Picture a tiny yellow-haired girl, curls cropped short as a lamb (by my mother's description), crooked gap teeth spread into the sort of grin only a five-year-old can muster.
There's a picture of me, like that, with a crown of daisies in my hair (I'd just learned to braid them), sitting in my father's lap (I used to go back and look at that picture just to imagine what it looked like when my father smiled, he never did again after moving to Canada) in a white wooden chair that my grandfather had built out of part of the white whicket fence when he took it down to build a larger pen for the geese.
I still hate geese, but that's another story.
It could have been that day, or another day that month (although I'm pretty sure it was the same summer, it had been so hot out that I had run onto the wet kitchen floor to feel the cool on my feet) that I had that conversation with my grandmother that I seem to remember every time I do intensive cleaning.
On her hands and knees with a horsehair brush and a wooden bucket (what I wouldn't do to see another wooden bucket) filled with soapy water, she was scrubbing the brown tiles of the floor.
I asked her why she didn't use a mop like the woman at the farm that Rex and Boxer lived on.
I keep remembering that part. It was the first time I'd ever asked "Why aren't we like other people?", and every time I think of the slap that got me from my mom, or the punch from my dad, or these days when I ask myself that same question but in an entirely more positive light...
I remember that question, and only now am I realizing that her answer meant "because sometimes we can do it better" and not just "because I'm stubborn and have to do it the old way."
In any case, she was right, and my bathroom floor is a brilliant white, whiter than the thousand times I've been over it with a mop. The corners are mildew-free, the clever little outcroppings of the walls are shining, and the bathtub looks far too inviting...
And really, I've learned two things.
The first being, that after so many years of despising my family, I glory every time I find out that they were right about something, because it erases just a tiny corner off the stupidity I have believed them capable of.
One day, if I hope and listen real hard, perhaps I will grow to respect them. This possibility shines even brighter than my floor.
The other thing I've learned, is that housecleaning is so mindless, that I spend almost all of it thinking in lazy spirals until I run to a notebook to write it all down.
______Man, today just won't stop.
An hour ago I was half-naked, soaked to the nipple, and trying not to slip (again) and fall into the toilet (a second time).
Then Seb called and called and insisted that I go out to see the rollerbladers go by, since they routed down Rue Ordener.
He called at the right moment, in between cupboards being washed free of an embarassing amount of sticky, and I donned heeled sandals (the only shoes not packed) and ran for it.
I saw Daniel in the frontlines, then Domonique who stopped by for a bise and to comment on my t-shirt, a young lady in pyjama pants struck up a conversation commenting on how the noise had gotten her out of bed, and I realized that this was the first time I ever saw them as a spectator.
Twenty thousand rollerblading maniacs going at over thirty five clicks?
Fucking impressive. I was part of that?
Several young men graciously did somersaults for their audience, and a few stopped by to flirt with the lady in the satin underpants, and the dishevelled monstre in the soapy dresspants.
Thomas screeched to a halt and nearly caused a collision, gave me a hug that pushed me closer to tears than I've been all day (I was doing a good job at being distracted), threatened to put me over his shoulder (again) for not wearing rollerblades.
I showed him my shoes and he agreed that I was indeed being athletic in my own way.
Gian-Carlo waved hello lest he fall, Konga stopped long enough to have another useless advance rebuffed, a cop paused long enough to find out if we were out this late alone because we had no men to accompany us, and then Jean appeared in the midst of a bevvy of women and his sweet face melted anyway. He stopped for a kiss and would have muttered a few words, except that he wasn't drunk enough. That man is going to have to start a drinking habit if he's ever going to get laid, it's the only time he allows himself to show affection.
He came close tonight, though.
A few more faces, Marielle and Magalie, Seb bringing up the rear with a chorus of shouts.
And then they were gone, and I was racing after them, following them four long Ordener-blocks and almost, almost catching up to the ones lagging behind. I did get close enough to see one girl's thong-line through her tight shorts, though.
A year ago, I could barely run for the bus.
Now, I'm racing after rollerbladers that I was once a part of.
In Toronto, I will do it on my own.
I ran the rest of the way home, and stopped in to the restaurant downstairs for a glass of indian ros�, and a chat with the owner. He offered his carpet for me to sleep on since he'd made off with my bed.
We laughed and talked of rollerblading and the heights that some people reach, and after a rousing round of show-off-your-indian-culture with the remaining three patrons, I drained my glass and wandered back up here.
I was thrilled to find how, despite the disaster on my kitchen counter, it really does look well past halfway finished.