My Left Ear

Monday afternoon.

Rain, wind, chill, fog.

You know how it goes.

At the library in the middle of the day, the middle of my neighborhood, the middle of my life.

My left ear is listening to a heated conversation on alcoholism and my right ear is sleeping.

It is crowded here. And surprisingly noisy for a library.

My thoughts are constantly disrupted by a loud slurping noise. The conversation has gone global. World issues now.

I listen with one ear, but I assume nothing.

Giggling, more slurping, a quick intake of breath, a deep rumbling underground, whispering…Crunch time is here.

I love this libraric atmosphere. Everyone looks so pre-occupied. I am surrounded by tons of paper…literature in formation. There is that dusty, papery, woody smell.

I always feel smarter when I’m sitting in the library. Like my presence has meaning. I never have to justify or explain my arrival. I am here and that is enough. Anything else is too much information.

My left ear is picking up some sort of electronic buzzing sound. It almost sounds like an alarm but it is brief and intermittent.

My right ear, still sleeping, will have no memory of my visit here today. Of that I am sure.

Conversation has now changed to parents, politics, pets. More loud slurping..

Being here, on this hard wooden chair, in the middle of my life, in the middle of my neighborhood, in the middle of the day, reminds me of being in school.

And I’m okay with that.

Life is a never-ending journey and I learn something new every day. I just have to listen.

And use both ears if at all possible…


It Might Get Loud

I went to get groceries a little while ago and came home with a guitar.

It is acoustic, used and now mine. Slightly battered. Covered in stickers. Huge battle scar on the back.

I liked it immediately. This thing has been places and I want to be part of its history. I hope it’s not haunted.

Me? I have absolutely no musical inclinations. I can’t even sing or dance but is this a reason NOT to get a used guitar with a past as shady as mine?

I think not.

I am now in a whole new category of cool. I can lug this thing anywhere, and someone will know how to play it.

I ran into a very well-dressed, rather well-known local musician at my doctor’s the other day. He had his guitar with him. He told me he was on his way to an audition. I wasted no time whatsoever in letting him know I had a guitar too.

“Can you play it?” he asked.


“Well then, that’s a shame.” He immediately lost interest. Actually he got up and left the room, taking his beloved guitar with him. Well, okay, he was called in by the doctor, but I took it personally. I didn’t even get an autograph…

“I’m going to take lessons.” I told his fast disappearing backside.

No reply.

NOTE TO SELF: Do not engage well-dressed, well-known, local musicians in conversations about guitars unless I can actually play one. Lesson learned.

Even if owning a guitar isn’t on my bucket list, at least I have it. One less thing to worry about. And I’m going to look so much more sophisticated and worldly when I take it with me on my daily adventures.

Maybe I’ll take it to Starbucks…

Maybe I’ll wear my pajamas…

That should get the party started.

Fifty Shades of Grey

Ever since I got bitten by a dog wearing a pink dress, I’ve been thinking…about fifty shades of grey.

No, not the book, I didn’t read it.

‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ is my new code phrase for things beyond my control

I’m not a control freak, that kind of perceived power doesn’t appeal to me. I’m more the observer and I’m a really good listener. That’s the best way to learn about what is really going on around me. And I want to know.

Writing may be one thing I have a certain amount of control over. Within reason. But even as a writer, I’m restricted and even silenced about a lot of things. This is why they invented lawyers. To keep writers in check.

DISCLAIMER: This information is subject to change without notice.

I have to laugh when people say my writing is all about me. My writing is merely a reflection of a much bigger thing. The bigger thing being life. It’s all about the journey and those I meet along the way.

I can decide what I’m going to wear on any given day and I might have somewhere I have to be at a certain time, but beyond that, anything can happen.

Like when I was running across the street one day last winter. Just as I got to the other side, I heard a loud bang and just missed getting smacked on the head by huge chunks of ice falling off a roof.

Or when I just missed getting hit head-on by a large flock of low-flying birds.

