My new uke arrived in the mail on Monday. Well, arrived isn't the right word. I mean I picked it up from the 7/11 mail depot in the world's biggest box and carried it all the way down from Dundas on Monday, Monday. Just another manic Monday. Unpacking this giant box, removing layers of paper and 2 subsequently smaller boxes- I finally unveiled her. And I played that pretty lady all day. Played it 'til my fingers bled, if this were the summer of '65. I strummed and loved that Big Lady. Problem is I am undecided on what to name my new uke. Her older-way older and stubborn sister's name is Betty, pretty little antique Betty. Stubborn pegs not gripping the strings; going out of tune every song; Betty. The two names I have been tossing around are the Big Lady or Baby Belle. So for now, until I decide I will use both:)
Hubby and I have been playing Faque Band (Fake Band) since Rockband came out on X-box 360. Though since I started learning a real instrument we're jamming like a real Faque Band. Hubby plays the guitar and sings, but he always Garfunkles me. I want to be Garfunkle. Can both of us be Garfunkle? He should be Paul, I mean that's obvious. C'mon Garfunkle and Garfunkle sounds like a law firm that only deals with clerical errors. That's something we'll have to work out.
When beautiful Baby Belle arrived I started dreaming about the awesome sauce family band Hubby and I could build- but it seems like it should be an audition process more so than a birthing process. We would be looking for children who could conceivably be our children, but we're far too young to actually have naturally. A la Brady bunch Partridge bus. We need a bassist and pianist and violin/fiddle. Children must be self-sufficient and capable of taking care of themselves, preparing meals and cleaning the tour bus etc. Birth-parents must relinquish all rights to family photos and "memories" as they have now become part of the Unnamed Family Band paraphernalia for fan clubs members and 8 special collectors editions commemorative glasses available from your local gas station. Please submit your child in the comment section below; attach a photo, resume and reel if possible:)
With this unnamed family band dynasty goes the woes of what should our first album be called? Should we self-title, perhaps we should use an inside family band joke? What is the thought process that goes into picking your album cover art? Can you imagine the pitch session? Would it be my job as the performer to come up with the idea? Or is it an uncreative studio exec with branding expertise...?Should it be a cartoon? Real life shot? Sexy photo? Serious musicians with instruments in hand? Hiding half covered face or faces shrouded in shadow? Colour or black and white? Just a landscape? A shot taken by a band member with photography enthusiasm. What image best suits this sound. The pairing of an image with a sound. These are all very difficult decisions. Wow, it's hard to play Unnamed Family Faque Band and hold down a non-paying job as a bloggist. I tell you, I might have a slight addiction to being a Jack of all Trades. But can I help it if I am sorta good at everything...?
While exploring our new area, Hubby and I stumbled upon a magical place. A place where vanilla malts and black cherry floats live together in harmony. A place where the bells and whistles compete but also stand alone. A place filled with flashing lights and chomping sounds. We have found our Parkdale Shangri la, but I am weary to share this with you; because I want it to be all mine.*insert maniacal hand rubbing. Hubby and I love games. We love playing board gams; competing strategically. We love playing video games; though I am more of a trivia/side scroller and Hubby is just plain obsessed. Our relationship was founded upon the Wii, for crying out loud. Tricking little innocent me into going to his apartment to play tennis. But this place is different, it's a mecca of vintage and top rated pinball machines. In all my excitement of this place, I want all the flipping glory for myself. I don't even want to tell you what it's called, okay, okay...it's called The Pinball Cafe. And it's awesome sauce. Our Thursday evening wasn't going according to plan. See Hubby wanted a bison burger from what used to be the best bison place in town...Well, they've changed and now even though there is still a GIANT bison on their sign- they don't offer it. Sad, but what can you do? Then we were nearly run off the sidewalk by a gentleman in a rascal traveling just under light speed, taking in the sights. Followed by 3 different looney toons, all of whom are ranting what could easily be stitched into a hip-hop lyric. For example, drop this beat: "We didn't make the bombs, we were busy singing songs, making love and conquoring, 2 perverts, just 2 perverts, open them legs and give me them eggs." Now, we're both hungry and Hubby is disappointed; and being disappointed and hungry is no good combo; he's like the Hulk without the smashing. So, we walk on. We eat our favourite Roti, enjoying every mouthful. But we're still unsatisfied...we are seeking something more. Food for our souls, a sentimental dink like me might say. Parkdale, you promised us something special. You came through! Parkdale you beautiful b*%#h. Knowing that Hubby and I were desperate for a sign that we belong here, you opened up your tickle trunk and pulled out- 2 hours of bell ringing, ball baring, elastic flipper, Miss PacMan with a roasted marshmallow milkshake. I am not sure that a Thursday has any right being that fun. I mean, I spent 10 quaters + the cost of the Shake. It's a cheap and wicked way to spend an evening. If you don't like the bell ringing, there are board games too. But don't look at the leader boards, with the #1 slot being in the billions...it makes me feel stupid that I loose 2 of the 5 balls right off the spring, but what's the adage? A pin ball in the hand trumps a bison sign, and Parkdale ain't so shabby- as long as you stay off the sidewalk.
