O.K. I'm going to lighten up a little and talk -- briefly -- about something that puzzles me. Amateur food pictures. Why? I guess to answer the questions that so many people have like, "Did the taco salad really come in a tortilla bowl, or are you just making that up?" or, "What do those dumpling innards look like, anyway?" (see above)

I don't know about you, but most of those pictures make food look more like disemboweled alien guts than anything else. I know most people don't have the services of a good food stylist when they go out to that little gem of a mom-and-pop bistro, but if it doesn't look appetizing, I usually hit the "Next" button while suppressing my gag reflex. On the plus side, bad food photos can be very funny, Just check out James Lileks' Gallery of Regrettable Food. Granted, Lileks has an almost unholy way of picking exactly the wrong thing to say about the food pictured, but he could just post it, sans captions, and I'd still LMAO.

The professor came into the restaurant yesterday a little earlier than usual. Middle-aged, ginger-haired, crinkly eyes, very clean-cut. He sat down at the counter while I was polishing wine glasses, and declared he would have breakfast, a departure from his usual soup-of-the-day. He was smiling broadly and said, "L, I've had a breakthrough. Today, for the first time in fifteen months, and eighteen days, I've seen a glimmer of hope. I woke up this morning and I could sense hope for the future. It's been a long time, L. A very long time."

The backstory: his wife, soulmate, significant other, best friend, was tragically killed in a car accident fifteen months and nineteen days previously. I didn't know him then. I certainly do now. Not as well as the cafe's owners, but I could definitely greet him on the street. He's a friendly guy, with a ready smile, which belies the loss with which he struggles. He's seeing a therapist, but I suspect the routine of coming into the cafe and going through familiar rituals with people he knows is another form of therapy.

I haven't suffered much great personal loss and only know a handful of people who have, but I see a common thread in the lives of those who seem to heal successfully after emotional trauma. They continue as normal an existence as they can manage. It's not an automatic thing. Once the shock fades, the sharp pain has to be acknowledged, but soon one either drowns in it emotionally -- which, ultimately, is self-centered -- or one gradually lets the outside world in, unclogging the psyche, flushing the rotten bits away. Scars remain, but at least the survivor can function and feel again, and, ultimately move forward -- a lot healthier than being trapped in the past.

I think the comfort of routine can play a huge role, allowing for recovery without as many bumps and bruises. Knowing what comes next is a lot more soothing to most people than being thrown off-balance by the unexpected. I see it in my mother, who suffers from mental illness. Routine is the 'blankie' she drags around with her: tattered, but still serviceable. But I suspect that, for the professor, the cafe isn't just his favorite place to eat every week. It's another form of therapy. Having that bowl of soup set before him, watching the traffic flow by or the snow fall outside the window, sharing his milestones with those he likes, are nourishment and medicine for him. They're an affirmation that life still flows around him. Maybe yesterday he finally realised, after fifteen months, that someday he'll be able to swim in that swirling, teeming river again.

Baby Steps

Navigating these new blog waters is proving to be a little adventure in cyber-space. I'm not the most tech-savvy yokel out there (hell, I can hardly type 15 words a minute...), but I'm actually making progress. It sort of feels like I'm back in elementary, savoring a dawning awareness that the world is a lot bigger than the ten blocks between home and school.

For instance, I wanted to find out whether I would start seeing any outside traffic on this site. Not having told a soul I know of its existence (in the interest of maintaining a little anonymity and the relative freedom that comes with it), I wondered if anyone would stumble upon it randomly, maybe through a chance surf on "Next Blog", like me discovering the weird, but oddly funny and endearing site of the woman who writes as if she's her dog. Or the brand-new, very excited Portland, OR bloggers who have just been granted a plot in a municipal garden. Could I count the number of hits? Was there a tool blogger.com provided? Turns out that's a "No." But after a little digging, I signed up for a free counting application that would do the trick. ( Interested? Try this blogger.com help page.). Turns out I am no longer the only one taking a gander at my blah-blahs. Thank god. I was starting to feel more than a tad narcissistic.

