Cat Hair, Reunions, Facebook, and the Meaning of Life

Tonight after work is the inaugural spring BBQ at the BFF’s- it’s a haircutting and mojito party, with our hair guru Dax and her scissors. So you can all expect me to be a bit prettier tomorrow, and I know I won’t disappoint you!

It will be a much-needed few hours of relaxation after a busy day and busier week.

Remember the scene in the book Misery where Stephen King’s writer character is churning out a novel to keep his psycho captor happy? And his typewriter has no ‘n’ key? Well, this morning a rather important bit on my keyboard ceased to perform for me- the SPACE BAR.

I had a 10am deadline, so dashing out for a new keyboard wasn’t the best possibility. Taking the time to dismantle the dang thing and rake out the mattress of cat hair was likely the best bet for rejuvenation. It turned out that if I put a pen nozzle into the spongey part under the space bar, after every word when I needed it, it would work. Needless to say, the morning’s assignment was rather tedious. I had to get another keyboard at lunch.

Surely, cat hair is the bane of my existence. Every cat owner knows that there’s no such thing as clean laundry. Fresh from the dryer, Miss Kitty wants it warm. We have to vacuum our underwear drawers, for crying out loud.

But whatever, that is just part and parcel of having these amazing living creatures among us. It’s still beyond me how each and every cat is such an unusual character. I wrote yesterday about Erte, the eccentric Russian designer. He once expressed that his heart yearned only for a cat, and was never without a small entourage of his beloved felines. I have such an assortment of tom-dandies here, it’s ridiculous. And the best part of my job is that two of the three just love flopping across the desk and spending the workday with me. And this is why so much cat hair sails into the keyboard!

Of course, I’m e-jogging to facebook quickly after darting out for the keyboard replacement. It goes without saying that I have to catch up- it’s been hours, and I feel out of touch. I also check out my old/new pal’s blog. And it’s nice to see my book on his blog today!

Facebook rules. It’s not the first time an old friend (or otherwise!) has come out of the woodwork, of course. But not every girl from grade three gym do you rush out to meet up with, and some you can’t, because they are in Ireland or Madagascar.

My friends asked about my pending reunion with this dear friend from high school. It had been sixteen or so years since I’d last seen Dave. During high school we got on famously, nattering endlessly about every conceivable analysis of every situation. It didn’t long after e-contact to notice some obvious synchronicities- we’re bloggers, we’re cheerful drama queens, we’ve been at the same places on Church Street at the same time all our lives and never ran into each other.

“I’ll have my cell if things go sour,” one of my queens offered. Well, this wasn’t a blind date, but still, there was no way to tell how things would turn out. I’d been pretty sure way back when that Dave was one of my favourite things in the world, but things go by, and people change, so there was no real guarantee. Still, I was guessing it would be an incredibly normal experience; that it would resonate oddly as if there had been no in-between years, even though I’m graying, have gained fifty pounds, and Dave had lost as much!

“This is how I think it’s gonna go,” I told them. “I think we won’t be able to stop talking.” Then I said something that really shocked them: “And if I recall correctly, this one may well outchatter me.”

Well, Dave and I were right at home among the rich and the tragic at Zipperz, warbling along with the actually astounding Kendall the One Man Band. And we talked, and we talked. I learned among other things, that my friend also has three cats- and three dogs! How cool is that?

The quirky bubble we inhabited for the evening was familiar and wonderful and I’m thankful for these bursts of joy in life where something goes really rather nice. This kind of laughter is the best medicine. It’s nice to recover some of your precious souls when fate allows.

It was also funny because I was hoping to avoid the topic of the last time we’d seen each other before losing the ropes. It was a slightly sour note for me and any feelings or politic I’d had were brief and petty. It was just by chance that this was the last note: it was not ‘a final straw’ on either side, to my understanding at least. Now, a decade and a half on, I could care less that a scene occurred at Dave’s party. Julie Ann and I had heard about the party and happened to be in St. Catharines, so we went. Julie Ann’s date also went, and he happened to be very tall and very hippie-like and talked in creepy under notes so that you had to strain to hear him. Well, he was a benign kind of guy, but the kids didn’t know that, and David asked us to hit the hippie trail. That was long before email, so phone numbers changed, addresses shifted, and hence, my last recollection of Dave was me blasting out of his driveway with two deadheads in the back seat of my dad’s Buick LeSabre.

Yep, embarrassing. So embarrassing that only two glasses of pink wine into the soiree, Dave says, “Hmm, I don’t really remember the exact last moment I laid eyes on you.”