When you grow up in a small town, small business is status quo. Every shop is owned and operated by a family. The coffee shop, the grocery store, the flower shop, the bookstore and all the restaurants. Now, on my last trip home I started to notice, they are dying. Into my small town (now 15,000 people) Big Business is creeping in. The Big Boys offering a variety of products at cut rate prices; that the little guy can't compete with. Buying power is definitely in their favour. I remember when we got our first Tim Horton's- now a small town staple. Don't get me wrong; I love Timmy's, but I can't help but feel we're losing something special.
Let's talk size vs value. A big business can afford to over-stock their shelves with every different variation of the product in that category. Ramming the aisle with decisions like; do I like the flamingo or the salmon colour? But the quality... There is no care in the choosing of the best product available. At the small business they have 2 shelves and can't afford to offer everything. The proprietor chooses a quality product because their choice reflects on their business. If you buy a dress from the Big Boys and it falls apart after 3 wears; we grin and bear it, cuz what else can we do? We knew when we got it- it wasn't built to last. But buy a dress from a little guy and if it falls apart- there's hell to pay. PAY!!! Marching into that store, waving the item like a flag of defeat. Which brings us to customer service.
It used to be that your local shoe store operator knew you. He knew your name, your size and what you did for a living. He would order special shoes for you, knowing you would wear them and love them. That was how you bought shoes. You went to see Bruno who asked you about your son's lacrosse season; he knew your Mother, and her order was ready if you saw her to let her know. It was like visiting an old family friend twice a year. Now, you Google shoes- click on a link and enter your email address. Or maybe you venture to a shoe store where the sales person's loud, elaborate and long winded stories have to be interrupted so you can get your size. And they don't offer half sizes, so they only brought the bigger size. Dropping the box into the floor and flinging a leg-less stocking at you- to prevent contamination- though there is clearly a street woman parading around in the display shoes.
So, what do we think about that? I know it's not right. How do we fight the Big Boy? At what point do we stand up and say; I want to be taken care of? I want someone to think about me as an important customer. In this mean and selfish sales environment, I am tired of feeling like asking for help isn't allowed. It should be the Big Boy's job to look out for the little guy, instead of squashing them. With all the anti-bullying campaigns going around, you'd think we'd notice it's not just a playground phenomenon. But for now, I guess I'll go to the mail depot to pick up my Amazon order, and stew over my new uke.
Mother's Day is Sunday May 13th. What have you got planned? Is it something special enough to give to the woman who carried you around all those years? The physical carrying, the emotional carrying and the financial burden that you are? Have you thought about her, I mean really thought about what she gave you? My mother is an apple tree. A giving tree I fell from.
They say you can't avoid becoming your mother. That makes sense, she is the woman I've lived with the longest and we're related. My mother's mother was a Lady, except for stepping on all those ducks and creaking floorboards*insert fart joke here. I am a proud third generation lady. Every time my Grandma Far would visit, my Momma would go on a warpath of housecleaning and general fretting. Now, my childhood house was never dirty; but I am my mother's daughter and we like to pile- especially papers- they pile amazingly. So, when G'ma Far arrived there was no mess in the house, though G'ma often cleaned the oven; just to keep busy. When my Momma visits my grown up home, I am go on the same rampage; hiding piles in drawers and dusting every surface- the difference? My oven is self cleaning.
My Momma was OCD about finding all the toy set pieces. Counting them before they went back into the box. Which paid off, because now we have full sets of almost vintage toys. She was adement about no elbows on the table, which helped me with posture and decorum. She was determined to stop me from biting my nails, and did so using the world's strong drug- vanity. The person I am is because of my Momma. She is the strongest and most tender leader I have ever met. Her grace and dignity in the face of adversity are truly something to wonder at. But so is the blinding light of her rage- a halley's comet passing with a serious aftershock. Brief, beautiful and horrifying.