I also got a feeling of accomplishment from learning how to add photos to my entries, adding links in my entries (see previous paragraph), and learning how my blog can be more publicized (am I going from narcissist to exhibitionist?). Woo hoo! Now, if I can just keep enough momentum going, maybe I can figure out how to finish my back taxes too. Baaaahhhh ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!!

Winter City

Winter has really hit my town this year. In the seven winters I have lived here, I've never seen it quite like this. It's not so terribly cold, although we've had some intense, short-lived snaps. It's the snow. Last year it rained. Now, having lived in Vancouver for eight years prior, I was no stranger to rain in January. But that was Vancouver. This is NOT. So last winter was, somehow, unsettling. Maybe it's the ever-growing spectre of global warming looming over our heads like a monkey getting more and more deranged, but I was decidedly spooked.

This year, by contrast, has seen record snowfalls and the biggest plowed and shoveled snowbanks I have seen in a city since I played "King-of-the-Castle" on the massive pile in my childhood backyard. The snowbanks are HUGE. The base for tobogganing in the nearby park is freakin' awesome. If you only look at the yards, not the streets, everything looks white and squeaky-clean. Thank 'La Nina', apparently. She is muckin' with the Gulf Stream and cooling things way down - at least temporarily. A setback for climate change alarmists, but not forever.The pics show it all. So beautiful. But just wait until the spring thaw...

R.I.P.

The dog died last Saturday morning, age 16. She was euthanized as humanely as possible: at home, by a caring vet, surrounded by people who love her. I was at work, but knew it was happening, so all day I had to will myself not to cry.

I had said goodbye the night before, caressing her as much as possible and crying my cry. She was with my boyfriend's ex. We shared custody, but the last two weeks she had been cared for by the ex and her daughters. They were more capable of looking after an ailing, elderly dog than we. Among her afflictions were a failing heart, fluid buildup in the lungs because of the weak heart, and slow but steady renal failure thanks to the drugs she was prescribed to drain the lungs of the fluid. She also suffered the odd seizure and was losing control of her excretory functions (no longer able to pee, poo or throw up when she wanted).

Despite all these health problems, despite having lost an eye in a car accident (my joke was, "I never should have let her drive..."), despite detaching a ligament in her hind right leg, losing sight in the other eye to a thick cataract, losing her hearing, having all but four teeth pulled due to gingivitis, and losing another when she sneezed too hard, (I'm not making this stuff up -- my hairdresser called her 'The Incredible Shrinking Dog'), despite fierce separation anxiety when she would almost bark and howl herself raw, she was still the most stoic dog I have met. She didn't whine when she was hurt. She seemed to accept the fact that she would occasionally bump into furniture after her eye was removed. She still wanted to play fetch even though she'd have to stop every few minutes to catch her breath. She was still determined to jump up on the couch and sit next to me so the cat wouldn't have the best seat.

Was she just the most colossally stupid dog on the planet, able to soldier on because that's just how life was? I don't think so. She was smart enough to learn a few new things I taught her in her twilight years. I think she was at least smart enough to realize that life was just a whole lot more tolerable if you worked around the hardship as best you could. And no Jack Russel Terrier worth her salt would act like a sissy -- unless the rest of the pack had temporarily abandoned her. Then to hell with canine pride: bark long and loud enough and they'd always come back.

We shared the same name, so there was an additional connection, of which I think she was aware (partly owing to the fact that, when she could still hear, she'd sometimes be confused if she heard someone calling me by her name). And she was fiercely attached to the alpha females in her respective homes: myself and the ex. We were the only ones who did not get a snarl if we picked her up in the middle of a nap. Although I only knew her for the last four-and-a-half years of her life, of all the dogs I've known well, I think it was she who captured the biggest chunk of my heart.

I know her life was prolonged by the drugs, and that we were continuing to play god when we decided it was time for her suffering to end. I know that we (especially the ex) are breathing a sigh of relief at not having to look after her every waking minute. I know that she was a pain in the ass when she barked her head off and tried to claw her way past the basement door or into the dog food cupboard. I know all that. But I'm still gonna miss the crap out of her.

