Sorry

I was feeling overwhelmed yesterday. Everything is happening at once, Ms J. Everybody wants my time. I mean it's great to be popular. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad my friends want to see me. I'm glad Val wants me in her play. And I'm especially pleased that Meagan may be ready to spent some time with me. I'm not thrilled that Scott will have to drive her here and pick her up, but I'll deal with it. I mostly deal with the little problems Life sets in my path. I mostly do. Most of them, Ms J. Most of the time. But sometimes, Life has a way of setting obstacles in my path that are either too numerous, or that seen insurmountable. In the end, I always manage, somehow. I always manage, don't I?

This play is an obstacle. I never thought I'd ever see a play that way. I love the theatre. I love being on stage. I've said it before. It fills my heart. But right now, when I can't drive and I have to be dependent on people to get me to and from Caledon, this play feels like an obstacle. I feel like an obstacle. Understand, Caledon is not nearby. The rest of the cast all live in Orangeville, ten minutes from the theatre. Diana lives in Caledon East. Val is about 30 minutes away from Caledon. It's just too much to ask them to ferry me back and forth from Mimico every weekend. They rehearse on Tuesdays and Thursdays as well, but I've been excused from weekday rehearsals. Now, if Meagan wants to see me, I'll only have half a weekend to spend with her. And the play will demand part of every weekend from now until the middle of June.

I could be good in this play, Ms J. I was looking forward to doing it. Gilbert's a wonderful role. Indeed, I was part of the committee that selected this play last year. I voted for it in the hope that I might get to play the role of Gilbert.

I just spoke with Jenn. She was very helpful. And, as usual, compassionate.

"Call Val," she advised. "Tell her you just cannot do this play. She'll understand. They'll all understand, Dale. And you'll be surprised at the level of relief you'll feel afterward."

I'm sorry I was so angry yesterday, Ms J. And I'm sorry I've been such a burden to everyone lately. But most of all, I'm sorry I have to drop out of this play. It's just the best thing to do right now, for me. And for The Caledon Townhall Players. If I can't put my heart and soul into this role, I'd give far less than I'm capable of. And my friends at CTHP deserve no less than my very, very best.

I'm not angry anymore, Ms Journal. And I don't feel overwhelmed. But I'm sad right now. Sad and kind of empty.

Every Which Way

Val wants me at rehearsal on Sunday. But she wants to pick me up on Saturday night.

My sister, June wants me to visit for dinner on Saturday while her husband works on my car. I don't know why I need work done on my car. I can't drive the bloody thing anyway.

Kirk is waiting right now for me to call him. He's been pestering me for two weeks to spend an evening with him and his wife. I promised him I'd make time this afternoon and this evening.

My sister Jill calls me once in a while to offer apologies for NEVER coming to visit me. I haven't seen her since I broke my leg. Jill lives about five minutes away. She did offer to come one time, but she'd have to bring her kids. No thanks!!! Love you, Sis. But leave the kids with hubby.

Joan just left here. She and I are trying to organize photos for a church directory. There are two other women on the committee: One is always working and the other just left for England. Thanks, girls. It's VERY tedious, time-consuming and in the end, thankless work. We've met now at least four times here to pore over photos and decide which ones to include. Next Tuesday is the deadline.

The Caledon group want me at rehearsal in Caledon on Sunday. I want to go to church. If Val collects me on Saturday night, it'll save her some time. But I won't be able to go to church. And I don't know what time my brother-in-law will finish with my car.

Daniel was admitted yesterday to a drug rehab facility in Hamilton. "Men's Withdrawal."

Meagan wants to come and visit me. Scott (her OTHER father. Yeah. I'm fucking SICK of hearing about Scott and how involved he is in Meagan's Life!!!!) will have to deliver her to me and collect her when it's time to go home. I can't even have a weekend with my daughter though, because I'm doing this PLAY in CALEDON which is nearly an HOUR from where I LIVE and they rehearse three times a week. Everyone but me. I can only come on Sundays. So that means I'd only get half a weekend with Meagan. And I am completely unable to commit myself to this project, which is so unfair to the others but I can't help it. My FUCKING leg is broken and I CANNOT get around unless someone drives me. I am being pulled twenty directions at once and I am NOT enjoying this at all. I wish I could have ONE day when the phone didn't ring 25 times and I didn't have to go somewhere or see someone.

I wish I could just say bugger the whole world and go to my parents for a week, but I have physio every other bloody day. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So there. Thanks for listening. Incidentally, my rants get raves. And yes, I do feel better. I'll call Kirk now.

More about Dan

I've been thinking about my boy lately. Not missing him, but holding him in my consciousness and sending him Love. Thoughts of Dan have roused me from my sleep, deep in the night, the past two or three nights. Dan has been first on my mind recently, as I wake in the morning.

Kelly called last night. My ex wife. She is the mother of my kids. And the bane of my existence.

"We've been having some problems with Dan," she said. "He spent last weekend in the hospital again."

I took a deep breath and prepared myself for the disturbing news that was sure to follow. I sat down at the table and bowed my head and stared into the darkness behind my eyelids.

"What happened, Kel'?"

She didn't go into great detail, thankfully. It invariably leads to melodrama and tears. Hers, Ms J, not mine. Apparently, the boy forced his mother, sister and infant half-sister out into the Saturday evening chill at knife point. Then he locked the door and cut himself a number of times with a kitchen knife. The lacerations bled, but did not require stitches. The wounds were superficial.

"You're the one who's cutting me, Mum," he raved. "You're the one who's hurting me. You're a f***ing c**t."

Kelly ran with baby Emily and Meagan to a neighbour's house where she called the police. The cops somehow gained entry to the house and took my son away to the hospital. In handcuffs. Again.

I don't know if he'd been taking his prescribed medication properly or not. Probably not. And I don't know if he'd taken street drugs. Probably.

Kelly said the doctors discovered massive amounts of the anti-anxiety drug clonazepam in his system. I think she said they pumped his stomach. They kept him in the hospital for less than two days before releasing him. A friend suggested that "a sustained period in hospital" would be best for him. I agree completely.

