not present and that there will actually be PEOPLE there to have a conversation with.

Regards,
Bridges L.

And this is what they answered back.

Bridges,

I am sorry to hear that only 4 people showed up. There was 8 people on the list to attend dinner. If people show up or not is beyond our control. It is often that people have last minute commitments and do not notify us that they will not be attending. We cannot reimburse you but we can send you to another dinner free of charge (but you will have to pay for your own meal). I look forward to hearing from you.

OK. Whatever. That was back in September, so I kinda forgot about it, until I got an email asking if I wanted to come to the dinner that was organized in three days; I made sure that the men invited were not the same people than last time (God forbid) and accepted the invitation. 24 hours later however, I learned that I had to head off to Toronto ASAP and therefore could not attend the dinner. So, I did what a sophisticated polite lady would do; I sent an email informing them of my absence.

I'm sorry I won't be able to attend as I have to leave for Toronto unexpectedly on Thursday - sorry about that

And the next day, which was THE day of the dinner and of my leaving for Toronto, this is what I got in my mailbox.

From: Dinnerworks Ottawa [mailto:ottawa@dinnerworks.ca]
Sent: 17 janvier 2008 15:56
To: Bridges L.
Subject: You were very upset the last time when people cancelled on us

We had a really great group of men organized for tonight and you have made it difficult for us to find a substitute.

Sorry you can't attend but please understand that this is not good for us or the people that will be attending the dinner tonight.

I thought I would just forward our correspondence from before as we explained what happens at our end.

And with that she attached all the emails that I had sent her previously stating my utmost discontent with their services. How rude, I thought. First I get screwed by going to a dinner where no one shows up, ok, fine, I can live with my dispoinment, I understand these things happen, but hey; I'M THE CLIENT HERE AND I GET THE LAST WORD. I don't want the girl from the company that's supposed to woo me into attending the dinner giving me grief about not attending AND giving them proper notice in doing so. Please. This is what I answered.

I am very sorry – I learned yesterday that I have to leave this pm for Toronto and believe me - a dinner sounds a lot more interesting to me than a rushed flight…

I had the decency of actually telling you I was not attending – as opposed to just not showing up – like the majority of people do…on one occasion I got there late (10 minutes) and the hostess had left and I had nowhere to sit….and the other one there was simply nobody there except a circus freak and someone I had met before. Now excuse me for taking offense; I didn’t plan to attend in the first place, was offered to and wanted to but something came up, and I don’t think I make it difficult for anyone since….this was only set up 3 days ago…give me a break…if women don’t attend it’s because your dinners are usually lame and there’s a slim chance of maybe meeting someone who got lost along the way and decided to try Dinnerworks without previous feedback from anyone...I can’t believe you are giving me grief for telling you in advance I was not going to be there. Your lack of professionalism is quite disturbing.

I do not wish to attend anymore dinners by Dinnerworks; please take my name off the list and keep whatever money I paid you to buy the people attending tonight a stiff drink to get them through what will most likely be a disappointing evening.

Regards,
Bridges L.

For some reason, I don't think I'll be hearing from them again.

Love boat blues

2008-01-13T11:23:00.000-05:00

Sapphire beach in St. Thomas

I have been back for almost a week now. This was the first time I went to the carribean in the dead of winter. Coming into Ottawa and seeing the snow on the ground was a definite bummer. I turned to the guy next to me and started pouting - like a little girl who just dropped her ice cream cone on the sidewalk - except this ice cream cone had just spilled all over the Lester B. Pearson tarmac.

I had the most amazing time on the cruise. Time flies when you're having a blast...With stops in the Bahamas, St. Thomas and my favorite, St. Marteen's...this was a party to remember - Met up with all my cruise buddies, Al, Matt, Beth & Cindy, met some new friends, got to dress up for theme parties, spent most of the week with a cocktail in one hand and a beach bag in the other - and, just like last time I went on a singles cruise...met someone. A sexy 6'4 midwestern cowboy from Kansas settled in Minneapolis.

Where is Minneapolis, exactly?

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

2007-12-28T11:37:00.000-05:00

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.

Bumps in the road

2007-10-30T11:48:00.000-04:00

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.

Souvenirs d'enfance au goût du jour

2007-10-27T11:21:00.000-04:00

Moi aussi je me fais éditeur.

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

Meet the Professor

2007-10-26T14:14:00.000-04:00

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.

Trop féministe?

2007-10-25T15:47:00.000-04:00

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.

Irony, life is all about irony

2007-10-19T15:10:00.000-04:00

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.

Divas @ work

2007-10-04T15:03:00.000-04:00

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?

In praise of cold showers

2007-10-01T12:14:00.000-04:00

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.

Lobster feast & unexpected courtship

2007-09-29T16:18:00.000-04:00

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?

Mickey & friends set up camp

2007-09-28T15:29:00.000-04:00

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.

Ranking update

2007-09-26T14:09:00.000-04:00

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?

The dinner party

2007-09-24T09:53:00.001-04:00

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.

How to kiss a neighbor

2007-09-23T19:44:00.001-04:00

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?

Defensive counter measures, part I

2007-09-21T09:52:00.000-04:00

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.

Off to Toronto

2007-09-14T14:27:00.000-04:00

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.

Cabin fever

2007-09-11T15:38:00.001-04:00

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?

Catching my breath

2007-09-06T15:36:00.000-04:00

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.

Bridges & the kids off for vacation

2007-08-19T09:17:00.000-04:00

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!

Vos doigts trempent dedans

2007-08-13T16:14:00.000-04:00

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.

Image JPEG : http://www.mosaicminds.net/what_if_tmi

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

2007-08-10T09:49:00.000-04:00

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 :)

The exception that makes the rule

2007-07-25T16:56:00.000-04:00

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.

Honey pots & misplaced wrinkles

2007-07-24T15:12:00.000-04:00

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?

Meet the lieutenant

2007-07-19T15:48:00.000-04:00

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. :)

Scandinavian bliss

2007-07-18T14:40:00.001-04:00

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.

Unworn lingerie

2007-07-16T14:28:00.000-04:00

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!

What am I, a volunteer call girl?

2007-07-11T14:57:00.000-04:00

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?

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

2007-07-09T09:37:00.000-04:00

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?

No sex in the city, take II

2007-07-06T15:12:00.000-04:00

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.

Kopinski corporate memos

2007-07-04T22:00:00.000-04:00

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

Points de suspension

2007-06-26T23:01:00.000-04:00

Si l'on agite un tapis sur lequel on marche depuis longtemps, sans jamais l'avoir secoué un peu, on obtiendra inévitablement un nuage de poussières et de particules de toutes sortes. Les saletés, si longtemps emprisonnées dans les fibres du tapis par les pas incessants et les semelles des chaussures, vole en tous les sens, formant des nuées aveuglantes. Elles souillent les visages, les cheveux, les fenêtres, les voitures. Elles piquent les yeux, font larmoyer, tousser, démanger. Elles laissent un film désagréable dans la bouche, des résidus douteux dans les narines et sous les ongles. Certains s'enfuient en courant, déguerpissent au moindre nuage, incapables de supporter le choc. D'autres, plus sages et plus patients, attendent que la poussière retombe; ils ferment les yeux, retiennent leur souffle, ferment la bouche. Ils savent bien que lorsque les nuages de poussières seront retombés, ils y verront plus clairement.

Mais il y a cet instant.

Cet instant où les poussières demeurent en suspension et forment des nuages que les rayons du soleil traversent parfois. Un nombre incalculable de traces effacées flottent, suspendues dans le temps, sous nos yeux. Éventuellement, la poussière retombe, et le cycle recommence.

Mais ce n'est qu'un instant. Un tout petit instant.

Entre la vérité et la fiction, il y a aussi cet instant.

Mais la poussière ne retombe jamais.

Letter to Munich - Yes, you!

2007-06-21T14:03:00.000-04:00

I thought alot about what you said to me in the car before I dropped you off in front of the Hard Rock Café. You know what Bridges - I haven't had so much fun in a long time. I will miss you. I answered back immediately: Neither have I, and I will miss you too. A polite and courteous way to respond to a handsome stranger who shows a genuine and straightforward interest in you and ackowledgment about his feelings - and yes, I could tell you were truthful because of the way you looked at me when you said it - you had been nothing but the night before - AND a man you know will never make love to you again. But the truth hits you when you don't expect it. I will not call, I will not write, I like you, but I'm not like my friend Huey - he falls in love like someone falls off a chair - let's be realistic here B. - this is it, this was it, it was great, I will always remember you, but that's how far this goes. Of course. I feel the same way H. - These could be my words, not yours, in fact I don't remember who cut the other one off first - I agree with you, I'm not even a tad tormented when I say IT'S OK; don't worry about it. I mean - what else are we going to do - exchange emails from Germany, Afghanistan, Cold Lake, insert any country or city where there is a military training base here - to Ottawa, Montreal or New-York? As opposed to you, who takes orders to determine where your next destination will be, I just follow my heart or my budget - whichever is the biggest at the time - and entertain the idea of a crazy made-up romance between the German soldier and the political interpreter? Yes, I'm making this sound romantic, I have to, it's my job, I'm writing a story, do you mind? Who would ever think that a strong, tough military guy who is supposed to be detached from his emotions would be so poignant with honesty and leave such a mark on silly little overly sarcastic me. Trust me - I can destroy my own romantic illusions quicker than the time it takes to say FAIRYTALE - and ridicule any glimpse of sentimentality emanating from my twisted self even before it forms and find a name for it in the psychology dictionnary ( Forget the reference books - I call it creative self-preservation) Perhaps it was the fact that we were both on our way back to somewhere else, or maybe that we had both been previously ravaged by hurtful relationship endings, go figure. Consequences to being truthful are minimal in this case, and yes, why not keep on with this truthful thing, after 5 weeks, I still do think of you, I know that you read me regularly even if you wouldn't admit to it, so I know that in a parallel world, you still think of me too.

To be honest, H...Who needs the one sky/one moon over both our heads nonsense when we have the internet. Here's my answer to your unbridaled romantic ending : When you read me, I can still see your eyes gazing into mine. In fact, I can see them right this second. And yes, my German cow-boy, I so wish you were here to hold me in those strong arms of yours. That was, to me, along with our eyes gazing into each other's soul, the best part of our chance meeting.

I don't love you either :)

Bridges

Christophe XVII

2007-06-19T21:34:00.000-04:00

Tu adores ces petites mises en scènes élaborées, dans lesquelles nous devenons des personnages fictifs dans notre propre vie. Moi, je m’invente des protagonistes énigmatiques qui se cachent sous des airs de banalités, des êtres tragiques mais touchants, pour le simple plaisir de la contradiction. Ce soir, je dîne avec un étranger, visitant Montréal pour affaires. Quelque chose de cosmopolite et de politiquement correct, le genre de business qui se justifie à l'aide de rapports para-gouvernementaux poussiéreux de trois cent pages qui coûtent des millions aux contribuables. La Banque mondiale, tiens. Si, tu travailles pour la Banque Mondiale. D'ailleurs, c'est ce qui est écrit sur ta carte d'affaires; il y a même le logo, ton titre, v-p finances, ton nom, Christophe, et puis tous tes numéros, tes adresses. Tu voyages souvent, tu me l'as dit, tu m'appelles parfois, de Paris, de Ouagadougou, de Brasilia. tu dois rendre visite aux représentants de pays étrangers qui ont besoin de financement pour des projets d'urbanisme, de reconstruction. Est-ce moi qui invente Christophe, tu es timide et frondeur à la fois. est-ce que j'imagine tout ça, tu sembles habité par une force, un souvenir, une pulsion qui m'échappe complètement mais dont je devine la présence lorsque tu hésites et que tu baisses le regard avant de me dire quelque chose qui pourrait me contrarier. Je te regarde rappeler le garçon, tu lui dit ce que tu veux, il reprend les menus et file vers la cuisine. Je me demande bien ce que tu lui a demandé. Je pousse la porte de la salle de bains, je me retrouve devant le miroir biseauté et terni par le temps. Je vérifie mon maquillage, le froid n'a pas trop fait de dégâts, il y a plus de peur que de mal, en fait, et quelques simples traits de crayon khôl et de rouge à lèvres et rien n'y parait plus. Je me lave les mains avec ce savon rose dégoûtant qui se retrouve dans toutes les salles de bains de restaurant du tout Montréal; ce parfum me rappelle la petite école, les salles de bains aux grands lavabos que l'on actionnait en pressant une pédale avec le pied, en un instant je suis une élève du primaire et je me lave les mains après la récréation, j'ai dû enterrer un oiseau mort dans le sable, il s'est frappé contre l'une des grandes vitrines de ma classe pendant le cours d'anglais, je m'étais fait la promesse d'aller voir s'il était toujours là pendant la récréation. How do you say un oiseau s'est heurté contre la vitre, a bird hit the window, it hit so hard, it didn't see there was a wall there he smashed into it, et puis BANG! On ne le voyait plus, il était de l'autre côté de la vitre, et moi j'ignorais à ce moment s'il n'était que sonné ou bien raide mort, quelques minutes plus tard j'étais avec lui de l'autre côté, dans la cour d'école, mais lui n'était plus là, déjà. J'ai dû l'enterrer dans les bancs de sable qui bordent la cour de récréation, personne ne m'a vue, je l'ai fait à mains nues et je me suis lavée les mains par la suite, dans la salle de bains de l'école, au dessus du lavabo à pédale, à l'aide de ce savon rose puant dont l'odeur est marquée à jamais dans ma mémoire. L'eau coule sur mes mains. Je lève les yeux, je suis dans la salle de bains de Senzo's, je rince, je secoue un peu les mains, mon amant m'attends à notre table, je lui ai dit de me faire une surprise, j'essore avec les serviettes de papier, je n'ai pas la patience de les mettre sous le séchoir automatique, je pousse à nouveau la porte pour retourner à table avec Christophe.

Je regarde, et oui, à voir l'air de Christophe et l'assiette posée à ma place, il semble bien y avoir une surprise pour moi à table.

One girl, one guy Part IV

2007-06-16T23:04:00.000-04:00

As soon as I saw him, I knew there was something there. Catherine introduced me, and my gentleman soldier immediately pulled up a bar stool for me, right next to him, (I was very careful and looked around to see if anybody COULD HAVE been sitting there before, surely I didn't want to step on anybody's open-toe shoes, but I figured, with this man around, trailer-trash blondie wouldn't dare pick up a fight with me) asked me if I wanted a drink, yes, thank you, cranberry-vodka please, and ordered for me. I thought he was quite sexy. He was the rugged type, fair-headed, short beard, and very muscular, with shoulders to make any woman feel secure. I smiled and he did the same. I immediately wanted to snuggle in his arms, and soon enough, we were getting closer to chat, because, you know, the music was so loud, I couldn't hear him, and I just HAD to get closer.

-Bridges. Zhat's a lovely name. Vhat do you do, Bridges?
-Thank you! I'm a translator, from English to French. What about you?
-French! I love French...I think it's similar to German in many vays...My name is Hans...me and Huey here...

I look at Huey. He waves, smiles, and goes back to his conversation with Catherine.

...are army pilots. Ve just finished a two-week training in Cold Lake. Ve're going back to Germany on Monday.

-Oh! Wow. So you have a whole weekend to spend in Montreal?

He smiles at me and looks straight into my eyes. Then he gently pulls the stool (with me on top) closer to him, and whispers in my ear Yes! Vould you like to show me around?

I bite on my straw, take a big sip and smile, whilst lifting an eyebrow.

-I would love to!

And we toast to a night still young.

Two girls (and two German military jet pilots) Part III

2007-06-14T22:40:00.000-04:00

Under "Les Beaux Jeudis", there's Thursday's, (yes, I know, it's a fourth day of the week concept, don't need to be a translator to figure that one out) a Montreal institution known for, well, picking up and partying, basically. Yes, some might say that the whole Montreal island serves that purpose, but that bar on Crescent street has been there a long time and has lived up to its reputation. That's where Catherine and I headed after our delicious meal and unbridaled jazz adventure.

We sat at the bar for a few minutes, ordered drinks, chatted, and had a look around. Catherine was on fire; she circled the place a few times sniffing for worthy testosterone only to figure out that it was better for us to go downstairs, where the club is and the dancing takes place. I was happy just to sit there and wait for something to happen, but there we were already, on the dance floor, gettin' jiggy with it. I lost Catherine at some point, and since it was very crowded, tried to find somewhere I could sit. There was an empty stool at the end of one of the bars; about 10 drinks were standing in front of it. I walked over and I sat down, ordered a drink, and basically watched the action. After 10 minutes, somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Some huge-assed blond girl looking like she just walked out of the trailer-thrash makeover salon says to me, in a nasty tone : "Chus r'venue, là!!" (I'm back now!)

I look at her in dismay and, being a little slow from all the cosmos I drank up to this point, don't react, and, silly me, smile, and try to start a conversation with my toosh still on the stool. Big mistake. "Aille - kècé qu'tu comprends pas, esti? chus r'venue, faque dégage - Cé ma place, câlisse!" (Hey - what is it that you don't understand, (insert swear word)? I'm back, so fuck off - it's my place, (insert other swear word) ok?)

Here, see Bridges getting up, off the bar stool, doing a little bow, a cheeky reverence, and replying, in a mocking tone "Madâmeuh, votre banc." (Madam, your stool. (which takes a whole other meaning in English, but let's not go there, even though if I was a nasty girl I would have stuck her face in it. But I'm not. I, ladies & gentlemen, am a LADY. Sometimes.) And left her nagging loudly to her friends about how the stupid girl on HER bench wouldn't get up when SHE said so and how she bravely confronted the menacing intruderess, and you-go-girl! sent her on her way, that bitch, hahahahaha, and gulf down the rest of her beer bottle. I think she burped loudly but maybe that was just my imagination implying so. I could still hear her high-pitched Brossard-accent toned voice through the loud dance music as I was walking away from the potential hazard; and oh, waddaya know, there was Catherine grabbing me by the arm.

