Stupid Fairy

Many years ago I was visited by a fairy. “The man you will marry,” she said, “will be kind and loving, handsome and smart. He will help with the children, send you flowers, and not watch football all day. He will support your work, return movies before late fees, and lie convincingly about your weight.”

“Wow,” I said, “this sounds really great. But you’re a fairy so I’m sure there has to be a catch.”

“Just a small one,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye, “every night, after you have crawled into bed, just as you are saying a prayer of thankfulness for the man that God has given to you, you will be surrounded by the most hideous stench known to man.”

“Oh,” I said, “Just a smell.”

“No, no, a stench dear, stench.”

I shrugged, “Just for a minute, right?”

The twinkle turned into a gleam of delight, “No, no, dear . . . all night.”

“Well,” I said cheerfully, for my glass was half full, “How bad could it be?”

Now I know.

Every night the routine is the same. And every night I am the unwitting dupe at the scene of the crime. Yes, it’s true, all nights begin as fresh and clean as the last, for, as I have said, my glass is half full. The lights go out, I cuddle into my warm covers, and just as I lean over to kiss the man of my dreams a foul stench fills the air.

“Ugh! That’s awful!” I exclaim.

“What?” He asks innocently as though he could not imagine what was causing me such distress.

“What do you mean, what?” My rising indignation is only exceeded by my anger. In my mind, he who dealt it should therefore have smelt it.

Now he’s laughing. I cannot imagine what about this scene is so funny. Some light must be going on in an uncharted region of his male brain . . . likely the same part that watches W.W.F. in its underwear.

“It is bad, isn’t it?” Tears of joy are streaming down his cheeks. I know this, even in the dark because I can hear him laughing and wiping his nose.

This I just don’t understand, I am not having fun. I am writhing, trying desperately to put some distance between myself and the unseen cloud descending on my head. He, on the other hand, has not laughed this hard since someone invented pretend snot. We are breathing the same air, lying in, basically the same spot and yet what for me is a runner up for the elephant dung pile appears to be the source of my husband’s pride and joy. I did ask him, once, how he could be so pleased with himself. “I made it.” He said, with a face so full of childlike glee it was hard to be angry. But I was.

“Puleeze!” I said, “make a dresser or an armoire or a spoon rest. Share that with me I will gush with delight. Why, oh why, can you not use the bathroom? You were just there. We have a fan, an exhaust fan! It’s state of the art! Just a short trip down the hall and we could all sleep peacefully and dream of scented flower meadows. But no, instead you wait until there is no escape. I’m under the covers, my slippers are off, the floor is cold and I’m almost asleep. That’s right, sleep, because this is the bedroom! Why do you do it? Why? Why? Why?”

“I’m comfortable.” He says and rolls over, a smile on his face as he drifts into dreamland.

Stupid fairy.

Sunday Intellectual Question: Good Intentions

One of the biggest topics in theatre school concerned the nature of communication. Often our words say one thing, but our tone, body and situation would convey another. I'm not sure if this is a particular problem of the English language but I suspect that it is not. One of the more humorous situations that occurs on a regular basis is this:

While walking down a street you meet an acquaintance . Without stopping the person waves and says, "Hi! How are you?"
"Good." Is the general response. Now, just a sec. Did we answer in all truth and honesty? Likely not. Did they really want to know? ... well ... In our culture this the "how are you?" question is just a greeting ... most of the time. Imagine how startled the person would be if instead of "Good." you answered ....
"Actually, I have a splitting headache, the kids ripped my pants on the way out the door so now I have to wear my coat around my waist, I'm almost in hypothermic shock, I locked my purse inside the car, and I think I'm going to cry now. How are you?"

Should we ask the question if we do not want the answer? What do you think?

BTW thank you all for your concern. I am getting a little better. The pain is not quite so mind numbing and I have been receiving physiotherapy which seems to be working. Not quite up to scratch though and speaking of scratching ... I have an itch on my left leg ... or is that too much information?:)

All Drugged Up and No Where to Go

Sorry for the long absence.

Where have I been? Lounging on some forgotten shore of a desert island? Sipping tea in an underground cave with the leaders of the free world during “fire drill”? A hostage to the finest minds of our time, being poked with a pin until I reveal my secrets?

No, oh no. Not this time.

My back, in a surge of creativity, has spawned, not one but two disk bulges. Why you ask? I have no idea. I saw three separate medical professionals and was told, and I quote ‘Wow, you don’t see that every day.” Now if I had a cream puff for ever time I’ve heard that from someone in the medical community I’d be very fat and would be on my way to a new career, but as it is I am left with the sad fact that my body has a complete mind of its own and no one can quite figure it out. That’s right. I have two brains. Which is odd because I can’t seem to access either one. Darn pin number.