"I'm trying to get him into a drug rehab centre," Kelly said. "They'd keep him there for three days to a week. I don't want him here, Dale. I just can't handle it any longer."

I don't blame her. It must be incredibly stressful. She has to consider her own safety and that of Meagan and baby Emily. The Truth is, Ms J, I don't want him here either. Isn't that awful? Dan is ill. His mother doesn't want him and neither does his father. And a week in a drug rehabilitation facility would be like spitting in the ocean. It wouldn't change a thing. He has much greater needs than that could provide.

I wonder what will become of my son, Ms Journal? I love him, you know. And my heart aches to see him this way. All I can do is pray for him. Will you help me? Please?

In the Bin

Hello, Ms J. I mentioned a couple of days ago that Dan had left some pornography here when he rushed to escape this "hell" and his "evil father." Those were Dan's words, remember? He left them on his white board in his pig sty - er, I mean bedroom. My son had decided he could no longer bear my oppressive tyranny because I don't allow drugs here. And I cannot countenance disrespect. So he fled to the safety of his mother's house. No challenge there, Ms J. Kelly gives the boy carte blanche to behave as he likes.

For a while after he disappeared, I dealt with things he'd left in his wake: Ubiquitous cat hair. Cat litter strewn about the cellar floor. Long hair clogging the shower drain. Cigarette butts in the garden. And a bedroom that was so filthy, it was scarcely habitable. I could not bear to look in there, so I simply closed the door and left it.

About a month ago, a neighbour offered to clean my house for me. For free. Patty is really nice. She helped me get ready for a house warming/Christmas party when I first moved in here in December 2003. She's a nurse at St. Joe's hospital. Patty cleans houses to earn extra money. When she was here the last time, I spoke to her about Dan's bedroom.

"Just leave that room, Patty. Don't even go in there," I warned her. "There's no telling what horrible disease you might catch."

But Patty laughed off my warning and called to me down the stairs.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Dale. I've seen worse than that. I'll tidy up in there for you."

So she vacuumed and dusted and generally put things in order. She gathered up all the debris and detritus that remained as evidence of a Life poorly-lived; it filled two green garbage bags. Think of it, Ms J! I still shake my head in disbelief.

A few days ago, I had some ladies from the church here for a meeting. As they hadn't been here before, I offered to show them around my home. It's a small house, Ms J. It didn't take long. Upstairs, I proudly showed them my bedroom with its new (old) chest of drawers. Then we went and peeked in Dan's room. I had no concerns about showing the room. I knew it was clean and tidy. I spotted a cardboard box at the foot of the bed and when I noticed what was sitting atop it, I quickly ushered the women out of there and back downstairs.

On top of the box, in full view of anyone who cared to look, was a stack of porno magazines and two pornographic videos. Hardcore stuff, Ms J. Very hardcore. The title of the video on the top was clearly visible in great, bold red letters. "ANAL TEEN SLUTS"

Patty must have discovered The Boy's stash when she tidied up in there. I suppose she didn't quite know what to do with it and she was probably too uncomfortable to ask. So she left it where she thought I might find it. I tell you truly, Ms Journal. I was mortified! I'm not sure if any of the ladies noticed it, although I doubt they would have mentioned it if they had.

Since that day, I've left the pile of filth there while I pondered its disposition. It doesn't belong to me. Do I have the right, then to dispose of it? Perhaps not. But it's in my home and I do not want that stuff here. I considered calling Dan and asking him what he thinks I should do with it. But that would only embarrass him. I decided that if it were that important to him, he would have taken it when he left. This is my home, Ms J. My refuge. My sanctuary. And I do not want that kind of material here.

I stuffed it all in a bag. On Friday, it'll go to the dump with the rest of the rubbish. Too bad, Dan.

Oh, and thanks for drinking my vodka and then filling the bottle again with water. Did you think I wouldn't notice? You have offended me, son. Again.

Social Butterfly

I've been at it again, Ms J. Socializing. Last night, I joined some church friends and went downtown to have dinner and attend a music concert. It wasn't a huge concert at a crowded stadium, but rather a performance at a dinner club. Very intimate. Up close and personal, as they say. The band we saw was called Prairie Oyster. Prairie Oyster is a Canadian pop/country band who enjoyed great success in the 90's. As a simple noun, a prairie oyster is a ... Well, um ...

A prairie oyster is a testicle cut from a young calf, eaten lightly fried as a delicacy. Prairie oysters are generally cooked slowly over an open fire and flavoured with a dash of tobasco.
A prairie oyster is also a kind of drink - a cure for hangover - made with raw egg and tobasco sauce. Either way, it's horrid.

But the band, however, is fantastic! They've won a number of Juno award nominations and sold millions - OK, maybe not millions - but a LOT of records here in Canada and abroad.

The club seats about a hundred, I guess. $27.50 was the cover charge. The food was not cheap either. We had dinner first. It was scrumptious! And wine. Lots of wine. Red for us men. The women drank white. There were five of us altogether. I had a brilliant time, Ms J! I really wished I could have stood up and danced, but instead, I danced in my seat.

I was tired when I got home and I went straight to bed. My leg was hurting a little, too. I'd had my cast on all day. I loosened the straps a bit and fell exhausted into bed.

On May 6th, I'm going with my actor friends to see a play. "Run For Your Wife." Jenn and I performed in the sequel to this play last fall in Caledon. Remember, Ms J? It was called "Caught in the Net." We had a bit of a shakey start, but it was great fun in the end. I'm looking forward to seeing the original play and especially anxious to see how Stanley Gardner (my character) is played. I'll be going with Frankie and her husband Tom, Girl Alex, Christine, and maybe Bob King. We're not sure about Bob. He may be off shoooting a TV ad somewhere. Bob actually gets paid to act.

Oh yes, Ms Journal. I'm feeling better these days. Physically and emotionally. My kids will come back to me, when they're ready. I'll go back to work when I'm ready. To everything, there is a season. In the meantime, I'll be here - living, loving, and laughing. And healing.

See ya!

