How I Do Love Montréal!
It’s not like I’m doing much of anything… But perhaps that’s it: I’m NOT doing anything and, since I don’t have my own computer with me, it’s simply not feasible to do much. A real friggin’ vacation! Yay!
The one client visit I had in Moncton, at the beginning of my trip, went extremely well. It’s clear I have to start working more on the next marketing wave for TextStyleM when I return to Halifax. Also, programming-wise, the time off has helped me better organize in my mind my plan of attack — the order in which I should get things done, starting with the few tiny things that will add a lot of value and moving to the bigger things that will bring the script to the next level.
The rest of my time in Moncton I spent with my mother. That’s never a trial. It looks like she might need surgery on her feet; however, there’s no clear indication of when that might be. But when it does, my sister and I are already planning to spent time with her to give her a hand. Followed an overnight stop in Fredericton, staying with The Quad and SuperAttendant but getting to see Hiker and Bello. Then came the longest haul of this trip: Fredericton to Ottawa — a nearly 13-hour trek, made so long due to pit stops (I don’t smoke in Junior), lunch at Subway at La Pocatière (la Poche Ã Pierre?), rush-hour traffic through Montréal, and getting lost in Ottawa and Chelsea, where my sister lives. Her hubby and kid were away for the weekend, so we got to spend all my time there together, including doing the quintessentially Canadian thing: walking on the Rideau Canal, in the shadow of the Parliament buildings.
I drove back to Montréal yesterday (Monday) in nasty weather: not a horrible snowstorm, but in many ways, that might have been less treacherous. The worst part was coming into Montréal, with the slow-moving, bumper-to-bumper traffic and me having to pee like a race horse. But the delay worked out well since Cleopatrick (Queen of Denial) had just risen from slumber. We took it easy all afternoon, sipping coffee, before crossing clear across town so that I could meet his hubbies. (Don’t ask.) Then, afterwards, I came back towards downtown for a little R&R. (Again, don’t ask. 🙂 ) Tomorrow I’m doing lunch with Mister Oliver, Indiana Jones’ best friend, with whom I have spoken countless hours on the phone but haven’t yet met in person. Our long conversations leave no doubt that we’ll get along like a house on fire when we finally do meet.
Thursday I leave Montréal for sleepy Grand-Falls, N.B., to visit with my oldest brother. Then Saturday will be the drive back to Halifax, with two stopovers in Moncton: Mom, and BeeGoddessC to pick up the Terrible Tifman, who, I should mention, shat himself while we crossed the Macdonald Bridge out of Halifax. (I guess he didn’t take well to travelling without his mommy.) Then on Saturday evening, I’ll be picking up BeeGoddessM at the Halifax airport.
I have tried to reach Indiana Jones since I’ve been away. I received news that his mother is possibly deathly ill. Mister Oliver secured an assurance that he keep us abreast of the latest news, good or bad. Should, heaven forbid, something bad happen by Thursday morning, I might find myself with a travel companion and have to cut short the last part of my vacation.
Anyway, I have only 5 minutes left on this computer, so I should sign off for now and get back to Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone. It seems I only get to do leisure reading when I’m on vacation…
On the Road, Finally!
I have an appointment with a client in Moncton on Wednesday morning, so I’m leaving Halifax tomorrow afternoon with BeeGoddessM‘s cat, the Terrible Tifman, so that BeeGoddessC (his other mommy) can take care of him while BGM is out of town next week.
When this appointment with the client came up, I thought I’d get a hold of all my out-of-town clients and go on a little tour while I’m at it, and then go on a short vacation. It’s been forever since my last real vacation, so even if this one is going to be short, it’s better than nothing. I’ll be hitting Moncton, Fredericton, Ottawa, Montreal, Grand-Falls, Moncton again, and back in Halifax on Feb. 26th. I think Junior is excited about finally going on a real road trip outside the Maritime provinces, even though it would be more fun if it weren’t in the dead of winter.
I’ve set everything up so that my clients can still reach me while away, so everyone should be happy. Now if only the MT spambags weren’t so creative in comment bombing my blog. To foil the blacklist, the lastest flurry come with HTML entities in the URL. Those fuckers just won’t give up, will they!
He’s Still There
Funny how I came across of few picture of my father taken a few years ago just as I’ve been thinking about him more frequently. I suppose the fact we’re coming to the end of the first-year cycle has a lot to do with it. Indeed, in two days will be the first anniversary of his last trip to the hospital, and exactly one month after that will be the first anniversary of his death. Looking at those pictures, I had trouble believing that he really isn’t two-and-a-half hours away anymore. Yet at the same time I know very well that he isn’t. Obviously my sadness is much less intense than it was a year ago, and I still hold firmly to the belief that it’s better that he’s no longer suffering. But I think that in the almost one year since he’s been gone, I’ve come to better grasp just how much he did suffer in the last years of his life. He had become an old, old man well before his time.