I have been flat on my back for almost a week now drifting in and out of a drug induced haze; an oddly dreamless but persistent fog. Since I have a bulge in my neck my hands are mostly numb, and the bulge in my lower back leaves my feet tingly so between the two bulges and my meds I have the strange sensation that I am not actually touching anything but merely floating above the ground. All the thrills and chills of an out of body experience with out having to leave home.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my husband has been in charge of rounding up the herd every morning. I often come to the surface of my reverie in time to hear, “He’s touching me!”, “I don’t WANT to!” and “We do not feed chocolate to the babies!”. It isn’t odd that I hear this so clearly, we’ve received calls from the US asking us to “pipe down, or the soft wood lumber agreement will really go in the toilet. We mean it.” We are taking these calls very seriously. No matter what the Yanks may say, he is doing a great job. Each and every one of the children remain fed, clothed and as yet unmaimed ... well there’s no permanent damage, at least none we can see. Which is a feat for any soul. He has also managed to hold down his job. And I have yet to find him hiding in the closet mumbling to himself and chewing his hand. A good sign. We’ve also had a lot of help recently from the Church Ladies who have kindly brought us supper and even popped in to watch the kiddies from time to time. Brave souls.

So, to sum up, this is what we’re looking at:

Another couple weeks of back pain, during which time I will be fully drugged up and walking like a Neanderthal

A few rounds of Rehab after which I will emerge from the ring like Rocky, beaten, but still able to punch the air, weakly, with one fist.

Our house will complete its transformation into a Jurassic Jungle, this time, babies will rule the universe

Then ... we’ll have Christmas! (Or Easter, whichever comes first.)

Wish us Luck.

Sunday Intellectual Question: Art Soothes the Savage Beast?

In light of my new injury I thought I would ask some questions about pain relief ... the art kind.

Could the enjoyment of art or the act of creating art give a kind of pain relief? I would argue that it could, to some extent. Being able to express a little of our experience gives us the chance to validate what we are going through. Reading, watching, listening to, or otherwise experiencing someone else's expression gives us the knowledge that we are not alone. Knowledge like that can be a powerful healer and motivator. In Steven King's book on writing he says that after his tragic accident, writing, his art form, helped him to get through the pain. It gave him motivation and an outlet. The bible even records how King Saul was soothed in his terrible temper by David's playing on the harp. Now, I don't know if hanging a Matisse at the dentist office would help take away the pain of a filling ... or if art therapy would help with cancer treatments but it would be interesting to throw some ideas out there!

What do you think? Can art soothe the savage beast?

Sorry about the delay but...

hey all, just another note of appology about the delay. It seems my back has become worse, I can only sit for 20min at a time so writing is slow, slow, slow and painful. However ... it is now up and the good news is it should go away soon ... my back pain that is. Hope you enjoy!
Cara

Wednesday Story: Eileen and the Wings of Glory part 6

Eileen’s throat tightened, “this is the man who has my daughter?”

Bruce turned his head and looked her firmly in the eye, “Yes. And if he has me our world will fall.”

“But how ... how did you end up with me?”

Bruce cleared his throat. “The council was divided which way to go, some believed that they could control Nestor by his bond to me, others that I should be ... destroyed, Petula alone saw another way. There are few, even of the fairy kind who travel to other worlds. Petula remembered you from all those years ago, a little girl, kind and brave. She believed there was no magic in your world, and few know the gates, ... she was certain I would be safe there.”

Eileen was certain she would fall, her brain was spinning. “But he followed you Bruce! Nestor followed you!”

“I know and that I regret but we must ...”

“Regret! Regret! It’s my daughter, Bruce! She’s only five and a man like that ... Nestor ... he could do anything. How could you and Petula put us in danger like that? I have nothing to do with your world, nothing! Sure, I rescued the fairy when I was five, but that doesn’t mean that I wanted to sign up for danger, danger and more danger! Oh, and just because I asked for a flying horse, when I was five, doesn’t mean that I want to go fight a bad guy. A bad guy no one in your world seems willing to fight! You and your ... Petula, really! You assumed too much! How nice of you to bring me into this, and now my daughter too. You are the only reason she is gone! You regret it, how very nice!”

Bruce shook his mane fiercely, “Surely you can see my situation. Besides, Petula spoke highly of your bravery, your kindness, you can think of a way to save us.”

“I can’t Bruce.” Eileen trembled, “Look at me. I’ve got dish pan hands, I’m no hero. You’ll just have to deliver yourself to Nestor, so that I can take my daughter home.”