Disorder In The Court

This is too good not to share. My friend Cyril sent it to me this afternoon. I'd seen it before. Maybe you have too. But as I say, it's too good not to share.

I'll dedicate it to Michelle. She was the winner in yesterday's little contest.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

These quotes are supposedly taken from an American book called "Disorder in the Courts", and are actual courtroom exchanges, taken down word for word by court reporters who had the torment of trying to stay calm while these exchanges were actually taking place.
----------------------------------------------------------
Q: Are you sexually active?
A: No, I just lie there.
__________________________________
Q: What is your date of birth?
A: July 15th.
Q: What year?
A: Every year.
______________________________________
Q: What gear were you in at the moment of the impact?
A: Gucci sweats and Reeboks.
_____________________________________
Q: This myasthenia gravis, does it affect your memory at all?
A: Yes.
Q: And in what ways does it affect your memory?
A: I forget.
Q: You forget? Can you give us an example of something that you've forgotten?
_________________________________
Q: How old is your son, the one living with you?
A: Thirty-eight or thirty-five, I can't remember which.
Q: How long has he lived with you?
A: Forty-five years.
____________________________________
Q: What was the first thing your husband said to you when he woke up that morning?
A: He said, "Where am I, Cathy?"
Q: And why did that upset you?
A: My name is Susan.
______________________________________
Q: Now doctor, isn't it true that when a person dies in his sleep, he doesn't know about it until the next morning?
A: Did you actually pass the bar exam?
__________________________________
Q: The youngest son, the twenty-year-old, how old is he?
_____________________________________
Q: Were you present when your picture was taken?
_____________________________________
Q: So the date of conception (of the baby) was August 8th?
A: Yes.
Q: And what were you doing at that time?
____________________________________
Q: She had three children, right?
A: Yes.
Q: How many were boys?
A: None.
Q: Were there any girls?
______________________________________
Q: How was your first marriage terminated?
A: By death.
Q: And by whose death was it terminated?
_____________________________________
Q: Can you describe the individual?
A: He was about medium height and had a beard.
Q: Was this a male, or a female?
______________________________________
Q: Is your appearance here this morning pursuant to a deposition notice which I sent to your attorney?
A: No, this is how I dress when I go to work.
_____________________________________
Q: Doctor, how many autopsies have you performed on dead people?
A: All my autopsies are performed on dead people.
_____________________________________
Q: ALL your responses MUST be oral, OK? What school did you attend?
A: Oral.
______________________________________
Q: Do you recall the time that you examined the body?
A: The autopsy started around 8:30 p.m.
Q: And Mr. Dennington was dead at the time?
A: No, he was sitting on the table wondering why I was doing an autopsy.
______________________________________
Q: Are you qualified to give a urine sample?
______________________________________

And my personal favourite:

Q: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?
A: No.
Q: Did you check for blood pressure?
A: No.
Q: Did you check for breathing?
A: No.
Q: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?
A: No.
Q: How can you be so sure, Doctor?
A: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.
Q: But could the patient have still been alive, nevertheless?
A: Yes, it is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law somewhere nearby.

Which One's Me?

Well that was fun, wasn't it? Looking at an old class photo, I mean. Here's a shot taken two years later. I was in Grade 2. Seven years old. Can you guess which one's me? First correct answer wins a quarter of a bottle of watered down vodka. Second prize is a package of two well-worn porn videos.

Prizes courtesy of Dan Pringle. (More on that later.)

Can you guess correctly? 

A Much Younger Me

Scottie and Jenny, et al. have posted pics of themselves at about age four. And challenged others to do the same. All I can find at home is a class photo of myself in my very first year at school. Kindergarten, it's called here. I was five.

So scroll down, friends. See Dale in his first ever school photo. Mrs. Rutherford's class at Queensland Public School. No, Michelle. I did not go to school in Australia. It's in Toronto. About a two-minute walk from home. I was late nearly every morning.

Anyway, there I am. At the very end. Right hand side. Front row. Crooked smile. 1963-1964

I'm trying to think of something silly to say to make everyone laugh. I was always the class clown. 

Blogger's "borked" again. (Love that word!) Here's what I keep getting when I try to comment. 

Honouring My Self

Dave Sourwine called this morning. Dave’s a guy from work. An engineer like me. Nice fellow. He’s visited here a few times since I injured myself. He phoned me up today to ask a favour.

“Would you consider taking in a border?” he asked. “Debbie and I aren’t splitting up or anything. We’re thinking of possibly moving to Welland and getting ourselves out of this high mortgage house and into something cheaper. I could do the commute home on weekends but if I could stay at your place all week, it would save me a lot of driving. I mean we haven’t decided for sure yet whether we’re going to go or not, but I was just wondering – you know – if I could stay with you a few days during the week if we did. I’d pay you two or three hundred dollars a month.”

I asked him why Welland. Why choose Welland?

“My mum and dad live there. Debbie’s got family there too. I might even consider working out of Niagara Falls instead of driving to Toronto to work. I’d be working big, ugly freight trains, though. And ungodly hours. I’d rather run a GO train.”

I told him no, Ms J. I know. I could use the money, of course. I could always use the money. But I’ve really come to treasure my solitude and my privacy. I actually enjoy being alone here. I don’t want to share my space with Dave, or with anyone really. He sounded a bit disappointed, I think. But he understood.

See that, Ms J? I told him no. I said no. I can do it. I can say no. It gets easier with practice. I’m sorry I couldn’t help Dave, but I feel proud of myself for speaking my Truth.

Discouraging Words from the Doctor

I went to the fracture clinic this morning to see Dr. Sawbones. He studied the recent x-ray.

"Is the fibula healed yet, Doc?" I asked hopefully.

"No," he replied. "But it's coming along."

They always say that, don't they? It's coming along. So's a cow's tail, I wanted to tell him.

"When can I get rid of this cast?"

"When the bone is healed."

"How come it's taking so long to heal?"

"Well, you're not a kid anymore, ya know."

Yeah. Thanks for the reminder.

"How's your foot coming along?" he asked.