"Two German pilots, one cute, for me, the other one with shoulders built for you Bridges - They're buying me a drink - this way!"

German pilots? That's the most interesting subject of the evening. My interest is peeked - where to, my friend?

Two girls, part II

2007-06-11T22:06:00.000-04:00

We come up the stairs to "Les Beaux jeudis", where a friend of Catherine's is playing tonight. It's a nice restaurant, not too "chi-chi", the food is good and the jazz is usually top notch. As we walk in, I notice a very handsome man sitting at the bar; he smiles, nods, and I do the same. The maitre D' takes us immediatlely to our table, next to the jazz quartet. The pianist recognizes Catherine, and ackowledges her presence. Our waiter brings us our menus and orders our drinks straight away, just as we are settling down.

-The man at the bar is staring at you.

-I know....

-Are you going to talk to him?

-I'm not getting up; if he wants to talk and he's a gentleman, then, he'll come and say hi. I smiled at him when we got in. He knows I wouldn't mind.

Catherine laughs out loud and hi-fives me.

Throughout dinner, the mysterious guy at the bar and I exchange glances. He remains all the way over there, at the bar, and I stay put. Between sets, the pianist comes to sit with us and has a chat with Catherine; something about "the good ol' days" that I'm absolutely no part of. I'm bored, and I wish Mr. mysterious but somehow glued to his bar stool would come and talk to me.

He doesn't. After exchanging looks for about 1 hour, he pays his bill at the bar, looks at me one last time, and waves good bye. What? That's it??? Oh well. Another one bites the dust, I think. Not too long after the guy leaves, our waiter, a very handsome young black man, who saw the whole scene, comes to me and whispers, looking straight into my eyes, "What an idiot. He is a fool to pass up a beautiful lady like yourself", kisses my hand, takes our plates away, and leaves. I didn't see that one coming, I said to Catherine.

-You never see the good ones, I have to do all the work for you!

-I'm more than happy to let you do the scouting, my dear. I'll just stay here and finish my Cosmo, thank you very much.

Catherine smiles, and I can see she is a woman with a plan. I haven't seen my friend so vibrant in a long time, I have to say. It makes me happy to see her so in tune and I'm ready, yet a bit scared (Catherine is known for pulling stunts in public places that could make headlines in the mondane column, but not to worry) to let her lead. Tonight, I feel a lot more comfortable to follow.

Two girls, part I

2007-06-11T08:35:00.000-04:00

Come on! We're going to be late!

My friend Catherine takes forever to get ready. For some reason, her hard-core feminist habits of not wearing makeup, high heels or shaving her legs, for that matter, had to end tonight. I watched her all evening, waxing, exfoliating, hearing her scream, swear with all the québécois swear words you can possibly imagine, pulling on these little wax bands. "How do women do that? It's a nightmare!!!" "It is, I said, that's why I let my beautician take care of it!" I was already ready to go; I, for one wanted to go out. Tonight, not tomorrow. It was Saturday, I was feeling very good, ready to have a good time and had plenty of money in my pockets to do so. Plus, I was starving. I needed food. I was standing in the doorway, my purse in my hand and my car keys in the other, looking at her rumaging all over the place. I was getting impatient.

-Ok, Ok...I'm ready now....oh non...wait...

And she dashes upstairs to get God-knows-what.

-I'll wait for you in the car!!!

Ten minutes later, as I was listening to an 80's music CD a co-worker had burned for me in the car, she comes out the door, wearing different clothes then 10 minutes earlier. She gets in the car, finally. I give her the exasperated friend look.

-I'm sorry! But you know what Bridges? You know what? You do that to me all the time!

(not true)

-You look great now! Beautiful. Gorgeous. Every man will want a piece of you. Let's go!!

-You're not that shabby yourself!

(Shabby? Ok, perhaps she didn't use the word "shabby". Maybe she said "pas pire", as in "Toi aussi, t'es pas pire pentoute!")

And we head out to Crescent street, where we're hoping to find food, good looking men, music, and dancing. Not necessarily in that particular order.

Christophe XVI

2007-06-08T22:16:00.000-04:00

Au centre du restaurant, un groupe de retraités fête l’un des leurs. Trois hommes et deux femmes sont attablés devant une gigantesque pizza. Une des convives, tirée à quatre épingles dans un tailleur pied-de poule, fait élégamment le service. Elle coupe des pointes et les dépose mécaniquement dans les assiettes en souriant, tout en suivant la conversation qui se déroule à table. Elle les distribue à sa voisine de gauche, qui les donnera à son voisin et ainsi de suite, jusqu'à ce qu’ils soient tous servis. L’homme assis près d’elle la regarde avec attention; c’est probablement son mari. Il semble s’attendre à une catastrophe; ses mains sont sur la table, son dos n’est pas appuyé sur la chaise et ses yeux ne quittent pas les mains de sa femme. Il doit craindre qu’elle ne renverse une coupe de vin ou qu’une pointe de pizza coulante de sauce tomate, déposée trop énergiquement dans une assiette, éclabousse sa chemise blanche. Au moindre faux-pas de sa femme, il sera prêt à en minimiser les conséquences. Un bouquet de ballons posé au milieu de la table attire mon attention. Il est inscrit Encore 29 ans! en blanc sur le ballon rouge, Félicitations! en blanc sur le ballon bleu, et Good luck! en lettres dorées sur un ballon vert orné de trèfles à quatre feuilles. Je n’arrive pas à me faire une idée. Fêtent-ils une retraite, un anniversaire, ou encore la St-Patrick?

Je me rends discrètement à la salle de bains, l’air nonchalant. Avant de pousser la porte, je te jette un coup d’œil discret. De plus près, je distinguerais une lueur d’excitation dans tes yeux; je me plongerais dans ton regard à la fois timide et frondeur, d’un bleu sombre et glacial nuancé d’ambre chaleureux, près des pupilles, là où personne ne l’a remarqué. Sauf moi. J’aime t’observer lorsque tu ne le sais pas. Autrement, tu ne me laisses pas faire. Alors je dois le faire en cachette. À ton insu. Je me transforme en voyeuse invisible afin de me raconter une histoire. La tienne, celle de mon amant cosmopolite en exil depuis des lunes. La mienne, celle de l’écrivaine undercover à découvert.

Tu m’attends à notre table, en terminant le vin. Le serveur t’a remis une copie du menu afin que tu puisses y consulter la carte des desserts. « Fais-moi une surprise! » t’ai-je dis avant de me lever de table. Menu en mains, tu as l’air de me choisir avec attention une sucrerie qui devrait faire mon bonheur.

Si tu savais ce que je lis dans tes petits gestes anodins et ta façon de bouger. Avenant, délicat, prévoyant. Entre les lignes de ton accent parisien, à peine affaibli par vingt ans de conversations montréalaises, je te devine toujours étranger. Tu es ici chez toi, je le vois bien. Tu aimes les gens, leur familiarité attachante, le langage coloré. Les affres de l’hiver trop long te laissent de glace, t’importunent moins que la majorité des québécois. Chez toi, ce n’est pas ici. Enfin, pas tout à fait. Par tes sourires maladroits adressés aux étrangères qui croisent ton chemin, tu laisses des traces invisibles mais bien réelles. Dans ces moments, tu es vulnérable et beau; ton corps exprime ta manière discrète d’être au monde, sans pour autant t’effacer de l’espace que tu habites. « Garçon! » Tu appelles le serveur, l’index bien levé afin de ne pas passer inaperçu. Personne n’appelle plus les serveurs « garçons » de nos jours. Enfin, pas à Montréal. Il te voit immédiatement et se dirige vers toi, une pile de menus sous le bras. Tu lui demandes quelque chose, il fait oui de la tête et te remet un menu. En le remerciant, tu lui fais sûrement une remarque spirituelle, puisque vous riez discrètement tous les deux. Il termine le vin en le partageant dans nos verres respectifs avant de repartir avec la bouteille vide, toujours souriant.

Kopinski corporate memos

2007-06-05T21:48:00.000-04:00

From: Bridges L.
Sent: June 5, 2007 11:09 AM
To: Mr. Kopinski

Subject: A Tuesday morning's random thought

Mr. Kopinski,

I would like to thank you for taking to heart the musical upbringing of your employees. I think it is really swell that employees can have music lessons and learn to play an instrument, like the violin, right here in the office lunchroom, on Tuesdays from 9 to 12. I think it is really brave of you to let governmental translators manipulate the bow in such wanton disregard.

Sometimes, hearing violins play symbolizes peace, joy, happiness and sheer communion with all things beautiful in the world.

For me, on Tuesday mornings, it means 2 extra strength Tylenol caplets and ear plugs.

Hopefully this will turn into a beautiful concerto in the honor of Kopinski Translation & co. employees who suffered this painful hardship at the Christmas party!!!

Good day sir,

Bridges L.

Translator

Christophe XV

2007-06-04T22:11:00.000-04:00

C’est une jolie brunette, sans maquillage, visiblement amoureuse. Une assiette de saumon fumé décorée de tranches de citron frais a été déposée devant elle. Lui, un blondinet à la calvitie naissante qui me semble maladroit. Il pique sa fourchette dans un cœur d’artichaut. Je la vois découper un morceau de saumon, l’enrouler autour d’une câpre et le tendre à son compagnon. Hésitant, Il plisse le nez devant le poisson cru, et décline son offre en hochant la tête. Elle hausse les épaules, esquisse un sourire résigné et avale le saumon et la câpre. J’observe le serveur remplir les verres d’eau glacée. Veulent-ils d’autre pain non mais d’autre vin oui, une autre bouteille, certainement, et le serveur va la chercher. Je guette la brunette. Elle savoure la dernière lampée de vin, dépose sa coupe vide, déglutit, ferme les yeux. Elle ouvre la bouche et attend. Attends de voir si le poisson va mordre à défaut d’être mordu. Joue le jeu nom de Dieu, c’est ce qu’elle pense je crois. Entre ses dents le blondinet dépose un artichaut, qu’elle s’empresse de croquer avec délice. Une goutte d’huile aromatisée s’échappe de ses lèvres poupines, puis il l’essuie de son doigt en rigolant. Je suis ravie de le voir le porter immédiatement à sa bouche. C’est facile, trop facile, doit-il se dire. Le serveur revient, serviette blanche sur le bras, débouche le vin et remplit solennellement leurs coupes. Très bon elle dit, encore meilleur que l’autre, voit par toi-même c’est délicieux. Le blondinet porte la coupe à ses lèvres et acquiesce. Je jette un dernier coup d’œil à la brunette et au blondinet.

Je les trouve mignons. Je ne les envie pas. J’ouvre le menu à mon tour.

Alors que j’hésite entre la mesclun et la césar, je te raconte la saynète qui se déroule à quelques tables de nous, pendant que tu faisais la lumière sur les zuppa et les antipastos. Tandis que les mots s’échappent de ma bouche et que tu les captes des yeux, les serveurs s’affairent à garnir les corbeilles à pain, remplir les verres d’eau glacée, et moudre du poivre en grains au-dessus des assiettes fumantes. Tu me regardes, touché par ce petit récit impromptu et attendri devant mon sens de l’observation aiguisé et interprétatif. Tu me demandes doucement si je veux du vin chérie, et mets ta main sur la mienne. Nos doigts se croisent sur la table, entre la baguette et le plat d’olives noires. Oui, une pleine bouteille darling car je ne fais pas les choses à moitié et tu détestes les demi-mesures.

Where have all the cow-girls gone?

2007-06-01T23:22:00.000-04:00

Pour une raison que j'ignore, tout à coup, mes blogueuses favorites éteignent la lumière du porche une à une. Mère indigne l'a fait plus tôt ce printemps; mon amie Blue, fatiguée de raconter ses péripéties de voyageuse, ressent le besoin de se garder "une tite gène" et se pousse pour voir ailleurs si elle y est; Caroline à Londres semble avoir fait le tour de son jardin anglais et file, pardon the pun, à l'anglaise; et puis voilà même que Chroniques Blondes, la reine de la mise en scène devant et derrière le rideau, s'y met. Toutes, dis-je, toutes mes bloguettes "tirent la plogue" du blogue.

Mesdames, je vous salue bien bas, je ne crois pas une seule minute que vous vous éclipserez pour bien longtemps, du moins, c'est ce que je souhaite. Et pourquoi est-ce que vous nous quittez toutes en même temps?? C'est une conspiration ou quoi? Oh, et puis ne niez pas, Blue & Caroline...

-ok, ok j'le fais si tu le fais....
-Non, moi j'le fais pas si tu le fais pas....
-OK debord on le fait ensemble!

-OK GO!!

Et puis Chroniques qui s'en va...j'ai peur de l'hiver et du froid....j'ai peur de vivre, et du silennnnnn-ceeee....

Allez, quoi...je vous lisais, moi!

Even cowgirls get the blues! Thank you ladies...

ecoBridges

2007-05-31T21:51:00.000-04:00

After my silent fit at the office a few weeks ago, I was offered to translate for another department AND a new office with a great view on the Zeller's & Homesense parking lot (Hey, don't make fun, I just spent close to two years working in a dark & gloomy cave) So now, I'm translating mostly Environment & agriculture related documents, which makes me very happy because I get to keep up to date with very useful eco-tips from our very environmentally-savy government ( "Wash your clothes using cold water. Many detergents clean just as well in cold water!" or "When buying a new appliance, choose an energy-efficient one.!") Hey Mr. Harper! Here's an eco-tip for ya : When extracting oil sands in Alberta, don't fill the surrounding lakes and rivers with contaminated water! Oh, and when the international community signs a treaty to protect the environment, well, sign it, and oh, respect it! By the way, did you know Canada's GHG emissions are 32% OVER Kyoto's target? As per www.ec.gc.ca :

Latest Greenhouse Gas Data Show that Canada is Still Over 32% Above Kyoto Target

OTTAWA, May 25, 2007 –As part of its international obligations, Environment Canada submitted today its annual national greenhouse gas (GHG) inventory for 2005 to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC).
“This information tells us that greenhouse gases are still over 32% higher than our Kyoto target,” stated the Honourable John Baird, Minister of the Environment. “This is why this government has put forward a concrete action plan to reduce greenhouse gases and air pollutants.”

Canada is way behind in its environmental actions...Just like me...Today I was assigned a 4000 words document (usually, a good and productive translator pulls about 2000 words a day, on a good day) due on Monday, and since I don't want to work this weekend since I'm taking the kids to Montreal to see their dad (and yes, I will be driving my car and not an energy-efficient appliance) and planning to get down and boogie on Crescent street either Friday or Saturday, then...I have to get a'goin' pretty soon. And since the Canadian Environment Week is from June 3-9, suddenly the office is swamped with eco-tips, eco-actions and eco-whatnots to translate. What have you done for the environment lately? I for one decided to boycott the little plastic bags from stores & markets. I carry my own reusable yet very trendy black cotton bags made from recycled plastic bottles.

(For groceries, shoes, kids crafts, gardening supplies or any other crap that a single mom carries around)

You can call me ecoBridges,love.

Christophe XV

2007-05-30T22:46:00.000-04:00

Christophe me susurre à l’oreille, dis-donc, qu’est ce qui t’a pris ma mignonne…ne me dis pas que tu es jalouse? Je lui réponds par une moue de petite fille prise en défaut. Tut-tut-tut qu’il me fait. Tu sais bien qu’il n’y a que toi maintenant ma toute petite. Il est charmant, je trouve. Un vrai prince. Tout à coup j'ai le droit d'être inconduite.

Avant que tu ne puisses t’asseoir à ton tour, un jeune serveur se dirige vers notre table avec des menus recouverts de cuir noir aux écritures dorées sous le bras. Il se déplace au ralenti, ses chaussures seraient doublées de guimauve que je n’en serais pas surprise; il salue au passage un jeune couple dont la femme est enceinte jusqu’aux oreilles, et s’arrête près de nous. Un sourire imbécile mais heureux est plastronné sur son visage, et son regard semble s’évader au-dessus des clients. Peut-être est-ce un petit pétard grillé avec le cuisinier quelques minutes plus tôt qui le rend si baba cool. Bonsoir bienvenue chez Senso’s, le meilleur endroit en ville pour manger straticella, pastas, ansalata et tutti quanti, Marcello pour vous servir, qu’il nous dit, cabotin. Peut-il nous servir un apéro, certainement tu lui réponds, ce sera Pernod pour monsieur et Pineau pour madame, parfait merci qu’il dit et nous souhaite une bonne soirée. Marcello se dirige machinalement vers le bar. Tu me regardes d’un air complice et je te fais un clin d’œil. Nous savons tous les deux qu’il en sera ainsi. Une excellente soirée. Tu retires le chewing-gum de ta bouche, le roule en petite boule symétrique, la colle dans le cendrier, puis t’assied en face de moi. De l’autre côté de la vitrine, des passants transis de froid nous regardent et envient la chaleur et les odeurs réconfortantes qu’ils imaginent mais ne peuvent sentir.

Le resto est bondé. Les gens sont bruyants, quelques-uns sont enivrés. Certains parlent et rient la bouche pleine de carpaccio et de fettucinis Alfredo, d’autres servent du Chianti à leurs voisins de table en éclaboussant les nappes blanches. À ma droite, se trouve un couple dans la jeune vingtaine. Je tourne discrètement la tête en leur direction, jambes croisées. Tu ouvres ton menu et en débute la lecture en plissant les yeux; puis-je te remettre tes lunettes certainement baby. J’attrape mon sac à main sur le dossier de ma chaise, en retire tes lunettes. Je les dépose sur la table. Marcello arrive et dépose un verre de Pineau devant moi, se retourne vers toi et s’excuse ne plus avoir de Pernod, ce n’est pas très en demande ici, dit-il, confus, et te propose un martini. Non, dis-tu en grimaçant, non non, apportez-moi plutôt le vin tout de suite, un merlot Domaine de Ravanes 2000. Je fixe à nouveau le couple, tu souris en me voyant faire, et retournes à ton menu.