Shades of Grey

Willpower. Is it real? Or is it simply another way of saying "tenacious". I sometimes question whether I have it or not. I don't seem to be the most disciplined person in the world, especially when it comes to singing -- unless I have an upcoming gig or audition. Then, yeah, I'll turn it on. But in the meantime I find myself sidetracked by a million other things: work, socializing, pets, pressing domestic issues (vacuuming, anyone? Anyone?), blogging on the $%£&^*& computer. Is it any wonder that I don't get around to practicing in between lessons? Is it any wonder when I beat myself up about that? Guilt about procrastination is my cat -'o-nine-tails, my bunch of stinging nettles.

I am fully aware that part of the reason I'm not a more successful singer is that I don't work as hard at it as some of my peers. But would I be much happier if I did? Is it so bad that my life is more varied and less focused on a single goal? Sigh. I'd like to say, "No! Life is actually pretty good, and getting better all the time!" But there's a part of me that can't deny the truth that I'm happiest when I'm performing, when I'm losing my identity for a fraction of a second in whatever role I am playing. It thrills me completely.

So then, the next question I ask myself is, "If that's your biggest joy, why aren't you pursuing it to your utmost?" And I have no simple answer. Maybe it has to do with not wanting to deal with all the unpleasant crap that results: the out-of-pocket expenses, the endless need for preparation, the writing of a flawless resume, the updating of the website and, most of all, the ever-present spectre of rejection. Realizing you're not wanted -- over and over and over again -- isn't just bruising for the ego, it can lead to the occasional serious hemorrhage of self-confidence. Those moments when I lose out on a badly-wanted role are the times when I have to fight despair as if it were a wild animal ready to tear me to pieces. I know that seems melodramatic, but I'm describing my worst moments. The rest of the time, rejection is a nippy little poodle I have to shake off. Painful, but no need for a rabies shot.

I'm still wrestling with this dilemma over my calling. This yin/yang of unhappy/happy. Sometimes I wish I were more like the "super singers" I went to school with. They were focused, had answers, were driven by unseen coachmen. Their worlds appeared black and white. But I just see way too many shades of grey. And, despite all the self-flagellation, I kind of like it that way.

The Zen of Waitressing

I am trying to be a perfect waitress. How sad is that? Well, I figure if I'm working this piss-ant job, I might as well see how good I can get. And I think I'm pretty damn good. I rarely break things, I don't loiter around chit-chatting with the cooks (o.k., not for long anyway...), and, in the words of Phoebe Damrosch, who used to be a captain at Per Se restaurant in New York, I don't just fulfill needs, I try to anticipate them - inasmuch as I can in a casual little, middle-of-the-road- bistro. It's not that hard, actually.

I hadn't waitressed for, uh, I don't want to say how long ago. I'll leave it at "over ten years". I had been a customer at the old place and thought I could help them out after their rushed and stressful move westward. No idea whether I'd suck or not. But after years of retail and interpretive jobs, I figured my work ethic and customer service skills have been honed so fine that I could almost, but not quite, do it blindfolded and covered in cheap pancake syrup (mmmm... artificial maple flavour...).

My biggest problem is that I'm still an extroverted introvert -- someone who forces herself to be outgoing, but only enough to serve the situation. Beyond the basics, I often find myself tongue-tied or retreating into routine. My brain is coming up with all sorts of observations, but I keep thinking people won't understand, or will find them off-putting, or bizarre. I also suffer from 'delayed-comeback syndrome', wherein I'll be faced with verbal jousting and retreat with my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth -- only to think of a brilliant comeback minutes, or hours, too late. I know I'm not alone in my agony, but I definitely feel that way when I'm faced with a table full of smart-ass customers.

Forgetting makes me wince too. I have a small rule about always remembering a request for water, because I've had too many servers let me down when I've asked. Today I forgot someone's water and could not have sunk low enough in my abject apology. I'm not sure whether to be ashamed about scraping the floor like that or not. Does it make me a lesser human being? Should I care? I think the proof is in the tipping. In that case it worked. When it's over 20%, I guess I don't TOTALLY suck...