2004-06-01 � Weekend Update
O darlings! The Handsome Guy and I had ourselves the most blissful weekend away! Though it wasn't a long weekend for us in Canada, Jack took Friday off and we packed Finny Jane off to doggie camp and away we went to the Briars Inn at Jackson Point.

If I could, I'd share every second with you (okay, well not every second...there are many adult and nude, nude, nude minutes that will remain between my one true love and I and some further minutes that involve bathroom routines and toenail clipping and such that are just better left to your imagination)...but as I'm currently up to my arse in half-completed projects for which i am actually being paid and am legally obligated to complete and additionally, paying a very steep price for being so neglectful as to send my furry child off to doggie camp for the whole weekend without even the vaguest glimmer of guilt*, I will offer you a few select snapshots instead.

Snapshot the First: We have been in the car for just under nine minutes when this conversation transpires:

Me: O! O! O! Turn around! Turn around quick!!

Jack: What? what? Why?

Me: I just realized that I've forgotten a critical lipstick!

Jack: There is no such thing as a critical lipstick.

Me: There is too! There is and I have forgotten it! (am spun around in my seat, looking anxiously through the rear window, hoping my critical tube of rose cashmere will have had the good sense to strap on a jet pack and speed after us, narrowly averting a lipcolour crisis of global significance)

Jack: Forget it. I'm not turning around.

Me: O, please! It's critical! It's a CRITICAL LIPSTICK!

Jack says nothing. Instead he fixes me with a particularly stony, resolute stare which makes me tremble a bit, mostly because shouldn't he be like watching the road or something?!

Me: (grumbled under my breath and from a deeply slumped position) Fine. But you're going to spend your weekend finding the perfect pink hued berries to mash into a suitable lipstick for me then.

Snapshot the Second: We are pedalling our rented bikes lazily down Hedge road. Every three minutes or so, I shout out, "That one! No, That one!" and gesture madly at some stately manor I've just glimpsed through the privacy hedges, indicating that Jack should immediately abandon his bike and pound up to the front door and offer them any amount of money they want for their splendid lakeside estate.

The sun is dancing on the waves, the trees are laughing in the wind which is cycling though a glorious selection of fragrances: fresh cut grass, lilac, something sizzling on a hidden barbeque, something like jasmine, something cool and earthy like new potting soil... this is what I call living!

Snapshot the Third: We have stopped by the side of the road to watch sailboats slice through the water and Jack nudges me and points down the road. Haloed in the setting sunshine, a young boy, about nine, with a bait bucket swinging from one hand and a fishing net slung over his shoulder trots alongside a young girl with jeans rolled to her knees and an energetically bobbing blonde ponytail. They are laughing. Jack starts whistling the theme to the Andy Griffith show.

Snapshot the Fourth: We are in a fabulously old lakeside graveyard where Stephen Leacock is buried, wandering amongst elaborately scrolled headstones dating back to the early 1800s. It would be breathtaking if it weren't for one thing: a swarm of fish flies so thick you can barely see. And they're clotting on our clothing and climbing into our various nooks and crannies and Jack has his shirt pulled up over his mouth and his shoulders shrugged up around his ears and we can't talk without ending up with a mouthful of winged protein. The word swarm is just not big enough to cover the horror.


There's much more to tell. Like Jack's pool-side experiments with his buoyance, his exasperation with me when he found me photographing swatches of wall-paper, the fantastic rhubarb tart I had for dessert one night with the most amazing scoop of banana ice cream on top, and how completely content I felt basking in the sunshine Saturday morning, eyes closed listening to birds chattering above and the sound of the waves pounding the rocks, the Saturday newspaper, fat and unread, at my fingertips, a glorious breakfast of fruit and french toast and two pots of coffee in my belly. Ahhhh...


*Payment currently being exacted in the form of having a well-skinned, slobbery tennis ball dropped into my lap every three minutes and having my elbow, leg and bum firmly and repeatedly prodded until I throw it out the door and down the hall for Miss Thing to fetch...else being subjected to endless sorrowful whinging and sad eyes. Also, cannot go ANYWHERE (including the loo) without a 70lb. bag of fur glued to my knee.


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