Wishful thinking

2007-05-28T21:56:00.000-04:00

Right before I left for my cruise early April, I told one of the girls in the control center (where we, translators, get our work as well as the latest office gossip) that one of my objectives for the trip was to, et je cite, "Get a New-York lover to go and spend some weekends once in a while". Of course at the time I was just being cheeky; and perhaps maybe just a little optimistic :) I had no idea I had such strong prophetic qualities...

I did tell you about the California stud-muffin, but I didn't tell you about the friend I met and kind of bonded with during a lazy day on the beach in St. Kitts. 38 years old, latino, hot, very muscular and dances like no tomorrow. He can almost keep up with me!!! He's got the moves, he's got the look, he's a bit of a beefcake type, and I like him; he stimulates my over-analytical side :) He is writing a screenplay about a guy coming back from the war disfigured and being abandoned by his girlfriend to end up commiting suicide in front of his mother. Now if that's not classic freudian, then I don't know what is... Well, my favorite dancing partner has invited me over for a weekend with him. He says : "I am leaving work early the day you will be coming over, in your honor. Bring some walking shoes because on Saturday we will be walking alot in the city. I have a big weekend planned for you B.!"

How cool is that? The one thing a man can do that turns me on big time is a) tell me he's doing something in my honor, and b) taking care of everything plan-wise. He has a weekend planned for little ol'moi? Well gee baby, you just made my month.

So there, now you know, I will be in New-York on the last weekend of June. Isn't it great to have something to look forward to? Maybe I should go back in the control center and give that girl some gossip ammunition.

Therapeutic gardening 101

2007-05-28T09:19:00.001-04:00

Bridges' garden, May 2007

In the spirit of the very wise saying " If life hands you lemons, bring out the salt & tequila", I have taken up a new gardening project to keep me busy, and to try turning negative energy into positive. And look! it's working! I have installed this little terrace in the shady back corner of my garden, and all on my own! Each of these stones weighs close to 30 pounds (thank God for Robaxacet pain killers) and figuring them out was more than a puzzle... But still! I did it, and now, I can have a nice cuppa whilst watching my flowers grow...

My new favorite spot for reflexion and meditation!

Christophe XIV

2007-05-27T22:09:00.001-04:00

Je suis une littéraire, moi! Rien à foutre que tu aies fêté ton 47e anniversaire de naissance le mois dernier. Mes trente ans et moi n’en avons rien à glander. Je fait semblant que je ne comprends rien aux chiffres, que l’esprit cartésien m’échappe, qu’il se perd dans ma conviction d’être artistique et non théorique, tu vois, les chiffres ne sont jamais attachés aux émotions mais pourtant c’est comme ça que je valide la pertinence des miennes, que je les fait compter. Alors si, ça fonctionne comme ça. Je calcule. Je soustrait. Je divise. Je nie. Je continue de croire que la différence d’âge n’a pas d’importance, que seul compte l’age du cœur et de la tête, et j’y crois dur comme fer.

Devant chez Senso’s, alors que tu allonges le bras pour agripper la porte, je te tire contre moi. Mais qu’est-ce que tu fais Sophie, dis-tu en rigolant, merde, on se les gèle, rien du tout, je veux seulement t’embrasser avant d’entrer, ai-je besoin d’une raison, j’avoue, c’est un comportement suspect à vingt degrés sous zéro, alors que de l’autre côté de la porte il fait chaud et bon; si tu veux tout savoir, Christophe, je suis superstitieuse, alors embrasse-moi vite il fait froid pas le temps d’y penser et tâche d’en avoir envie. Nos manteaux et nos gants se frottent dans un bruissement sec et sourd. À la lumière du réverbère au dessus de nous, je remarque tes lèvres gercées. Je ferme les yeux, j’ouvre à peine la bouche et impose mes lèvres sur les tiennes, et je ne sens rien, l’épaisse couche de rouge à lèvres qui recouvre ma bouche m’en empêche. Une larme de froid glisse sur ma joue jusqu’au col de mon manteau, traçant un sillon sur mon visage, démaquillé d’un trait de caractère.

Tu me laisses faire, ravi de mon impatience malgré le froid agressant. La chaleur mentholée de mon souffle emmêlé au tien embrume tes lunettes. Tu m’embrasses à ton tour, me mordillant gentiment le bout de la langue. Je goûte ta cigarette grillée en vitesse tout à l’heure, chez toi, avant de partir. Tu souris triomphalement, le reste de ma gomme entre les dents. Tu as ce don de me soutirer le peu qui me reste avec tant d’aisance; je suis avalée d’un seul trait, consentante dans un mutisme que même le froid perçant ne saurait faire crier.

J’en serais effrayée si ce n’était pas de ma confiance aveugle en toi. Je retire gentiment tes lunettes givrées et les glisse dans mon sac à main, donnant à voir ton regard candide mais toujours voilé. Tu tapes ton index ganté sur le bout de mon nez, le glisse à ma bouche. Mignonne je suis dans la froidure tu trouves, et tu élances à nouveau ton bras vers la porte, cette fois déterminé à entrer. Pressé de retrouver la chaleur, tu pousses la porte d’un coup sec, créant une bourrasque polaire dans le portique du resto. Tu m’aides à retirer mon écharpe, mon manteau et mes gants, tu fais de même, et je presse ensuite mes mains contre tes joues afin qu’elles se réchauffent. La ravissante hôtesse nous accueille avec un sourire trop lumineux pour être vrai. Elle te reconnaît. Tu l’appelles par son prénom. Un bonsoir monsieur exagérément révérencieux désamorce ton envie de la séduire à nouveau, tu n’es pas seul, quand même, et t’incite à détourner le regard. Je vois bien que cette femme ne t'est pas inconnue; elle te fait les yeux doux, te souris, touche légèrement ton épaule afin de te diriger vers ta table, et me regarde d’un air méprisant, sans que tu ne la voies. Moi je l’ai vue. Elle a de longs cheveux noirs, probablement italienne, plutôt jeune. Plus jeune que moi. Elle porte une robe au décolleté plongeant, et déambule élégamment chaussée de magnifiques Manohlo Blahnik. Ce n’est certainement pas avec son salaire d’hôtesse qu’elle peut se payer ce genre de luxe. Un des ses petits amis mafieux doit les lui avoir offerts, ou encore pire, papa mafieux lui en a apporté une cargaison en direct de New-York, petite salope, je la déteste déjà cette pétasse. Discrètement, je prends ce qui reste de gomme dans ma bouche et le lui lance dans la chevelure alors que je la suis. Oops! Elle nous conduit à une table près de la fenêtre, à ta demande et mon acquiescement, où nous pourrons observer pendant le repas les passants frigorifiés de l’avenue Laurier et la clientèle de Senso’s à notre guise. Ça vous va, ici, Monsieur Christophe? Qu’elle te dit, oui, c’est parfait, que je lui réponds, sèchement, et je lui adresse mon plus beau sourire de vache triomphante. Elle fait un signe de la tête, lève un sourcil en accent circonflexe et nous souhaite une bonne soirée. Galant, tu tires ma chaise et je m’y assieds en soupirant d’aise.

Like my finger on your cheek

2007-05-21T18:18:00.000-04:00

Tadoussac, Quebec, October 2004

Saturday, July 24, 2004

Damn that calling card.

"I'll call you tomorrow "....don't. Don't. Don't call me tomorrow, or the day after, or the other day after that.

Call me when you sort your stuff out...when you know what you want...when you have something to tell me. Something real, tangible, that I can touch, feel and know it's there, like my finger on your cheek.

I don't want to be the needy girl. The whiny girl. YUCK.......I can barely stand myself...The single mom that you settled for, the one who wasn't what you expected but hey what the hell, the one that wasn't PERFECT. The one that made you give up on having kids you can call your own. The one who made you leave your country, your family, your friends. The one you put all your hopes and dreams on her little shoulders, inside her heart, inside her soul. The one who loves you, but is not too sure what it means.

She just can't take it. It's too much to ask of her. She just had a taste of what could be and she liked it. A lot. For some reason she knows it's just going to blow up in her face.

Don't call.
Do write. Stay in fiction, away from reality.
It will be easier. For me.

You are not real.
You exist in an unreachable world, that I can only dream of having.
Fiction is comforting.
Reality hurts like hell.
I always end up crying.

Write.
Don't call.

I love you.
This was a great vacation.
Thank you baby.

The unexpected overexposed lover you may never have again

Christophe XIII

2007-05-14T15:07:00.000-04:00

Enchâssés l’un à l’autre, nous esquivons en vitesse les plaques de glace aussi élégamment que des patineurs artistiques, accélérant le pas à chaque claquement de nos talons sur le rare béton à découvert. Je me sens observée, et tu ne me regardes même pas. Tu tentes de maintenir une distance courtoise entre nous malgré ma solide poigne à ta manche. La soirée est d’un froid corrosif. J’invoque les déesses de la cosmétologie et je prie afin que mon mascara hydrofuge respecte sa promesse et que mon fond de teint tienne le coup; il faut que je sois radieuse et irréprochable pour mon close-up tout à l’heure. Trois coins de rue nous séparent du restaurant. Assez pour se frigorifier les méninges, mais trop peu pour tenir une conversation. De toute façon, je n’ai pas envie de déblatérer du small talk et mis à part le froid, je n’ai qu’une seule chose en tête pour le moment.

Manger.
J’ai faim.
Je pourrais avaler n’importe quoi.

Afin de tromper mon estomac, je déchire du bout des dents un morceau de ma gomme et l’avale rapidement, au rythme de nos pas. Trop vite tu marches, attends, et j’ai failli m’étouffer.

Si étrange, cette relation toute neuve partie sur les chapeaux de roues. Si puissante. Elle exige de moi plus que je ne peux donner. Je me laisse guider, j’en avais assez de tout faire, de réfléchir à tout, j’ai tout gâché, j’ai tout gâché, j’abdique et je me rends, et Christophe a le don de me prendre en charge, je n’ai rien à faire et c’est délicieux, délicieux et effrayant à la fois, peut-être est-ce moi qui exagère la force entre nous, c’est le droit des écrivaines, l’exagération, la mise en scène, l’overdramatization, mais c’est fascinant, je me vois, je me regarde agir et je sais, je sais que je suis attirée par ce qui m’effraie, et je continue. Je commence à peine à marcher seule, et voilà que je me retrouve déjà, volontairement dois-je te le faire remarquer, aux côtés d’un homme qui se plait à se rendre indispensable. Je me crois invulnérable parce que c’est moi qui décide de plein gré d’abdiquer les commandes; tu vois, j’ai fait un bout de chemin, déjà et encore, je suis toujours soumise mais cette fois c’est ironique, et ça me fait rire à défaut d’en pleurer. Oui je le veux, je-le-veux-je-le-veux, et je joue le jeu. Moi, si indépendante de nature mais dépendante de torture. Mon masochisme aura raison de moi, de nous deux, j’en ai bien peur. Notre relation, parce que s’en est bien une, et j’ai dû argumenter des heures avec toi pour que tu finisses enfin par l’admettre, souviens-toi, oui, Sophie, c’est bien une relation, j’ai réfléchi et tu as raison, peu importe la façon dont on regarde la chose, force est d’admettre que nous entretenons bel et bien une relation, amis/amants, homme / femme, si-si , tu as raison, toi et moi, nous sommes en relation, que tu le veuilles ou non.

On se connaît à peine, pourtant, on se reconnaît. Je reconnais que tu refuses de me connaître. Je refuse d’admettre que je te connais. Quelle connerie. Beaucoup trop jeune pour moi, mais ça ne fonctionne pas comme ça, m’as tu dis du même souffle en souriant, lorsque je t’ai demandé si tu étais mon chum, tout à l’heure. Je suis assez intelligente pour savoir que ça ne se passe pas comme ça dans la vie, mais que dans la réalité, dans ces histoires que je me raconte, c’est autre chose. Les chiffres sont dorénavant les seules choses sur lesquelles je peux compter. Combien je reçois de pension alimentaire par mois. Combien de jours par semaine les enfants voient leur père. Combien d’amants sont entrés puis sortis de mon lit depuis que je suis séparée. Combien de fois j’ai eu envie de faire l’amour avec toi depuis que je te connais. Combien de gens assistent métaphoriquement à la représentation de nos scènes élaborées de baise dans ta chambre. Combien de gens me regardent écrire ce livre depuis que je l’écris. Combien d’amis me délaissent depuis que j’écris. Combien de femmes sont en moi depuis ma séparation. Combien, combien, je n’arrive plus à savoir sur qui je peux compter à force de tenter de déchiffrer. Combien de rencontres avec ma thérapeute pour démêler tout ça. Finalement, tu n’as jamais répondu à ma question, ni moi à la tienne.

Trop jeune pour toi?
Non. Pas vraiment.
J’ai eu le temps d’y penser.
M’en fiche.
Vraiment, je m’en fous.
C’est toi qui est trop jeune pour moi.

Une lettre au miroir

2007-05-08T22:32:00.000-04:00

Musée Picasso, Paris, Août 2006

Montréal, février 2004

Chère amie,

Ginette Reno chantait :

Ça va mieux, ça va mieux
Je ne pense presque plus
À nous deux, à nous deux
Ça m'a pris du temps c'est vrai
Ce n'est pas encore ça mais
Ça va mieux, ça va mieux
Je n'ai plus besoin de toi
Ou si peu ou si peu
C'est moins fragile que l'on pense
Un cœur en convalescence

Ma chérie... Tu es en sevrage émotif... Et ça, c'est une conséquence de la dépendance affective. On devient dépendante affective quand ce qu'on ne peut pas obtenir prend toute la place dans notre vie, jusqu'a nous obséder, nous rendre folle, irrationnelle, dépressive. C'est un cercle vicieux duquel il est très difficile de sortir. Crois-moi, je sais de quoi je parle. Alors on compulsionne. Dans la drogue, l’alcool, la bouffe, (surtout les mets chinois) le cul. Moi, ma compulsion de choix, ce sont les hommes. Dans le plus fort de ma dépression, j’ai croqué amant par-dessus amant afin de combler ce gouffre de moi qui m'avalait de plus en plus. Tu sais, ce trou immense qui ne se remplit jamais? (Un jour, je m'y suis aventurée. Voici ce que j'y ai trouvé : une estime de moi plus que déficiente; un manque d'affection chronique; un grand besoin d'être admirée; un sentiment d'impuissance plus dévastateur que la bombe H; une mère me disant « Va pas dehors, le monde est méchant! Dangereux! » Un père réalisant à 55 ans que ce n'est pas en suivant les règles qu'on gagne au jeu; une tonne de livres hyper intéressants que je n'ai pas encore lus et une paire de sandales plate-formes à lacets de cuirs vernis qui me branchent en crisse.) Alors je baisais avec (tiens, lui là-bas) et je croyais que je me sentirais aimée, que le vide serait moins vide. HAAAAAAAAAA!

Bizarrement, c'est le contraire qui se produisait. Je me sentais encore plus nulle. Alors je recommençais. Ca m’a pris du temps avant de comprendre; quand on a des tendances masochistes, on se demande longtemps pourquoi on se fait mal et quand on le trouve, on se dit : Pourquoi arrêter? Avoue que c'est tentant : Croire, l'espace d'une nuit (ou d'un après-midi, ce qui était souvent mon cas) que quelqu'un va nous aimer et qu'à travers ce corps à corps dépourvu de sens, on sera enfin COMPLÈTE. ppppppppprrrrrrrrrrrrtttttttttt!!!!!! (Ca, c'est le bruit d'une grimace lente et juteuse.) BULLSHIIIIIIIT!!!!

Et je ne t'apprends rien en te disant que le sevrage, ça fait mal jusqu'en dedans des tripes; on finit même par croire qu'on va en mourir. Et surtout, ne pense pas que j’arrive à t’en parler de façon détachée; on est toutes la-dedans, dans ce rapport latent de dépendance affective, jusqu'au cou, et même quand on croit s'en sortir, voilà qu'on y retombe. C'est pour ça qu'on a besoin de ses copines pour se rappeler qu'on peut se suffire à soi-même, sans hommes... mais... on a TOUJOURS besoin de ses amies!!!!!

Je te comprends. On a beaucoup de choses en commun, toi et moi, qu'on a vécues de façon différente, sur des chemins de vies parallèles. Avec des hommes qui semblent diamétralement opposés mais qui se rejoignent sur bien des points. Ce vide que nous ressentons, nous le comblons avec l'écriture, la photo, la peinture, la danse, whatever. Si on a pas ça, Nath, on meurt, c'est tout. Et pour être morte, pas besoin que le cœur cesse de battre; j'ai été morte pendant 3 ans, et ce, même si j'ai donné la vie. Étrange, non? J'ai parfois l'impression que d'avoir donné naissance à mon fils m'a à la fois tuée et fait renaître. Faudra que j'explore ça à un moment donné.

C'est bien que tu aies téléphoné à James. Il te fait sentir bien, parce qu'il aime être avec toi et qu'il ne te demande rien. Juste d'être toi. Ca suffit. C'est beau, l'image que j'ai de toi marchant dans la neige avec cet homme qui te tient la taille. Il te trouve belle, et tu ris. C'est vrai que tu es belle quand tu ris. Il y a chez toi cette beauté tragique, un mélange de poussière d'étoile et de reflets des ténèbres. Une princesse / sorcière envoûtante. Un soleil noir.

Moi non plus je ne sais pas ce que je vais faire.
Moi aussi je me sens paralysée.
Moi aussi j'ai besoin de toi.

Accroche-toi, glisses pas, Hang on!

Je suis là.

