my tragic right hip

We left early on Friday to avoid the traffic. But in a city that’s more sprawl than anything else, that’s getting increasingly hard to do. Driving along back roads that used to be simply farm land, with nothing around but fields and the faint smell of “natural” fertilizer, and seeing complex after complex of cookie cutter houses and depressing strip malls made me want to escape the gerbil tendencies of this modern life forever.

All tolled, it took us about five hours to complete the trip. Considering it’s only about 2.5 hours to get up north, I was tired, frustrated and sad when I got there. My grandmother’s cottage was full of mouse poo, and we immediately started vacuuming, washing and washing some more.

After a good night’s sleep, we got up and I started to tackle other things that needed cleaning. Cobwebs on the outside boards, cobwebs inside on the windows, cleaning up the bedrooms, vacuuming some more. Then, my RRBF and my brother patched the roof where it was leaking. There’s something utterly fulfilling in a day of hard work where you feel good about cleaning up the mouse house in the dresser drawer. Feel like the building appreciates it when you wash out the floors with bleach and get rid of the dusty mould from a long winter of closed windows. And it makes me think that modern life caters too much to people having time for careers building on nothing more than virtual jobs in a virtual world.

The weather was luscious. A perfect mixture of sunshine and crisp wind. A wonderful combination of heat and cool breeze. There was a lot to do, and I’m glad we got a good start.

Then, by the time we got home I had broken out in some sort of strange rash. Who knows what it is, maybe poison ivy, but considering I’ve never had that in my life, and grew up at the cottage, I’ve got no idea what it actually is. Sigh. Can nothing in life be in balance?

…more tomorrow after work.

Blogs around the world are all sending out thoughts, prayers, wishes for Londoners today in the wake of the terrorist attacks. Mine is no different.

It was my monthly check up at the doctor’s on Monday. Thankfully, we had an extra-long long weekend and I had the day off. While I was upset at the time, the more I think about the visit, the sadder I get. My kidney function continues to be poor, so much so that he finally gave up the ghost in terms of the CellCept, admitting the drug sort of failed me. Now, I’m back on imuran, which is fine; it’s a drug I’ve taken before and know works, but my creatinine level has never been this high before (it’s at 139, a normal level is around 60), and I’m scared of all kinds of things. Not having my kidneys, having to do dialysis, having to have a transplant, being on meds for a long, long time, never being able to have a family, all kinds of stuff that make a tough year even tougher.

A couple of weeks ago, I read this article (link via Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind) by Nancy Pate about how hard it is to be a writer when dealing with a debilitating auto-immune disease. I felt better knowing that, of course, I’m not the only one dealing with this stuff, but at least Pace is making a living from her pen still. I’ve stopped writing professionally with the exception of the abridged classics and wonder if I’ll ever have the energy to do anything substantial again.

As I’ve said before, I’m totally obsessed now with Alexander McCall Smith’s The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series. I finished #2 last night, Tears of the Giraffe and loved it. The sweet, simple story of the everyday lives of Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, intertwined with the usual detective work of Precious and her secretary/assistant, make for a pleasant, quick but nonetheless enjoyable read.

In this particular book, Mma solves the case of an American boy who had been missing for ten years, giving his mother peace without necessarily ruining the lives of the other people necessarily involved. As always, McCall Smith has a way with characters, narrative and/or plot that make reading these books like floating along on the lake on a hot summer day in July. I’m starting #3, Morality for Beautiful Girls today.

It’s nice to know that when it comes to Bosses From Hell, there’s at least a history to refer to. I wonder why she didn’t make this list—perhaps because she’s reigning over a teeny-tiny online department for a Canadian broadcasting company. But I’d swear, she’s right up there with Leona Helmsley, in fact, I’d say that’s a pretty fair comparison.

But I truly have to wonder what makes people act so completely uncharitable when it comes to money and/or the making of it. There must be so much deep psychological baggage with these people to act this way that no amount of success monetary or otherwise would ever make them happy. Man, it makes me glad to know that I’m out of her rat race. Who ever would have thought getting fired would actually be a blessing, especially considering I’m using a good bulk of the money to go to Europe this summer. Now that’s karma for you.

…But they can’t get away from me that easily. My friend Sue noticed that one of the sites I used to run has got a picture of me up on their features landing page. It’s from an old article I wrote a few years back about the history of cottages, which is actually quite fascinating. But there’s me in my life jacket looking quite young and semi-cute. And low and behold, they haven’t stripped my byline either, will miracles never cease.

Last night my RRBF played an awesome gig, ahem, those are rock terms, not mine, at Sneaky Dee’s for a series called Wavelength. They headlined, the club was packed, the Hylozoists played as well, and it was a veritable cornucopia of Toronto indie rock gods.

Kevin Drew was there, and I’m always amazed that people recognize me as me, in terms of belonging to some extent to my RRBF, but that my face is familiar as well. He gave me a big hug, and said, “Tell him they were awesome. I’m leaving now. Tell them they were great!” Which is very cool coming from the lead singer of one of the most acclaimed indie rock bands around, Broken Social Scene.

There were tons of fun people there, all kinds of friends, and I danced and jumped and whooped and hollered and had a grand old time. I love my new bionic hip. My tummy held court well and I managed to get some sleep. All in all a brilliant kind of day.

Well, well, Tom Cruise, for all the fanfare, for all the ridiculous virtual time spent discussing your stunt/not-stunt of a relationship, thank goodness Spielberg had the good sense to make a good film.

We went to see War of the Worlds, having seen almost every other summer film out there, it was all that was left. And you know, I liked it, thought that it was scary, realistic and only got somewhat hokey near the end. In the end, worth the full price of admission. Now can everyone stop talking about how crazy he is and get on with things that really matter in the world?

Oh, and did anyone actually go to Live 8? How was it?

A constant battle goes on within myself these days. All at once I feel tired, frustrated, upset and angry because the disease is “grumbling,” (in the very technical terms of the doctor). And then I feel incredibly guilty for feeling that way, because what am I really doing with my life? I’m not helping people. I’m not writing the next “great Canadian novel.” I’m not really doing anything except feeling sorry for myself and then feeling guilty for not doing enough with this life that was given to me. Perhaps even given back to me when I was nineteen and the disease was at its worse.

Now, with my new bionic hip, I’m not really in pain anymore, and that means I can be more active, except I can’t, because I’m both tired and strung out at the same time. On beautiful days like today, even listening to Edith Piaf, planning my trip (T-21 days) to Paris, Ireland and London, I feel like I’m just not doing enough. But what is enough? And what should I be doing with my life? I’m hoping I’ll have some answers at the end of the summer.

It’s a hard birthday coming up. A milestone, to reach the same age your mother never made it past. My friend, Zesty, said that Madonna had a complete breakdown when she got to that birthday. I’m sort of headed in the same direction. I feel bad because I’m so lazy, rendered relatively incapable of a normal everyday existence by a combination of silly meds and an even sillier disease, and then I feel even more guilty because would my mother really be proud of me wasting my life away—a gift she never had.

It’s a hard knock life.