the cold wins

Full-on sick today, folks, with a raspy voice and headache. By the most amazing coincidence - NOT - this is the first Tuesday in months that I do not have a class, as my Tuesday group ended last week. Nothing to do today except lie around coughing and working on my manuscript.

Heaven.

I opened the door to get the paper this morning, and two stunning women in twinkling saris were on the sidewalk, greeting each other in Punjabi or Urdu. How great to live in a Canadian city where I can open my front door and be in Bombay or Bangladesh or Sri Lanka or Lahore. Or Bogata, or Kingston, Jamaica, or whatever a city in Kazakstan is. It's Pride Week coming up too, so the city's gay population is swelling. I do not think the two ladies in saris, like our mayor, will be attending the Gay Pride parade. Maybe one day.

And there, too, was the mailman, back after the strike. I am sorry he and his union didn't get what they wanted; glad that my "New Yorkers" will start arriving again. Always the selfish consumer.

Spent Sunday afternoon, as usual, cooking and listening to Eleanor Wachtel, who was interviewing four fascinating women writers. I just wrote to thank her, and she replied that she's just back from Banff and the Whitehorse Poetry Festival. Such a dull life, has that woman. I also wrote to congratulate my cousin in New York on the passing of the gay marriage bill, and asked if I could be the flower girl at his and Henry's wedding. Apparently, there's quite a list of flower girls already. Can't wait.

My Monday group came for the last class of term; our feast included Sonia's homemade rhubarb cake. I gathered my courage and read them two short excerpts from the memoir, wondering how it would go over. It went over, and most importantly, they laughed at some bits. I was so hoping they would. After they'd gone, I realized I was completely drained from the stress of hope and fear - my soul and years of work on display, awaiting judgement. Ah, the serene life of the writer.

Today there's the farmer's market at Riverdale Farm and a marathon reading of War and Peace at Nathan Phillips Square, neither of which I'll get to, probably. There was just a brief shower, so I don't even have to water the garden. I'll sit sipping lemon and honey and smelling the damp jasmine, camellias, lavender and roses. And then I'll do my best to rip open my insides and smear them all over a piece of paper.

Ah, the serene life of the writer.

PS Just back from the farmer's market - had to go, it's a perfect day and I needed bread. Now I have a loaf of dark Red Fyfe and one of sourdough, fresh oak-leaf lettuce and the first Ontario strawberries, delectable, some sausages from a small family farm, and best of all - the George Brown student chefs were out in force, scores of them in their white aprons and tall hats, selling small portions of a variety of dishes. I brought home a small grilled sandwich - an exotic cheese with caramelized onion and poached pear - !!! And for later, pulled pork on a blini with avocado and salsa. With that, despite my throat and hot head, I'll have a little glass of rosé, or two. I feel better already.

But the War and Peace Marathon, unfortunately - not so much.

A friend sent me this, a survey about PUBLIC LIBRARIES. We need to defend them. Please take a minute to fill it out.

http://www.torontopubliclibrary.ca/about-the-library/services-survey.jsp

a few of my favourite things (see post below)

Another rosebush that has suddenly discovered the pleasures of actually blooming.

New shoe on the right. Old shoe, that

suddenly is extremely fashionable,

on the left. After years of pressing my

nose against the window of fashionable shoe-wearing, cursing the fate of size 10 1/2, I now find lots of great shoes in my size. When I was wearing those bright red wonders, a woman asked me where I got my shoes, the first time this has ever happened to me. This is some sort of female rite of passage. At last.

In case you're desperate to see another view.

The BAG.

I call her Zelda.

She stayed in this posture for some time. Airing the belly, I guess.

afternoon in Toronto, "Midnight in Paris"

Yesterday's feast of pleasures: a mild grey-ish day, thank heaven, so it was possible to get things done without the siren call of sunshine luring me hither. The roses more sublime than ever. I remember buying this spindly little rosebush at Loblaw's, at least five years ago - and now, suddenly, it has come into its own. And how.

Decided to go outside despite my sniffles and set off for downtown, steering via the library to return some books, thus forcing me to go into Doubletake on the way. And there ... well, you know I am a shallow person, so I hope you won't mind a muffled scream. Occasionally, in my secondhand adventures, something extremely desirable comes along; yesterday, hanging upon the handbag rack, was a Coach bag. A geniune Coach handbag in all its thick beautifully crafted leather glory, in perfect condition, all zippers working, nothing ripped or stained - who, who, who gave this bag worth hundreds of dollars away? Perhaps the colour is not in fashion; it's beigey-white, not the exciting colour of today's vivid bags, but still gorgeous.

It cost $7.

I was happy.

I transferred everything to my new bag and rode on - I'd been waiting for a cloudy day to go and see Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris." I expected to love it, and I did - it's a confection, delicious. Of course, it features Paris in the most glorious light - the characters are often ALONE as they wander - you are never alone in Paris! There's some clumsy writing that I'm surprised was left in, characters informing each other of things they'd obviously know but we the audience don't, the problem of exposition that we talk about in writing class, carelessly effected by Mr. Allen. It's too bad the glorious Rachel McAdams has to play such a cliché, without a redeeming feature except incredible beauty, and the ending is soppy and predictable. But he has so much fun with his Republican characters, so much fun with Hemingway and Zelda and Gertrude Stein - oh, it's a joy.

Occasionally, as I watched, I patted my new handbag, to make sure she was still there. And then - more consumption. Yes, much as I'd like to leave this out, I am going to tell you the truth - as I left the movie theatre, I saw a sale at Ron White Shoes and could not help going in to look at his big foot section. In fact, I recognized Mr. White, shook his hand and thanked him for being a friend to the big-footed woman. And yes, there was a pair of wonderful comfortable yet elegant teacherly shoes, 70% off, fitted me perfectly. 70% off. Fitted me perfectly. Bore them away in the new handbag.

Then to yoga class at the Y, a wonderful class. Home stretched and serene to the quiet house - my son is away for the weekend and the upstairs tenant has gone back to Berlin, so for the first time in a year I have my house to myself - and to have a long chat with my mother, who was lively and cheerful and told me lots of stories. Another great gift.

And then I put on my new shoes and worked all evening, in the quiet. The greatest gift of all.

today's show and tell

This is the dinner my son left last night in the fridge for me - salmon in an apricot salsa on crispy noodles with asparagus, tomatoes and pearl onions. Mmmmm.

These are a few of my garden's explosion of roses

This hair has not been washed for two weeks

This is the adorable new helmet

This is the crabby cat sleeping with her foot