I’m spending the day with my family.
No traditional Easter ham for me — I’m vegetarian.
But I sure intend to fill myself
with lots of chocolate-coated LOVE.
Wishing you a sweeeet day,
Mudd a.k.a. Oza
xoxo
Like Philomena, I’m flying away.
For how long? — I can’t say.
Blame it on the computer!
My two-year-old PC has been freezing and crashing and losing its mind for a great deal of time. Minor problems started as early as last year, but recently they’ve grown bigger and more annoying; they’ve joined forces and have become a HUGE pain in my peace & love derrière.
So off it goes to the repair shop, today.
The computer, not the derrière.
Following the tech guy’s report on the condition my computer’s in, I will take a long look at the big picture; and when I say “big picture,” I mean the not too distant future.
I want to get into podcasting — eventually have my very own online radio show — so I need to VISUALIZE + ATTRACT + MANIFEST an iMac. I want a mean machine equipped with all the cool tools so I can record and mix and even conduct interviews.
And in order to get the ball rolling…to ease myself into podcasting…I’ve been working on a new website — MUDDINYOURFACE — that will somehow compliment this Oza blog as it will give the Mudd in me a chance to express herself more freely…in English only.
It’s going to be in blog format, exclusively dedicated to short audio messages. Funny ones, deep ones, silly ones, whatever.
Daily blurts of the subconscious mind.
So off I go into the great blue yonder.
Flying over the rainbow…where dreams
really do come true.
I LOVE YOU!
This is the cause of yesterday’s knock-out punch…
The Monster Meter
Because absolutely nothing has changed in the composition of my five and a half-room flat, or in my habits or lifestyle, that could justify such an increase in consumption:
So it’s clearly a mistake — either the woman who came to read the meter didn’t jot down the numbers right, or the meter is out of control.
The man I spoke to on the phone — at Hydro-Québec Headquarters — said it could be that a neighbour has somehow plugged into my meter and is using my electricity. Which I told him was an improbable scenario. I’ve lived here for twenty-six years, the people in this housing co-op are my friends, and I know the neighbours well enough to swear they would never even think of doing such a thing — to me or to anybody else around here.
After I had so eloquently pleaded my case, instead of sending someone over to check the meter, this man sent me a form that I will have to fill out, and then have an electrician examine my circuits and appliances and have that guy fill out his part of the form, a form that upon reception, Hydro-Québec will no doubt carefully study before deciding that there appears to be evidence to the effect the problem or error could be theirs. And send someone over.
This is the part where I took a series of long, deep,
peace and love breaths.
This is where I practiced being in the moment: I didn’t panic, I didn’t project myself into the future, and I didn’t feed the situation and have it grow into a full blown I’ll-never-be-able-to-pay-that-frickin’-amount- damn-life-is-so-unfair catastrophe.
Walk walk walk!
I quickly got out of the house, went to the library, picked four books (three of them funny cartoons), and then dashed straight down to the river, down to the river I dashed.
There, in one of my favourite little hideaways, I sat down and relaxed.
I did what I like to call my Quack Meditation, which is mostly gazing at, and talking to, in both French and Duck, these beautiful creatures without any expectations of a sign or a wise reply.
And, of course, I lovingly reassured myself
that Everything Will Be All Right.
Question Du Jour:
Why am I writing about meters and ducks when
I should be working on my Paper Purge?
Received a postcard
from my brother.
Oh Happy Day!
Robert moved to Belgium in 1981 to be with the love of his life — who shall remain nameless — and they now have two grown sons who will also remain nameless for the obvious discretionary reasons.
As for my brother…well…if you’re reading this, Robert, I was going to change your name to Léonard — Leo, for short — but I’ll never be comfortable calling you anything else but Robert or Bob or Bobby, so kill me. 
Every summer, my brother and his family travel to a new place, and for the last few years, they’ve been visiting different regions of France. This time around, they went to Camargue.
For those of you who can’t read French, Robert says it’s real hot, that there are a lot of mosquitoes (BILLIONS!!!), but that apart from the heat and the bugs, it’s cool. He mentions how nice and friendly the people are, and he finishes off by saying he’ll call me as soon as he gets home.
