verbal diarrhea

Maxwell Smart's shoe-phone rang in the middle of an opera. My bowels dialed up in the middle of the night; it was Mexico on the other line. She wanted her things back. I conceded the Radio Flyer Wagon, the first born, the pineapple and the guacamole, but I told her she'd have to sue me for ownership of the following:

*Philippe, the French watersports guru
*a walk through playa del carman; one chocolate gelato included
*a Gargoyle-inspired dog constructed on the beach
*a six-year-old Quebecois boy with goggles on his forehead
*a row of hammocks
*three Cabañas

I have yet to hear back from her lawyer. But they probably don't know the country code to call Canada (cctcC).

Like all splits, there's a line drawn dividing what you had and what you no longer do. The divorce settlement. Eleven below zero. It was snowing as I dragged my suitcase home from the Mont-Royal metro. Back up north. Barring any three-month wedding engagements, I won't be home until summer. Home, with its strip malls that perform like weeds (I'm content giving that sight up for a few months), and its stoic fields turned gold (how i miss the prairie), is both a place to be and a place to leave, but it is always the point of reference. All that is done is done in response to that place. You're either home, or you've left home. And so now I've left home, but I was home, and despite being tripped up in my normal routine (return, contact no one, wander alone), I was pleased to have delved so deeply into the relationships that I've missed while away. This blog was supposed to be about weddings and Indian food parties and Cancun, but I've sat here, eating malt-o-meal, finding no good angle to take. This is probably a symptom of exactly what I'm supposed to write about--the extent of social contact I made. With no time alone to reflect, I'm a little overstimulated by it all. I'll post some stolen photos.



Bronwyn and I with our childhood sister, Emily. Spending thirty hours straight with us, stranded in a scurvy Norfolk hotel, I think she learned a bit of what it means to be sandwiched between the dynamic duo. But I'm thrilled at the level of reconnection we had after all these years. Tenderness!





This picture has already received much praise in the blogosphere and has been picked up to grace the cover of the next great Canadian indie band's debut album. Jeremy and I vacation together in Cancun, start a gang on the beach, and have the same dream that we are walking along the shore and notice a hundred canopied beds. I think he calls me a "weirdo" in his dream and mine.










Me and my baby brother! We make quite a display on the dance floor. People are amazed at our talents (talons). R.IP. bro!







Cheers to the state fair of life! OH, LIFE!