I just stepped out of the shower. When I first climbed in, I watched the dirt from my feet swirl in the tub and down the drain, and I smiled. Then I stood in hot cold hot cold cold cold hot again water, somehow finding the patience to face the competition between the tiny shower head in my yellow bathroom and the industrial-size dishwashers in the restaurant below. My routine evening showers are a slow process of comfort, relief, waiting (hot cold hot), with music and eyes closed half the time. Somehow, I like this.

I answered Ali's Ask Me Anything questions. Last night I saw his post, which simply repeated the questions I should've answered over a month ago. It was nearly midnight but I sat in bed with my old writing book, the one with the silk ribbons glued to the cover, the ribbons I used to wear in my hair years ago, and answered the questions. I knew I had an early morning chiropractic appointment, and I knew my chiropractor would be flying out to Alberta that afternoon. So in the spirit of old high school days, I folded up the lined paper, scribbled For Ali Desaulniers on the back, and handed the note over for personal delivery. Ed the chiropractor said that he would try to find a quiet, special moment to give the letter to Al, which I found quite delightful. I may be late, but I did it my way and I did it in style. So if anyone is interested in knowing the answers - yes, I'm sure you'll all be losing sleep over this - maybe Alain will be kind enough to type out my answers here.

I'm in a shoe rut. All these shoes, and I'm always wearing the same ones. Even though they don't match with everything. Even though they aren't really fit for work. Even though they make my feet real dirty real quick. And even though I've had about a dozen cinderella moments in them, where they slip off my feet as I'm walking down a sidewalk or crossing a street. I guess that's why they call them "slides"... I can't decide if this all means that I don't care about shoes anymore, or if I am in desperate need to be dazzeled by a new pair. Any guesses?

My next art purchase will be for myself, for once, for the first time. Derek and I will get together to discuss something, possibly the commmission of an abstract piece. I have a big blank space on my bedroom wall that is waiting for something to happen. It will be wonderful to wake up to some nice art work every day. It could also be an excuse to lure someone into my bedroom too, if I wanted: "Want to see my new painting? Follow me..." Check out Derek's art on his new web site: www.derekseanquinlan.com. I especially like his Martine-Poutine work. The web site seems to be down tonight, but it was working this afternoon so I assume it'll be up and running again soon.

Manon and Sonny are snoozing now, which makes me feel peaceful. They are smart to be dreaming now; every night I tell myself I will get to bed early and get over eight hours of sleep for once - tonight, I was convinced I would be able to hit the sack by 10:30 - no 11 p.m. at the latest. Somehow the slowness of my evening showers dictates the pace and the effectiveness for any plans before bed time. Not exactly unpleasant as the night unfolds, but damn excrutiating when my alarm clock goes off in the morning. I press the snooze button for thirty minutes to an hour every morning. This makes me think of someone, I forget the name, who once said that people who press the snooze button in the morning are slackers who let their lives pass them by, and that he would refuse to date anyone who wouldn't get out of bed after more than one snooze session (a usual 9 minutes for most systems, which to this day still puzzles me. Who set this 9 min. standard?). By these amusing standards, I guess that would me a world-class slacker.

I've got to go to bed now, hopefully to "Rêver Mieux". But before I go, tell me what shoes you are wearing today? I am suddenly interested in your shoes. Why did you choose to wear that specific pair? What is it about them that you like?

Ok ok, I know, I'm off the blog rails tonight. Going to get some rest now, get back on track and knock some sense into myself.

Trainspotting,

Camille