Kerry Says

Well it’s a Pentax actually.

I’m going to pick it up tonight, then in two days I’m going to use it to shoot Cherry Blossoms in Washington D.C. and hopefully come home with something pretty enough to hang on my walls.

I am excited.

I love trips; the packing, the planning, the overspending.

A new city gives you the desire to actively participate. You want to go to the zoo and the museum and the park. You aren’t annoyed by the parades, or the people selling junk on the street. You want you some of that junk. You dress up to go to the mall and the grocery store just so you have a chance to wear each of the way-too-many travel outfits you’ve put together and stuffed in your suitcase.

In two more days I’ll be in the air. Two long and endless days.

What I don’t love?

Waiting

I had one of those mornings. The ones where you get up and you think you detect just the slightest sense of purpose skulking around in the deep dark recesses of your soul.

I cultivated it as best I could. Actually bothered to scrub the schmutz off my feet in the shower, used the blow dryer, wore nice pants. And it seemed to blossom. Yes today was a day I would get something done.

I left the house one coffee to the good and with the anticipation of a sausage McMuffin bolstering me along. I brought along Virginia Woolf for the streetcar ride and managed to get lost in it despite the chatter of morning commuters.

As I entered the last leg of my journey, breakfast in hand, I checked the pulse of my purpose. Still there, stronger even then it had been an hour ago.

But somewhere between the elevator and my desk, it vanished. I don’t know where it went. I don’t know why. But it was gone entirely. Almost instantly I was nonplussed by my fragrant greasy snack and immune to the good news that my computer was functioning properly for the first time in weeks.

Even the crossword hidden deep within my Toronto Star isn’t tempting me.

When you can’t even bother to slack off at work… that my friends is what I call terminally blasé.

A Headline from CBC.ca:

Seal hunt to go ahead, despite protests by Bardot and McCartney

You mean Bridget Bardot doesn’t hold sway over Canadian domestic policy? Shocking.

Oh and Sir Paul:

Less protest, more Martha My Dear 'kay?

When I was in my third year of high school (and certain I new decidedly more than everyone else) I created a series of short stories featuring a character named Bo-Red.

For the record I did not create the character itself. A friend of mine (who also new more than everyone else) created him during a particularly uninspiring English class because she was beyond bored, she was Bo-Red (clever huh?).

He was a stick man with one arm and a huge head who could only be conjured with a red BIC pen by slightly caustic 16-year-olds who felt their time was wasted listening to the words of their elders.

He was conjured a lot.

But it was I who gave him a back story, made him a super hero, created him a woman to love and a nemesis.

In one particularly memorable story, Bo-Red saved Harry Connick Jr. from a lifetime of Vegas sideshow acts after he was tricked into signing a contract by the evil Black Jack (clever huh? Vegas… Black Jack…. Get it? It’s CLEVER).

This one stands out to me because it’s the one I actually submitted for grading in an arrogant and childish fit of “you’re so out of touch old man you won’t even get I’m being (what I think is) Ironic” pique. Earned me an A.

(Channeling arrogance and childishness is a key step in the creative process. Discuss.)

Anyhoo, I mercifully grew up a bit, realized how little I actually knew and school began to interest me again. Bo-Red was relegated to the back passageways of my memory.

But several frustrating days of server shutdowns, invalid pathways and multiple corrupted file copies have left me unable to do anything remotely productive at work. I’m feeling irritated, unfairly put upon, and about five years old.

And ol’ Bo is glowing in my mind’s eye.

Will he make his grand return today? Will the next chapter of his life unfold?

Find me a red BIC pen and we’ll find out.

Of all the terribly tacky traditions North America has foisted on the feast day of St. Patrick, none was as delicious as the Shamrock Shake.

A frosty mint delight, in its heyday the Shamrock Shake was a St. Patrick’s Day must. Though its colouring was slightly putrid and mint is a sorry substitution for chocolate, this was the IRISH shake and we were proud to have it and to call it our own.

It was extra special for this Irish Catholic girl stupid enough to always give up sweets for Lent. You see, giving up fighting with my brother was too difficult, and my HILARIOUS suggestions I give up smoking never went over well with my mother.

No sugar for 40 days in a row… well 6 days at least (everyone knows Sundays don’t count) was tough for this addict… very tough.

Evey year, just when I thought I’d never survive it, came St. Patrick’s Day. A day smack dab in the middle of deprivation in which ethno-cultural obligation meant my parents, and God apparently, looked the other way as I sucked back 12 ounces of sugary goodness.

The Shamrock Shake, a reminder of life’s little overindulgences just when the endless days of sacrifice may have led me to forget.

You were a true hero of hedonism in a puritanical time and I salute you.

And I haven’t forgotten you. Yea, though the cruel masters of the McDonald’s Corporation decided that among all of the high fat, though not particularly high quality, items on their mighty menu, you (along with the McLobster) would have to go, I have not forgotten you.

I searched for you even today in fact, at the McDonald’s at Yonge St. and Queen W. But to no avail.

Good thing too -- It’s freakin’ freezing today.

For those who have never torn their cornea, I don’t recommend it.

For those who have, Yow! No?

I spent most of last week recovering from having my eye split open on a leisurely trip to the nation’s capital.

I will spend a good deal longer recovering from the knowledge that my eye was at one point actually SPLIT OPEN. Ugh.

This happened in the midst of shopping for wedding dresses with a friend. I am her maid of honour and while it's sad I had to abdicate my shopping duties to lay alone in a dark room, it's not all that surprising considering my past actions in positions of honour.

Here’s a sampling:

• Coming down with the Chicken Pox during my first turn as a flower girl (Sorry Janet)
• Coming down with Strep Throat during my first turn as a junior bridesmaid (Sorry Pam)
• Fainting on the altar during my first turn as Godmother (Sorry Clara, and the entire congregation of Emmanuel Lutheran Church)

It’s not that the joy of my friends and family ALWAYS makes me sick, just more often than not.

This time at least I got my trauma over and done with over before the big day….

I hope.