Or when a Dashie in a pink dress decided to test the ‘edible factor’ out on me.

These are my wake-up calls. The little things that tell me I’m being looked after but I have to keep my head up and pay attention. These are the things that show me where I am in my journey and how well I’m doing.

The grey I’m talking about is that part of life which is beyond my control. It sneaks up on me. I can never see it coming. Suddenly it’s just there and it’s up to me to make the right choice on how to deal with it. That’s what makes the journey interesting.

And I wouldn’t change a thing…

Once Bitten

Again, I live in a neighborhood where the dogs are better dressed than I am.

I make reference to this, not because I’m jealous or insecure, but because one of them bit me yesterday.

And this one was dressed to the nines. Pink on brown. Studded collar. To die-for boots. Puppy-dog eyes.

This haute dog, obviously way too sexy for this cat owner came running up to me, jumped up and bit my hand.

I quickly removed my glove to check out the damage. No blood, no protruding bones, I didn’t feel faint, weak or dizzy but, damn it, my nails will need re-doing…

“Did she bite you?” The owner asked.


“I’m so sorry, she’s never done that before.”

“Sucks to be me.”

Off they scampered, leaving me with a throbbing pain in my hand.

And I thought, lady, your four-legged, over-dressed, spoiled rotten, dog-faced kid just bit me. An unprovoked attack. I could get you in so much trouble right now.

The fact that nothing was dripping, dislodged, dismembered or decapitated was hardly the point.

It hurt like hell!

I grew up with a dog, who I thought of as my sister. In later years, I was a dog owner.

I understand pack order, and dog eat dog stuff, and dog park rules, and street dogs, and hot dogs. I understand canine courtesy. I don’t approach a strange dog unless they invite me. I don’t approach a dog in a car, or tied up. I always make sure the tail end is wagging.

I know all this.

But I don’t understand the haute dogs. Those elite canine catastrophes that pop out of shopping bags, backpacks, luggage and carry-alls.

They are everywhere I want to be.

I always wonder what size batteries they take…

But that’s the trouble with dogs, you can dress them up, but you can’t always take them out. They are for the most part, illiterate. They don’t go by the book.

I’ll never know what made that four-legged fashion plate lunge at me, but I’m pretty sure she won’t be reading my blog anytime soon. Good, one less lawsuit to worry about…

Life really is like a dog in a library…

You Can Leave Your Hat On

Aww, my little town.

So interesting.

So fashionable.

I see a lot of people around here in their pajamas, on the street.

All ages, any time of day, any time of year.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me.

At first, it surprised me, then I remembered where I was. Surprise gave away to wondering. which lasted about 10 minutes. Again, I remembered where I was. Wondering slowly gave way to curiosity. Not about them. About others. Those around them. The fully dressed. The ones wearing hats on a cold winter day. Can they see this? Is it just me? Is this such the norm in my little town that the pajama-clad can traverse among us without raising an eyebrow? Sure looks that way.

I took a closer look. Nope. Not zombies, real live ones, going about their business in pajamas.

Time for a new perspective. I decided to try this pajama stuff. One morning I fell out of bed, tripped over the cat, fed the fish, did some other things, and hit the ground running, in my pajamas. Made it to the local grocery store. It was early morning, not too busy. I must say, I wasn’t even embarrassed to be standing in line, clad only in my flannel pajamas, and winter boots. Actually I felt cool. Like I was making a new fashion statement, or at least, embracing an old one.

No one seemed to notice. Not that I could see. And I was the only one in pajamas at the time, I think. Where were the others? Still sleeping, or had they made it down to the local Tim Horton’s? I didn’t want to look for them. I was enjoying the spotlight.

So, I made my way back home to contemplate my already interesting day.

And, I changed out of my pajamas.

I can’t guarantee I’ll be traipsing around like that again anytime soon, but it is really good to know, that if I’m short on time, and have to be there, like, yesterday, pajamas are not only allowed, they may well be the order of the day.

Who Knew?

By Mary L. Tagged