Beautiful Cynicism III

Voici une vidéo chouette d’un félin qui a du talent. La mélodie est un peu avant-garde pour mon goût, mais tant pis…

Je suis malade. Et pourquoi pas? Entre mes deux boulots, les préparations pour mon voyage, et les visites avec ma grand-mère, je n’ai évidemment rien à faire pendant les deux semaines prochaines… Le début d’une grippe s’est installé dans ma gorge, brûlant lentement, comme des cendres. Je n’ai pas pu dormir plus que 3 ou 4 heurs ces dernières nuits; c’était comme une invitation au virus de m’infecter. J’ai des maux de tête, je suis prise de vertige, je suis déshydratée, épuisée… Je ne peux plus penser clairement. Et mon lit, mon lit tout confortable, mon lit que j’aime, il a l’air de me moquer: ses oreillers confortables, sa literie douce, son couverture luxueux… Il me regarde, il m’attend, tout en sachant que le sommeil ne me retrouvera pas.

It’s just a small glass jar, one of many in her collection. She has a dazzling array of little pots and jars and tubes and bottles, each filled with its own magical potion and soft scent. This paraphernalia of beauty is scattered all around the house – on her dresser, in her drawers, in the cosmetic cabinet in her en suite, in the cupboard under the sink in the main bathroom… My Baba’s lotions and creams and moisturizers are everywhere in my grandparents’ house. I remember her being this way ever since I was a little girl. She was always a fervent believer in taking care of her skin. She would painstakingly scan the pages of her Avon catalogue, ordering expensive lotions and potions; in the department stores, she would spend hours poring over the counter displays and chatting with the salesgirls, gathering free samples, carefully scrutinizing every product.

As soon as she was well enough, we brought as much of my Baba’s beauty toolkit as was reasonable to her at the hospital. She couldn’t “put on her face” on her own, of course; whoever was around would do it (except for my Dzizi, who is woefully ill-equipped for the task ). I secretly loved being around at those times, being the one to administer the beauty routine. The comments about role reversal are inevitable; as she applied moisturizer and blush and lipstick to me when I was too young to do it myself, I do the same for her now that she’s unable to do it for herself.

Nowadays, my Baba is in the personal care home rather than the hospital, and my visits are almost exclusively restricted to the evenings. If I’m late enough, she asks for her “facial” (with warm water and plain face cloths it’s not exactly spa-grade!), and I gladly comply. I clean off the day’s makeup, and rinse her face with a warm cloth. After patting the skin dry, I apply vitamin C serum and eye cream, followed by the crowning glory: her Relaxing Night cream. The little orange jar has become my favourite ritual with my Baba. I give her a face massage as I apply it, taking my time. Several months ago, when she was having a rough time and she was suffering, and would cry and rage against the world almost non-stop, I would pull out the night cream in an effort to soothe her, and it usually would work. The slow, repetitive, circular movements, combined with the faintly medicinal scent, seemed to calm whatever demons were haunting her. Now, in better times, during this nightly routine we either chat, or sit in contemplative silence together: my Baba with her eyes closed, smiling; me with the trusty orange jar in hand, also smiling.

Taking joy in living is a woman’s best cosmetic. (Rosalind Russell)

Piglet: Well, it isn’t very happy for me.”

Pooh: Where are you going, Piglet?

Piglet: That’s what I keep asking myself! Where?

Pooh: And what do you think you will answer yourself?

Une confession pas très surprenant pour ceux qui me lisent: j’adore la neige et l’hiver. Les vents viennent du sud ces jours-ci, et apportent avec eux des nuages gris et lourds. Hier, ces nuages ont nous offerts une belle neige; les flocons délicats, ressemblant à des plumes, sont tombés tranquillement pendant la nuit. Je me suis levé à un beau spectacle de neige, quelques centimètres de plus pour rafraîchir la couverture blanche qui couvre prairie depuis des mois. La neige me fait si heureuse. Pendant quelques moments, j’oublie mes soucis et mes responsabilités, et je redevienne enfant. L’essentiel devient le froid, l’air frais, la glace, le bruit doux de la neige fraîche sous mes pieds.