Christophe XII

2007-05-02T19:15:00.000-04:00

Mes talons aiguilles s’enfoncent dans la neige et me donnent une certaine prise au sol, rendant ma démarche plus assurée. Je procède avec caution, car je me connais. Je sais ce dont je suis capable, et mes capacités en matière de déambulation se résument en un seul mot. Je suis maladroite. Les gens ayant déjà marché avec moi sur les trottoirs vous le diront; je m’enfarge plus souvent qu’à mon tour dans des obstacles imaginaires. Je le sais, bon sang! J’ai déjà fait bien pire que de glisser sur un trottoir glacé. Par exemple, j’ai déjà manqué une marche dans les escaliers du métro en pleine heure de pointe et répandu tout le contenu de mon sac à mains aux pieds d’usagers du transport en commun; je crois bien que c’était la dernière fois que j’ai pris le métro, ma voiture me semblait tellement plus sécuritaire après cete mésaventure; j’ai déjà glissé dans le stationnement d’un voisin un soir d’Halloween, en chantonnant la charité s’il vous plait! avec Rose déguisée en princesse sur un bras et un sac de bonbons sur l’autre, projetant les bonbons dans les airs, me transformant tout à coup en pinata impromptue, traumatisant ma fille et mes voisins du même coup, un classique; je suis même tombée sur le derrière dans une salle de cinéma bondée alors que je cherchais un siège libre dans la pénombre, pop-corn volant dans tous les sens, déclenchant l’hilarité générale chez les cinéphiles et l’embarras de mon mari à l’époque. Une chute est toujours imminente chez moi, et la certitude qu’elle se produira n’est pas à remettre en question, la seule chose que j’ignore, et là réside toute l’excitation, est le moment où je tomberai sur le cul.

Je m’attends donc à tout moment à m’étendre de tout mon long sur la chaussée, et je me prépare mentalement à cette éventualité. Christophe le ressent, peut-être est-ce ma façon de lui serrer la main très fort en lui tirant le bras dans tous les sens qui lui a donné cette impression, ne me laisse pas tomber-ne me laisse pas tomber-ne me laisse pas tomber et en arrivant à l’intersection du boulevard Saint-Laurent, il retire sa main de la mienne pour m’offrir son bras en entier en guise de soutien. Je m’y accroche volontiers, merci beaucoup Christophe, tu es très prévenant, convaincue que mon équilibre dépend du sien. Ainsi agrippée à son bras, si je tombe, il tombera aussi. Ce serait sa faute s’il n’avait pas été assez fort pour prévenir ma chute, et ce serait gênant. Surtout pour lui. À deux, le cul gelé sur le trottoir, blessés surtout dans l’amour-propre, c’est moins embarrassant. Surtout pour moi. Sous un regard empathique, la douleur de la chute se dissimulerait habilement dans des rires embarrassés.

Nous nous immobilisons en attendant le feu vert. Près de nous, une enfant tient la main d’une femme qui pourrait être sa mère, et elles attendent toutes deux que le feu rouge vire au vert. La petite lève les yeux et m’examine des pieds à la tête, regarde mes longues bottes noires, mon long manteau de cuir noir, puis, mes cheveux noirs. Je vois bien une certaine frayeur dans son regard ainsi qu’un point d’interrogation au-dessus de sa tuque à pompon et je lui adresse un léger sourire, question de la rassurer un peu. Je ne suis pas méchante, petite fille. Il faut dire que j’ai l’air un peu inquiétant dans les yeux d’une enfant dont la mère ressemble à la mienne, ainsi affublée. Samedi soir à Montréal, on se les gèle, tout le monde est emmitouflé jusqu’aux oreilles, Christophe y compris. Moi, je suis de cuir noir vêtue avec sur la tête une écharpe nouée me donnant un look à mi-chemin entre l’antithèse de la vierge Marie et une conductrice de décapotable ne voulant pas être décoiffée par ses excès de vitesse. Encore pire, je ressemble à une starlette américaine venant de s’échapper d’un plateau de tournage d’un remake de « La Matrice ». C’est peut-être la fascination qui se dessine dans les yeux de la petite fille. Oui, tiens, je suis Thelma, la délinquante de Thelma & Louise, version hard-core. J’ai réussi à échapper à la justice américaine, ma décapotable s’est posée de l’autre côté du Grand Canyon et je me terre maintenant à Montréal, en plein hiver, et je cherche maintenant une autre Louise à émanciper, à protéger, et à mener tout droit dans le vide. Thelma la traquée, la vengeresse, la gardienne. Tu veux être ma Louise, petite fille? Dans ma camaro, je t’emmènerai, et je te jure, t’auras le droit d’être belle, de danser, de t’amuser, et de ne pas avoir peur quand je te conduirai à toute vitesse vers le précipice. Je ne laisserai personne te faire du mal. Non, personne ne va te tuer, petite fille que j’effraie. T’inquiète pas. Je deviendrai assassine pour que tu n’aies pas à te faire meurtrière. Je tuerai dans l’œuf s’il le faut, pour te protéger. Je te montrerai comment faire.

Je lui souris et elle reste là, figée, à faire des nuages de buée à travers son foulard rose. La mère tire sa fille vers elle, on ne fixe pas les gens comme ça, ma chérie. C’est malpoli. Je suis désolée maman, je ne le referai plus. Le feu vire au vert. Je lui souris et je poursuis ma course avec Christophe.

Behind the glass

2007-05-01T17:42:00.000-04:00

Behind the glass, Montreal, september 2006

Montréal, septembre 2003

La session est déjà entamée, du moins dans la réalité (l'amorce est beaucoup moins concrète dans ma tête, mais bon, j'y travaille très fort...) et je manifeste l’intérêt et le désir sincère de travailler sous ton égide à la maîtrise en création littéraire.

J'ai bien évalué la situation, évoqué la possibilité de travailler sous la supervision d’autres professeurs émérites, mais personne ne semble coller d’assez près à moi, et rien ne me semble plus logique et excitant que la perspective de pouvoir compter sur ton savoir, ton expérience et ta grande sensibilité pour mener à bien mon projet d'écriture.

Évidemment, je veux travailler avec une femme, cela va de soi. Je veux travailler en terrain connu. J'ai beaucoup lu cet été (pas autant que je l'aurais voulu, c'est vrai, mais bon... je crois que je n’arriverai jamais à répondre à mes propres exigences personnelles qui relèvent toujours de l'impossible, sinon comment se veulent toujours ) et mon projet semble prendre forme, les morceaux du casse-tête s'emboîtent petit à petit et donnent l'impression qu'une image plus claire se formera sous peu... Mon projet se veut une écriture du soi, de l'Autre, et de tout ce qu'il y a au milieu. Une écriture de femme, sans conteste. Bien des ellipses sont tendues entre les écrits de femmes; à tel point que c'est étourdissant, stupéfiant. Je suis sous le choc presque à tous les jours.

Je suis actuellement dans un tourbillon émotionnel difficile à supporter; je pleure, je ris, je fuis, j'ai peur, je crois que ma notion du temps et de la réalité en est dangereusement affectée. Je n’en peux plus, je profite de la semaine de lecture pour prendre la fuite vers San Francisco dimanche matin, au lendemain de ma cérémonie de graduation de Bacc. Je vais rendre visite à une copine que j’ai rencontré cet été aux Iles Turquoise; n'est-ce-pas génial?

Je n'ai plus le temps d'écrire, ni la capacité; en fait je t'écris en ce moment et je réalise que je le fais sans trop y penser, ce n'est donc pas de l'écriture pour moi. L'écriture, ça doit être difficile et douloureux pour que ça compte. C'est un spectre qui s’empare de moi sans me demander la permission et qui s’exorcise de lui-même sans avertissement. L'état d'urgence dans lequel je me trouve me fait trembler et douter de tout-tout-tout. Normalement, le doute fait avancer, mais moi, il ne me fait que stagner!

Je sais, je sais...

Je panique pour rien. Du moins, c'est ce que je veux t'entendre me dire. Je me sens bien seule et inutile, et un petit mot de ta part me sera bénéfique et encourageant.

À bientôt, j'attends de tes nouvelles.

The world is my pork chop

2007-04-30T08:23:00.000-04:00

"The world is my pork chop", San Francisco, October 2003

Tu ne sais pas toute l'énergie que ça me
demande de ne pas t'écrire.

Alors je ne le fais pas.

Je ne t'écris pas.

Parce que tu n'existes pas.

Dans un café Internet, San Francisco, octobre 2003

Tu te rends compte à quel point je suis pathétique? Je suis en plein cœur de San Francisco, au coin de Height et Ashbury, le berceau mythique de la génération beatnik et du peace & love. Je suis assise dans un café Internet, il fait beau, des histoires se déroulent à mon insu autour de moi et je n'ai rien de mieux à faire que d'écrire à quelqu'un qui n'existe pas.Mais c'est à toi que j'envoie ce message.Parce que toi, tu existes, mon amie.Tu existes et tu me manques. Je ne supporte pas d'être ici. J’ai mal de ressentir cette souffrance. J’essaie de la fuir, je n’y arrive pas. Elle me rattrape. Je tente de l’engourdir, de la geler, en m’étourdissant de visites compulsives de musées magnifiques, en enfilant les tableaux de maîtres l’un après l’autre, toute seule, jusqu’à ce que mon regard ne puisse interpréter que le symbolique se cachant derrière les coups de pinceaux, que les couleurs impriment ma rétine jusqu’à ce qu’il n’y ait plus de distinction entre la réalité et de l’acte de symbolisation du réel, en m’enivrant en compagnie d’inconnus, en goûtant des corps qui ne m’appartiendront jamais plus, en me racontant des histoires, moi, l’étrangère en perdition au charming accent, je tente de fuir, je me rattrape, j’ai mal, je n’y arrive pas, je tourne en rond, à des kilomètres de chez moi.

Je ne supporterais pas d'être à la maison, affligée d’une maladie dont j’ignore le nom, dont je suis seule à connaître l’existence. Et même si je le savais, si je la connaissais comme elle semble me connaître, je ne pourrais pas la nommer, je ne pourrais que l’écrire. Je ne supporte pas d'être loin des enfants, ils me manquent. Pourtant, je ne supporterais pas non plus d'être avec eux, ils seraient de trop. Beaucoup trop encombrants dans une peine qui ne les concerne absolument pas, que leur présence colorerait d’une teinte coupable qui déplacerait en moi ce que j’ai à traverser seule. Je n'ai qu'une envie, rester ici, sur cet écran, encore un peu. Le temps de me ressaisir, de ramasser mes morceaux, de me reconstituer. Le temps de guérir. De me guérir de lui et d’apaiser cette douleur qui m’empêche d’être libre de lui, de l’autre qui prenait sa place avant lui, de remplacer ce vide par un autre, tout simplement libre, pour la première fois de ma vie.

Je croyais qu'ici, loin de tout, loin de moi, de mes enfants et de ma vie, je deviendrais momentanément une autre. Je joue les touristes perdues, et je le fais très bien, j’arrive même à me convaincre moi-même. Les Californiens sont fondamentalement sympathiques, j’ai bu une bière à 10 h ce matin, en compagnie d’un vieux marin philosophe au Vesuvio’s. C’est là que Jack Kerouac venait se désaltérer entre deux pèlerinages; des photos de lui ornent les murs, en compagnie d’autres écrivains. Ce marin s’appelle Karl. C’est un barbu à l’allure un peu froissée, ses cheveux sont pêle-mêle, ses vêtements fripés et salis aux genoux par du gazon mouillé. Malgré ses airs de tough guy au lendemain d’une veillée pas tout à fait terminée, il était courtois et étonnamment chatty pour quelqu’un qui avait l’air d’avoir passé la nuit à festoyer. Il n’a pas rechigné lorsque je lui ai demandé de me prendre en photo en train d'ébaucher cette lettre, appuyée contre le bar du Vesuvio’s. (Je voulais me voir en train de t’écrire, pour que mes mots ne soient pas vains, pour faire partie de ma propre aventure. Que veux-tu, en voyage, je me sens décalée.) Karl a même souri. Je l’ai trouvé tout de même charmant pour quelqu’un qui empestait le whisky si tôt le matin. Il s’est excusé, la photo serait probablement floue, étant donné qu’il tremblait en appuyant sur le déclencheur. Son corps protestait contre le taux d’alcool décroissant trop rapidement dans son sang. Il m’a raconté qu’il venait tout juste de passer la nuit dans le Golden Gate Park avec sa vieille amie Rita, à boire du whisky à même la bouteille et à se raconter leurs histoires d’amour déchues. Il avait rigolé toute la nuit avec Rita. Ils avaient bu, discuté philosophie et sexe, et fait l’amour comme des adolescents, les fesses à l’air dans l’herbe froide, derrière un banc de parc. En regardant le soleil se lever sur San Francisco ce matin, Karl a inscrit sur le banc, à l’aide d’un stylo feutre qu’il garde dans la poche de son blouson, « Karl CAME here ». Il se trouvait très drôle, d’ailleurs, il en riait encore à me le raconter. Puis Rita lui avait retiré le stylo des mains et avait rajouté « So did Rita. Twice. » Il a recommencé à s’esclaffer en disant qu’elle avait souligné le mot « Twice » deux fois, en appuyant si fort sur la mèche du stylo qu’elle est devenue émoussée, et que c’était pour cette raison qu’il ne pouvait me donner son numéro de téléphone. (Je ne me souvenais pas de lui avoir demandé mais je voulais entendre la fin de l’histoire) Le crayon était fichu, et moi je me demandais si Karl ne se fichait pas de moi. J’hésite à dire qu’il me racontait des bobards, simplement pour faire la conversation avec une inconnue. Il semblait trop ému par cette douce et folle aventure qu’il venait de vivre. Qu’elle se soit déroulée dans sa réalité ou qu’il s’agisse d’une déformation alcoolique d’une aventure qui avait mal tourné, moi, c’est la réalité de cette émotion qui m’a touchée. Il avait l’air si heureux. Il souriait, et ses yeux se perdaient dans l’ascension des bulles de sa bière à peine entamée. J’ai souri en le regardant se chuchoter à lui-même, j’ai fini mon verre, rangé ma caméra et mon cahier dans mon sac à dos, et je lui ai soufflé un baiser. Je l’ai remercié d’avoir partagé cette histoire avec moi. Il sentait le whisky, la cigarette et le gazon, et son histoire m’a semblée suffisamment romantique pour que j’aie envie de la raconter. J’aime bien vivre une histoire d’amour par étrangers interposés, le temps d’un voyage d’autoguérison. Ça m’apaise. Et puis, ça me permet de m’éloigner de mon chagrin. Pendant un court moment, j’ai cru arriver à le semer. Après ma rencontre avec Karl, j’ai visité à nouveau musées, librairies et expositions de toutes sortes. Puis, il m’a rattrapée. On ne peut pas échapper à soi-même et à sa peine. J’aurai beau m’inventer des fictions follement romantiques et les prêter aux saoulons marmonnants assis près de moi dans les bars, je ne cavale pas assez vite pour échapper à mes peines d’amour, elles finissent toujours par me blesser.

Je pleure derrière mes lunettes fumées et mon appareil photo depuis 24 heures. Anne-Marie, la copine qui m’accueille gentiment chez elle, ne me voit pas pleurer, parce que je sais bien me cacher. Je pleure dans la douche, ma taie d’oreiller est couverte de mascara le matin. Mais elle devine. Elle pressent l’état catatonique dans lequel je me trouve, elle sait très bien pourquoi je suis ici, en Californie. Elle comprend la nécessité de ma fuite. Ici, je suis à des années-lumières d’une réalité qui ne cadrait plus très bien avec moi. C’est ici que je me suis réfugiée pour me cacher de fantômes que j’avais moi-même imaginés; à force de n’avoir peur de rien j’ai dû m’inventer des hantises pour que quelqu’un vienne enfin me sauver de moi-même. Je crois que c’est ce que je suis venue chercher à San Francisco. Une trêve de mes histoires d’horreur. Mais je suis là, je suis toujours là, je me sauve et pourtant personne ne se porte volontaire pour me sauver. Je suis comme moi. Je m’échappe. Je fuis.

Assise ici, dans ce petit café inconnu de San Francisco, je t’écris à toi, parce que je ne peux plus lui écrire, à lui. Ça m’est impossible, impensable, parce que j’en ai envie, tant envie que je le fais presque; tu vois, je le fais quand même mais je ne le fais pas tout à fait. Je dois m’en scinder, m’en séparer, avoir la force nécessaire de retrouver mon espace-temps et ma place dans le langage, regagner un monde dont j’ai envie de faire partie. Désir sincère d’un hiatus, d’une trêve, d’une pause, appelle-ça comme tu veux, j’avais seulement envie de me sauver pour être sauvée. Alors je suis partie. Anne-Marie me fait du bien. «You just need a break, honey, that’s all. When you go back home you’ll have California sun in your heart; enough to have the strength to go on with your life. But right now baby, you’re just a big ol’ mess! Cry here! I sure won’t tell. That’s what I’m here for, darling. That’s why you came all the way down here: Because no soul will tell. » Je pleure toute seule, comme je l’ai fait si souvent dans ma chambre d’épouse et de mère au foyer. Je pleure tout de suite, maintenant, dans l'espoir de laisser ma peine ici, à San Francisco, pour de bon, une fois pour toutes. Cette peine là, elle doit rester ici. Il y en aura d’autres, c’est certain. Mais celle-là, la peine que je traîne depuis mon divorce, elle doit mourir ici, avec moi. Avec le vieux moi tout amoché. Je veux revenir à Montréal dans une nouvelle peau, avec un nouveau cœur tout neuf. Y'a pas une chanson qui dit : « I left my (broken) heart in San Francisco » ???

J'ai choisi de t'envoyer ce message parce que tu sais que je ne peux plus lui écrire. C’est fini. Mon appel de détresse quittera San Francisco pour se rendre jusqu'à toi, à Montréal, par les méandres du net, dès que je t’aurai promis mon retour.

Je t'aime, je pense à toi.

Je reviendrai.

Promis.