"Well," I said. "It's not coming along worth a shit, really. But thanks for asking."

I showed him how little I can move my foot.

"Hmmm," he said and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. "Do you have an appointment for an EMG?"

Electromyogram, Ms J. A conductivity test to see if there's nerve damage in my leg/foot.

"Yeah. May 16th," I told him.

"Well, there's not much point in me seeing you before those tests are done. Come back and see me around the end of the month."

My next appointment to see this guy is on May 24th. It's a Tuesday, I think. He'll x-ray me again and let me know if my cast can come off permanently, and if I'll be able to walk normally again. The play in Caledon opens on May 26th. I need that cast to be off by then.

The play calls for my character, Gilbert Fleet, to fall off a ladder and break his leg. He crawls painfully up the stairs from his basement flat to bang on his landlady's door.

"Sorry to disturb you, Barbara," he says. "But I think I've broken my leg."

I'll talk to Val about my situation. We may have to amend Gilbert's line a bit.

"Sorry to disturb you, Barbara, but I think I've broken my other leg."

Here's the chest of drawers. Nice, eh? Forty bucks!

I think it'll match the bed, alright. What do you think? 

Fantastic Weekend!

I had a fantastic weekend, Ms J. Val picked me up here on Saturday afternoon and took me to a dinner party in Bolton. I met some new friends, enjoyed a lovely, gourmet meal and then spent the night at Val's house. In the morning, she made a lovely breakfast then forced me to endure two solid hours of Coronation Street. Val's a Limey. I may be her only non-British friend.

"I can't watch it all week," she explained. "I'm at work, so I tape it and watch it on Sunday mornings."

I'd never seen the show before, Ms J. I found it rather compelling, actually. The acting was quite good. I can see how people might get addicted to it.

After a proper English breakfast of eggs and sausages and toast and marmalade (golly, I was full!), we went off to look at an old dresser. A chest of drawers. At the party on Saturday evening, I had mentioned that I'd like to have an antique dresser for my bedroom. I've been making do with a black lacquer highboy piece that Donna gave me when we split up. It's ugly, Ms J. Aggressively ugly. One of the dinner guests, Marilyn was her name, told me she had an old dresser for sale.

"Why don't you and Val pop over in the morning and have a look at it?" she said.

It was nice and in good condition. Dark wood. Lovely handles. Rounded edges. I don't know if I consider it antique or not, though. It was probably made in the 1950's. Hell, I was made in the 1950's, Ms Journal. Does that mean I'm an antique?

"Do you think forty dollars is too much?" Marilyn asked.

I had exactly forty dollars in my pocket. Two twenties. I hadn't expected to buy furniture this weekend, but this seemed a good deal. I really liked the dresser.

"Forty dollars is fine, Marilyn. I'll take it."

We sealed the deal with a hug. Val's friends are really nice.

"Good then," declared Val. "Simon is coming for dinner tonight. He has a pickup truck. He'll take it home for you, Dale. He lives in Toronto."

And so it was. Simon is a dear friend of Val's. He's English, of course. A home renovator. Quite handsome, I thought. Simon's from Kent, and hoping to be granted landed immigrant status in Canada. Val and I attended an afternoon rehearsal of "Things We Do for Love" in Caledon, and then she and I returned to her place where she cooked a roast beef and Yorkshire puddings. Simon met us there and joined us for supper. Around 8:30, Simon and I left our friend and made our way into the town of Bolton to collect my chest of drawers.

It was just after 10:00 when I shook Simon's calloused hand in front of my home here in Mimico. The chest of drawers had arrived safely and it now sat upstairs in my bedroom waiting to be stuffed with clothes. I held Simon's hand a moment and looked into his eyes.

"Thanks Simon," I said. "I really appreciate you helping me this way. It was nice meeting you."

He nodded his head and stared at his boots.

"No worries, mate. Any friend of Val's ..."

He got into his truck and with his hand out the window, drove off. I watched his tail lights disappear as he turned the corner and a feeling of gratitude washed over me. I had a brilliant weekend, Ms J. New friends. Old furniture. Bonny spring weather.

I must be the luckiest guy in the world!

Dinner with Friends Old and New

Val Wilkinson is coming round to collect me at 5:30 this afternoon. Val is directing “Things We Do For Love.” She has invited me to accompany her to a dinner party tonight in Bolton. Or Richmond Hill. Or somewhere. Val will be the only familiar face there. We’ll attend the dinner together and then spend the night at Val’s place. She says she has a spare bedroom and bathroom.

On Sunday afternoon, Val will take me to Caledon to attend only my second rehearsal. The other cast members have enjoyed about half a dozen rehearsals. I have some catching up to do.

I’ll tell you all about it on Monday.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Girl Alex was here last night. Her sister, Hanna came too. Alex made supper for us – a special dish of pasta and chicken, made with chicken soup and peanut butter. It sounds odd, I know. But it tasted fine.

I gave G.A. a combination VCR/DVD player for her birthday. I was a bit premature, actually. Her birthday isn’t til the 22^nd, but I couldn’t wait. She’ll be eighteen. Both Alex and Hanna were very pleased with the gift.

We watched a movie – Roxanne – together and then printed some vacation photos they’d taken on their recent trip to Nova Scotia. We viewed all the holiday pics they’d taken and I basked in the light of their exuberance as they relived the experience. Oh, to be young again, Ms J!

Alex (right) and Hanna. Sisters. Teens. Great kids! 

Meandering Over to Meagan

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Well, Ms J. I don't know what to write about tonight. I'm feeling restless and in need of mental stimulation so here I sit.

(Big sigh.)

Yep. Here I sit, frowning at the keyboard. I take a deep breath. Hold it. And blow it out. What to write. What to write.

OK. Here's something: I got an email today from a fellow blogger. He uses a rather unusual nom de plume. Badpatty. You can find his blog here.

It seems Bp's having trouble with a teenager. He calls her "Bear". Bear's the daughter of his beloved. Bear's seventeen. Bear's a handful. But he loves her. That much is clear. He told me he'd been a longtime reader of my blog and had followed with some interest the trials I've endured with Dan and Scout.