People love her. I mean, LOVE her. She attracts the attentions of the lost, lonely and confused; helping them see the brighter side of things. The attention she gives to each person, makes them feel special. She listens, really listens. In the last 5 years I have seen my Momma blossom; becoming a pillar of the community. She was voted Citizen of the Year, is now an elected Town Councillor and the Grand Dame in charge of Everything (a self appointed position). I have that quality too; I know that no matter what, I could do a better job than- that guy... the only problem? I don't know when I reach my limit. *insert Ah-ha moment.
The fact that I love her as much as I do, I wish I could do something uber-special for her. Something grand and extravagant. To thank her for some of my quirks and qualities. There are also things I want to give back to her; like my plucking addiction. In the whole wide world; she is in my top 2 favourite people. I look forward to her rushing me off the phone because she's heading out the door to something. Being late because there was just one last thing she had to do. And waiting for the time she promised to me, which is often double booked. She's a busy woman; but I know how that works- cause I am a busy woman too. So, spanks Momma; well for most of it. And THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU for the rest. I am ready to carry you, if you need a break.
Is there anything better than your first love? The feeling of holding hands and dreaming about getting married and Valentine's day chocolate hearts? Well, my first love did not start out well. It wasn't romantic, it was actually quite frustetating (a word my kindergaten through grade 3 boyfriend used, mistakenly). Let me take you back, way back to my first day of school.
As a clumsy girl, my Momma always worried about putting me in a dress. But this was the first day of school, surely she could trust me to stay clean for one day? Couldn't she? In my cream coloured dress with the brown polka dots, the high collar with the bows, the tight wrists with billowy sleeves, I was truly a Princess. I remember getting the knees of my cream leotards grass stained the first recess. I tripped (surprise) over my own feet while twirling, a commonly Melicious practise in skirts and dresses to this day.
The first day of school is rough. You are for the very first time alone, knowing no one, and I was in french immersion. I don't even speak the language in this lonely, foreign land. Sitting in alphabetical order, a system I have yet to learn, I haven't even learned the alphabet for crying out loud. I get seated next to HIM. Ewww a Boy. The closest girls are 2 desks away. I can't send out an SOS, and even if I did nobody here could read it! I am trapped on this island with these strangers who smell weird and I am not supposed to talk to strangers.
On our first day we are each given; a giant pencil, an eraser, 5 crayons and a pair of round nose scissors. HIM, the Ewww Boy is starring at me, spinning his new scissors around his fingers. He smiles, then pinches my billowed sleeve in his tiny kindergarten fingers and using his brand new scissors; cuts my Princess dress, the dress my Momma told me to be EXTRA careful with. "I am going to be in so much trouble!" I wail... Madam Coocarootza (I spell phonetically, because I can't spell it any other way) sensing trouble, swoops in. She collects me and takes me to the principal's office, the secretary comforts me in her arms as I am sobbing and begging for my Momma. I stay there until I feel better, which is way longer than it should have been.
When I get home that day; my Momma is waiting for me at the bus stop. Getting off the bus, I can feel a deep sense of dread overcome me. I promised to be good and keep this dress clean. She sees my grass-stained knees...Momma raises an eyebrow, I spill the beans. I mean, It's just beans everywhere! Beans and tears and apologies. I apologize the whole way home, a sobbing, sniffling wreck. Now, I am not this upset because my Momma is a mean lady or because she's actually mad, I am this sad because my Princess dress is ruined, and I didn't even have any fun doing it! HIM ruined it.
Walking through the front door, our home phone is ringing. It's HIM's mother. She heard from the school what had happened. Making an apologetic gesture; she offers to replace the cut dress. My Momma being the proud woman she is, gracefully refuses, explaining it's a simple repair. I can hear Him's mother through the phone. She's so very sorry, HIM has never done anything like this before; he must really like your daughter. It never crossed my Kindergaten mind that someone could ruin something I love because they liked me. The next day and everyday there after (until HIM moved far, far away) we were inseparable. Plus it was pretty neato to have my grade school boyfriend sit right next to me, even if it was a while before I could trust him with scissors.
This blog is brought to you by the letters L-O-V-and-E
Yesterday, I read a Facebook post from my Momma's second cousin that reminded me of the elaborate and beautiful letters my Grandma Far would receive from her half-sister out west. My great-aunt's beautiful penmanship swooping across the page, spinning a yarn and weaving a tale. In the days before Facebook and texts, they kept in contact through hand-written letters. A powerful and now nearly extinct form of communication.
