One of those days

There are days when I do everything wrong, when I end up crying in the bathroom at work and yelling at small animals, when my bike chain falls off and my new pants get covered in grease, when I lose my keys and my wallet and my sanity. Those are bad days. Then there are the days where I keep hurting myself accidentally, slice of the finger while cutting tomatoes, stubbed toe as I walk from one room to another, bruised shin as low furniture darts out to attack me, twisted neck as I dream in awkward positions. When I have an accident, bruising day, I remind myself to pay more attention, to be more aware of wayward furniture and deceptively sharp knives. It usually passes within a few days and I return to a fairly pain-free existence.

Today was D's turn to face the wrath of the accident gods. To start, he did a faceplant in the grocery store at nine a.m. this morning, giving himself a nice fat lip. Many tears later, we went to the park. D ran out into the road (no, he wasn't hit by a car) and had a meltdown when I reprimanded him, throwing himself to the ground and scraping his knee. More tears. On return from the park, he ran towards the door at top speed, fell, managed to shove his finger into the door which then promptly shut, leaving his finger wedged in between. More tears and this time, howls of disbelief and rage. If he were more articulate, he might have said, "Why me?!"

Then as he farted around next to the screen of the patio door, he got stung by a wasp. Pain and shock and more tears. "The bee bit me!" And then an eventual drop into a hot afternoon nap, two throbbing fingers, a scraped knee, and a fat lip. Poor little fella.

It's not even three o'clock yet.

Wash n' wear

As a rule I wash new clothes before wearing them. Whether they come in a package or off the rack, they go into the machine before I put them on. While new could imply clean, it doesn't guarantee it. The smell of new clothes often makes me think of a factory in far off lands, huge rolls of cotton blends lining the wall, cut scraps on the floor, women bent over sewing machines, hair tied back. And then being put in a pile, loaded onto a truck, then a boat, then another truck. Weeks pass, maybe months. The dust settles, insects pass by, crates creak, steel bangs. Always best to wash after such a journey.

If I have told you the above it is to highlight that sometimes there are exceptions. Tonight, for example. As I paid for my purchase this evening, I knew that the second I got home I was going to put them on, washing be damned. I just bought the most comfortable purple sweatpants on the planet. Maybe purple is putting it too strongly, mauve. Old school sweatpants from one of those stores that is embracing all things eighties (there were also fluorescent shoes and Mickey Mouse off-the-shoulder extra large t-shirts) with tight ankles and straight legs. And pockets for pure lazy slouching.

They are awesome for their undeniable comfort. I may never take them off again.

There is a poem about growing old and wearing purple. Since I feel I am going through an early mid-life crisis (youthful dreams gone to dust, post-baby fat now here to stay) these may be the perfect companion.

Thing is, I am traveling soon and to places far more stylish than Montreal (c'est pas possible!) and the purple pants may just have to join me on my adventures. Europe may never be the same.

Camping in the US of A

Things I didn't know about Americans (or had forgotten):

1) There is apparently no motorcycle helmet law in the US. People barrel down highways on their motorcycles at breakneck speeds, without a helmet.
2) You can buy guns everywhere. And they advertise: Guns! Guns! Guns!
3) Americans are friendly, but it is an aggressive kind of friendly, it dares you not to be friendly in return, just see what happens to you then, because gosh-darnit, they carry guns. * No casual 'hellos" or nods of the head for these folk, no sirree. We got "well, you have a really great day, now!" and "how are you today, folks?" And not just from the older, middle aged crowd. Teenagers that wouldn't have even made eye contact in Canada, gave us shiny toothed grins and elaborate salutations. My son would stop on the path, confused, after yet another friendly American had greeted us, and ask "who is that?" expecting as one might, that someone so friendly must be a relation or at least selling something. * The return to frosty Canada a bit of a shock. No 'hellos' here. In fact, you're lucky if someone acknowledges your existence. We are... more reserved.
4) Along with friendly, Americans have a sense of self-assurance that has long been discussed in literature (the Brits and other assorted Europeans being the first to remark upon it) but I had never really noticed it until this most recent visit. I can barely put my finger on it, but it is a way of moving through the landscape, a sense of perfect fit; this is me and I am alright and am well liked and cared for and all is well. Not a glimmer of self-doubt to be seen.

Or not in the campgrounds of Acadia National Park, anyways.

Tea

There are mornings when life seems glum and boring and grey. Today was one of those mornings. Rainy and cool, my son whining and throwing whatever he could get his hands on, me stomping about and yelling like an ogre. There was no food in the cupboard and my laundry lay limp on the line, the air wet.

To escape we went down to the backyard where D ate green tomatoes and I glowered at the neighbours' yards and the trash in the alley. Sinking self pity sucked at my toes.

Then my neighbour, the one who lives below us and only complained once in the whole year that we have lived here about the noise, offered me a cup of tea. My heart sang. Warm chai with two biscuits. I briefly hypothesized that the optimism and determination of the Indian subcontinent was due to so much tasty tea but then remembered that Indians are known for their fatalism.

D and I sat on the fire escape stairs and talked about the joys of sharing, more specifically, how glad we were that the neighbour had shared with us.

She barely speaks a word of English my neighbour, but she made my day.

And then the sun came out, my clothes dried and I made pasta salad for lunch.