Picking your friends

2007-04-26T22:49:00.000-04:00

My friend S., who is about 10 years younger than me, gorgeous, spunky, quirky, funny, gets ALL the guys. I mean, all of them. They all want her, they all want to be with her, touch her, talk to her. She gets numerous phone calls throughout the day; she has men knocking on her door to see how she is; clients from the office "randomly" stopping by her desk. And yet, she says men are all assholes, that we shouldn't want/need any of them, because, you know, they suck. All of them, she says. Yet, she continues to smile, chat, and answer calls in a cheerful disposition.

I would really like to know what it feels like to see her side of things. You know, think, like her, that men really, really suck.

Perhaps I'm somewhat masochistic.

Christophe XI

2007-04-24T22:51:00.000-04:00

Au moins, je crois encore qu’ils m’aiment. C’était ça qui m’a fait pleurer. Qu’ils m’aiment encore malgré tout. Malgré ce que leur fille a fait de la vie qu’elle s’était fabriquée selon leur modèle. Malgré le fait qu’elle aie tout balancé. Le mari, les enfants, la famille, la maison, et hop, elle-même n’a plus jamais été la même après ça, quelle colère elle a piqué, tout le monde s’en souvient encore, le téléphone fracassé sur le mur de la cuisine, les chaises en mille morceaux dans la porte-patio, la chemise de Rose déchirée et puis les cris, les hurlements, les pleurs et la frayeur de ma mère, le calme exécutoire de mon père, et puis les flics, cognant à la porte, bonjour madame, tout va bien ici? Foutez-moi le camp de chez moi putains de salopards de connards de merde vous n’avez rien à foutre ici! Calmez-vous madame, nous voulons vous aider, Je vous emmerde tous, vous n’êtes que des menteurs, des tricheurs et des assassins, tout ça n’est que mensonge, rien n’est vrai, tout est faux, cette vie que j’avais si habilement élaborée s’est révélée n’être qu’un cirque joué par des clowns et des singes à chapeaux, je vais tous vous éliminer, vous faire disparaître, un à un, ça y est, je panique, je fait une attaque d'angoisse, Christophe me tend une boite de mouchoirs, attends que j’essuie mes larmes, oui-oui, c’est bon, je me calme, je vais bien, c'est fini, qu'il me dit, puis, m’aide à enfiler mon manteau. Tu es prête? Je lui fais un oui de la tête. Je n’ai jamais été aussi prête de toute ma vie.

Avant de pousser la dernière porte qui nous sépare de la froidure, Christophe revêt ses gants, puis enfile un long manteau de laine noir. Je passe mon écharpe par-dessus ma tête et l’enroule autour de mon cou. Je le regarde sortir les clés de sa poche puis s’emmitoufler comme il faut, puisqu’il est comme ça, Christophe, très comme il faut, c’est le gentilhomme chic, première classe s’il vous plaît merci, son accent parisien à couper au couteau ne trompe pas. J’adore les européens. Tellement classe. Ils me transportent tellement loin de chez moi. J'en oublie qui je suis. Allons-y, je suis prêt, il pousse la porte, me laisse passer devant, encore affairée avec cette écharpe autour de mon cou, referme derrière nous et verrouille les deux serrures. On n’est jamais trop prudent dans ce quartier ma mignonne, puis nous nous engageons sur la rue Laurier, direction ouest, main dans la main. Gantées, of course.

Missing apects of yourself

2007-04-23T09:38:00.000-04:00

Blue Metropolis festival logo, Montreal, April 25-29

In the past few days, I noticed that I was getting a bit melancholic when I thought of my student life in Montreal, at UQAM. I miss all things literary; my teachers, especially Louise Dupré who is my "directrice de mémoire", but also all these women writers who attended the courses with me. I miss the university "milieu", I miss just "being there", that feeling of belonging, the sheer pleasure of a group of women discussing the aspects of creation. I feel very lonely here in Ottawa as a French writer-ess, and I really miss my girls! I have postponed my mémoire writing for close to three years now, doing very little and procrastinating more & more as time goes by, and I should, if everything goes well, deposit everything by the end of December of this year.

(AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGH!!! BRIDGES! BUT DECEMBER IS SO CLOSE!!! YOU'LL NEVER MAKE IT!!!)

I know. Chances are I will blow the deadline. I have been working as a translator around 26 hours a week for a year now, in the hopes of having more time to work on my mémoire....but you know what; it's just not happening. I have many excuses, of course, but when I say them out loud whilst standing in front of a mirror, they just don't cut it. I know that I have been putting it aside wilfully because, well, I'm a bit lazy (Single-mother/translator/house owner, you know, you tend to be on your ass a lot) and to be honest, this distance between me and my work grows more distant every day, and it's very draining to get back into that mood again, especially whilst being so far away from university, colleagues, and incentives to keep working. No, instead, I have been writing, of course, how can I ever stop writing, but not what I should have been. I have to get back into it, and fast. Time is running out!

I need to be fed literary things; conversations, lectures, discussions...To be honest, I think I desperately need a mentor, somebody to kick Bridges' arse a little. Somebody to challenge me, to check up on me.

It's close to impossible being so far from my alma mater... This week, the Blue Metropolis festival is on in Montreal; it's my favourite lit event; activities go on in French and in English, and it suits me to a tee. I wish I were over there as we speak...

Bridges throws a silent fit at the office

2007-04-22T01:05:00.000-04:00

I snappped. On Thursday, I walked out the office without warning but this email sent to my boss. I need a change. Bad.

Dear Mr. Boss,

By the kind of work I have been assigned to in the past few months and the comments I have received on my translations, it is obvious to me that a) either you are not satisfied with my work and your organization is trying to get rid of me by slowly showing me the door; b) the people at the control center make a point of giving me what other translators do not want to do for reasons only they would know and that I don’t care to find out about really. But it is what it is. Apparently I'm not the favorite cupcake around.

I don’t feel like I am considered a part of the team; when rushes come across and my collegues need help I am never considered; the word count that is given to me is always below my capability, and it is impossible for me to be more productive, or actually use my language skills because of the nature of the documents that are assigned to me. I am not learning nor progressing in any way. That’s not what I want, and that’s certainly not what I want to offer your organization. If this is because my work hours are specific, then, so be it. I will have to look elsewhere, which is not what I want, but I can’t do this for much longer, I hate to be static. I am not learning. I am shriveling.

Basically, I don’t feel needed and I feel I can’t become a better translator with what is given to me; in fact, I think I’m getting overly sarcastic and bitter about my work here, and that is not the kind of person I want to become or offer to the organization I work for.

I do, however, enjoy working for XXXX and I respect tremendously the energy you have put in making your company a better place. I just don’t feel like I am part of it. I am also thankful for allowing me to work the hours I asked for. You have always listened to me and did your best to keep me happy. Negative comments, bitchy attitudes toward me & lack of stimulating work are getting the better of me; I have been working 18 months for the financial division, and I feel I have nothing more to get out of it. I have tried my best, and it’s not working. I’m not happy. I understand this is how I feel about it and I don’t blame anybody for it; it’s just how it is, and things are done a certain way. I understand.

As of now, it is Thursday, April 19, 11h42. I have been given a meeting minutes that is due for the 26th, and nothing else is assigned to me. Obviously, you don’t need me as of today, or tomorrow. I see no reason to stay at the office. I will take these 2 days to think about what I want to do about my work your organization, and of course, I guess you have to give my situation a bit of thought. Obviously, I would like to talk to you. I apologize for making an issue but I don’t want to turn this into a drama or make a spectacle of myself. I tend to have dramatic reactions when I get emotional and I don’t want to burden anyone with my state of mind…and don’t want to trouble the functioning of your business.

Regards,

Bridges

Guess which one I am?

2007-04-18T11:59:00.000-04:00

If anybody knows who the artist is, please tell me! Someone from the office sent it to me and I don't know where it comes from!

Christophe X

2007-04-17T20:21:00.000-04:00

Prise de court, je n’ai rien répondu tout de suite, mais mon mutisme et mon regard hébété en disaient long. Il s’est rapproché de moi, m’as pris la main et m’a regardé d’un air compatissant, comme pour me dire je sais, petite, là, là, ça va aller maintenant, tu peux en parler, je suis là pour te comprendre, je vais t’écouter, tu peux tout me dire. Laisse-toi aller. Je ne sais pas, moi, Christophe…mon père, je n’y pense pas vraiment, il a toujours été là, à la surface des choses, à régler ce qui se voit, ce qui est évident, un toit pour nous, la bouffe, le pourvoyeur, quoi, et moi, sa fille, tout au fond des choses, puisque je le pouvais, rien ne m’a jamais empêchée de descendre plus bas, j’ai toujours été curieuse, et je n’ai jamais eu froid aux yeux, tout le contraire de ma mère, non, attends, c’est moi qui ne veut pas voir, mon père s’occupe de ma mère, et ma mère ne s’occupe de rien, c’est-à-dire des choses qui sont toujours à recommencer, celles qui ne se comptent pas, elle s’occupe de tout et elle ne fait rien, ma mère, elle fait du sur-place et elle déteste ça, parce que ça la rend invisible à tous sauf aux yeux de mon père, et elle l’aime, elle l’aime tant de la voir pour tout ce rien qu’elle représente, alors elle reste, ma mère. Elle reste et moi je voudrais qu’elle parte, qu’elle nous quitte, pour me montrer comment on fait, comment fait une mère pour partir sans cesser d’exister, sans mourir, tu m’as demandé de te parler de mon père et bien voilà, c’est ça, entre mon père et moi, il y a une mère, cette mère qu’il aime et que moi je déteste, que je voudrais voir partir pour que je puisse commencer à être, cesser d’être une mère, la mère de ma mère, ne serait-ce que pour exister dans le regard de mon père, là où ma mère ne serait plus.

Ce sont mes parents, après tout. C’est tout. Ce n’est pas de tes affaires. Ne me parles pas de ça, Christophe, je ne voulais pas et pourtant je t’ai laissé m’entraîner là ou je n’avais pas envie d’aller. J’ai versé quelques larmes sans trop savoir pourquoi, inspiré à fond, puis, éclaté en sanglots. Comment fait-on pour exister dans l’absence du regard d'un père? Des pleurs beaucoup trop violents pour une blessure dont je prétendais ignorer l’existence. Tu n’as pas besoin de me répondre, je ne veux surtout pas que tu pleures. Trop tard Christophe. Je voulais bien, moi. Et puis maintenant que tu me regardes, c’est beaucoup plus facile. Bon, oui j’ai pleuré, pas beaucoup, mais c’est toi qui a ouvert la porte, et profité de l’occasion pour m’ouvrir les bras. C’est ce que tu voulais, non? Tu as tout mis en place, tout était là. Allez, pleure, ça va te faire du bien, là, là, je suis là, C’était si bon de pleurer, je n’ai pas eu besoin d’un prétexte mais seulement d’un lieu, et puis ce n’était pas pour les raisons que tu croyais, l’intransigeance de mon père et l’inertie de ma mère, mais moi, j’y crois encore. Je suis encore aux prises dans ce triangle. Il me semblait que nous nous éloignions du sujet mais je ne me souvenait plus du tout de quoi nous parlions, Christophe a fixé le vide pendant quelques secondes, jeté sa cigarette dans le feu puis a regardé sa montre, on doit se dépêcher, notre table doit être prête à l’heure qu’il est. J’ai baissé les yeux pour fixer le plancher de bois et mes orteils qui se tortillaient dans mes bottes. Je crois bien que j’ai fait une maille dans mes bas.

Oh, Canada....my home and native land...

2007-04-16T13:18:00.000-04:00

...this is the weather you give me on April 16th? That's it! I've had enough! I quit!

My queendom for a plane ticket!!

Romancing the california stud-muffin, part II

2007-04-15T23:28:00.000-04:00

The view from my balcony, the morning after

The second night we saw each other, neither of us had actually planned for. Well, at least, that's what I tell myself and whoever is willing to believe me. I woke up quite early in the morning, and went outside on the balcony to admire the beautiful, tranquil caribean sea. "This balcony was soooo worth it" I told my roommate. "It was! It was!" my roomate is from Prairie town, Kansas or something, and she has this Dorothy quality that made her look, well, a bit dumbstruk throughout the day. Sweet girl, really. So fresh off the farm in fact I think if I squeezed her hard enough in the right places she would actually squirt milk. 26, long, blond hair, virtually no make-up, pure as the driven snow (is there snow in Kansas? I think not.) and all the guys on the cruise were after her. To me, she was about as sensual as an Ottawa parkmeter; but then again, what do I know. She had guys all over her. Come to think of it, they were probably all fantasizing about deflowering the virgin Kansas child and have Dorothy scream out "there's no place like home!" Ok, enough of the wicked witch of the west attitude; I liked her, she was genuinely sweet. Gotta hate those prairie girls :)

So there, it was morning, I was on the balcony and loving every minute of it. The warm wind, the sound of the waves, the privacy (people couldn't see you from anywhere, unless they were in another ship crossing us). I could just imagine myself naked, laying on the mattress, feeling the motion of the ocean. "That's it" I told Dorothy. "I'm sleeping here tonight." I looked at the mattress, it was a single of course, and I mentally fitted it on the balcony. "Perfect" I thought. This will be a night to remember. Of course, I had a lusty little plan in mind. I had to lure my california stud-muffin back to my cabin.

The day went about on the ship and I didn't see him for the whole day. I almost forgot about him, there was about a hundred hunky men on that boat, especially crew men walking around in their uniforms, pardon my drool, but that night, at dinner, I saw him looking at me from accross the room. (ooooo pardon that romantic cliché...now, in a low-tone voice...Their eyes met accross the room...at that moment.... they knew....they knew...) I knew at that moment I just had to have him again. I couldn't help it; he was just so...so...edible! Must have been the carribean air. Or the rocking of the boat. Or maybe my lusty plan just got the better of me. You have to admit it; it was, indeed, a very good plan.

That night at the disco, we didn't dance for long. I saw my roommate Dorothy, surrounded by horny boys, gushing and smiling, having a good time, and decided this was the time to act. Quickly, I grabbed him by the hand, and took him out of there, to my cabin, and out on the balcony. "Make yourself useful sweetie" I told him, wanking the mattress out to the balcony, and throwing all the covers and the pillows in his face. He just looked at me and smiled. "So , I guess we're sleeping out there tonight!" "Not if I can help it!" I said, cheekily.

I don't know what it was, but let me tell you, this was the most fun I had in a long, long time. We both couldn't stop saying "wow...this is great...." my california lover was speechless : "what's the word for this....what's the word..." "R-O-M-A-N-T-I-C" I said. "You're right." he replied. "It's very romantic." Then, he held me in his arms. His skin was so warm. The moon was shining, the stars were as bright as ever, the waves were swooshing, the wind was caressing our naked bodies, and then, then, it happened.

He rolled over and started snoring like a freight train.

At that point, I thought it was cute. Even after I tried to wake him up by poking him, tickling him, crying out his name loudly, hitting him with the pillow. Nothing could wake him up. Oh well. I took one of the pillows and stuck it over his face. I checked on him periodically during the night to see if he was still breathing. I was smiling throughout the night. That just tells you the kind of mood I was in.

Plus, he was way too heavy to throw overboard.

Back from vacation blues!

2007-04-15T11:02:00.000-04:00

Coming back from vacation is painful. You have to adjust to your "normal" life again, and get back into your "métro-boulot-dodo" ways. For some reason, I'm finding this to be, how shall I put it, excruciatingly difficult, and the shitty weather that's been hanging around Ottawa these past few days is not helping.

How can you fall back on your feet after living like a queen for 9 days? I am finding myself hopelessly looking for my next escapade on the internet and making machiavelous plans to sell my house and move to somewhere sunny, like, St-Maarten island, or perhaps, California or even Florida for that matter. Anywhere with permanent sun. Anywhere but this gloomy looking city of mine, populated by 80% women. I want to spend my life in the sun, spray suntan lotion on my kids everyday, and never, ever, have to wear a winter coat again.

Sheeeeesh....

But cheer up Bridges! Spring is right around the corner! Soon the lilacs will bloom, you'll be planting flowers and entertaining your friends on your terrace!

Ok, ok. point taken. To cheer me up a little, I booked a babysitter last night and went out, on my own. (If I didn't then I would stay home all the time, so there, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do) I stopped by one of my favorite spots in Ottawa, "Big Daddy's crab shack", also known as the city's pick-up spot. There was so many women there it was not even funny; I ended up having this conversation with a few people and doing shots to forget our sorrows. I met Jen, a gorgeous and spunky thirty-year old brunette, who drew the sames conclusions I did a few months back. "No", she said. "It's not just you. Ottawa is apparently the worst place for single women after the age of 30. I saw a TV report once, and in Canada, Ottawa is the bottom line. The report said that there are 8 single women to 1 single man between the ages of 30-45"

WHAT??????

Now what was that report so I can actually see for myself....and tell me dear...what was the best place to be a single woman???

"Port Coquitlam, BC. 12 men for 1 woman."

Well now. I think I know where my next vacation will be....NOT!!!

Romancing the california stud-muffin, part I

2007-04-14T10:38:00.000-04:00

The view from my cabin balcony, very early in the morning...

We had met the night before. As usual, I was dancing up a storm on the dance floor, and quite happy to get up, boogie, bump and grind with anyone who would be willing to follow my crazy rythms. After a few songs, I got thirsty, walked over to my table, where my drink was waiting for me. I gulfed it down and walked straight back to the dance floor, ready for more. As I was making my way through the crowd, I heard a voice from behind say "Can I dance with you?" I didn't even know where the voice came from. I didn't even turn around. "Sure! Come and join me on the dance floor."

I made it to the centre of the dance floor, and turned around to face my dancing partner. He was younger, (well only a few years, love) very cute, something hispanic about him, love the messed-up hair, great smile, and he was very, very turned on. Perfect! I thought. Un ptit tour de manège? Pourquoi pas. On the dance floor, we went a bit crazy, and I have to admit, my bumping & grinding was a bit over the top, but hey, nobody was complaining, and give me a break, I was on vacation. It's my god-given right.

