What's In A Name?

Say you're adopting an old dog from the pound.

The dog's name is Pollywog.

She's black. She's fat in the front end and skinny in the butt end and she only has a couple of legs.

You want to call her Trixie but she's been called Pollywog for half of her dog life which, in dog years, is still half her life.

If your brain is as intact as the dog's life, meaning you have half a one, then you will start calling your wife Trixie and just leave the darned mutt alone.

You can't, after all, teach an old Wog new Trix.

So today I caught myself doing something I haven't done since high school: I practiced writing Mrs. Cathy Webster.

I can't believe I just admitted that!

What am I, 12? HA!

Seriously, though, I am going to need some practice. Like ol leg-challenged Wog, I am an old dog. I don't have too many new trix in me. It's going to be challenging to learn a new name; nay, another new name.

Name number three. Robb. Olliffe. And, in September, Webster. 

I see a trend towards the tail end of the alphabet here. I wonder what that means.

It's a good thing I'm not terribly attached to my names. Seems I'm trading them like hockey cards.

I've thought a bit about the whole name-thing. It is quite fashionable, these days, to keep the name you were born with, or to hyphenate it, or to pick something new altogether. 

I don't want to go back to Robb, although I'm proud of the name and my family ... it's been so long, that's all, that it seems almost to belong to someone else.

And I certainly don't want to stick with Olliffe, my ex's name, although I have grown fond of signing Cathy O. It has a Jackie O flavour to it that I quite enjoy. 

I thought having a different name than the boys might be an issue but they know who they are and they know who I am and I don't think they'll confuse their mother just because she has a new name.

If they do, I'll wear a name tag.

And perhaps hire them a tutor.

Perhaps if I have any questions about my new name I can ask Dave's ex, who, coincidentally, is also Mrs. Cathy Webster.

That's all I need to say about that.

Bootcamp Dave

NO ONE WORKS harder than Bootcamp Dave.

I know, because I'm the lazy so-and-so who gets tired trying to keep up with him.

Well, maybe "trying" is too vague a term here.

I used to try, when I was younger and still trying to impress him.

Now I only look like I'm trying.

And sometimes I don't even do that.

Like this weekend, for example.

Weekend... pffttt.. that's another relative term. We worked our asses off this weekend. I can hardly wait to go to work so I can sit on mine and recover.

Spent both days this weekend moving final bits of crap from our house in Sundridge to here. We actually, finally, unbelievably, blessedly sold the g.d. Sundridge house (honestly, I was beginning to think the words "you have an offer" would never come out of our agent's mouth), but sold it we did and it closes in two weeks.

We moved most of our crap last fall but left the three sheds full, and the bookcases full, and the bathroom medicine cabinet.. and, well, you know.. all the crap we didn't feel like taking back then kinda got left there.

In the offer the buyers said, "Please remove all personal items." It was a nice way of saying, "TAKE YOUR CRAP."

So, fine. We rented a trailer and went up there on Saturday. Luckily Dave's buddy Richie Ricardo Montabalm and Dave's brother Max Webster were there to help haul stuff. My plate was full entertaining Mackie's wife, Mizz Bonita, breeder of fine pooches. Since I was busy entertaining, I didn't feel obligated to haul stuff.

Unfortunately, I had to help unload.

Today, me and Bootcamp were on our own. I dug Muskoka chairs out of the snowbank and hauled them to the trailer. I made numerous trips from shed to trailer carrying crap. And finally, I had had enough.

Bootcamp gave no indication of being tired.

And I was tired of trying to impress him.

So I said, "Dave, I'm going to go dig that chair out of the snow on the front deck, OK?"

"Yup," he said, making another trek down to the shed.

Me and Misty-dog took a shovel to the front deck, dug a few shovel-fulls -- enough to clear a space on the chair -- and then sat down.

The sun was pouring down, Misty warmed my lap, I closed my eyes and sighed a guilty, blissful sigh.

I almost fell asleep.

A while later, I got up, puffed a bit of metaphorical flour in my face, then trudged around the house to see how Bootcamp was doing. 

"Wow," I said, "You're almost done."

What a happy coincidence!

We drove the hour home, spent another hour unloading crap, then made some Kraft Dinner and weinies for dinner. Nectar of the cholesterol gods.

Dave sat down on the couch and turned on "Terminator," the new one that I got him for Christmas.

A few short minutes later, Bootcamp Dave was out like a light.

