Busy week ahead

It’s hot.

Enough said.

This week is the dreaded sidewalk sale on the street where my Bookstore is situated.

We have two a year, I hate them, exhausting, much ado about nothing.

I imagine I won’t have much time to read or post on the blog.

I’m still reading My Life As A Man by Philip Roth.

It’s well written and compelling but, I don’t know, it’s doesn’t really speak to me.

I’m looking forward to the Fall.

I have always loved the fall.

I get nostalgic for a return to school.

The smell of books and newly sharpened pencils.

New corduroy pants, shiny sneakers that you want to smudge so they don’t look,

 too new.

I no longuer wear corduroy pants or sneakers.

Jeans and Blundstones for me but, still,

nice memories.

To me, fall is a time for settling down and getting comfortable.

Long walks in the brisk air.

The wind wiping away the crap from your mind.

I don’t think it will be that kind of fall.

More like upheavals and change.

Change is good.


I’m working on the novel.

I really want to do it.

You all have a good week

Later girls


On the merits of slow

First the weather,

 it is perfect.

 Clear blue sky, cool breeze.

Sleep is once again possible,

let’s hope it lasts.

Next, hockey season is right around the corner,

 I can’t wait.


I haven’t been reading much lately.

Well, actually I haven’t been reading much I can talk about.

A friend asked me to read her novel, which I did.

It’s good. I’ll tell you all about it,

 once it’s published.

If, she wants me to.

I’m still working on the Philip Roth.

I find myself impressed by the language.

With me, that is not the best of signs.

I like to get lost in the plot, in the characters.

To be fair I’m only about fifty pages into it.

I’ll let you know.

What I have been thinking about this week,

the merits of slow.

Slow food,

can’t beat those slow roasted chickens,

 or a beautiful stew that has been bubbling for hours.

Slow love,

letting it develop,

learning to appreciate the precious moments.

We’re talking long walks on the beach, here girls.

Reading can be like that as well,

 taking the time,

 not riffling through it like you’re in a hurry.

Years ago,

 I read this article,

 probably in the newspaper,

that said Canadians who are big readers read about fifty books a year.

I said to my ex, I must read about fifty books a year?

To which she harumped and said,

you read way more than fifty books a year.

I started keeping count in a notebook.

It’s usually more like a hundred.

In 2008, I had a big year,

 one hundred and forty three,

 that’s a lot.

But, you know what?

 I read a lot of crap that year.

Don’t get me wrong,

 I like thrillers and mysteries,

well mostly mysteries.

Some of them are very good,

 and those are the ones I read,


I seemed, that year, to be consuming them more than reading them.

It was like scoffing down Big Macs or having multiple quickies.

I like a Big Mac, twice a year,

 and I have no problems with quickies.

Filling the void, scratching the itch.

But, I prefer slow roasted chicken and long love making sessions.

I have been reading slower lately, and I like it better.

Letting the story wash over you.

Those of you who read my blog on a regular basis know that I have been having

a quasi mid-life crisis.

No shit, Sherlock!

You get to be forty-five or so,

You start asking yourself , Is this what I want with my life?

Am I ever gonna get  me some Love of a good woman?

In other words you panic.

It’s as if I woke up,

 and all of a sudden,

 wanted to get all the things I crave.


Well, I’m going back to my appreciation of slow.

Not coma or inertia,  just slow.

What’s my hurry, it will come.

He Also Serves Those Who Sit And Wait,

I believe that is Milton,

 and I think I am going to live by those words for a while.

Later girls

Be good



Curve ball, shmurveball

The weather is back to the way I like it,

 cool and breezy.

Admit it’s been a while since I mentioned the weather.

This summer has been way up there,

 on the learning curve of life.

Funny, you live forty-five years,

 you think you know a thing or two.

Who you are,

what your reactions to things are.

You expected life to send you,

 a fastball right down the middle and into your glove.


 you get a series of curve balls,

some of which hit you in the face.

You question yourself,

your motives,

your vision of life and love.

Your vision of yourself, which you thought was just fine,

is now clouded by a black eye.

Black eyes heal, you just look strange for a while.

Self-conscious and a little bit embarrassed.

But, with embarassement and pain,

comes some clarity,


This has been a year and especially a summer of epiphanies and scares.

The prospect for the fall and into next year,

is better.

I think.

I’m gonna reach for my dreams and get me some love.

I’ve always wanted to write a novel.

I’m working on it,

it’s hard,

I need that,

flex the muscles.

The women are on notice.

I’m back.

I hope.

Later girls



I’m feeling nostalgic

I was listening to some songs on You Tube.


Ever listen to a song you haven’t heard for a long time and remember all the words?

I was listening to a Mike And The Mechanics song The Living Years.

I think all of us who have fathers who have passed can relate to that song.

I like, that the song, is not an attempt at a Hallmark moment.

It’s about the fact, that we all carry the hopes and fears of the previous generation

 and that everybody blames everybody.

In spite of that,

 we miss them and we love them.

The Living Years reminds me of Dad.

Besame Mucho and really sweet iced cake, of my grandfather.

The sweetest most sentimental man I have ever known.

He has been gone more than twenty years.

 I think of him often.

My grandma has been gone for twelve,

 she wasn’t always so easy.

But, when I need a moral compass I always turn to her memory.

She always had something good to say about people.

Even, when there wasn’t much, she would come with ,

“Well, they’re clean”

You gotta love that.

She had a tough time of it at the end,

 I think she had regrets and she was lonely.

I hope she knew how important she was to me.

I told her,


 you know people don’t always listen.

You can’t live in the past and in the what if’s.

But, revisiting and staying in touch with who you are, is important.

Sometimes I forget who I am and I get lost in an emotional Maelstrom.

I am the daughter and granddaughter of,

 strong and weak,

 men and women.