My Grandma Far; a nurse and my Grandpa with the Pipe; a middle school principal. Their warm and welcoming home smelled like paper and Capitan Black. The dark solid desk with the oddly modern (at the time) rolling chair; the centre piece of their den. The desk lamp designed for illuminating correspondance and tracking accounts kept in ledgers, casting a green hue across the polished desk top. Hanging upon the wall; a handwritten poem entitled Mac (my Grandpa), the parchment paper marbled and the black calligraphy scratched onto the delicate surface. This was a place for writing. I can remember the feeling of the blotter beneath my paper. I remember the woody, safe smell of the drawers as they opened to reveal personalized stationary. The stationary my Grandmother would use to send good tidings and condolences. The envelopes she would seal, keeping her stories safe until they reached their destination. Paper that could hold the smell of the person sending you a letter. A living person sending living paper, delivered by a live letter carrier. The magic of a letter, is it's life.
If there is one thing in the world that calls to me like a siren to the sailor, it's stationary. Oh, stationary, how do I love thee? I love cards and paper, pens, pencil crayons and stamps. I love the feeling of cotton weave and satin finish. The way a Zebra feels gliding across my empty page. I have even considered investing in a monogramed wax seal. But I am blogging now, most of my writing is by hand, but digitized. I long for the letters that would come in the mail and be read aloud at the dinner table and the ones secreted away and read alone. It's a strange nearness those letters carried, a weight or wait, or both. I don't want to lose the art and magic of letter writing. Perhaps my cursive isn't as strong as I would like. Maybe these letters go out across a living network of live wires, but it's not the same...The only consolation; the distance between long lost pen-pals is as far as the nearest mailbox, and our stamps are permanent.
Extra! Extra! I have a lip zit. I have a sore and inflamed eruption on my upper lip- right on cupids bow. The top part of my lip is swollen; Angelina Jolie swollen, for crying out loud. I work in a beauty oriented business and every time I speak, all I am reminded of is this unsightly puss bump growing by the minute. What a disaster.
This lip zit is all I can think about. Being my skin obsessed-self, I want so badly to pop it. I stare at it in every reflective surface. I want to squeeze the daylights/dickens out of it. But I won't- squeezing will set me back 3 weeks of repair time, I don't have that kind of time to waste. When I got home the night I felt it creeping in, I tried everything to rid myself of this unsightly 2nd head. Hot compress, stretching, prodding it, exfoliation, nothing worked. Damnber suggested a pin- which makes me think of rampent infection and badly done at home ear piercing. I have yet -in all my pimple experience- to find a simple, no mess GIANT zit cure. I've tried a medicated wash, which burned my eyes and left my skin palmolive clean; great for hands, not face. For a while I tried toothpaste, which dried out the core, but also peeled off 5 layers of the surrounding skin. In a new wave I thought perhaps a spring water spritzer might help- refreshing, but ultimately useless.
Pimples are something that personality can apparently out-shine and over-shadow (puns intended). The worst/best part is that my co-workers are pretending they can't see it. In my mind, they've had a secret pre-work meeting to discuss and laugh at my herpes looking mouth wound, you know, get it out of their system. All those I've asked about it's magnitude reply with: "I didn't even notice it actually." Well, that's kind, but I noticed it. I will also probably notice yours, when you get one... That being said, I will now be more supportive of people who have huge and very ugly but temporary mars on their typically fine faces. It's not a mountain, it's a mole...well it's a zit actually, but it's not that bad...If you can stop starring at it.
Our veterinarian considers himself an animal-whisperer with magic hands that heal pets and a soothing voice- especially the Yoda, which I only know is Yoda because he told me. I on the other hand am convinced that when I am talking to the Doggie or Kitty something is lost in translation. Both animals stare at me disappointedly; like I phased out in the middle of our conversation and am no longer listening. It seems to me that at this point (4 years of being Jilly's Momma, and 5+ years of being Step-mother to Lucy) I would have become better than I am at understanding them. Our conversations are as follows:
The wake-up call
Jilly:(all four feet shuffle, nails clicking on the floor) whooo...
Melicious:(half-asleep) "Get on this bed."
Jilly:(emphatically, four foot stomp) Whoo...
Melicious:(groveling) "10 more mins."
Jilly: WHOOoooo!
Melicious:(throwing back the warm quilt) "Fine."