His Pink Floyd jammie bottoms are kinda slung down like plumber's pants and his bare toes are sticking over the end of the couch. 

I'd go over there and tickle them if I didn't think he'd wake up and make me go carry something.

Torn Between Two Lovers

ON ONE HAND I have people saying to me, "Is everything OK? You haven't been blogging lately. Miss you! Hugs."

On the other hand I have Dave not saying that I'm spending too much time on the computer.

He would never say anything outright because he's sweet and adorable and he knows this blogging-thing makes me deliriously happy. But I know he's a trifle pouted because he spends a lot of time by himself with his bottom lip pooched out.

Tonight, even though I wanted desperately to read some flash because I was away from the computer all day, I snuggled up to my beloved on the couch for some quality Saturday night TV time. 

Even though the movie was lame (Ghosts of Girlfriends Past), I persevered, occasionally thinking I'd rather be blogging but, hey, if Dave could watch it, I could watch it. So I did. And he did. And all was fine.

Until he snored.

"Are you actually asleep?" I asked.

"Huh?" said Dave sleepily. 

"Asleep. Were you?"

"I was. I think," Dave said.

I rolled my eyes. "Go to bed," I said. "Go."

And there he went.

And here I am.

P.S. Spring is springing on the Muskoka River. I took this photo yesterday, thrilled to see the ice is breaking up. On a lake, the ice almost always lingers when the snow on the ground is long gone. On a river, the ice is gone when the snowbanks are high and result is just as pretty as the picture you see before you. Today I got a little sunburn on my cheeks, that's how beautiful the weather was. If you want to be jealous of my beautiful corner of the world, click on the photo to make it larger (the photo, not the world).

P.S.S. I am happy for my friends tonight. Paula Boon is performing in a musical. Mark has overcome self-doubt to post another great story for fridayflash. Lynda is excited about her new camera. Bonnie's two dogs are both expecting. Tammy looks unbelievable in the dress she will wear to my wedding. CJ is girlishly giggly because her good friend is visiting from out of town. Vic is recovering from her dental surgery and has very good drugs. Leah is happy because she is always happy. Dave is snoring gently in the next room. I send them all my love and good wishes and count myself lucky to be their friends.

#fridayflash A Matter of Perspective

This is what was going on in the kid’s head:

It’s Sunday and there’s nothing to do because my friend Heather Adams is at church and there’s nothing on TV and I’m bored out of my stinking mind.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table, thinking how bored I am and my mom is running around like an idjit cleaning up the whole house and making a big roast beef dinner because her stupid friends are coming over. Stupid, boring friends who don’t even have kids, and how boring and stupid is that. So we have to behave just because they’re coming over. Big whoop.

I slump over the table and stare at the wallpaper, squinting and unsquinting to see how the wallpaper violets look squinted and unsquinted. It’s like an experiment. Out of the corner of my eye my mother zooms into sight, then out again, a small, unfocused black figure moving at ninety miles an hour. She’s ruining the experiment. And I think all this stupid work she is doing is ridiculous.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” I say.

My mother stops what she is doing and starts yelling at me.

“Lynda-Leah Raney, get your head off that table, right now. Sit up straight and quit your whining or so help me I’ll call your father in here and he’ll give you something to whine about.”

“OK! You don’t have to scream,” I say, morally offended.

“That’s IT!” She’s really peaking now. “I’ve had ENOUGH of your crap today. Get outside NOW.”

I slide out of the chair and put on my boots and jacket while she stands in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, watching me. She’s mad, I can tell by the look in her eye that says I’m dead meat if I even open my mouth.

I open the back door and, as I’m going out, I say, “Fine. You’re just boring and stupid anyway.” 

Then I run like the wind because I know she’ll take the side off my head if she can catch me. But she can’t. Because I’m young and she’s old and I can run faster than her.

When I get to the sidewalk and figure I’ve gotten away scot-free I look back and see her in the kitchen window. She still looks mad and I think she’s crying again. She’s always crying. I don’t get it. And I don’t feel sorry for her, either. Let her cry all she wants. See if I care.

I sit on the drainage pipe at the end of our driveway and look around, looking for something to do. Our street is boring, though, and nothing’s going on. It’s just gray and boring and stupid, like everything else. 

The only thing moving is an old lady coming up the sidewalk towards me. She’s moving so slow that even a snail could pass her.

She’s ugly-looking.

Hunched and fat and wrinkled, like a toad.

She’s wearing old-people’s clothes. Some stupid hat with netting on it and old lady shoes. 