Helloooo?
I guess he’s waiting to call me on Saturday
for my BIRTHDAY, right?
I didn’t know flamingos were so popular in that part of the world. If you check out Camargue on Wikipedia, you’ll see a photo with almost exactly the same flamingo set-up as you see here on my postcard, except there’s no house in the far distance and there are very high weeds. But the flamingos — same choreography.
All this to say that I’m always happy when I get a postcard from my darling brother. I’ll have to show you the stacks of postcards and letters he sent me throughout his traveling life. That will be part of my Paper Purge — reading his stuff, putting everything in chronological order, and making him a nice big scrapbook: BOB ON THE GO.
And now for the question du jour:
Do you keep old postcards and letters?
…about my next blog post.
And, of course,
thinking of you.
I swear,
it’s true.
Just you,
dear ____ (your name).
I love you!
She’s gone. Dead and gone.
Good ol’ Daisy’s got her wings.
Fly, dog, fly!
I found her in the classified ads on a chilly November morning, back in 1996 – the 12th, to be precise, it was a Saturday.
You can check it out for yourselves, I kept the page from La Presse all these years because that’s the kind of gal I am, I stock a lot of documents that have to do with the past. It’s something I intend to work on in weeks and months to come – The Big Past Paper Purge – starting no later than Thursday or Friday. Maybe. I’ll see how it goes.
Daisy’s ad is the one in the middle, where it says (and I translate):
COCKER SPANIEL, 1 ½ years old, operated, vaccinated, sweet,
housebroken, country or suburb, low price, 385-8529.
That’s how Daisy came into my life.
At a time when I was pondering
whether or not to leave it.
She made me get up in the morning, damn it!
She made me go downstairs, in the yard, and
pick up her shit three times a day.
Winters…
Arrrg!
She kept me active and made me smile.
She had a stare that gave me the blues;
both of us were stuck in a housing co-op
waiting for something to do.
She made me feel like a kid again…
She was never sick.
Never had her shots.
Never had a problem.
That’s why when I saw how much she was scratching away at her ears, digging her paws as deep inside as she could, slowly, painstakingly, non-stop for a day, I decided to consult a veterinarian.
This was on March 29 of this year…on a Saturday.
The nice lady vet thoroughly examined my Daisy-Mae, diagnosed an ear infection, told me she needed a shot of antibiotics plus drops to be administered twice a day for seven days, and then proceeded to bring my little world to a halt.
Looking straight into my eyes, the vet asked me if I noticed how Daisy had gotten fat around the stomach. I said I’d seen the sagging gut, but had attributed it to old age – she had turned thirteen on the first of the month, she wasn’t exactly a spring pup.
The vet then brought her hands around Daisy’s belly in order to show me that something was definitely wrong, she could feel a mass the size of a grapefruit: cancer.
*Sigh*
I left the hospital with my dog, my sorrow, and a bottle of drops, walked back home without a thought in my head, and entered three days of watching my Daisy-Darlin’ slowly make her way into another dimension.
Right there, right then, she stopped eating. Weird stuff started to grow on her long floppy ears, looked like gravel had been stuck to them with crazy glue. The ears became very thick and heavy – kind of disgusting, actually – and then the next day, the “stuff” started to grow on her muzzle, first at the bottom and then quickly spreading towards her eyes.
Things weren’t looking good.
By Monday, both of us had hardly slept a wink, Daisy was barely drinking water, and friends were telling me how animals will endure lots of pain before they get to a point where they can’t handle it anymore and will finally start to moan. This meant Daisy was already suffering, silently, and probably had been for weeks.
So I called the vet and booked an appointment for the next day, at half past noon.
To be continued…
UPDATE
Finally, I never had the heart to tell you what happened at the vet’s. Well, to make it short, after the fatal injection, Daisy died peacefully in my arms. For months following her departure, I saw her all over the house… in all the familiar places. I still think of her often. And I keep a strand of her hair in a very special little box.
_____________