I trudge from the bedroom to the kitchen, take her food from the cupboard, dumping a cup into her bowl. Her nails clicker-clack on the floor, happy tap dancing. Stumbling back into bed, she will join me as soon as she's done for:
Under the covers
Jilly:(with a running leap, she launches herself into the bedroom and onto the bed with a jarring thump. Then she investigates the bed she just left to eat) sniff,sniff,sniff. Blow! Sniff,sniff sigh.
Melicious:(lifting up the blankets, trying to get back to sleep) "Under the covers, JillBean."
Jilly:(burrowing into the blankets, spinning and turning and stomping down invisible grass, until she's finally comfortable) Groan sigh. (pressing herself between mine or Hubby's legs- neither one of us sleeping anymore)
As the day goes on, there are many conversations that transpire as follows:
I don't know what you want
Jilly:(starring into my soul, head cocked, silently) whoo?
Melcious: "What's up JillBean?"
Jilly:(still starring, head cocked the other way) Whoo...?
Melicious: "What do you want?"
Jilly:(four foot stomp, with tip-tap nails) whoo...sigh.
Melicious: "I don't know what you want."
Hubby: "She wants a treat. Jilly want a treat?"
Melicious: "Of course she wants a treat. She always wants a treat. She's a dog."
Jilly:(head almost spinning off it's axis) Treat?!?! they said treat. I love treats.
Melicious: "I am not giving you a treat, you're so spoiled. Who's my barrel chested stinker?"
Jilly: (realizing I won't give her a treat; she stalks off in a huff. Settling down in her house and starring up at me with the world's best/worst puppy-dog eyes) Groan.
Melicious: "Okay, come get a treat." (I cave, but to balance it out, I give her a carrot inside a Kong; she'll have to work for that treat)
My puppa is a protective and stubborn girl. She stares out the huge windows. Being on the 4th floor she has a great view of passing animals and a strong opinion about who should and shouldn't be walking along the path between the buildings.
This is my house B*%#h!
Jilly:(starring out the window) rwow....
Melicious:(from the other room) "Jilly..."
Jilly:(ignoring me) Rwowooo roo! Get off my yard!
Melicious:(going into the other room) "JILLY!"
Jilly:(deflated) roooo...
Melicious: "Oh stop; nobody cares what you have to say."
Jilly:(curling back up on the bed) hoof. I just wanted to see if that shitzu wanted to come over and play.
Melicious: "That shitzu is a big B. Let's invite Kingston over (the beagle down the hall)."
Jilly: Snarf. He's no fun. He humps my face.
Melicious:(sitting on the bed and stroking her tummy) "How about we go to the park?"
Jilly: Snort, I thought you'd never ask. I can hump all faces I want at the leash free.
Melicious:(leaning down to raspberry JillBean's belly) "Who's the best bean?"
Jilly:(Head flopped over, upside down) Is it me? I think; yes.
This last conversation is my least favourite. It typically happens at the end of the night, when I am tired or want to go to bed early. Jilly can sense that weakness, and proceeds to drag me all over hell's half acre to find the perfect poo place.
Why won't you go poop?
Melicious:(shaking Jilly's chain) "Go poos JillBean."
Jilly: Can't hear you; sniffing
Melicious:(pulling Jilly's chain) "Go poos JillBean."
Jilly: Sensory overload, so many other dogs.
Melicious: "Go poos JillBean, you'll feel much better."
Jilly: Hey look, another dog right there. Doesn't he know I own this town? *insert dirt kicking and 1 bark
Melicious:(pulling her back towards the grass) "Focus on going poos. Then we can play with the 'nother dog."
Jilly: I don't care what you say, can't hear you, too many smells.
Melicious: "You'll feel much better if you go poos. Trust me Tinker."
Jilly: (finally finding the ideal spot will circle and scrunch herself in mock poo-position, only to pee again!)
Melicious: "Okay, you've made your choice." (dragging her back towards home)
Jilly:(four foot stop, all heels dug into the ground) wait, wait, I have to go poos.
Melicious: "Then go!"
Jilly: fine. (starring up at me while she does her business, which is awkward for us both)
I lean down and do my duty with her duty and we are on our merry way. So, maybe the conversations aren't as one sided as I thought. She just needs to use her words more. C'mon JillBean, you can do it. If you wanna be the best puppa, you gotta put your bark into it.
