Weekly Stories

the prayer of the unintentional racist

Lord, help me remember that just because I turned down the wrong street in LA once, does not mean I know what it’s like to be a visible minority. And though I have been racially profiled as an Italian Canadian, the worse assumption about me is that I like to make a scene and apologize for it afterwards. I have lost one high profile job once because, “you’re a woman and need a man to oversee you” and women make “emotional decisions” and I “distract men in the office, wearing provocative dresses” and I’m a “bitch who whines about equality”…

I could use a Latina

I start my day with a little love note, “Bella, my love, I love you. xo. PS Tartuffe puked beside the bed. xo” I have an adaptation of The Thin Man to finish this week and I am chuckling in the car, remembering my own joke, hoping it’s funny to everyone else. Then I furrow my brow. Maybe it isn’t? Maybe it’s cheesy? Maybe I should make the scene leaner and add the bit about the secretary off the top? As a woman writing in a male dominated industry in an even heavier male dominated genre, every joke has to…

loving lavishly

My nieces, adorable and pink and puffy in their winter jackets and woollen hats, trundle outside to play in the snow too new to stick. They wear a little button of my Nonna’s face on their jacket. Some thoughtful cousin of mine gave them to all the kids, a gentle reminder of who we lost a year ago. How I love these two darlings and how different they are from each other. The one smiles pretty as a princess, the other sticks out her tongue and growls like a cornered wild boar. I watch how gently and patiently my brother…

a tow truck called Trigger

At Il Mercato grocery store, I walked out the First Ave exit and forgot to log my license plate into the meter near the elevator to qualify for the 45 minutes free parking. When I returned from my ten minutes of shopping, a tow truck was approaching my car and I had a ticket on my windshield. Shocked, I rushed to read my ticket, “I was only gone ten minutes, I still have lots of free time left” and then remembered, “Oh, I forgot to log in!” and as the tow truck man strode towards me, “I have my receipt,…

the importance of icing cookies

In a crowded show room in Ikea, a timid female voice over the intercom suggested a minute of silence for Remembrance Day. The muzak was miraculously muted. All the shopping carts rolled to a respectful halt amongst the storage solutions. I stood hand in hand with my curious daughter and gazed at all the generations, the races, the sombre faces, standing respectfully in their organized aisles. Each of us were holding our Hemnes and our private thoughts about peace and war. A distant toddler whinnied, unsure why his mother had turned to stone. And then, around the corner, wheeled one…

Cabinet ministers, an Old Dog, and Me

It is hard to amaze, these days. But today, I am gobsmacked. Last evening…my dog’s legs are giving out and he’s leaving outlines of sweat that very old pets puddle in. Sweet ancient Tartuffe with his skittery paws and gentle milky blues. He’s been such a faithful tenderhearted fellow: the kind of dog who sleeps under the crib. When he was a frisky youth, he chummed with my friend Cheryl’s dog: Felony. This was an adorable three-legged lab who lived up to her name. She was diagnosed with fatal cancer and the doctors gave her perhaps a month or two…

“Watch your Face”: Opening Night for a Playwright

Lisa pulls me aside and gently says with a twinkle in her eye, “You have to watch your face”. I have stuffed myself into a new dress from the Bay (I’m keep the tags on) to attend the opening of my first operetta, Off Leash. This is intermission and I am checking in on the children’s choir I organized, backstage, gently guiding my daughter into Lisa’s arms to get ready for performance. “What is my face doing?” I ask. Lisa then contorts her lovely mug into a comic series of pained expressions with the odd moment of delight. She says,…

red maple leaves and the chihuahua woman

On the bus (because my car broke down and I can’t afford the gas anyway) I am dressed as a bank manager, misleadingly slick. Confident! Early forties! Warm! Ethnic! That’s…me. Ethnic light. I am enjoying the multiculturalism around me. Having been raised in the great white plains of Alberta, it never loses its beauty to me. First Nations guy sits in the middle of the bus aisle on his amp with a shiny red electric guitar strapped across his back. Tiny Asian girl squawking out the window, bouncing on her grandmother’s knee. Both of them in violet. I am back…

three generations all voting differently

Tomorrow my daughter is going to give a speech as Elizabeth May to her class. She’s pored over the Green party’s platform with me and together we’ve broken down things to a grade five level of understanding. What is a pension? Why are old people poor in our country? What is a pipeline? What happens when it bursts? What is a tuition? Why does it cost so much to go to school? Why do some first nations reserves not have clean water? What does refugee mean? She asks me if I’m voting green and as much as I adore pretty…

nursing log

Yesterday we went to a beautiful art showing at Beaumont studios. Great Canadiana. I wanted to take half of it home. The artist himself is a hip friendly whipper-wit with great specs and good shoes. He’s got a teenaged son in a cool hot band. He said something along the lines of: there is no such thing as a God given gift, it’s all bloody hard work. On the way home we listened to the boy’s band. Fantastic. The next day both of our kids were on their instruments for hours and hours, practicing. Composing! Ah. So, knowing someone close…

Lucia Frangione