What? “Was it in Toronto, or Niagara, do you know?” And that’s when it dawns on me that Dave had been plastered, as teenagers often are at parties, and didn’t even recall the weird encounter with Night of the Living Deadhead. He did not even recall meeting this brief amour of our mutual pal, Julie Ann.

And that, too, was a small gift. All these years I’d wondered why Dave’s last memory of me had to be this drama, however small. But it was forgettable drama, and he had, in fact, forgotten.

Now I am off to christen spring with a merry assortment of droll cats, including my favourite Crinkled Old Bat, Al, the hairdresser, and not one but two other meth widows. It’s good to have good peeps. It’s already been a great spring. Every little thing is magic. Sunny days ahead.

Visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.
Buy her book, the one Dave raved about on his blog, above, or online through indigo or amazon.

The John Bennett

In photographs, The John Bennett and I appear to be the perfect, happy couple. But that’s just John and me hamming around, pretending to be a commercial for Lavalife. We tell anyone within earshot that we like breathing, getting paid, and long walks on the beach.

We can’t help it if we look so good together in front of the camera. Perhaps John’s husband would be jealous of all those pictures of us in Chicago, New York, and Toronto, but usually he is the one taking the pictures. The three of us are rather inseparable, and have been for many years. Gonzalo and I have been colleagues for over six years and have coordinated endless projects, parties and functions together. The John Bennett was facing the guillotine in my mind for stealing Gonzalo’s heart- until I met him and deemed him perhaps the only acquaintance remotely worthy to be my dear friend’s husband.

Quite often, John and I embarrass the husband with our puerile antics and a theatrical sense of humour that no one but the two of us seem to get. We love to complain at length about just about everything, and take great care to find the longest words with which to embellish our discontent. We must turn the simplest transactions like getting gas or ordering pizza into an ordeal worthy of endless rehashing anecdotes. Inside joke: “thank you for your attention to this matter.”

It is frightening how slim the chance of fate was in bringing this friend to Toronto. What if Gonzalo had never gone to Chicago to see his friend Lucio? Then he would never have met Lucio’s roommate with the funky red and grey apartment. What if that roommate was super cool but not The John Bennett? What if The John Bennett was not the romantic warrior that he was, and had not decided to move to Canada to marry? Then I would have been shit out of luck.

The John Bennett has been The Best Friend a Girl Could Have. He is loyal and caring and understanding and tolerant. I can depend on him to protect me, stand up for me, and tell it like it is when I’m not seeing clearly. He has listened to me for hours when others are sick and tired of my whining and crying. He has patiently tended to me when I was sick. He has rescued me from countless horrible situations in which I impetuously find myself.

He has always picked me up, dusted off the dirt, and sent me back in the forward direction he expects me to stay headed in. He endures the dramas. He reads drafts of my writing. He bravely tags along when I’m satisfying my penchant for hole-in-the-wall soul food restaurants, though he is far too stylish to set foot in most of them. He gave me the greatest honour when he and Gonzalo asked me to be Best Girl at their wedding.

One summer when I was sick, tired, broke and depressed, The John Bennett insisted on renting a car and a cabin and taking our little family to Jack Lake. From the second we arrived, he was fixing pisco sours and mojitos without fail. And no matter what I divulge of my secret interior while under the spell of the moon and the mojito, The John Bennett holds my divulgence in sacred secrecy. We call our mutual spilling That of Which We Will Not Speak.

On top of his heroic generosities, hilarity, trustworthiness, and solid family values, The John Bennett is a hardworking man with superior organization and leadership skills. He is gentle in spirit and totally fierce. He is the kind of friend who encourages his loved ones to be all they can be, but he doesn’t expect perfection and is one of the few who can be privy to my private shames without my complete embarrassment. Because The John Bennett is one of the few to whom I can turn who can offer solutions and ways out of my muddles.

And despite the multiple memories of happy times dancing and eating and laughing, whether traveling or at parties or at weddings, the memory that stands out most for me may be the most morbid.

The John Bennett stood against the beach with boats sailing by in the background, speaking at my husband’s funeral. Days before, John and Gonzalo were in Peru, and when they heard the horrible news, they made my name in rocks on the Peruvian beach and photographed it from above. Now, looking sharp and handsome in his button-up shirt and church shoes and Chanel sunglasses, The John Bennett stood before a congregation and told them all how great he thinks I am.