"I'm new to this parenting thing, and will gratefully accept any help that I can get," he wrote.

But alas, I cannot help him. Not really. I offered advice about being patient and allowing the girl to grow. It doesn't seem like much help. But it's all I can tell him. My friend Rhonda says this about advice: The wise don't need it and a fool won't heed it. She makes a valid point.

We adults see teenagers as alien beings, radically different from us. They're strange creatures. Dopey. Indecisive. Dependent, even as they try to assert their INdependence. They're lazy and demanding and completely self-absorbed. They're quite convinced of their own infallibility. They believe they are immortal, and they claim to know everything.

What they don't know, however, is that sometimes only their peers find them agreeable. These are the times when most others (ie. adults) describe them as surly, capricious, opinionated, indolent, disrespectful little shits! They seem to possess masses of attitude without much aptitude. No wonder then, that teens run in packs and favour their own kind. Often, no one else will accept them.

I know, Ms Journal. I'm making some pretty sweeping generalizations here. Let me offer a correction. Not ALL teens behave this way. (I'm thinking here of Girl Alex.) Not all of them and not all the time. That's true. It's a stage of Life. They grow into it and they grow out of it. And some are much worse than others. I remember my niece, Sherri, when she was seventeen or so. She was so truculent and so defiant, that she sometimes drove my otherwise unflappable brother out of the house.

"I get so GD angry," he told me once, "that I have to leave the house."

"Where do you go?" I asked him.

"Out to the garage and cry," he said.

Oh yes, Ms J. Teenagers present us with quite a challenge.

I called Meagan the other day. I got tired of waiting for her to phone me. I hadn't spoken to her since that regrettable incident on February 5, when she cut short her visit after I spoke unkind words about her mother and later, about her mother's new beau. I called him an asshole, Ms J. Remember?

Anyway, I got impatient to hear from my daughter. So I called. The conversation lasted about twenty minutes. The first ten minutes were awkward and unpleasant. Meagan was defiant and unwilling to accept my apology. I mailed her a letter from my parents house when I stayed with them in February. I said I was sorry. She never even acknowledged the letter.

"Did you get the letter I sent you?" I asked her.

"Yeah I got your damn letter."

"Why didn't you answer it, Meagan?"

"You want the Truth?"

"Yes please."

"Cuz I thought it was bullshit."

She's developed quite a foul vocabulary for a girl who's not yet thirteen. Her mother allows it, I suspect.

"What do you mean, Meagan?" I asked. "And can you try to tell me without swearing?"

"Well it was all about family and Love and crap like that. I just didn't believe you really meant any of it."

Her tone was snotty and belligerent. I didn't know what to say. I'd never seen this side of her before. And frankly, I was shocked that after more than two months, she still wasn't ready to forgive and go on.

"I meant all of it, Honey. I love you. I miss you. When are you going to come for a visit?"

Her response surprised me. It sounded more like Kelly's words than Meagan's.

"When you get help."

There was a long, long silence. For two full minutes, perhaps, I said nothing. She said nothing. The conversation, it seemed, was ended. There seemed nothing more to say. Was that it, then? Was it over? Does my daughter really believe I'm in need of some kind of anger management training? I fought the urge to hang up the phone. It was a strong urge, Ms J. Very strong, indeed. Then Meagan spoke.

"Anyway, I'm glad you called, Dad. We're both really stubborn and if one of us didn't call, this could have gone on forever."

That line, Ms Journal, that last line is the one that gives me hope. Those were Meagan's exact words. She acknowledged the impasse and expressed gratitude that we'd finally spoken. That's the line that I play over and over in my memory. It feels good to hear it.

I steered the conversation toward something less prickly and Meagan told me she was doing well at school. Her marks are mostly in the 80's and 90's. I told her I was proud of her good grades. She told me Kelly was considering moving again. To Barrie. Or maybe Orangeville. Orangeville gets my approval. It would be close to my friends, Jenn and Jane and close to the theatre in Caledon.

As she talked about her new friend and about her Life lately, Meagan began to relax a little. The conversation was nearly "normal" when I ended it. My supper was getting cold.

"Well, I hope you'll come and see me one day, Meagan. I can't drive yet, so Mummy or Gary or Tim or somebody might have to deliver you here. Maybe Scott would do it. Please think about it. I do miss you."

"OK, Dad. Bye."

"Bye."

I thought of one more thing to tell her then. It was something I've always said to her. Our little thing together.

"Scout?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you to the moon and back."

Since she was three years old, her reply has always been "I love you to the moon and back too, Daddy." I waited hopefully in the silence and after a moment, she spoke.

"Bye, Dad."

Click.

Oh yes. Quite a challenge. If the girl displays this much attitude before her thirteenth birthday, I shudder to think what she'll be like when she's Bear's age. I don't suppose Meagan knows that she's breaking her daddy's heart.

Thea awards. This is what they look like. 

Some Ponderables

I wish I'd written these. Some people, it seems, have entirely too much time on their hands.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before they invented drawing boards, what did they go back to?

Does the Little Mermaid wear an algebra?

Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?

How do I set my laser printer on stun?

How is it possible to have a civil war?

If all the world is a stage, where is the audience sitting?

If God dropped acid, would he see people?

If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?

If one synchronized swimmer drowns, do the rest have to drown too?

If the #2 pencil is the most popular, why is it still #2?

If work is so terrific, how come they have to pay you to do it?

If you're born again, do you have two bellybuttons?

If you ate pasta and antipasto, would you still be hungry?

If you try to fail, and succeed, which have you done?

Is a castrated pig disgruntled?

Why are hemorrhoids called "hemorrhoids" instead of "asteroids"?

Why is it called tourist season if we can't shoot at them?

Why is the alphabet in that order? Is it because of that song?

Where are we going? And what's with this hand basket?

If the black box flight recorder is never damaged during a plane crash, why isn't the whole airplane made out of the stuff?

Why is there an expiration date on sour cream?

If most car accidents occur within five miles of home, why doesn't everyone just move ten miles away?

