On construction and Rahim Jaffer
By Rose Simpson
Friday on Smyth Road.
Looking over top my computer, out into the street, only to discover the entire road has been chopped up. Right now, there is a back hoe outside my window smashing the sidewalk up, and shovelling the whole road into a dumpster. Can’t get out of the driveway, so might just as well chill here. Ming is licking my feet, Gordie is barking at the workers, Hannah is waiting for her walk. Unfortunately, we have no sidewalks to walk on, so she is going to have to settle for the backyard.
Scott is going next door to pull up the carpet in the hallway, to see if there is any beautiful hardwood underneath. I think I told you the neighbors will be moving at the end of July, due to the toxic oil spill, so the landlord is getting a jump on renovations. Scott’s making a little money doing minor repairs, which means we will have a little extra money to celebrate my birthday in a couple of weeks.
Thinking: grilled steak, shrimp, grapefruit and arugula salad with a light mustard remoulade. Why wait for July 2nd, I’m thinking. Let’s have it today.
I hope these buggers get finished early today. I feel like I’m living in a war zone. My tranquil oasis in the backyard has been shattered for two solid weeks now, with a steady cocktail of drilling, swearing and whirring. Meanwhile, next door, my Iraqi neighbors have turned their backyard into a wrecking yard, and are constantly banging dents out of cars and yelling at each other. Not much of a summer oasis this year.
Glad I don’t own this property.
Started the new John Irving novel yesterday, grateful to know that at least one of my favorite writers hasn’t succumbed to last-novel-in-the-contract lameness. I have to admit that I’m not looking forward to reading about his newest themes. Since John admitted his own molestation, the constant running threads throughout his novels have been rape and incest. Better than bears and wrestling, I guess.
The old head is spinning again today. Gotta love still being in perimenopause when you’re reaching your 54th birthday. I feel my insides slushing around like a water balloon. I was thinking today that if I hadn’t been divorced at 35, I might have had seven or eight kids by now, just like Grandma Simpson. The only thing that kept the family numbers down in their day was war. Now it’s divorce.
I am still shocked that I may still be fertile, while most of my friends pruned up years ago. Keeps the skin supple, so there’s something.
What else? I hear Rahim Jaffer might be held in contempt of Parliament. He’s certainly being held in contempt by the people of Canada. And that lame excuse about going to a doctor’s appointment with his preggers former Cabinet minister wife. I mean, when I was pregnant, my husband wouldn’t miss a meeting or a trip to take me to my numerous doctor’s appointments. I went by myself. I even went to Lamaze classes by myself. He read the paper while I was in labor. No wonder I’m divorced.
That’s all for today. Going to finish up the old latte and get baking in the backyard. SPF 30 and a hat. Maybe a martini later. Note to self: toddle off to the pharmacy for some ear plugs.