After a few songs, I took him by the hand back to the table, he got me a drink (in my case a bottle of water) and got himself one. He was looking at me a bit googly-eyed, in complete awe; I thought he was adorable. I could have just made one bite out of him. But then again, he was sooo drunk. He will be of no use to me, I thought. Damn.

Me, drawing conclusions, yet smiling

-Thanks for the dance...I'm tired. I think I'll go back to my cabin.

Him, a bit panicked and eager

-Already? Now? Can I take you?

Me, laughing and looking straight at him

-Sweetie....you're too drunk...you'll be of no use to me...Let's see each other tomorrow, when you'll be sobered up...

Him, quickly regaining conscience

-I'm not drunk! I'm OK! See, I'm fine! I didn't have that many drinks!

Ok, I thought. He's cute. Ladies, this one's mine.

Me, in a cheeky tone, ackowledging the fact that a) he's horny as hell and b) I'm getting there.

-OK then. You can walk me back. But I am not sleeping with you! You are just taking me to my cabin, OK? You promise to behave? You will be a good boy?

Him, willing to say anything to take me back to my cabin

-OK, sure. I promise. Yes.

We made it to the cabin, giggling, flirting outrageously, and of course, taking advantage of stopped elevators to kiss. We stopped in front of the cabin door, and waited for a ship employee to pass us before kissing goodnight.

Him, being the good boy I asked him to be

-Well, good night...

Me, smiling, and taking him by the hand whilst opening my cabin door

-I'm sure it will be...

Him

-??

Me, enjoying every second

-Come on, sweetie, it's tomorrow already!

And the cabin door closes on part I; stay tuned for our next episode. :)

Christophe IX

2007-04-13T14:00:00.000-04:00

J’attends de voir ce que Christophe va dire, s’il a aimé ce que je lui ai raconté. Il sourit, et se rapproche un peu plus de moi. Je peux voir que mon histoire a eu les effets escomptés, puisque je vois bien son érection pousser au travers de son pantalon. Je prends sa coupe de vin, je la dépose près de la mienne sur la table à café, puis je m’assois à califourchon par dessus Christophe, sans avertir, ma jupe un brin relevée, les rebords de dentelle des stay-ups bien en vue, et je me mets à l’embrasser goulûment. Il glisse ses mains à ma taille, me caresse le dos, puis les glisse doucement sous ma jupe, effleurant mes fesses nues. Je me presse contre lui, dans un mouvement lancinant de va et vient. Il retire subitement sa langue de ma bouche et me dit nous devons quitter dans 10 minutes, la réservation est à 19 h 30…Sois patiente, mon affamée. Je soupire, je me rassois à coté de lui et replace mon chemisier et mes cheveux tant bien que mal. Je lui fait le coup de la moue. Silence total. Ça m’emmerde. Question fatidique. Christophe, es-tu mon…mon…chum?

Christophe pouffe de rire. Ton quoi? Tu veux dire, ton petit ami? Ma foi, ma mignonne, on jurerait que tu as seize ans. Tous deux installés sur le canapé, moi, confortablement inconfortable, les orteils recroquevillés dans les bottes, attendant de voir ce qu’il va répondre, et lui, solennel et silencieux tout à coup. Il me regarde, assis dos bien droit et jambes croisées, en essayant de se défaire de son érection, bouleversé par la candeur de mes propos à la suite d’une mise en scène pour adultes seulement, perplexe devant une question aussi simpliste venant d’une femme aussi complexe, mais amusé de ma minauderie gamine. Question simple, oui, mais dont la réponse pourrait teinter le reste de la soirée ainsi que notre « relation ». Il fixe nonchalamment une vieille tache de vin rouge sur la carpette indienne, probablement une coupe renversée, ce n’était pas moi, je m’en souviendrais, sans trop savoir quoi répondre. Ce n’est pas facile de rester sur la frontière; on aime ou on s’en fout, on dit oui et l’on ment ou on dit non et ça s’arrête comme ça, bêtement, personne n’aime les douches froides, il m’a demandé doucement si ça me dérangeait qu’il s’allume une cigarette, non, tu es chez toi après tout, mais merci quand même de te soucier de ma sensibilité au tabac, puis je me suis calée encore plus profondément dans les coussins du canapé en frottant mes pieds ensemble, jusqu'à ce que le cuir de mes bottes se mette à grincer. Il s’est agenouillé devant le foyer, s’est allumé une cigarette, puis, a pris une bouffée en plissant les yeux puis expiré lentement les volutes de nicotine vers l’âtre de la cheminée. Je le sens nerveux, fébrile, attends, c’était peut-être moi finalement, nerveuse, fébrile, insecure little girl, et puis pendant que je le regarde fumer et réfléchir, j’écris mentalement des fragments qui m’empêchent de penser à ce que je ne veux pas voir.

Dis-moi
Je te prends
Je te veux
Je te choisis
Je te protèges
Je t’a i m e

Il a terminé sa cigarette, puis se rassois sur le canapé et pose sa main sur ma cuisse. Il me demande de lui parler de moi, de ma vie de divorcée, de mère monoparentale, rien sur ma carrière de traductrice, d’écrivaine, il n’en a rien à foutre c’est ce que je crois, ça ne l’intéresse pas cette facette de ma vie, il me pose des questions sur mon rôle de fille aînée, s’intéresse à mes parents, mais surtout à mon père.

Parle-moi de ton père; il t’aime? Est-ce qu’il est fier de sa fille?

Vacations, past & present

2007-04-13T12:29:00.000-04:00

A pelted rock, Tadoussac bay, Quebec

The last time I fell in love ( I could even say the first, because it was) I was on vacation, by myself, on Quebec's Côte-nord. We met on a ferry, crossing the Tadoussac fjord. It was rainy, a bit cold, and I was not wearing any make-up. I didn't have a care in the world, didn't have to please anybody else but myself, yet there he was. Coming out of his rental silver convertible, with his jacket wrapped around his waist. For some reason, he thought I was beautiful. I thought he was amazing. From that moment we were inseparable, rode the roller-coaster, and milked it for all it was worth. He was British; I was not. Like all passionate love stories, it ended with a bang, just like it started. It lasted 18 months; it took me 12 to get over it. I woke up one day, realised he was history, didn't feel anymore pain about it and was ok with the fact that I would never, ever, feel this way again with anybody else. How could I? The chances are slim to none.

A few days ago I came back from my cruise in the carribean (I also came back with bronchitis, also known as the Carnival cough amongst cruisers) feeling great, renewed, and forever grateful, yet, giddy as a schoolgirl. I had so much fun on that trip, and I totally wasn't expecting to enjoy it as much. Out of the blue (litterally) I got to feel what is was like again to be in love.

Bridges! Are you saying that you fell in love on the cruise?

Watch it! That's not what I said!!! Pay attention. Come back tomorrow, I'll tell you all about it.

A fresh new look for spring!

2007-04-11T15:58:00.000-04:00

There will be some changes made to Suspended Bridges's look, just in time for Spring.

Just thought I'd share that with you - Bring out the duster!

http://matchupmaids.com

Christophe IIX

2007-04-10T15:41:00.000-04:00

Raconte, qu’il me dit, l’excitation dans la voix. Je bois une gorgée de vin avant de lui raconter mes mésaventures au pays de ses fantasmes impliquant mes fesses à l’air en février. Je sais qu’il se fout de savoir ce qui s’est vraiment passé, de savoir ce que j’ai fait, pour vrai. Je lui épargne mon grand sens de la logique et ai recours à mon sens du théâtre, et je lui raconte, pour le bien-fait de l’histoire, exactement ce qu’il veut entendre. Christophe n’en a rien à foutre de savoir qu’avant de partir de chez moi, j’avais plié le plus petit des mes strings en trois, et que j’en avais fait un mignon protège-dessous à l’intérieur d’un autre string, celui qui est assorti à mon soutien-gorge. De cette façon, quand le moment est venu, je n’ai eu qu’a le retirer gentiment d’entre mes jambes en glissant la main sous ma jupe, sans tracas ni embarras, un jeu d’enfant, les épaules chargées de paquets par dessus le marché, et lui remettre mon string, encore chaud et humide tel que demandé par M. Christophe, entre ses mains dès mon arrivée chez lui.

Évidemment, ce n’est pas une histoire de maîtresse débrouillarde et pragmatique tirant les ficelles derrière le rideau des fantasmes de ses amants que je lui ai racontée. Ce n’était pas ce qu’il voulait entendre. Non, je lui ai plutôt raconté l’histoire de la femme prise au dépourvu devant la complexité des exigences de son amant et qui tâchait de le satisfaire du mieux qu’elle pouvait et s’était mise dans l’embarras. Je ne savais pas comment faire, Christophe, tu t’imagines…j’ai dû m’arrêter devant chez toi, déposer toutes mes choses par terre afin de retirer mon slip, relever ma jupe mais pas trop, juste assez, j’avais de la difficulté à atteindre la taille en dessous de mon manteau, à enlever mon string, les lèvres dénudées de mon sexe en proie au froid glacial, à prendre garde de ne pas dérouler mes stay-ups, à ne pas tomber en passant la bande de dentelle élastique autour des talons de mes bottes, et ces gens choqués sur le trottoir, et ton voisin, qui me regardait les yeux exorbités du haut de sa fenêtre, il devait se masturber le cochon, comme il le fait habituellement de chez lui, à nous écouter derrière le mur de ta chambre au cours de nos ébats bruyants du week-end, c’est toi qui m’en a parlé, ça te fait jouir de savoir que ton voisin t’écoutes quand tu baises, tu me demandes toujours de crier plus fort, tu t’imagines, et tous ces cuistots prenant leur pause-cigarette à l’arrière du restaurant thaïlandais avec vue sur ta chambre à coucher, tous, ils me regardaient enlever mon slip en se donnant des coups de coude et en rigolant, quels porcs, ceux-là, je faisais semblant que personne ne me voyait, je faisais l’innocente mais je savais bien qu’ils étaient tous en train de bander et de saliver à me regarder en train de me dénuder les fesses à moins vingt degrés, la salope, that horny bitch qu’ils devaient se répéter, et tout ça parce que je voulais te faire plaisir Christophe, j’étais très embarrassée, j’avais honte, j’en aurais pleuré, mais rien n’y paraissait, si tu veux savoir, j’affichais un sourire coquin, j’avais l’air d’y prendre plaisir dans mon histoire alors qu’en réalité personne ne m’a vue, j’avais prévu le coup, on ne me la fait pas à moi, c’est moi qui tire les ficelles alors c’est ce que je te raconte, et tu m’écoutes attentivement, tu marches à fond dans ce délire fantasmatique que tu m’as demandé de créer et voilà, je l’ai fait, c’est ce que j’ai fait, pour toi, pour t’exciter, te faire bander, pour que tu sois content et que tu m’aimes un peu, et que tu prennes soin de moi.

S’il te plait.

Return from paradise afloats

2007-04-09T22:02:00.000-04:00

I made it back!

Caught a last minute flight from Fort Lauderdale this afternoon and stopped to pick up the kids in Montreal before I get back to sunny Ottawa (didn't we get some snow last week???)

I had such a wonderful time on the Carnival Legend; I have just about a million stories just waiting to pop out at some point...I can just tell you that it was wonderful, there was about 1.4 men for every girl (one to pay the bar tab; one to take you dancing, one to massage suntan oil on your back, one to take you out to the fancy restaurant on deck 10, one to take back to your cabin and enjoy the motion of the ocean...)

I met some great people from all over the states; New-York, Seattle, and did enjoy a very sweet vacation romance with a younger california cutie from San Diego...saying goodbye was difficult....oh well....Perhaps a reason for me the revisit the west coast???

Summer lovin'....had me a blast....

Will entertain you with a few stories from the love boat during the next few days; meanwhile, I'm still feeling the boat rocking!

I would definitely do this again.

Fun in the sun!

2007-04-04T17:44:00.000-04:00

I managed to get my sea legs after a quite painful first evening at sea; now Im all right, having fun, and paying 75 cents a minute to write this post!

I will make this short!

This is very cool, visited St. Kitts today and will be on St. Lucia tomorrow...as for the men? Well....it would be all right if it wasn't for those obnoxious americans!!! They do nothing for me....Luckily the Carnival Legend has a very interesting staff of international employees; I have to go now, I have to meet a very sexy indian black jack dealer!

Taaaaa!

PS I won 200$ at Black Jack! Don't tell anyone!

Speak soon!

Bridges taking the quest for single men on high seas!!!

2007-03-30T11:13:00.000-04:00

That's it! I've had it with Ottawa singles, I'm taking my business elsewhere! Well, for one week, that is....

I will be boarding the magnificent Carnival Legend from Fort Lauderdale port, Florida on April 1st for 8 fun-filled days in the Caribbean sea...ahhh....St. Kitts, St. Lucia and St. Martin will be on the menu, as well as about 250 singles from all over the world! If you want to check it out, click here, and perhaps you can organize your own little trip!

I've never been on a cruise before, so this will be a first for me. I'm leaving tonight for Montreal, and will be hopping on a flight to sunny Fort Lauderdale on Saturday morning, for one day of Luxury at a posh Ft. Lauderdale hotel & spa, thank you very much, to make myself even more relaxed and beautiful before boarding for party central...ah....now that, my friends, is the life. La dolce vita, just like it should be :)

Pour les lecteurs des aventures de Christophe & de Sophie, je vous laisserai un autre passage avant de quitter, histoire de vous divertir pendant mon absence!

Oh, and one little thing before I leave...you know how funny coincidences happen when you're not expecting them? I have told you before about my heartbreak over the British dude that left me stranded here in Ottawa, you know, the one me & my friends affectionately call Mr. Fuckface....well, he's been living in Nottingham for a year now, and sometimes, not very often, I hear from him, to realise that no, he's not better, and that yes, looking back, it's probably best that he, to put it lightly, buggered off. Case closed. Now for the funny coincidence.

As a woman who likes to keep up with international issues, I sometimes read the Guardian newspaper on line. And of course, given my profound love of English men, had to put up a profile in the "soulmates" section of the paper, just to see, you know, what's out there. I did that in January, and forgot about it. I wasn't planning to go to England soon at the time. A few days ago, I received an email from the site saying that somebody had sent me a message, and I have to say, I was curious. It was from a 33 year old man from Nottingham, but, no picture was available to be seen... Of course, Mr. Fuckface IS 33 and lives in Nottingham, so....I figured...that's probably him, right?

WRONG!!

It was simply a very sweet, charming and courteous English illustrator who fancied my profile for some reason and felt compelled to reach out to yours truly. We did have a very short conversation over MSN and exchanged emails...Perhaps we will keep in touch, who knows, stranger things have happened, at least in my lifetime! He seems to be a very interesting individual, he has the most amazing jaw-dropping eyes I have ever seen on a profile picture, and he is an accomplished artist....what can I say... (Bridges sighing and batting her eyes) courteous, charming, British, artistically inclined and gorgeous eyes? Perhaps I should steer the boat towards the UK??? Now this, ladies and gentlemen, is material for a romance novel that would make all Canadian girls swoon. I'll get started. :) A cruise is a great setup to write a romance novel, no??? Hasn't this been done before? Wait....

The Love boat....
soon will be making another run....
The love boat....
promises something for everyone....

That's a great idea! Could make a great TV show!!!! ;)

I'm heading out, things to pack, places to go, people to meet....will come back with follow-ups on April 11th! (Or maybe sooner given there are computers on the Love boat!)

Cheers, speak soon!
(Bridges, waving her handkerchief from the deck!)

Christophe (VII)

2007-03-29T17:39:00.000-04:00

Christophe est debout devant la porte, verre de vin à la main. Tu as fait ce que je t’ai demandé, ma jolie? Je le regarde, je souris. Je suis à bout de souffle. Oui, voilà. Avant de déposer mes sacs, avant de retirer mon manteau, je lui tends mon poing fermé. Il me regarde, ravi. Il ouvre la main et je laisse glisser le string dans sa paume. Il le frotte lentement entre ses doigts, le porte à son visage et le hume en fermant les yeux, tout en continuant de le caresser. Il sourit, satisfait. Il prend une gorgée de vin, sent mon sous-vêtement une autre fois avant de le déposer sur le comptoir de la cuisine, derrière lui. Il se dirige vers moi, dépose son verre de vin sur la table près de l’entrée, enlèves ton manteau, donne-moi tes choses. Il m’aide à retirer mon manteau, le range dans la penderie, prends mes bagages et disparaît quelques instants dans une autre pièce. J’essuie mes bottes avec minutie sur le tapis mais ne les retire pas.

L’appartement de Christophe est immense; c’est une ancienne école de formation pour infirmières du début de siècle. Christophe a acheté l’immeuble il y a quelques années avant de le rénover et d’en faire deux condos. Le sien, situé à l’étage, compte au moins 7 pièces. La plus grande, dans laquelle nous nous trouvons, la cuisine/salle à manger/salon, est la plus spacieuse. Toutes les boiseries sont d’origine, ainsi que les planchers de pin. J’adore ces planchers. Mes pas y résonnent comme nulle part ailleurs. Je m’avance dans la pièce. Il y a un feu dans la cheminée, de la musique joue, je crois reconnaître Bach mais je n’en suis pas certaine, je ne m’y connais pas vraiment en musique classique, un seau à glace contenant une bouteille déjà entamée et une coupe vide qui n’attend que d’être remplie sont déposés sur la table à café. Je suppose qu’elle est à moi. Mon regard se promène sur les nombreuses photos en noir et blanc accrochées aux murs. Il s’agit de photos de corps, ou plutôt de morceaux de corps, car on n’en voit que certaines parties. C’est un jeu de trompe-l’œil. Ce sont des photos suggestives de près, mais de loin, elle ont l’air de montrer autres chose. Des bouts de seins qui s’échappent d’un décolleté plongeant, des poignets liés par des cordes, des hanches bien rondes entre des mains d’hommes, toutes en noir et blanc. Ces photos sont toutes soigneusement encadrées et disposées en damier sur le mur du fond de l’appartement. L’effet est saisissant. Mon regard se fixe sur l’une d’entre elles, au centre. On y voit une bouche de femme, grande ouverte, lèvres que je devine peintes en rouge, et le bout d’un sexe masculin en érection apparaît dans le coin inférieur droit. De loin, avec l’effet de la perspective, on jurerait que c’est un gros plan d’une femme hurlant dans un micro. Je me fais la réflexion qu’il ne doit pas y avoir souvent d’enfants en visite dans cet appartement pour y exposer de telles photos.