I don't consider myself a girly-girl, though I am sure there are many people who disagree (those were stinging nettles Damnber and they hurt!!), but I am the one writing this blog- thus it is my reality not their's.*insert raspberry When I got home from work, took off my antique-dirty shoes with the caked mud and unrolled my jeans to release the sediment, I realized; It's mud! It's all dirt! It's ALL disgusting! Come rescue me! Eeww dirty! You might not believe me but I work in 1864. I am over 100 years dirty from work when I get home. I have been wearing the same 2 pairs of jeans for the last month (not the ones that split- though I've been asked to) cuz I don't wanna get anything else dirty. Who thought this was a good idea? Oh, wait it was me, and dirt or not, I still love it. Though everywhere smells like horse ass, rotten teeth and dust. The dust is a million years old, it must be special dust from a special place where all things old hang out. And I am not sure my co-workers have ever been clean- I mean it's dirty everywhere, everywhere. It's in my ears, up my nose and my hair. Yucky.
Then after long hours, for my 5 th day in a row; I go home...Home to a place surrounded by temporary fence, preventing me from falling into ever deepening holes. It smells like burning cheese, which I can't decide is a good thing or bad thing. Upside: it's not 100 year old dust, Downside: it's fresh, earthy and wet. Then the rains came and it's mud. Seriously? The street is mud, the sidewalk is mud; the mud sinks into my shoe treads, making this already clumsy person start walking like Peter Sellers. I am slipping and sliding, and trying to get my stubborn Beagle to poop and she won't. She hates the mud, the rain, the wet- treating me like I did THIS to her...Which I never would. So, now I am soggy, dusty, dirty, grumpy and muddy. My whole life is filthy, except my condo hallway. It's a hyper-barrack chamber. After the flood, my hallway was ripped apart and naked. Now, it is a plastic lined, newly re-insulated hazmat tunnel. An eerie bubble leading me towards ET; I walk through it 4 times daily. Each time expecting to enter zero gravity or meet John Travolta (the boy in the bubble for those too young), it's a strange feeling. Oh no, how rude of me, I think, looking behind me to see the trail of filth I've left on the plastic floor- World's oldest dirt-meet brand spanking new condo hallway. Everything here is new and hepa filters and static electricity. Jilly thinks the plastic drop sheet is a giant toy for her delight, it squeaks like her toys, tastes like her toys and the tape must smell like bacon- cuz all she wants to do is eat it...though I can see in her eyes, she knows she's being a bad girl. Finally, I enter my own sweet home, where I am free to shed the dirt and grime and grumps. After taking special precautions to wrap all this fancy dirt into itself, I jump in the shower and sing showtunes, while making up fake conversations with handsome men I have never met- Ryan Gosling-and practising my giggle. Okay, so that sounded girly, but who wouldn't be in a cupcake scented shower?
Remember that feeling? The sunshine, the fresh cut grass, your mother yelling at you to stop daydreaming and get your head in the game? For me it was soccer (or scoccer as I used to spell it) but for one special season; it was baseball. Baseball is a national pass-time. It's America's national passtime, but there are many little Canadian leagues. Baseball is 9 innings of 9 players trying to score, though not with their balls. Well, I guess with enough balls you can score, but it's not the gentlemanly thing to do. Baseball is about working together, sacrificing a bunt to move a player closer to home. It's about trying to get more than you had by stealing... It's about pennants and famous first pitches and national anthem screw-ups. It's about the love of the game.
Do you remember Toronto's back to back World Series wins in 1993-94-1995? The way all of Canada suddenly erupted in cheers, people filling the streets- without riot*insert raised eyebrow toward Vancouver. Celebrating together, as a city, as a province and as a country. The feeling you get as a little kid watching the adults around you bite their nails in anticipation of the much sought title and trophy with the golden pennants. Watching baseball into October, the leaves falling before we won the World Series. That was amazing, that's what baseball is all about. It's the Love of the game, the Tin Cup, the Natural, Bull Durham, it is A League of their Own.
This season Toronto fans have been treated to a winning worthy baseball team, and lucky us! With amazing outs and a high flying fun, it's coming together... Now, we've been down this slippery slope before, our early season enthusiasm overshadowing the fact that the spring training suntan is fading and the damp Toronto air steals the Jay's verve (which we're already starting to see*sigh). As far as I am concerned, win, lose or tie; I can't remember having a bad day at the Sky Dome. I just love the smell of the field from the 500 seats, starring up through the Dome at the CN Tower, the crunching peanut shells on the floor with a giant lemonade in one hand and a Ballpark frank in the other. As for you my early season Blue Jays, it's important to remember there is no I in team; but there is an I in win.
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