If man evolved from monkeys and apes, why do we still have monkeys?

The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.

I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, "Where's the self-help section?" She said if she told me it would defeat the purpose.

If all those psychics know the winning lottery numbers, why are they all still working?

Should crematoriums give discounts for burn victims?

If a mute swears, does his mother wash his hands with soap?

And whose cruel idea was it for the word "Lisp" to have an "S" in it?

The Best Day in a Long, Long While!!

I had an ab fab day yesterday, Ms J. Ab bloody fab!!!! Last night was the ACT-CO Gala. ACT-CO is an acronym that stands for Association of Community Theatres - Central Ontario. It's an umbrella group that oversees and organises a huge theatre festival each year. Approximately twenty-five theatre groups from this region submitted some forty plays to be adjudicated this year. The three categories of course, were Drama, Comedy, and Musical. The gala is held at a fancy ballroom and begins with a catered, three-course dinner. It was delectable. The awards ceremony follows the dinner, and the evening ends with a dance. It's always great fun, Ms Journal. There were nearly four hundred people there last night. This is the third year I've attended.

My friend, Cy MacPherson drove me to the Paradise Ballroom and Banquet Hall. It's about half an hour each way, bless his heart. I had a BBQ dinner with Cy and his wife, Karen first. Yeah, I did have two dinners last night, Ms J. What can I say? I was hungry. Karen even ironed my dress shirt for me. Good people, those MacPherson's.

So there we were, around a crowded table, some Caledon friends and I, sipping our drinks and waiting while awards were given (they're called Thea's) for "Best Costumes", "Best Lighting", "Best Set Design" and, well, you get the idea. It's very exciting, Ms J. The men are all dressed in suits and tuxedos. The woman look gorgeous in evening gowns and sequins. It's just like the Academy Awards, but meant for us lesser mortals of amateur dramatics. The tension mounts as the ceremony proceeds ever closer to the "big" awards for best director, actor and actress.

Soon enough, it was announced.

"Best Performance by a Male in A Leading Role in a Comedy."

Three names were announced as nominees. Mine was the second name announced. I took a sip of wine and I noticed a little tremble in my hand as I returned the glass to the table. I might have looked relaxed. But I wasn't. The room was silent.

" ... and the Thea goes to ..."

I realised I wasn't breathing. I closed my eyes. My heart was racing.

"Dale Pringle as "Stanley Gardner" in "Caught In The Net" The Caledon Townhall Players"

I was numb. And completely taken aback. I heard the announcement, but I didn't know what to do. It was strange. I opened my eyes to stare at the bread crumbs on the white linen table cloth. Someone - Pam, I think - was shaking my arm and screaming. But I just sat there, like a dummy.

Finally, I got myself together and hobbled across the empty dance floor to the podium. Someone there helped me up to the raised platform and handed me a microphone. I turned to approach the lecturn and a woman tapped me on the shoulder.

"You forgot your award."

I smiled my thanks, accepted the metal statue, and shook her hand.

Then I raised the cordless mic to my lips and said this: (or something like this)

"Thank you so much! Wow! I really don't know what to say. Wow! Yeah. Wow!"

Eloquent, wasn't I? I continued.

"I want to thank my Mama. And my friends. I want to thank my beautiful friends at The Caledon Townhall Players and all my friends who've been so supportive of me and patient with me. And I want to thank God, for all of it. Everything."

Just as I returned the microphone to the woman from whom I'd received the award, I remembered something else. I snatched the mic back again.

"... and the next person who tells me to 'break a leg' better disappear quickly."

I limped back to my table amid laughter and applause, clutching my Thea and holding it triumphantly over my head!!

Yes Ms. Journal. T'was a good day. A jolly good day, indeed!

I might have looked relaxed. But I wasn't. 

I closed my eyes. My heart was racing! 

I just sat there, like a dummy. 

Insurance Companies. Don't get me started.

As I sat in the kitchen yesterday afternoon, peeling potatoes for supper, the phone rang. It was a man named Robert Something-or-other from Canada Life. He had some welcome news: Canada Life has agreed to honour the disability insurance I have for my mortgage. They will begin to make my mortgage payments effective April 21. Although I’ve been given no exact “return to work” date, I hope now to stay off work another four weeks. That will force the insurance whores to pay out slightly more than I paid them in annual premiums last year.

I don’t like insurance companies, Ms J. I see them as cold, uncaring, and greedy. I suppose insurance is a necessary evil, but they use every means possible to ensure they pay out less, much less, than they collect in premiums. My policy costs me $90. per month. That seems an exorbitant amount to me. I wonder how many policy holders pay that money every month for the entire life of the mortgage and never collect a single penny in benefits? Lots, I’ll wager.

There was a sixty day waiting period before the policy paid any benefits. “That’s pretty standard,” I was told. Sixty days, Ms J! That’s ridiculous! I fell and broke my leg, for goodness sake! I am not able to work. It seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it? But the insurance company insists on a sixty day waiting period before paying any benefits. It’s written in the policy. No exceptions. Insurance companies use red tape and paper work and stall tactics along with lawyers and litigation to avoid paying a claim. They’ll do anything, it seems, to avoid paying a claim. It’s VERY frustrating to have to deal with them.

However, they have agreed now to pay my mortgage. Finally. I’m grateful. Yeah. Thanks so much.

Oops. Too Much Ice Wine!

I had a lazy day yesterday. I had scheduled an appointment with Marsha, the counselor at LAMP, but I called and cancelled it. So I had nothing to do. Nowhere to go. No one planned to visit. How lovely! A whole day to myself. I forgot about the rehearsal.

Well, no one called me. I didn't hear from Val, the director, or Eva, the lady who's been helping us learn our lines. Eva was going to drive me there. If I was required. Nobody told me I'd be required. So I forgot about it entirely and prepared to spend the evening home alone. I opened that bottle of ice wine and began sipping it as I read a book and iced my elevated foot. I must have sipped a little too much, especially on an empty stomach.

I tell you truly, Ms J. That wine tasted much better going down than it did coming up.

