Page 227 of 524


Since setting the Mounties upon Guitar Hero and his wife, the white trash renters to our north have not been an issue. For the most part we so seldom saw them that Rob didn’t realize she worked at his plant and their recent newborn addition was a surprise to us.

But with the new spawn came unexpected emergence from their four-walls and a roof cocoon and they took to sitting on the front porch with their toddler for smoke breaks. The owners of the house are militant about smoking indoors and apparently Mama Hero, having done her duty with two children under the age of two, is now able to indulge in what appears to be quite the addiction.

I think smoking is the ultimate dummy tax from a financial perspective as well as a health stance, but the thing about smoking that really bugs me is that I don’t want to and yet I do by virtue of living around smokers who don’t want smoke in their own homes but think nothing of blowing it into mine.

Our front windows are open all the time during the summer to aid the circulation and keep the house cool. Like most people here, we don’t have central air. It really is an unnecessary expense. The neighbors’ second hand smoke snakes in and fills the lower level of the house and so windows must be closed. Not a big deal? Well, some people are more philosophical about this than I am, but it’s not just a smelly annoyance for me. It aggravates allergies and kicks up my asthma and both have long ranging consequences in terms of reduced ability to exercise and increased need of medication.

I have done nothing but endure smoking neighbors. Creepy Neighbor smoked and I was forced to keep windows closed pretty much all the time in the warm weather. He was a chain smoker. I seldom saw him without a cigarette in hand. The house before that I had to contend with Will smoking. Yeah, irony, but my afflictions worsened considerably with the stress of caring for him and the single working mom gig. Will, to his credit, quit. He promised me he would and he did. His illness however was already in play and he had lapses that he blamed on the hypnotist he saw,

“I think that guy did something to my brain,” he would say.

The apartments I lived in always had at least one smoker who had to sit upwind when puffing but ironically, I had less trouble with smokers when I was in university than I had at any point in my life despite the fact that this was pre-anti smoking era, smokers were a lot more considerate and it seemed, to me, that fewer people smoked.

The Hero family moved this past weekend. Loaded up Clampett style and are gone. The last time the house vacated it was empty most of the summer. Let’s hope for a similarly ghost-like situation. Rentals out here seem to be sitting empty longer now that housing prices have fallen a tad and the upgrader projects are stalled. We’ll breathe easier for a while.


What is it about old school dancing? Waltzing. The Tango. Even those 16th and 17th century precursors to line dancing. They put to shame the kind of dancing I grew up with (my forced P.E. excursion into square dancing excepted).

The first dances I attended were as a ninth and tenth grader in the school café. Loud pop and hair band ballads meant that dancing was bouncing and twisting in a gaggle of girlfriends or watching couples lean against each other. Where was the elegance, the intent, the exchange of information a person needs in the pairing game on the ark of  life?

I was reminded again of my woeful lack of skills Saturday night when Rob and I slipped into the city for yet another celebratory dinner and a movie. The film was an English one, Easy Virtue, based – loosely would be my guess – on the Noel Coward play of which there is a silent film adaption by Alfred Hitchcock no less.

Like most films that originate over the water without much interest in American audiences, the accent and speech patterns took a while to get used to and we missed a few jokes in the beginning. I adore English humor. It’s caustic. Corrosive and wicked, in a way I dream of being able to emulate someday.

The story is set in the late 1920’s but still pre-crash and involved the sudden marriage of an English country blue-blood to an older American woman who drove on the European racing circuit. Scandalous. His mother and sisters are horrified while his WWI shattered father merely smiles and cracks witty at the expense of all.

At different points her past becomes clearer (yeah, that old widow thing rears its predictable head) and she realizes that her love for her young husband cannot overcome the obstacles of his family and position and she decides to give him up for his own good. It’s Christmas and there is a dance taking place. And she tangos her defiance.

“A woman shouldn’t really dance like that with her father-in-law,” I whispered to Rob, who later brought up the valid point that having never had a living father-in-law myself, my observation was an interesting one.

Plot points in dance. Character motivation and intent revealed. It reminded me of Niles and Daphne on Frasier. Another favorite.

I only rarely slow danced. Not because I wasn’t asked, but I didn’t want to be that close to someone. There is nothing innocent about full body physical contact with another. The intimacy is suggested and as the dance continues it becomes more than just an invitation.

I am curious about others’ experience or perceptions. Leave a comment or link back.


The Weekend began with the last day of school for Dee. I love the Canadian school calendar. They begin after Labor Day and finish on the last Friday of June. I love having June to myself.

And it was also Rob and my 2nd wedding anniversary. A classmate of Dee’s invited her over for an end of the year/beginning of summer sleep-over and pool party the next day. How often does an almost 24hr childless stint coincide with one’s anniversary?

We moved the sitter from Friday to Saturday night and grilled instead of heading into the city. Yummy fresh food without the worry of tummy trouble, followed by wine and the first two chapters of a cheesy mini-series from the mid-70’s and plenty of snuggly good times.

Saturday was sleeping in, toast and tea at the table and conversation that was not interrupted with multiple requests for assistance.

We picked up Dee in the mid-afternoon and sailed off for the city to help Mick with her moving (the Overlord sat like a freakish Krishna on the trampoline in the front yard the whole while we were there, pretending not to eavesdrop by wearing his earbuds – apparently has taken to communicating with Mick by text, even if they are in the same room). Afterward we hit the Customer Appreciation Sale at Sears (they are appreciating anyone who is still spending their money) and picked up drapes to go with the blinds in our bedroom. Near darkness is on the horizon this week.

Picked up the sitter on the way home and some nutrition-less no-no’s at McD’s for Dee before depositing them at home, and we were off to the city again. Dinner at the High Level Diner. A favorite place.  And movie at the Garneau down the block with a walk around the university campus in the interim.

The Garneau is an old theatre with cushy seats that rock back into the knees of those behind you. The movie was a Brit import. Colin Firth. Always wonderful despite the now comical injection of widowhood into the plot line. We don’t even try to avoid it by reading reviews or summaries anymore. It does no good. We are cursed like that.

And that’s about it aside from my managing to annoy people with my lack of respect for the dead.

How was your weekend?