J’entends Christophe, ses pas sont feutrés, il est chaussé de pantoufles. Il s’approche de moi, tu as bien fait ça, j’ai mis tes choses dans la chambre, raconte-moi comment tu as fait pour retirer ton slip, tu as été rapide, dis-donc – il m’offre du vin, bien sûr, j’accepte, l’alcool me fera le plus grand bien, il en verse délicatement dans la coupe vide sur la table à café, puis va chercher la sienne. Je lui souris, je suis nerveuse mais je ne crois pas le montrer, je bois mon vin d’un trait et dépose à nouveau la coupe sur la table, vide, déjà. Christophe y verse encore du vin, ma parole, tu es assoiffée, il est content mais inquisiteur, il attend, je reprends la coupe de ma main droite et nous portons un toast à ma réponse qui ne saurait tarder, Christophe me fixe droit dans les yeux, et moi je me surprend à baisser aussitôt le regard pour fixer mes pieds.

Mais qu’est-ce que je fous?

Je suis belle, désirée, et c’est comme ça qu’il faut que je sois, c’est ce que je veux, non? Je relève la tête, il attend ma réponse, j’ai peur, Christophe sourit et a les tempes grisonnantes, ça me rassure. Tu es belle, il me dit. La musique m’enivre, le vin est délicieux, mes sens s’engourdissent doucement, la chaleur du feu est bonne et mes cuisses se réchauffent peu à peu. Christophe s’assied sur le canapé et me fait signe de m’asseoir près de lui en tapotant sa main sur le coussin. Viens ici.

The day after election day in Quebec

2007-03-27T14:39:00.000-04:00

Just so you know, I won my elections.

I voted for Pauline Marois. She's probably on a beach somewhere, as we speak, drinking a cocktail, and saying, not even trying to hide her smile, "well, they got what they deserved!" (Those chauvinists parti québécois pigs! Tant pis pour eux - gang de crétins misogynes - no wait, that's from me - )

It would have been a completely different Quebec today, had Pauline been (rightfully so) chosen to be FIRST leader-ess of a politicial party in Quebec, but then again, what do I know, hey?

I would have voted for you Pauline, if only you had been there. Instead I stayed home, sulked, pouted, and threw popcorn at the TV.

Then, I did my toe nails.

Screw all of you political idiots.

Christophe (VI)

2007-03-24T17:31:00.000-04:00

De toute façon, avant même d’accepter de me plier à ses exigences, j’avais déjà mon plan B en tête, et je souriais à l’idée que je réussirais à le déjouer. Je suis accoutumée aux victoires faciles et à remporter les matchs sans trop d’efforts, et l’occasion était trop belle pour refuser. Je me mobilise jusqu’à la victoire, jusqu'à ce que l’adversaire reconnaisse qu’il m’a sous-estimée. Vaincre l’adversaire tout en feignant sa propre défaite demande un sens de l’analyse rigoureux et une vision à long-terme que j’aiguise depuis l’adolescence. Et puis je ne grogne pas, moi. Quand je mords, c’est pour ne lâcher prise qu’avec le morceau de chair entre les dents. Je prévois les coups et jette de la poudre aux yeux pour que l’adversaire s’enorgueillisse de ses petits succès jusqu’à en perdre le sens du combat. Je vois loin. Et j’attends. J’attends patiemment le bon moment pour déclamer ma victoire haut et fort. Qui de nous deux gagne, au bout du compte? C’est moi, ça ne peut être que moi. Je gagne ou je ne joue plus. Je gagne ou je tue. Je gagne ou je meurs. J’aveugle l’adversaire par l’euphorie de sa victoire, puis je l’accule au pied du mur. Sa victoire a un prix. Je l’ai laissé gagné, maintenant, je le fais payer. Il paie, et donc je gagne. Fin de la partie. Mon ultime stratégie militaire est de perdre volontairement mes batailles afin de mieux gagner la guerre. La guerre de quoi, la guerre de moi, je ne sais trop.

À nous deux, Christophe.

Je traverse la rue, en faisant bien attention de ne pas glisser, je porte des bottes à talons tout de même, et la froidure me pince les cuisses et les fesses, nues sous ma jupe. Devant la porte du condo de Christophe, je dépose mes sacs sur le trottoir, et j’appuie sur le commutateur de l’interphone afin de l'avertir que je suis arrivée. Il est 18 h 56.

-Oui?
-C’est moi, Christophe.
-Tu as fait ce que je t’ai demandé?
-Bien sûr! Tu m’ouvres? On se les gèle! Et ce n’est pas métaphorique!
-Bien. Montes, alors!

Le timbre de la sonnette retentit, déverrouillant d’un coup afin que je puisse monter chez Christophe. Je pousse la porte, et la main dessus, je me retourne afin de prendre mes sacs, de me les accrocher à l’épaule tout en laissant la porte ouverte à l’aide de mon postérieur en proie à la froidure, je me retourne à nouveau, j’entre dans le vestibule, referme la porte, et rapidement, d’un seul geste, glisse ma main sous ma jupe et retire mon string caché entre mes cuisses en le gardant bien au chaud au creux de ma main. Chaud et humide, qu’il a dit Christophe. Il va être servi, parce que de toute évidence, malgré le froid qui ronge, ça m’excite, ce petit jeu. Je monte lentement les escaliers, sourire coquin, le cœur battant d’excitation, en faisant résonner mes talons à chaque marche. Christophe a laissé la porte de son appartement entrouverte. Arrivée en haut des escaliers, je la pousse doucement et j’entre chez lui.

Follow-up on the Single gourmet adventure(s)

2007-03-22T23:10:00.000-04:00

Am I the only woman who noticed?

I've been to a few of these single events now, wheter it's with this one, or speed-dating, or meet-market, I've been there, I've done it, and I have to say...Sorry guys, but you kinda suck compared to the girls!

The women I have seen in these events, first off, outnumber the men. The women are pretty, intelligent, witty, funny, have their shit together, many of them are single mothers, they have their own careers, they have their own houses, they have master's degrees and doctorates, to put it lightly, they basically ROCK and they're out on the prowl, looking for potential mates. But of course, with all these qualifications, they're quite picky. And they're allowed to. But they are faced with these guys. Look around. girls. Please tell me I'm wrong. Please. I beg you.

The men who go to these events, on the other hand, are a whole other story. Most of them seem scared, uncomfortable, shy, socially challenged and the majority come off as being a bit needy. (Well what did you expect Bridges! It's a SINGLE'S meetup!! er....helloooooo!!!!) OR, they are desperatly in need of a serious makeover. Here's an idea for Ottawa business people : Makeovers for guys! Transform an IT geek into a charming and sophisticated attractive bachelor! Get him some decent clothes! Give him a haircut! Please, please, get him some new shoes! and some fashion lessons...

1- Do not wear a baseball cap if you're over 22. EVER.
2- Do not wear white socks, except at the gym. EVER.
3- Buy the girl a drink, will ya? Sorry pal, but you'll never get laid if you don't provide the booze. Old fashioned, I know, but it's the truth. (I know, the truth hurts.)
4- Don't entertain two university graduate women with the stories of your collection of TV shows from the 60's and 70's and try to impress them by knowing all the names of the B actors who played so-and-so's character - It doesn't quite work. (It didn't work for me or L...in fact, it kind of creeped us out.)
5- Women usually don't bite (see #3) so it's OK to ask for a phone number at the end of the evening!

I did have a good time last Saturday, and tonight as well. However, gentlemen, we women have got it going on, and you guys are struggling to catch up.

Catch up to speed already, will ya?

(er...Bridges...when was the last time you had nookie? Just saying.)

Heard in the head reviser's office

2007-03-21T15:23:00.000-04:00

Me, trying to get the head reviser's attention

Hello....sorry to disturb you, it's just, I noticed a few wrongful corrections that were done to my texts lately...

The head reviser, mumbling and still head deep in her documents

MMmmmmm...yes?

Me, trying to go quickly because it's March and I'm quite surprised that she's actually acknowledging me

Well, in English, you can say "so-and-so's BIO...when you give a little resume of their work... the real term for this in French is "Notice biographique", and the revisers keep on changing it to "biographie", which is something completely different, as is, somebody's biography, a book, a big thick book, you know? Perhaps just a quick note to revisers would correct the problem.

The head reviser, intrigued

Hum. I see. (pondering)

Me, patiently waiting for an acknowledgement

It's in the dictionary, you know. It's basic French.

The head reviser, wanting to get this over with quickly

I wouldn't worry about that. Nobody will know the difference anyway.

Me, a bit shocked

Ohhhhkay....

Note to self : What's translation all about then, damn it!!! And I've been wasting all this time trying to find the right word??? How do you say "Ah pis mangez toute d'la marde", in English???

Christophe (V)

2007-03-21T10:46:00.000-04:00

En effet, comment puis-je oublier ?

Lorsqu’il m’a fait part de sa demande, j’ai failli pouffer de rire avant de me rendre compte qu’il ne blaguait pas. Il prend un peu trop au sérieux ces jeux sexuels auxquels nous nous adonnons. Je crois qu’il s’agit pour lui d’une sorte de rituel initiatique alors que pour moi, ce n’est qu’un jeu. L’effet que ces jeux ont sur Christophe me branche plus que le jeu en question. Disons que j’ai accepté de satisfaire à sa demande à la fois parce qu’il s’agit d’une entente tacite entre nous, il me demande de lui obéir et je lui dit oui, mais aussi parce qu’a chaque fois, je suis curieuse de voir les résultats. Et puis aussi par défi. J’aime bien lui faire croire qu’il peut jouer avec moi alors qu’il n’en est rien. Il ne sait pas que c’est moi qui joue. Je fais semblant. Constater qu’il croit me mettre dans l’embarras est très amusant. Il ne me connaît pas encore suffisamment pour savoir que je prends tout au pied de la lettre, et c’est habituellement pour tourner les situations à mon avantage. Désobéir tout en n’enfreignant pas les lois est un plaisir dont je me suis trop longtemps privée, tout comme les jeux, d’ailleurs. J’adore jouer. Je ne m’en prive plus.

Avant de t’engager dans l’escalier pour venir chez moi, je veux que tu enlèves ta petite culotte et que tu me la remettes entre les mains dès que tu entreras chez moi. Je veux qu’elle soit encore chaude et humide quand tu me la rendras, avant même d’enlever ton manteau, alors tu devras la porter pendant toute la durée de ton trajet jusqu’ici, et l’enlever devant chez moi, sur le trottoir, tout juste avant de me la remettre.

D’accord. C’est ce que je lui ai répondu. D’accord. J’ai feint d’être contrariée. Je ne sais pas pourquoi. Je crois que c’est ce qu’il voulait, que je sois contrariée, que ça m’embarrasse. Il aime ça, le cochon. Ça le fait bander. Go figure. Je l’imaginais très bien, à l’autre bout du fil, en train de m’imaginer debout, devant sa porte, plantée sur le trottoir de la rue Laurier, empêtrée dans mes bagages, le souffle visible dans le froid de février, sous la faible lumière des réverbères, à tenter de retirer ma petite culotte sans attirer les regards des passants, le g-string pris dans les talons hauts, en rougissant de honte de m’humilier ainsi afin de lui faire plaisir…et moi je lui ai dit oui. Oui, Christophe. J’ai accepté de lui obéir. Je ne lui ai pas dit de se faire foutre, ni refusé de le voir.

J’ai dit d’accord.

Here I go again on my own (It's all in the quest, maties)

2007-03-14T14:32:00.000-04:00

Well Bridges is at it again.

Trying to palliate her emotional deficiencies by putting herself on the spot in a public environment, or, in English please, having a go at pre-arranged potential mating. :)

This one's called The Single gourmet, and it promises to reunite only the cream of the crop of Ottawa professional singles looking to meet others of their kind. It will be my first visit, since you have to be a member to have the privilege of joining others in an activity that promises to be posh, oh-so-upscale and hopefully, fun. I am still to find out how the whole evening is set up and what kind of people actually get together in these events to mingle. Be sure yours truly will be checking it out and checking out the gentlemen; I will tell you all about it, even the most gruesome details. Nothing, or rather nobody, shall be spared.

Stay tuned as I will head out to the St. Patrick's day event this Saturday. I might just wear my green buckle shoes for the spirit of the Irish. :)

Dernière heure : I was just invited to a party to celebrate one of my friend's new condo just before I go off to the Crowne Plaza. She's a university professor, I think I mentionned her before; hopefully, new members of the opposite sex to add to my little black book! Two things I will have to entertain you with sometime on Sunday :)

Me and my single-mother friends, having tea in 2097

2007-03-14T11:03:00.000-04:00

Thanks to Geneviève!

Christophe (IV)

2007-03-12T08:30:00.000-04:00

J’ai garé la voiture directement en face du condo de Christophe. J’ai de la chance. Je n’aurai pas à tournoyer pendant une demi-heure autour du pâté de maison, ni à faire attendre Christophe. J’ai déniché un stationnement inconnu des fêtards de la rue St-Laurent et boudé par les résidents du quartier, entre deux conteneurs à déchets, près de l’église et derrière le restaurant Thaï dont Christophe m’a parlé afin de bien s’assurer que je n’y aille pas. De son balcon, il peut voir ce qui se passe derrière le restaurant, et je n’ai pas demandé à en savoir plus. Je le crois. Le seul problème, c’est qu’en sortant de ma voiture, je dois faire beaucoup de bruit pour effrayer temporairement les rats engraissés aux vieux restants de rouleaux de printemps afin qu’ils ne m’importunent pas alors que je sors de ma voiture. Je n’ai jamais eu la désagréable surprise de tomber face à face avec l’un d’eux, mais je n’ai pas la moindre envie de prendre la chance. Les souris et les rats me font faire des cauchemars horribles, les femmes ont toujours eu peur des souris, c’est bien connu, ils me font revisiter mes souvenirs de femme au foyer, je fais mon lavage, dans ma maison de banlieue générique, et là, tout au fond de la salle de lavage, parmi le linge sale, une souris! Quelle horreur! AAARGH! Je crie, je hurle, au secours, aidez-moi quelqu’un, alors pour ne pas que ça arrive, je fais tout un tabac dès que j’ouvre la portière de la voiture, je chante, Ginette Reno, pourquoi pas, Au fil de l’eau, on voit son âââââme…avec le temps…on devient fââaaâmme… Je m’extirpe de la voiture avec difficulté, la ceinture de sécurité s’emmêle dans mon manteau, mes bas stay-ups se déroulent d’un seul trait long de mes cuisses, quelle invention diabolique que ces bas de merde, s’ils n’étaient pas si sexy j’en ferais des attaches pour sacs à ordures, je fait claquer mes talons pour effrayer les rats, je brasse mes bagages, je fais du bruit. Cette expérience devient de plus en plus complexe, je relève mes bas en prenant soin de ne pas y faire d’accroc et tant qu’a être sous ma jupe, je vérifie que mon string supplémentaire se trouve bien au chaud entre mes cuisses, tout est en place. Je suis maintenant debout, à côté de ma voiture, et je tente de tout transporter d’un seul coup. Tout est là : mon bagage pour le week-end avec tout ce que Christophe m’a demandé, ma caméra numérique, mon sac à main. Je prends tout sur mes épaules, et je verrouille les portières en cliquant sur mon porte-clé. La réservation est à 7 h 30 pile, ne soit surtout pas en retard m’a dit Christophe au téléphone avant que je ne quitte l’appartement. Et n’oublie pas ce que je t’ai demandé de faire... Mais non, mais non, Christophe, je n’oublierai pas.

Comment puis-je oublier ?

Happy International women's day, ladies!

2007-03-08T13:16:00.000-05:00

Bridges kicked off the pedestal

2007-03-07T14:52:00.000-05:00

Thought I'd share this with you.

Today, I left the office @ 12 h 30 in a rush, just in time to avoid making a complete fool of myself in front of all the weirdos who work there. (Yes, I know I'm part of them) I am having a bit of a nervous breakdown, to say the least. It hasn't happened to me in a while, but today, it hit. Hard.

A downer. A depressive wave.
Yeah, one of those.

Before collapsing in a pool of tears for no apparent reason, Bridges logged out her computer, walked diligently to her bosse's office, said she wasn't feeling well, and calmly walked out of there. In the elevator, down from the 5th to the first, through the opening doors, then rushing to her car. She drove back home like a mad woman, trying not to give in to the wave that was hitting her. Tears obstructed her view, but she knew the way pretty well. Plus, there was a whole box of kleenex next to her so she could wipe her snotty face. Disproportioned thoughts ran through her mind as she was zooming across the Champlain bridge : The gorgeous RCMP officer from Nova-Scotia she had snuggled to over the weekend who wasn't calling her back; her kids away for the whole week; her thesis that was left behind a few weeks ago; her crappy documents that revisors covered in red. And purple. And green. And him.

Mr. Fuckface.

As soon as she got home, Bridges ran upstairs, took the phone in her hands, jumped into bed and frantically dialed the number. What time is it in England now? She thought. Who cares. He'll pick up.

-Why did you leave - why are you such an idiot - why aren't you coming back - why don't you love me - WHY DOESN'T ANYBODY LOVE ME???