Eva phoned me at ten minutes to six to tell me she'd be picking me up in ten minutes. I had just come from throwing up and all I wanted to do was sleep. I told Eva (truthfully) that I was ill and unable to attend the rehearsal. I laid down on the couch and slept until nine o'clock. Then I got up and went upstairs to bed.

I rose at 7:00 this morning. Gosh, it felt good to sleep in a nice, clean bed. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Ms J. I did some laundry yesterday. All by myself! I stripped the bed, washed the sheets and then put them back on the bed. I must say, I was a little apprehensive about venturing down the cellar stairs, but I did it, carrying the laundry basket. I descended very slowly and carefully, and I returned the same way. It seems a small thing at first glance. But it marked the first time I’d done my own laundry in just over eight weeks. I really felt proud of myself, and encouraged by my progress.

After my physio appointment, I went shopping. Shopping, Ms Journal! For groceries. By myself! That's the first time in a long while that I've done my own shopping. Joan helped me carry it in the house. I made a nice sheppard's pie for dinner.

Christine's coming tonight for dinner. Then we're going to see a play. "A Bedfull of Foreigners" It should be fun!

Insert title here

Joan took me to physio yesterday morning. I gave Barbara and Sabina (I call her “Beanzy”) a copy of my journal entry from February 8^th, the day I broke my leg. I thought they might enjoy reading about how I came to injure myself.

And I gave the receptionist a cheque for $520. That covers the cost of treatment for the month of March. The clinic will submit a bill to Sun Life Assurance, who will in turn reimburse me by mail. It seems a circuitous route to payment, Ms Journal, but that’s typical of insurance companies and their annoying policies of red tape and runarounds. I cannot see why the insurance company doesn’t pay the physiotherapy clinic directly.

My foot isn’t improving very quickly. Although I have noted some increase in the mobility of my toes, I am still unable to raise my foot by flexing my ankle. The condition is known as “drop foot.” Dr. Roscoe suggested that when the swelling diminishes entirely, I will regain movement there. Barbara and I both remain cautiously optimistic.

I had company here last night. Kirk Ewart and his wife, Rae. Kirk works for Bombardier, the company that services our commuter trains. I first met him at work about a year ago. He’s young, about thirty, I guess. Rae is, I think, younger. They’re a delightful couple.

They arrived around 7:00 bearing gifts of candles – I love candles, Ms J – and bread and cheese and wine. The conversation was warm and intimate, quite satisfying. The food and drink was delicious. Rae told me they were planning a trip to the Niagara region on Saturday, to visit some local wineries. Both she and Kirk are fond of wine.

“Would you like to come with us, Dale?” she asked.

I really wanted to join them, but there’s a pot luck lunch at the church on Saturday to honour those who facilitated the home study groups at Lent. There’s to be a ceremony of sorts, to recognize the various group leaders. It would seem wrong for me not to attend. And on Saturday night, I plan to attend the ACT-CO Gala which is a dinner and dance to celebrate the best and brightest stars in community theatre. It’s a wonderful opportunity to meet up with old friends and acquaintances. I don’t reckon I’ll be dancing very much, but I do look forward to the dinner and the socializing. I thanked Rae and Kirk for their gracious invitation but declined it.

“That’s OK,” Kirk said. “We often travel to Niagara to sample and buy wines. There’ll be other weekends.”

It was nearly midnight when they said good-night. They left an unopened bottle of Ontario Pinot Noir as well as a bottle of Niagara ice wine. Hmmmm … I think I’ll have a glass of that ice wine right about now. It’s so sweet and fruity, dahling. Cheers!

Lunch with Roland. And Some Thoughts About Women.

Roland picked me up at noon today. We went out for lunch at The Canadiana, a local restaurant. I’ve known Roland Weicht since his family moved to Toronto from Montreal in 1971. We went to school together, rode motorcycles together, got drunk together. I think we were normal teenagers. It occurs to me that Daniel likes to get drunk just as I did when I was his age. The difference is that I went to school, had a job, a 500 cc Triumph and a drivers’ licence. Dan has all the immaturity we had, with none of the responsibility. That’s the difference. And of course, there’s the drug issue.

But I digress.

We had a nice lunch together. Roland told me about his company’s plan to relocate to Mimico. He currently drives about forty minutes to work in downtown Toronto. This move will save him about twenty minutes of driving (each way) every day. He’ll be close enough to have lunch with me more often. And that's a good thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a meeting chez moi this afternoon. Karen, Joan, Charlotte and I met with Laurie, a photographer. Our church has hired Laurie’s firm to photograph the entire congregation, families and singles, for inclusion in a new and current church directory. Karen, Joan, Charlotte and I comprise the committee responsible for organizing it all. We selected a cover photo and background. We decided on the type of binding and the number of pages, glossy or matte, that we wanted. Together, we’ve made nearly a hundred phone calls to schedule photo appointments.

I enjoyed meeting with these women. All four are married. All are at least ten years older than I. But I enjoyed their company. I actually prefer the company of women. Usually, anyway.

I’ve never been described as effeminate and I’m not gay, but I would just rather be with women than men. Of course, there are exceptions. When women are gossipy and critical and conspiratorial, I’d rather not be with them. I don’t like it when they bash men. And when they trade pregnancy and childbirth stories, I feel like I don’t belong. But in general, I do rather enjoy – prefer, actually – the company of women over men.

Women seem more often to discuss things that matter. Love. Family. Relationships. Health.

Men are wont to discuss sports or brag about their own sexual prowess or the size of their penis and how that relates to their value as a man. Male discussions involving family or relationships or health usually become sniggering joke fests, each man trying to out-joke the last. And woe betide the man who admits to feelings of Love. He’s perceived as a weakling.

Men are so afraid of being discovered for who they really are. Women are too, I think. They’re just more honest about it.