Another confession: I miss my dad. He’s a bit of an odd duck, and I take after him in many ways. He sends me pictures of various dishes he’s made, in emails with subject lines like Mescalun salad with pomegranate seeds and pine nuts. He retired the year before last, and has since become the building manager of the condo where he and his wife live. (Funny how it still sounds strange to say “my dad’s wife”…) He tends to get a spot of cabin fever in the winter months, but luckily for him, he lives on the coast, so winter only lasts until the end of January. The rest of the year he can be found out on the water in his boat, fishing in the wee hours of the morning, when everyone else is still fast asleep. He complains about gardening and landscaping taking up so much of his time, but he loves doing it. Almost every email ends with a description of what he’s making for dinner (or lunch, or brunch, depending on the time of day). Today a courier from Purolator left a message on my door: there are some packages for me, waiting at their offices. I know what’s in them: a computer that my dad sent me last week, out of the blue, for no real reason. I haven’t seen him in nearly 2 years; hopefully it won’t be that long before I see him again.

Une confession de plus: je suis une femme sensible. Je sens vivement la douleur des autres. La souffrance de mes amis deviennent la mienne, et je me sens responsable pour eux. Ces dernières années surtout, je pleure plus facilement, et mes émotions se révèlent sur mon visage, même à ceux qui ne me connaissent pas… Parfois les autres pensent que je suis forte, résiliente, même stoïque en face de l’inquiétude; c’est pour ça que les gens me demandent souvent pour des conseils, c’est pour ça qu’ils pleurent sur mon épaule. Je peux reconnaître qu’une capacité pour l’empathie est en moi, mais il est certain qu’il me manque ce même air de calme et de certitude en concernant mes propres problèmes!

One last confession: I hate making phone calls. (Professional calls, not personal ones.) I get nervous, and feel I’m talking too fast – though I’ve often been told I have a pleasant phone manner. Which invariably means I am often tasked with making the calls to clients and customers, wherever I work. And so, my duties at the new job I began yesterday consist of, in the main, calling clients! Convincing complete strangers to speak to you after you’ve interrupted their dinner, or their play time with the kids, or their quiet, post-workday evening is a challenge. So far, though, everyone has been remarkably nice. Perhaps the telephone isn’t something to be feared after all…

Au fil des années, je ne pensais pas trop au magasin, dont le nom m’a échappé, car un voyage Européene n’étais pas dans mon avenir. Mais le désir de la visiter ne m’a jamais quitté. C’était juste la semaine dernière que je me suis rendu compte qu’après des années, je pourrai bien le visiter – tout bientôt! Hier soir, j’ai trouvé le site web de cette magnifique petite librairie: elle s’appelle Shakespeare and Company, et elle paraît, dans les photos sur le site web, aussi charmante que je l’ai imaginée.

Et si on ne veut pas se trouver? Si on veut se cacher, loin du monde, dans un petit endroit tranquille, sous le soleil, penché sur une roche? Et si on veut se cacher de soi-même?

A return to a common theme: stress. I’ve always been an anxious sort, and judging by the temperaments of many family members, I come by it honestly. The ironic thing is that when most would experience joy or happiness, I tend to experience stress and trepidation. Such as this past week. During the last several days, I discovered that due to the kindness of others, I would be making a trip overseas; I got a new job; my Baba continued making slow and steady progress; I was able to spend some quality time with the love of my life. All wonderful things. Yet the whole week, I simply could not relax. I went through the motions – warm bubble baths, singing along to Rosemary Clooney, drowsy weekend mornings – yet there was always this tension within me, smouldering somewhere deep inside and refusing to be extinguished, regardless of what I threw on it. I sleep, but don’t feel rested. I laugh, then feel my heart sink.

And yet. And yet…

On dit qu’on devrait voyager avec le coeur léger et l’esprit ouvert… J’aimerai être léger comme un chat, un animal qui saute sans se blesser, qui marche sans faire du bruit. Un animal solitaire et beau, plein de confiance en soi, qui dirige sa propre vie sans hésitation.