I’ve also learned something new (to me) in the last year: Most people get extremely uncomfortable at the mere mention of death and, specifically, of losing someone close. They just don’t know what to do with the comment, even if it’s delivered in a very matter-of-fact tone. I’ve more than once found myself referring to my father’s death in a subordinate clause, as sometimes it serves as useful and succinct indicator of time and the frame of mind I was in at that time, …but nothing more than that. Yet I can sense the tension and catch the looks in other people’s eyes or the silence at the other end of the line, as if they’re imploring me: “Please don’t go there… Please don’t put a downer on things…” Whether it’s because they’ve had too many people suddenly turn all glum on them, or because the thought of death coming so close is one they simply wish to banish from their mind, I’m not sure. But it’s weird because I’m left feeling like I let an elephant in the room, when in fact I was just sayin’… I wasn’t planning to launch into a retelling of how it was.
Conversely, I have to admit I haven’t decided yet how (or if) I’ll mark March 12. In fact, I think the anniversary of the funeral (March 16) is likely going to be more difficult for me …as it might not be. I think I’ll only know when I get there. I know my mom said she intends to “go visit” on the 12th, which has brought me to think about going to Moncton that weekend. Except for my sister, who’s just a bit too far away for a quick jaunt in the wintertime, I probably won’t be the only one to do the pilgrimage back home.
Tale (Tail?) of an Amateur and a Pro
He’s a man, and because he’s a man, there’s no way he’s going to let on that he’s not up to the challenge. After a quasi lifetime of ogling many objects of desire, only to go back home to wank himself into a frenzy, the man finally has a chance to get it on with the most enticing specimen. Not only that, but everyone’s welcomed to watch his performance.
He approaches the object of desire with much bravado, chest all puffed up: He is cocky in every sense of the word! He manages to captivate and arouse the object of desire; clothes fall to the floor and our man is very proud of the fact that when his briefs fall to the floor, he is sporting a magnificient erection. He’s The Man! Still exuding confidence, our man pins down his object of desire — not in a particularly imaginative manner, mind you. Just the plain ol’ missionary position. Let’s ignore the unconvincing grunting noises from the object of desire, who’s clearly concentrating more on counting the cracks in the ceiling. And let’s also give our man his credit: Mind over matter, he has saved face and succeeded in avoiding his embarrassing propensity toward a premature ejaculation. That, in itself, is enough to conceal his lack real-life experience, so after he finally lets go, he bathes in his glorious but one-sided afterglow, firmly believing he has done as well if not better than any other man. Unfortunately, the onlookers are left wondering if our man needs a medal or a chest to pin it on.
Enters the whore, stage left.
Stepping forward, the whore immediately locks eyes with our man’s object of desire and sweeps up said object from the floor. It is as though said object is hypnotized and already doesn’t remember our man’s name — let alone that he’s still there! — as the whore slowly but oh so very surely caresses and brings our man’s object of desire to a blissful ecstasy our man never had the imagination to dream about. Deftly the whore takes the object and they are one, in a frenzied embrace that is gentle yet passionate, and that defies both gravity and kinesthetics. As the utter perfection of the moment continues well beyond the climax, our man stares for a while, amazed and in disbelief, until finally he bows his head. For now he understands that there’s a world of difference between a quick shag and artful lovemaking.
Believe it or not, this story came to mind because of something that happened to me at work today.
I had to deal with someone who believes (or believed) that, because he noticed his word processor has a “Save as HTML” option, he can dispense of the services of a professional webmaster and create his own webpages. For you see, when it comes to anything that’s remotely technical — especially computers — most men can’t bear the thought that they can’t master everything. And if the word processor that happens to be on his computer desktop has a button that promises to create webpages, then that must mean those “professional webmasters” are nothing but lying scumbags trying to make a quick buck by pretending that their work is a lot more complicated than it really is.
All I had to do to bring this man near tears was to send him a zip file containing fewer than 20 very simple HTML docs organized within a fairly simple directory structure, but (oops!) no index file. But you see, I didn’t realize that my man’s HTML editor of choice was Microsoft Word; I blindly assumed that he wanted the freedom to come up with his own template design, especially given how he posed as knowing what he was doing. It didn’t even cross my mind that anyone would volunteer to take over what I’ve been doing for nearly three years and think that Word would work just fine. And that has left me wondering if perhaps this is the result of my making what I do seem so easy.
But there’s a world of difference between a quick shag and what the Whore of Babylon does.
(1) I’ll be converting aMMusing to WordPress. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon.
(2) I wonder when will be the right time to talk about this big, wonderful and exciting event on aMMusing, which I’ve been avoiding.
(3) I would like to tell her I’m sorry about the passing of Rat.