Friends and Fears and Falling Snow

OK. Fears first. We had our first rehearsal for the new play on Thursday evening. In Caledon, like the last few plays I've done. It's a wonderful story, Ms J. "Things We Do For Love". It's another British play, this time by Alan Ayckbourne. It explores human relationships. Unrequited Love. Broken hearts. I like the script. And I like Gilbert Fleet. Gilbert is my character in the play. Poor Gilbert is madly in Love with his landlady, Barbara but he cannot bring himself to tell her. Gilbert is a postman. An alcoholic. A painter. Gilbert is painting a pornographic likeness of Barbara on the ceiling of his basement flat. I love this role. Very meaty. Very challenging.

However ....

You felt a 'however' coming, didn't you Ms J?

I'm not enjoying the rehearsal process this time. The director has enlisted the help of a friend - a fellow director - to teach us a radical new method of learning our lines. There are four of us in the cast. Two men and two women. We sit and read our lines onto a tape recorder. An audio tape. Then, we rewind the tape and move about the stage according to what we hear on tape and how we "feel" about it all. It's supposed to elicit emotions and to help actors relate blocking (ie. physical movement) to the lines being spoken. (Or listened to, at this point.) So we record a few pages of text, then get up and move as we listen. This process is repeated - are you ready for this? - SIX TIMES! Reading/recording. Playback/movement. No mouthing the words. No talking as we move. It's supposed to be completely natural. And we're not allowed to memorize our lines by studying the script.

I don't like this method and I don't like the woman who's teaching it. Bah, humbug!

But I am evolved enough to recognize that the feelings I'm having are fear-based. I am a man who is strongly averse to change. I do not like doing things differently. That's the Truth, Ms Journal. I find comfort in doing things the way I've always done them, even if it's not working. I know it's silly. It's counterproductive. And it inhibits my personal growth in myriad ways. But I'm stubborn about this. And I'm afraid to try new things.

Jennefer loved this new system. She was excited about it. Jenn's keen to continue rehearsing this way. I didn't get Chris's opinion, but Dianna sided with me. She and I are visual learners. We learn by reading the text repeatedly and memorizing lines the traditional, old-fashioned way.

So it's all about overcoming my fear of change, Ms Journal. If I accomplish this, I'll enjoy rehearsing this play. If I continue being pig-headed and intractable on this issue, the play will cease to be fun and start looking more like work. Sigh ... It's up to me then, isn't it?

Today's rehearsal was cancelled due to inclement weather. And although the idea of still more bloody snow turns my stomach, I was somewhat relieved to receive news of the cancellation. It IS April, for goodness sake! Apparently, Mother Nature has no regard whatsoever for the calender. Let's move on to something more joyous and much less depressing, shall we?

Friends. I spent two nights at Jenn's place in Orangeville. There was the rehearsal in nearby Caledon on Thursday night, and on Friday night, The Caledon Townhall Players held their annual general meeting. I wanted to attend, so I stayed both Thursday and Friday with Jenn and Jane. They are good friends and gracious and welcoming hostesseseseseses. It was nice to be with them and their kids, Jake and Julia. Both Jenn and her wife (I may never get used to hearing or saying that, Ms J) are involved with this play. Jenn will be on stage in the role of Nikki Wickstead and Jane is using her carpentry skills to help build the set.

Jenn delivered me home again to Mimico on Saturday afternoon. I was expecting company for dinner. Two of the women I met long ago on the train at work told me they were coming over to visit and informed me they were bringing supper with them. I tidied up a bit and awaited their arrival.

At 3:00, Rose arrived with her sister, Cathy and Cathy's beau, Dave. I was pleased. At 3:15, Violet arrived with Bill, her husband. I was surprised. And happy. At 3:30, came Tammy and Adam along with Charlene. And Todd, Tammy's brother. I was ecstatic! When Chelsea and Nick showed up a few minutes later, I was overcome with joy!!

All my train girls and their boyfriends/husbands were at my home. Everyone brought food. There was wine, beer, get-well cards and hugs. Smiles and laughter erupted spontaneously all around me. I was so completely surprised and elated by it all! The table was piled high with food: Bread and rolls. Cold meats. Salads. Roast chicken. Potatoes. Quiche with cheese and ham. Cake. Apple pie.

We laughed and relived tales of mirth and frivolity on the train and I held back tears of frustration. I miss those women so very much, Ms J. Sitting with them and laughing and visiting every afternoon on the train has become the very best part of my work day. I miss going to work. I miss these women, every one of them.

We were just about to enjoy this delightful banquet when the phone rang. It was my young friend, Girl Alex. She sounded rather down.

"Hi Dale," she said in a flat sort of voice. "I was thinking about coming over to visit, but it sounds like you have company. Can I drop by tomorrow, maybe?"

Someone asked who it was I was speaking with.

"It's Girl Alex," I said. They'd all heard me talk about G.A. By 'talk', I mean brag.

"HI ALEX!" they all cried. "COME ON OVER AND HAVE DINNER WITH US!!"

"Dale," Rose said, squeezing my arm. "Why don't you invite her over? Does she live nearby? Does she need a ride?"

So I asked my friend to join us. Alex was reluctant.

"Well, I don't know," she said. "You've got a housefull already ..."

I told her I'd love to see her. And the others all wanted to meet her at last.

"Let me think about it, OK Dale?"

In ten minutes, she called to say she was on her way.

We had an absolutely brilliant time together. There were thirteen of us in my tiny livingroom. I only have chairs enough for eight or nine, and people sat cross-legged and even sprawled happily on the floor. I have leftovers enough for a week's worth of meals. The women helped themselves to the wine and the men all drank responsibly to ensure a safe journey home.

I am so blessed, Ms Journal. So blessed with friends. Train friends. Theatre friends. Young friends and older ones too. Each of them enriches my Life in ways they can't imagine. I love every one of them.

It was after midnight when I fell into bed last night. I smiled myself to sleep.

And look! Here's Girl Alex!! 

Chelsea and Charlie. No, they're just friends. 

Dave and Bill 

Adam. 

Tammy and Rose 

Coming up next ...

... Rehearsals. Friends. Great surprises and more. Too tired to write tonight. More later.

And no, Dan did not even bother calling. I wonder if Kelly took him to his psych appointment on Friday afternoon?