One thing about me,

 I am loved, this much I know.

Oh, and

I’m clean.

Later girls


Les Amours Imaginaires

On the weekend I went to see a new movie,

Les Amours Imaginaires.

This movie,

 is by La Belle Province’s latest homegrown genius,

 Xavier Dolan.

He made a movie last year,

 that had great critical international success,

 J’ais Tué Ma Mere.

Les Amours Imaginaires, does not suffer from the sophomore jinx,

it is Sublime.

A must see.

It is all about how, sometimes,

 we build up casual, flirtatious relationships,

 into serious love affairs.

In our minds.

It is about unrequited love.

The worst kind of love,

the love that hurts the most,

the one sided type.

Sometimes it borders on the obsession.

I suppose most people have felt it.

I know I have, more than once.

Never been really lucky at love.

Never been  that disastrous either.

Always a little too chicken to attempt getting hurt.

I have loved a few women in my life.

One was my ex,

a superbly intelligent generous woman,

 who is still my best friend.

One ended badly,


And recently,

a situation I will,

 probably be years trying to understand and come to terms with.

Love’s tough.

Love’s grand.

I don’t know.

The movie made me feel as though,

somehow I was part of a tribe.

The confused, the seekers, the romantics or perhaps,


the messed up.

Later girls


Is the blog the modern day diary?

 “If a man has no constant lover who shares his soul as well as his body, he must have a diary—a poor substitute, but better than nothing. That is all there is to it in my case” James Lees-Milne

I read this quote recently in a book review and thought to myself,

 I have to read this guy’s diaries.

 I love diaries and memoirs as well as, books of letters.

Their are full of unvarnished truth, contrary to autobiographies,

which tend to put the writer in the best light possible.

It got me thinking,

 Is the blog the modern diary?

I have kept a journal over the years and have written the occasional love letter and poem.

But, I find the blog somehow, even more liberating.

I never really know who reads it and honestly,

 I like the mystery and true confession part of it.

Of course,

I know some of the people who read it and comment

and  I like that as well.

Who knows just thinking out loud.

later, girls


Of longing for cool weather, hockey and vacation

The heat is making me crazy.

Aside from a few days of cool and clement weather,

 it has been sticky and humid since June,

and if it hasn’t, it sure feels that way!

Not only is it hot but, it’s so bloody noisy.

I live in the city, inner city,

 where people have postage stamp size yards and yet,

 they seem to spend every morning from April to October mowing them.

What’s up with that?

Way back when we didn’t have air conditioning,

 my ex and I would rent movies that took place in winter,

Russian front type of stuff.

This year I thought maybe if I read about hockey it might cool me down,

 so far,

not working.

I’m reading a biography of Patrick Roy,

 who in my humble opinion is the greatest goaltender ever to play the game.

Of course, you could argue for the great Tretiak or Ken Dryden

 but, I’m sticking with Roy, a never say die,  kinda of competitor.

I’m sorry,

 I’m pretty sure most of you couldn’t care less about hockey.

I can’t help talking about it once in a while, it’s in my DNA.

Many people in Montreal refer to our love of hockey and allegiance to our team ,

the Canadiens,

 as a religion.

Since I don’t believe in organised religion, or rather,

 I believe that religion is responsible for so much evil in the world,

I prefer to think of hockey as being part of my genetic makeup.

I’m reading The Narrow Corner, should finish it by the weekend.

I like it very much.

I’ve been thinking of taking a few days off,

 in late September maybe go to Toronto.

I’ m embarrassed to say I have never been to Toronto.

I’d really like to go to New York but, I don’t have a passeport and you need one now.

Toronto has that newish art museum,

designed by Frank Gehry,

that I would really like to see and of course, bookstores.

I’m going to try to convince a friend to go with me,

 and if I can’t,

 I’ll go solo.

Later girls


When is a writer a writer?

Good morning, girls.

I’m really happy about the cool, dry, weather,

 I slept very well.

I went out  last night to have a few pitchers of beer with a friend of mine.

I really enjoy our exchanges and conversations.

 Sometimes they can be quite intense,

 sometimes on the borderline of rocky,

 other times over the edge.

We battle back from those,


 I believe,

 there is genuine respect and affection.

I’m really trying to be smoother in my dealings with friends,

I acknowledge that I’m sometimes hard to take.

Mea culpa.

So, we talked about many things.

A lot, about my dismal love life,

 and my bruised and battered ego.

But, what I wanted to talk to you guys about,

 was the notion of a writer.

Here’s what I mean.

To me, a writer has always been, someone who writes,

with the intention near or far,

 of  being published,

or at least in this brave new world,


My friend doesn’t see it that way,

I don’t want to misinterpret what she said,

and I hope she will let me know if I do,

but basically, she said that many of us are writers,

when we really care about words and books,

 we are,

 on a certain level writers.

Please forgive my simplification, I was inebriated at the time.

The idea struck me as highly original,

my friend is highly original,

I’ve been thinking about it  since,

I’m not sure whether I agree or disagree but,

 I think it’s food for thought.

Are those of us who blog about this and that writers?

If you keep a journal are you a writer?

Do fumblings, mumblings and ramblings about books, the weather and the state of your angst riddled life qualify?

I don’t know.

What do you guys think?

Another thing she mentioned,

apparently 40% of all people who read 50 books or more a year,

 are writers.

Since, neither of us are the New York Times don’t expect a source,


 I mentioned about,

 the beer.

I’m going chew on this some more.

Have a wonderful day

I want to thank all of you for reading and comenting on this blog,

it means a lot to me.

Apparently I am both a  heart on my sleeve and guarded kinda of a girl,

 which I believe to be an acurate and astute description.

So to my friends, I say thanks for putting up with me,

 it can’t always be easy.