“I won’t do it.”

“You will. It’s an order. You have to do as I say, right?”

“Absolutely your worship.” Bruce looked firmly straight ahead and Eileen could feel his muscles go stiff under hands.

Eileen patted Bruce’s shoulder, “Someone will rescue you. Petula maybe. I’m just not the one.”
The rest of the ride to the gate was steely quiet. That was just fine with Eileen, she didn’t feel like talking. The last time she had been set up was in Grade 10 when Clare put cheat notes in her desk during an exam. Up until that day Clare had been her best friend. Eileen had sworn she would never be so naive again ... and yet, through no fault of her own here she was again, and this time her daughter was in danger.

The gate rose up before them so quickly that Eileen gasped. It was breathtaking. Surrounded on all sides by white billows of cloud the gate itself seemed formed out of bits of bright sunlight. Not beams of sunlight, but tightly woven ribbons so fine it appeared to be wrought not only on the surface but in layer after layer until the eye could only guess at its depth. The gate was clearly closed as the whole centre appeared to be a solid mass of weaving all pulsating in different directions. And it was radiating incredible heat. Eileen put her arm up to shield herself.

"There’s no need for that your highness. It won’t leap out and bite you.” As if to prove his point Bruce swung dangerously close to its gleaming sides so that Eileen could feel the heat radiating like a coil on her stove against her leg.

“Would you please stop that? You almost burnt my leg.”

“Did I? So sorry my lady, I did not imagine it would.”

Eileen gritted her teeth, “And stop that too!”

“Stop what, Sahib?”

Eileen growled under her breath. Bruce was difficult before, now he was becoming unbearable. Just as well he was going to Nestor, it would teach him a lesson. Bruce touched down without warning just in front the gate. Eileen gave a little squeal as Bruce’s hooves touched the cloud, sank an inch or two into the depths and then remained level. “You’ve got to be kidding.” she murmured.

Bruce shook himself so hard it almost dislodged her, “Time to get off oh Queen of the kitchen. That is if those dish pan hands can let go of my mane.”

“What! You’ve got to be kidding! This is a cloud, and as my grade three teacher kindly pointed out you can not stand on clouds....”

“I’m standing on one. We can’t fly through the gate you know, and you won’t be able to duck through on my back.”

Eileen glanced nervously at the cloud. It was true, it did appear somewhat solid, for a cloud. Bruce’s hooves rested firmly on something that looked as much like a rock as a cloud could, but there was no telling how far that bit of solidness went. She gulped hard. “I’ll just hold your mane, ok?” She slid down his back and onto the ground, touching it carefully with one toe. It appeared to be solid. Just to make sure she stood as close to his hooves as possible. That position, as well as holding tightly to Bruce’s mane, made her feel like she was in the middle of a game of Twister.

Bruce snickered, “You really do like to make things as awkward as possible, don’t you?”

“Look, I’m down, this is as good as its going to get. Just keep moving.”

Bruce walked a steady pace with Eileen shuffling awkwardly beside him until his nose practically touched the gate. The heat was searing but Bruce didn’t seem to mind, instead he sniffed the gate delicately.

“How are we going to get in?”

“Could I have some quiet please? I am concentrating. The gate’s many layers are portals to other worlds, you simply press on the round finger guide and the door flies open sucking you in.”

Eileen squinted and could just make out a small round disk placed in a different spot on each
layer. “Oh, I see. Pressing on the wrong one could be a bit of a problem.”

“Ha.” Bruce chuckled wryly, “A bit. No one travels these anymore because people either disappeared or were turned so entirely inside out they were pretty much dead.”

“Pretty much?” The thought of being inside out and not quite dying just about turned out the last of her lunch.

“Professor Colsnop of the Fairy Institute was one of the last through the gates. He still does a lot of work translating old texts. It’s quiet and no one has to smell him. The stench is pretty bad... That’s odd.”

“You’re telling me.”

Bruce gave the door another large sniff, top to bottom this time, “No, not him. It’s just that I can usually smell the other side of the gate. Each one smells different. Some gates smell like bees wax or brine, there was one that smelled like sulfur. Yours smelled like apples, which is odd considering there doesn’t appear to be any. Mine should smell like the dregs of Claptrap, probably because the fairies are always making so much of it. With all of their parties it’s a wonder they get anything done. Anyhow, the smell is gone.”

“Maybe it smells different from this side of the door?”

“No, that’s not it. There’s no smell at all. It is as though someone has taken all the scents right off the gate itself. There isn’t one left.”