Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Lost! Sweatpants!

It’s only 5:00 am and it’s positively balmy. It’s already 10°! There’s been fog for two days due to the temperature inversion so my flight to Vancouver this morning may be delayed or cancelled. I’ve a breakfast date with friends at 10:00 and then a 1:00 pm appointment with Dr. Shoja. When I get back the floor of the studio will likely be finished and grouted. Darrell is on a mission to finish the whole project this week.
Everything is going so well it was time for DFS (Dropping Foot Syndrome). When Darrell asked to be paid at the end of the day I discovered I’d lost my wallet. It had $400 in it, my ID, credit cards, social security card and driver’s license etc. I also had a few hundred dollars worth of gift cards in it. I felt sick when I thought about all I’d have to do to replace everything.  
I knew that the last time I’d seen it was at the grocery store. I’d put it on top of my groceries in my backpack and I figured that when I swung the pack over my shoulder, it might have fallen out so I called them and they had it. So off I went.
When I got there they said a man had picked it up. They described him but I had no idea who they were describing. I headed home confused and distressed. Surely they should have checked to be sure they were giving it to the right person; my photo is on my driver’s license. But they gave it to a man with white hair. Darrell maybe?
I went to Darrell’s. He wasn’t there and Elaine knew nothing. But when I got home, my wallet was on my desk. It was Darrell.
My wallet passed through the hands of the finder, the store and Darrell and came back to me without a single thing missing. I love Gabriola and I won the lottery when I met Darrell.
I hope Darrell does finish the studio by Friday because that’s the day Crystal, Peter and three kids arrive for the weekend and I need the room for them to sleep in. The timing is perfect because assembling the bed is a daunting task but with Crystal and Peter to help me, it’ll be easier and fun.
Full disclosure: I ordered two pairs of sweatpants online.
Yes, it’s come to this. I lead a solitary life wherein comfort and ease can be indulged. I got into the habit during housebreaking when I had to get Her Highness out of the house quickly. The ones I got came without common options: Voting for Trump, nose picking and/or stains.
Sweat pants and pie. That’s my new credo.
And speaking of sweatpants: I had a hot tub late yesterday. It’d been weeks and it was a lovely afternoon. It’s weird and wonderful having a hot tub. I absolutely loved it and, as I do every time, I said to myself: “I have to do this more often.”
A rant: “Our hearts go out to…,” “our thoughts and prayers go out to…” Jesus. These meaningless platitudes, thoughtlessly tossed off after a tragedy by so politicians and clerics absolutely disgust me. On Sunday, stray bullets from a targeted killing fatally hit an innocent fifteen-year-old boy in Vancouver who was in a car with his parents. Platitudes spewed from the TV. The poor kid deserved more than that from three civic leaders.
I cannot believe grown people in positions of leadership get in front of the cameras at a news conference and say, “Our hearts go out to the victims, their friends and families.” To two devoted caring parents driving home with their son in their car where they think they are safe and who suddenly see their son slump beside a window covered in blood you say that? What the f-ck does it mean “hearts going out?”
Those words are the official post-trauma cliché. The speakers say them to be safe. They know those words are accepted. They use them to protect themselves from making a mistake yet fulfill their duty.
What’s particularly offensive to me is the use of the word, “our.” The speaker is too chicken to be personal and real. Who is “our?” The people he or she represents, I know. But it is horribly impersonal and inappropriate at the time of a tragedy — especially as they say it as they address the people affected. Using the first person would not be inappropriate if it were said sincerely; at least it would be honest and that’s what is needed after a tragedy: honesty and sincerity.
I got asked to decorate a small chest for a fundraiser. I declined but the request made me realize that everyone here is accepting me and thinking of me as an “artist.” I have never liked nor been comfortable with that word, but people can think about me however they want. It’s fair given how I pass my time.
Although I’m not wild about the word, I like being recognized primarily as creative. All my life I was, I think, perceived as an administrator — not even a writer even though technical writing was what furthered my career.
I always felt creative, even with numbers. I was often at my most creative with budgets. But I designed and built a theatre and wrote and drew but I was seen as an administrator. And I was one — on the outside.
Now I’m seen more as a craftsperson and I’m really happy about that. I’m kind of excited now about getting my ladies back and fixing them up. That’ll cement my new reputation.
Now … off to the seaplane.

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