-I don't know-I don't know - I can't - I do love you - You're the greatest person in the world, I...

Bridges smashed the cordless phone against the wall in a fit of rage.

Then she cried for two whole hours, until she had to stop out of exhaustion. She then got painfully out of bed, still sobbing, then came down the stairs. Bridges sat in front of her computer and started writing. Anything, really. Anything to forget she had just made a fool out of herself, to...herself.

I wish somebody could make me some tea.

Christophe (III)

2007-03-06T16:46:00.000-05:00

J’ai regardé par la fenêtre pour vérifier si la pimpante animatrice ne se trompait pas. Non, pas de neige qu’elle a dit, du moins pour les prochaines vingt-quatre heures. Pas de neige, mais du froid. Une vague de froid intense, changeant Montréal en patinoire et les Montréalaises mal vêtues en statues de glace. Si vous n’avez pas besoin de sortir, restez chez-vous, qu’elle disait. Si elle avait su se faire plus convaincante et moins moralisatrice, j’aurais sûrement accordé plus d’attention à ses propos. « Mange d’la colle, tête de poule! » Je lui ai tiré la langue, ce n’est certainement pas elle qui va me faire changer d’idée. Vous devez comprendre qu’en vivant seule avec des enfants, on en vient à se créer des colocataires compréhensifs et patients; miss météo à tuque rose ne m’a jamais menacée de ne pas payer sa part de loyer ou de me quitter à force de subir mes sautes d’humeur. Elle est toujours de bonne humeur et se fait rassurante quand le temps se gâte, et puis quand elle m’énerve, je lui ferme le clapet en appuyant sur « mute ». Elle est géniale, miss météo. Je dois maintenant me dépêcher; j’ai rendez-vous chez Christophe à 7h au centre-ville, je ne suis pas tout à fait prête et je dois calculer environ vingt-cinq minutes pour traverser le pont et me rendre dans le mile-end.

Calling all cunning linguists

2007-03-01T14:23:00.000-05:00

Here is short piece written by journalist Keith Nuthall, published in The Lawyer Magazine. Please feel free to comment! (I can sense a debate here...Blue! Choubine! waddaya say?)

"An initiative bound to irritate any lawyer practising in English, a highly connected Francophile international group is pressing for the French language to have precedence in any translation dispute regarding European law. Why? Well, it's simple, secretary of the Academie Francaise Maurice Druon told the European Parliament this week: "The language of Montesquieu is unbeatable." M Druon claimed that while "the Italian language is the language of song, German is good for philosophy and English for poetry, French is best at precision, it has a rigour to it. It is the safest language for legal purposes." His Committee for the Language of European Law (CPLDE), supported by former Romanian prime minister Adrian Nastase and Polish MEP Bronislaw Geremek, wants French versions of EU law used when there are disputes over translations. These have occurred, for instance over appointing the director of EU anti-fraud office OLAF: in French, the European Commission must consult MEPs and ministers; in German and Polish, it must secure their agreement."

An uneasy slip of the tongue

2007-02-28T18:45:00.000-05:00

Today, at Nicastro's, my favorite deli, picking up diner for myself & the children.

Me
-I will take three meatballs, please! Oh, and do you have any rice left?

The Italian lady behind the counter
-Do I what? (with a very strong Italian accent!)

Me
-Is there any rice left?

The Italian lady behind the counter
- ???Er..

Me
(Waiting for an answer to a simple question, looking at the hesitant lady putting my three meatballs in a container)

The Italian lady behind the counter
-oh, no, no....

Another lady behind the counter, budding in
-What did you say?

Me
-RICE! Do you have any rice left that I can buy and take out!

The same lady
-OH!!! RICE! Rice...She thought you said "rats"...

Me
-Oh....kay...Thank God the answer was no....

Note to self : Why would she think of rats while serving the meatballs? And why would she think I would enquire about RATS??? Things that make you go hum....

Christophe (II)

2007-02-27T22:04:00.000-05:00

Les bottes enfilées, je peux maintenant me vêtir décemment. Je choisis une jupe de laine noire, évasée et un chemisier de coton blanc. Mon soutien-gorge lilas se fait discret mais est tout de même visible sous le coton blanc. C’est voulu. Je me dirige vers le salon afin de vérifier le temps qu’il fait et celui qu’il fera demain. Je lève le store de la fenêtre du salon. Il ne neige pas, du moins pas encore. Les trottoirs semblent toujours aussi glacés, par contre. Je regarde mes pieds. Se chausser ainsi ne semble pas, à première vue, une excellente idée. Surtout en plein hiver, au lendemain d’une tempête de verglas. Ce n’est pas logique. Dépourvu de sens. Mais c’est conséquent avec moi-même. Je voudrais qu’on me contrarie, que l’on me dise que ça n’avait tout simplement pas de bons sens. Mais voilà, pas de chance, je suis toute seule dans mon 5 ½ et personne ne contestera mon choix insensé. Ridicule, voyons ! Tu vas te péter solidement la gueule, te tordre une cheville, te geler les orteils, te ramasser à l’hôpital! C’est vrai. Je sais tout ça. Je prend le risque. Si j’étais une femme raisonnable, sensée et prévoyante, je laisserais les bottes à talons dans la garde-robe, et j’enfilerais mes bottines d’hiver à crampons. Mon côté pratique l’emporterait sur ma coquetterie. Mais, que voulez-vous, je suis comme ça. Je n’ai jamais été une grande fanatique de la logique, de la raison ni de la prévoyance. Coup de cœur et spontanéité ont toujours été mes mantras, et l’esprit de contradiction règne en maître chez moi. Alors, comme j’étais seule à la maison et qu’il n’y avait personne pour me dire que j’étais folle de sortir ainsi chaussée, j’ai allumé la télé et syntonisé la chaîne Météomédia, en quête d’un avis rassurant, ou tout le moins une preuve tangible de mon étourderie.

Je voulais m’assurer des prévisions météorologiques. Une blonde à la voix nasillarde, qui porte le même prénom que ma mère, usait de son charme à vulgariser pour un public néophyte le fonctionnement du système dépressionnaire. « Le Québec est sous un dôme d’air arctique. » Elle faisait un petit chapeau avec sa main droite et la plaçait au-dessus de sa main gauche, en l’agitant dans un mouvement de va et vient. « Le refroidissement éolien cinglant se fera surtout sentir près du Labrador, où les vents seront particulièrement présents. » Elle traçait énergiquement des cercles autour du Labrador sur une carte géographique, à l’aide d’un crayon magnétique. Nous, téléspectatrices, pouvions voir ces graphiques en gros plan et en couleurs sur notre écran. Le Québec était d’un beau bleu royal s’adoucissant vers le bleu vert plus au sud. « Le vent continuera de croître sur les régions du nord et soufflera de plus belle sur Montréal et les environs, de telle sorte que le refroidissement se fera plus incisif ce soir. » Elle dessinait maintenant de longs traits gras, du haut vers le bas, de sorte qu’il y avait maintenant sur l’écran quelque chose ressemblant à un tronc d’arbre coupé. « Il ne neigera pas d’ici les prochaines vingt-quatre à quarante-huit heures, mais le froid sera intense. Ne sortez pas inutilement et si vous le faites, portez un chapeau! » L’animatrice avait maintenant sorti une énorme tuque de laine rose d’on ne sait trop ou, c’est la magie de la télé, et s’en était affublée. Elle trouvait bien amusante cette façon de terminer son bulletin, les miss météo portent toutes des chapeaux, me suis-je dit, et elle nous souhaitait une bonne soirée à travers ses gloussements. Je suppose qu’elle trouvait rigolote l’idée de porter une tuque rose dans un studio télé. L’horloge numérique à l’écran indiquait 6h06, il faisait présentement moins dix-sept degrés, moins vingt-huit avec le facteur vent, et le bulletin de météo nous avait été présenté grâce à « Sinutab. Pour mieux respirer quand on ne peut plus sentir. » Et un gros nez que l’on devinait morveux apparaissait à l’écran.

Translation humour

2007-02-23T14:07:00.000-05:00

Seen in a government job posting :

biolingual persons required

Oh! Me! Me! I only speak fairly traded languages!

Should I stay or should I go?

2007-02-22T21:35:00.000-05:00

The kids are leaving soon to spend a week with their dad in Montreal, thanks to the March break.

Which leaves me here, alone, single, without much responsabilities. I can't officially take a week off work, but I'm sure I could think of something to avoid going to the office for a week...hum.

I can afford it, I just don't know if I want to spend that kind of money for a week's play time....or do I?

I could really use a break though. Thing is, I don't want to go alone, to be honest! I wish I had someone to tag along...

What to do, what to do....any suggestions???

Christophe

2007-02-21T22:04:00.000-05:00

(...) S’aventurer en février sur les trottoirs glacés de Montréal n’est pas chose facile, surtout en talons hauts. Mais peu importe, ma décision est prise. Si j’ai à me casser la gueule, je le ferai avec style et la grâce toute féminine qui m’habite ; je braverai le verglas et le froid chaussée de talons. Je me prépare pour un rendez-vous. Je suis excitée et nerveuse à la fois, comme à chacun de nos rendez-vous depuis notre rencontre le mois dernier. Je dois rejoindre Christophe chez lui, au centre-ville de Montréal, à 19 h. Il m’emmène dîner dans un chic restaurant du quartier qu’il fréquente depuis quelque temps et qu’il veut me faire découvrir. J’ai faim, et je sais que le repas sera bon. Christophe adore la bonne bouffe, et il est plutôt snob en matière de nourriture, ce qui n’est pas sans me déplaire. J’aime bien être l’invitée et l’amante d’un homme qui a un penchant pour la qualité. Je me sens luxueuse.

Il n’est que 17 h 30, mais je déteste me préparer en toute hâte, alors je prends de l’avance. Plantée devant ma garde-robe, à demi vêtue de sous-vêtements lilas et de bas mi-cuisses, je choisis mes chaussures avant de choisir mes vêtements en tentant d’ignorer les borborygmes de mon estomac vide. J’ai dû enfiler trois paires de bottes différentes, sans même faire de maille à mes bas (ce qui est un exploit en soi) avant d’arrêter mon choix sur mes bottes noires à talons hauts, hauts à m’en donner le vertige. Mes préférées. Tout à fait élégantes, classiques, mais surtout, sexy as hell. Parfaites pour me donner une allure de vamp mystérieuse pour mon rendez-vous galant de ce soir avec Christophe. Il va me regarder marcher dans ces bottes, et il n’aura qu’une seule envie, ne faire qu’une bouchée de moi. Peu importe les vêtements que j’enfile ou la circonstance qui s’y prête, je choisis toujours ces bottes. J'ignore pourquoi je me pose la question à chaque fois, ces bottes semblent répondre à une question existentielle intérieure dont le sens m’échappe. Je les porte parfois pour écrire, j’ai l’impression d’être une autre, et ça facilite grandement mon travail. (...)

No sex in the city, introduction

2007-02-17T12:17:00.000-05:00

Remember last week I went to a speed dating event which turned out to be entertaining, but not quite the way I had expected it to be. Surely you recall me telling you that no, I didn't pick-up, apart from a phone call from my inquisitive daughter. Well, I will be very honest with you today, I'm coming clean. I did, in fact, pick up.

(insert pause for dramatic effect here, then, a smiling Bridges waiting for a reaction from her readers)

I picked up two women!

I did meet two wonderful women who turned out to be absolutely lovely and good fun; two intelligent, funny, beautiful scholarly women who, if I'm lucky, will turn out to become great friends. Let me tell you about it.

Last week, after our speed-dating (to answer your question, no, they didn't pick up either), we exchanged business cards and decided to keep in touch. Jill, who is originally from Australia and decided to stay here in Ottawa after completing her Phd some years ago, invited me up for drinks with her and Jackie the following Friday. Jill & Jackie are best buddies, and they work together at one of Ottawa's Universities. Of course, I accepted, and we met up at Café Paradiso, on Bank street, which is one of my favorite places in Ottawa. Great food, great live jazz, (Julie Michels from Toronto was singing - she is amazing, funny and a true diva - don't miss the chance to see her on stage, you won't be sorry - We all absolutely loved her!) marvelous cocktails and totally camp gay waiters who forget to bring you coffee with your cream with a smile. "I'm soooo sorry sweetheart! It's really busy tonight!!!" It's ok...surely he wouldn't have forgot if I had a penis hiding in my trousers, but not to worry; we're not here to pick-up, this time, we're here for girltalk, some laughs, and of course, lots of wine. And chocolate mousse cake. Or maybe that's just me....What else do girlfriends need to be happy, I ask you?

In short, Valentine's day.

2007-02-14T14:49:00.000-05:00

On my way to work this morning, I had to stop half-way. Due to a severe snow storm, still going on in the middle of the afternoon, it took me 20 minutes to accomplish a distance of approximately 30 feet. So I bailed. Screw this shit. I went to have breakfast at Dainty's and got to work 1 hour late. I'd rather spend 30 minutes in a lame restaurant than in my car, raging against God-all-mighty. I was late, but managed to still be in a relatively good mood.

Today is the 4th anniversary of my divorce. To me, Valentine's day has somewhat of a bittersweet taste. To be honest, it makes me sick. I hate these little tacky decorations from the dollar store, I hate heart-shaped chocolate boxes, I hate reruns of When Harry met Sally.

Four years ago. Freedom, ah, yes; freedom, oh, Lord oh Lord, what have I done.

To be honest, I'd rather live a love story than to write about it, and I'd rather write about a broken heart than to have one.

Happy V-day lovelies; may your day be filled with maraschino cherries and red silky underwear.

Hungover?

2007-02-12T15:31:00.000-05:00

Ssssshhh! Jesus H. Christ is it really necessary to say it this loud? You don't have to scream, I'm right here!

I remember the times, when I was young(er), where outrageous nights out implied heavy boozing, dancing, sheer crazyness and very little sleep. The following day, I would take a copious breakfast and go about my normal business, with very little day-after consequences. Ah...but those were the days. The days when my body used to cooperate a litle more!

Today, having guests over for dinner and drinking 4 bottles of wine for 3 people, on Saturday nonetheless, leaves me brutally hungover STILL on Monday morning! (or was it the little after-desert spliff? Who knows.) Now I'm groggy, I have no patience with the kids, going to and fro the sink to the dishwasher (a journey of approximately 2 feet) feels like a safari expedition, and most of all, I'm emotionally disturbed! I cry for no apparent reason...this is not good. I should have been more careful; apparently, curing hangovers starts even before you start boozing. After a little research on the net, since pointing and clicking is the only activity I can cope with today, here are the most interesting suggestions I found :

Real hangovers will truly vaporize using the Swedish style... When u get up (it doesn't matter if its early or not) u let someone take you to the local beauty farm (because your still drunk as hell) get yourself sweaty in the sauna for about 10-15 minutes, jump into the freezing water afterwards and look, only after half an hour you got up, your hangover is already disappeared!

Er...OK, but what if your hangover suddenly becomes a heart attack? Any cure for that?

Firecracker
50/50 Tequila and Tabasco sauce in a shot glass. Clears the head like a shotgun

And to get over the hangover from the hangover cure you take....

On arriving home drink 2 pints of strong Tea (or Coffee) make the drink as sweet as possible, now for the tough part, eat a family sized container of Ice Cream (Tesco's Stripy Brand for best results but any Ice Cream will do the job)
Follow this simple advice and never fear the morning after again!!

Right, right....and the fat ass that comes along with eating a tub of ice cream is cured by...

These are all bollocks...Everybody knows that the cure to hangovers is plainly....water! You're feeling like crap because you're dehydrated! DUH!!! Or, even simpler....DRINK IN MODERATION!!! YOU'RE NOT 23 ANYMORE!!!

I told you being hungover made me cranky!! Well at least my sense of humour is not completely shot. To learn a little more about hangover cures or to get ammunition to make fun of people who are hungover, go to www.rupissed.com

Cheers maties!

(now where's my Tylenol...)

Pick-up artists at work

2007-02-08T21:19:00.000-05:00

How did it go Bridges?
Did you meet interesting men?
Was it worth it?
Did you have fun?

First of all, let me say I had alot more fun than I thought I would. I did get to meet some nice gentlemen, (engineers - IT guys - divorced dads ) and not-so-nice ones (a dodgy postman who looked way too eager to lick the stamps) a funny 6'4 Dutch guy who made me think of Austin Power 3's Goldmember - without the rollerskates - and my least personnal favorite, the shy geek who is so sweet but not very pleasing to the eye, to say the least. I was sorry for him and felt compelled to take him out for a make-over session. Nothing against geeks, really. Just not my cup of tea.

Speed-dating is draining! You try to keep up your good side for all the people you meet, and you feel sorry for the last ones, because after a few drinks and many, many " how are you, what do you do" you just want to start answering questions by one of the following :

"well, it was my parole officer's idea to get back on the dating scene..."
"My husband insisted we try this...oh, look, there he is! HI HONEY!!!"
"Why don't I start by telling you about my childhood...It all started when..."

Nah. I didn't even need to invent one, it just invented itself.

At the beginning of an 8 minute meeting with the shy geek, my mobile rang. The call came from home. Of course, I'm a mother, I think of the worst. So I say "I'm sorry, I have to take this call." My 9 year old daughter was on the other end. "Mummy...I miss you...when are you coming back...." After reassuring her that mummy was not going to be very late, I went back to my conversation.

-I'm sorry....it was my daughter....she started doing this to me a while ago...she just wants to check if I'm going to pick up...
-Oh. (long pause) How old is your daughter?
-9. Why?
-Er.....and she wants to know if you're going to pick up?

It takes me a few seconds. Then I burst out laughing.

-She wants to check if I was going to pick up THE PHONE!!!!
-OOOOOHHHH...ok, ok....

Note to the reader : No, I didn't pick up... anything else than a phone call from my dauther :)