She’s looking at me. I feel like saying “take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Then it occurs to me: she’s probably looking at me and remembering what it was like to be young. That makes me feel sad, thinking about that old lady wishing she was me. I feel sorry for her. 

I kinda smile at her as she gets closer, trying to show her that I’m nice to old ladies and that it’s OK to be jealous of me because I’m younger and have my whole life in front of me and she’s practically dead.

I feel it’s the least I can do.

This is what was going on in the old lady’s head:

Look at that little shithead sitting in the ditch, grinning at me. Must be the village idiot.

Some Shuggah

CJ and her great love, Anthony Quinn.

Last November Dave farted in bed and, needing to escape the fumage, I started a blog.

A couple weeks later, Dec. 18, I was mindlessly hitting Next Blog and came across Mostly Other Things, a blog written by a Duluth, Minnesota writer/artist named CJ Hodges MacFarlane. This is the story I came across: #fridayflash "Family Ties."

I was mesmerized by this story. Amazed. As someone who has battled her own demons with depression, I saw myself in this beautifully written story. 

I commented on the story, bookmarked it, and returned to the site every day, hoping this CJ person might have written something else. 

But weeks went by and nothing was added.

I wondered what was wrong, why this person would have written something so heartwrenching about depression, then disappeared.

I wondered if this writer had passed on.

I had to know.

So on January 6, I wrote another comment: "Loved your story. I check every day to see if you've written more. No pressure, though!"

I guess CJ wondered who her new stalker was because she popped over to my blog to see who the weirdo was. That very day she had been out hiking and taking photos of ice. Posted on my blog was a photo of the frozen Muskoka River.

"Huh," she must have thought to herself, and posted this comment on my blog: "Beautiful photo! I just spent a day on Lake Superior taking ice photos so it's interesting I should come here and find these. (Hiya, by the way. You had left some lovely comments on my blog about my writing and I didn't even see them until today - always remiss, that's me.)"

If you check the links, you will see her photos are way better than mine, and you will also see a photo of CJ herself.

She impressed me right away as a person of substance.

And, damn, she is a fine writer.

Next thing you knew, we were stalking each other.

She even dedicated *ahem* a post to me. (awwww......)

We began chatting regularly and I found myself drawn to her quirky, forthright sense of humour, honesty and fairplay. Plus, she's just cool, plain and simple.

One day I asked her what this #fridayflash business was all about. She told me and I thought to myself, nice, but I'm not a fiction writer.

Then, one day, I didn't have anything to write about so I made something up. I told CJ and she got all excited, like a mother who found out her daughter was just engaged to a rich oil sheik. She set me up with facebook and twitter and Mad Utopia and egged people to come over and see my blog and she was wonderful.

Suddenly, people were reading my story from all around the world.

It just blew me away.

I was also amazed that I had storytelling in me. I was surprised how easily it flowed. Maybe it's not perfect, maybe it needs polishing, but darn, it's addictive FUN.

And, on top of all of this, I was suddenly exposed to other writers from all over the world, people who dig writing and reading as much as I do. Really talented writers, like Marisa Birns.

I don't know Marisa like I have come to know and love CJ, but she reminds me of my new friend because she writes like no tomorrow, no holds barred, honest writing about controversial topics. There are no punches pulled, it's all gut-wrenching emotion told with restraint and power and it's really, really good.

When Marisa passed the Sugar Doll award to me, I was blown away because she even knew I existed.

A few months ago, I didn't even know what flash was, didn't think I could write fiction and had never heard of CJ or Marisa or the host of fridayflashers who have made my life so interesting.

So, I thank Marisa for the honour and I pass the award on to CJ, who deserves it unreservedly, and had better post it soon or I will not be happy. (Not like me, who let this slide for a couple of weeks – sorry, Marisa, I've been busier than a one-armed paper-hanger.)

Part of the deal is telling 10 truths about oneself.

I am very boring, but I will try to make this as painless as possible.

1. I am engaged to The Perfect Male.

2. I have two really honestly wonderful sons who I love beyond reason.

3. I am proud to be Canadian.

4. I love my mother and my family.

5. I miss my late father.

7. I am emotional and have a strong sense of right and wrong.

8. I have work that I am good at and that I enjoy.

9. I am loved.

10. And right at this moment, you could say I am as happy as I have ever been and probably ever will be.

And yet, there are times when the tears spring to my eyes, moments like these.

While that makes little sense, it is what it is.

My truth.

And I own it.