He praised my survival skills and offered publicly his love and support. The wind was whipping his strawberry hair and tears were streaming down our faces at this most solemn event, and in the horrible hollows of loss, I felt a giant safety net and knew I would never fall apart when I had so much holding me together. I made some embarrassing quip about John being paid to advertise my abilities under adversity, but the truth is, when someone like The John Bennett believes in you, you know inside that you can do anything.

Whether driving me in the rain to pick up my Pamprin, or making me laugh when my soul is sick of crying, The John Bennett will be there.

Visit Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

In Which to the Author’s Dismay, she has to concede that the girl rocks

Now this might be the weirdest thing I will ever say: I’m loving the new Ashlee Simpson album.

Who knew the spokeslady of the insipid generation would start channeling Avril, Gwen Stefani, Blondie lite, and a little Cyndi Lauper- possibly in time to redeem herself?

I hated even admitting such a thing, trust me. But Rolling Stone gave it the seal of approval and I thought, huh? Where am I?

So, yeah, checked it out. The lyrics are…horrible.. horribly unfortunate most of the time. But not all the time. It’s the type of awful that’s going to be embarrassing a few years from now when she’s putting out killer shit. And I think she will. Some of this already is.

I do so love a good pop ditty. I love silly boyfriend songs that thump and bump and jump about, stuff that takes you from the skipping rope days right through to the ol’ pine boat. But I’m heavily prejudiced by utter disdain for the Simpsons sisters. I’ve been embarrassed for them over the years, but at least Jessica’s got her beauty. The only thing interesting about Ashlee Simpson has been how her boyfriend made the word ‘guyliner’ part of group consciousness.

Though I cringe frequently at the lyrics, there’re other times when I’m genuinely thinking ‘clever.’ I would absolutely be up on the dance floor, and that’s getting rarer and rarer though I said it never would….

Some songs are getting better with repeated listening, always a real test in my mind. There’s a lot of fun to be had here, and I like to be silly and foolish a great deal of the time. Surely, Ash’s not the best voice in the industry, but not half bad, either. It’s the very first time I’ve ever seen the girl show a personality: tons of it! The Rolling Stone mentioned some ‘appealing honesty,’ and sure enough, a sprinkling of that and a good dose of genuine confidence really show her stepping up to the plate.

Most astonishing of all, there’s at least one track that I would call ‘brilliant.’ I couldn’t help but notice the title of Little Miss Obsessive right off the bat, given my blog name. Then I couldn’t help myself cranking it up loud, over and over. And I can’t wait to hear the long mixes at Fly, hands in the air, see you there!

Now how embarrassing is this? Go check it out.

What Lies Beneath:creating my artwork

Though I haven’t been inspired much in the past year to paint, doing it today reminded me of why I need to. Quite simply, it makes me happy, happier than just about anything else in the world. It complements the focused type of energy I need to write. For me, art is a chaotic, wild thing, filled with stimulating images and certainly surging in on mania. It’s so cathartic for me to paint madly. I couldn’t feel happier than working like that, with colours and papers flying, a big ol’ mess.

Thing is, with my collages, you never know what’s under the layers. The way they unfold surprises- you never know what you will find, what lies beneath. It surprises even me to lay them out, then shroud them or highlight them, as fate dictates.

Nothing pleases me more than the twisting contexts of fragmented images- they unravel like dreams into the fabric of my painting. Words, objects, pictures all become mystical relics: I curate them into a new meaning, or I cover them so that their mystery permeates the paints and papers. Each canvas is a world infused, confused, more ethereal than surreal. It is fate alone that brings me to lay a particular image down- my eyes may have glanced over it, my hands may have unearthed something different. I comb the world for paper paraphernalia, wherever I am, culling images from the media, from books, from the camera, that I might use later. And might not- most go into the pool, and find their way back out again, into another thrift store, or a dumpster, where they may be found, probably not.

Some writers feel they somehow channel their material from beyond, that the stories ‘come out of nowhere’ and are somehow more real than the fiction guise they wear.  In some ways, I feel the act of creating art is indeed a spiritual, or even spiritualist experience. While I doubt Seth is on the other side sending secretly coded messages to my scissors and paintbrush, I do feel I tap into the soul pool beyond, that these stories unfolding through me have a veracity that news stories do not. I translate the ineffable inspiration and darkness of human experience. I unearth words, and place them in new possibilities of meaning. As I sift through endless imagery, contexts shift and shimmer. History’s pulse beats from the canvas: the future suggests itself through the past, but always with a few surprises.

Visit artist/author Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.