From Nat's Brain

The problem is all inside your head, she said to me... #earworms

Little known fact: I know most of the words to 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover by Paul Simon. It's not that I particularly like this song, it's just that when the song came out in 1975, it quickly became one of my father's favourites. He used to play it over and over again.(Along with Sundown by Gordon Lightfoot and Heart of Gold by Neil Young.)

"The answer is easy if you take it logically."

The record player at our house in Moncton was on top of the stairs on a high shelf. Apparently at the age of 3, I decided to play my dad's record. Some vinyl may have been damaged. I'm not sure he's forgiven me yet.

"I'd like to help you in your struggle to be free, there must be 50 ways to leave your lover."

Some kids learn the Wheels on the Bus, I learned 50 Ways.

The Boy at age 2, found a box of cassettes. He proceeded to pull the tape out of all of them. Luckily he stayed away from the vinyl. (I miss vinyl and record stores -- btw I'm looking for a cheap turntable in working order.)

Nature or nurture, I'm sure I'll never really know. 

"She said it grieves me so to see you in such pain, I wish there was something I could do to make you smile again."

The Boy, The Man and I were standing at Bluesfest watching The Tragically Hip. (Great show, drunken frat boys aside.) And every now and then, The Boy would turn and say "Do I know this one?" And I'd tell him the title of the song. And he'd nod seriously. Then the lyrics would start and he'd know some of the words ("Off the coast of France, dear") and the entire bridge from 100th Meridian. I think every Canadian should be able to recite it, you learn O 'Canada, then a heavy does of The Hip. (I don't give a fuck about hockey, but The Hip...)

"I said I appreciate that, but could you please explain about the 50 ways."

It's only during Bobcaygeon that The Man expressed his confusion. "He knows all the words?" Why would such a young impressionable mind be crammed full of lyrics...

Short answer because my internal song-lyric hard drive is almost full so it's downloading them to The Boy. The hard drive skips and words get stuck in my head. When words get stuck in my head, I need to listen to them so I can get rid of them, it's a download of sorts. (File under you might be a geek.) And I like to listen to music in the car...

The Boy goes to a private school and I need to drop him off every morning. This gives me 30 minutes a day to cram his head full of whatever is in my head. I do this until he'll finally say to me "Mom, can we please listen to something else." Then I know I've gone a bit too far.

Still, I took me a moment to all the pieces together as to why he knew all the words to Bobcaygeon. Really knew.

Bobcaygeon is one of my favourite love songs ever. I guess I play it a lot. Well, I know I play it a lot. So much that The Boy knows all the lyrics by osmosis.  It's one of my warm blanket songs. You don't want to go to work and the thought of leaving it all behind is terribly appealing. (And well, really, this is possibly one of the most romantic songs ever.)

I suppose the concept of quitting and leaving it behind is appealing to The Boy as well, he's learned all the words too. He chose it this morning on the way to camp. Wonder if he had an earworm. Or if he's attempting some sort of download.

Apple. Tree. Not far indeed.

Don't touch the bikes.

I have spent the last few weeks, begging and pleading and cajoling everyone I knew to volunteer in the Hintonburg Centennial 5K this past weekend. You rocked my world, you made it awesome... you retweeted, you wrangled for me... and damn it if you didn't get up early on a Sunday morning to help out.

The Hintonburg 5K is not your usual 5k course. It's a neighbourhood run, we close something like 34 intersection. In a part of Ottawa that is changing, still there are spots were the struggles of the last decade shows. Our course goes through these.

Deep in the heart of Hintonburg, the Outlaws have a safe house. Right around the 3.5k mark. Every year in July, they all get together and have a very delicate biker gang kind of party.  They have cookies and tea. (Or something just like it.) So when at 5:30 a.m. one of the sedate not-scary-at-all and "very-happy" revellers asked The Man was he was doing. The Man explained. (What do you really?)

"Well, do you think they'll want beer? We have beer." asked the nice Outlaw man.

"I don't think they'll want beer, but you could have a misting hose ready," The Man said explaining about the marathon at the Bejing Olympics. (Only The Man would do this, I'd have adopted a back away slowly kind of attitude.) "But maybe you could ask before you spray people."

But The Man did note that the bikes were all lined up along the streets, and bikers love their bikes. Eeek.

Hence in the pre-race announcement, The Man told the runners "DO NOT TO TOUCH THE BIKES." (And maybe pick up the pace a little.) I, of course, was not paying attention to the announcement because well, I was busy handing out timing chips. And The Man will repeat when I don't listen -- besides it wasn't for me, it was for everyone else. Oh, admit it sometimes you turn your spouse off from time to time too. Besides I knew the drill... I helped coordinate the volunteers. Right?

Hence, when the running third of FoodiePrints explained that the biggest baddest looking biker she had ever seen hosed her off during the run. I looked at her funny.  "And Nat, I didn't touch the bikes." I hadn't a clue what she was talking about.

See I hadn't actually talked to Jeff since 11 p.m. the previous night. I'm told that perhaps in their blissful state the bikers were, taking a bit more of a take charge approach and hosing everyone off. Listening not so much part of the biker code. Perhaps I have something in common with bikers.

Apparently the Outlaw enjoyed themselves. I think we can all agree that this is a good thing. For the race, for the runners, and for the 'hood.

Before I leave you, special kudos to the following...

The Fabulous Ms. G. who postponed her group 16K marathon training run to help out with chips. She called and said "What do you need me to do?"  before she even said hello. You have to love that.

Spydergrrl got the whole damn family up, retweeted and shouted from the rooftops. Amazing. Love you for that.  (I got to meet Dude, Spydergrrl's cool is genetic. Love that kid.) Hit me up next time you need help... (well, heck you can all do that.)

To FoodiePrints (the third that doesn't run) for taking on a tricky intersection without much training (I hear the kid is going to run the 5K next year.) Great ideas, thank you for the post run chat too.

So good to see Finola again. And well, I just love Joe and Marshall so much that it's worth mentioning them as well. (Great work on the water station guys.)

To the folks who came out again for the 5th time or those who attended it for the first time, and volunteered for barricades (@goldiej7 -- wow!), and our usual suspect. Amazing, all of you. The race is built on volunteers. I can't express how much it means to The Man aka the Race Director, and to me -- we are both tremendously grateful. It's a lot to close 30-odd intersections. And really, we couldn't do it without you.

You all fucking Rock! 

 

 

 

 

The right thing...

I called 911 and I would do it again.

The Boy and I were goofing around walking home from the Quicky Mart, where he'd proudly gotten himself a Freezy when V, a woman who lives down the street came running towards me in her bathrobe. Frazzled, she explained that she was taking a long lovely bath when it was interrupted by smashing and a man yelling profanities at someone.

V looked in her backyard, and saw a woman cowering behind her shed, babe in arms, while a man continued to yell and scream at her. But V didn't have the street address and didn't want to leave her young daughter alone while she went to look. I did it, as I walked around to see the house, I heard yet more smashing and more name calling. As V ran up the fence to see if the woman was ok. (The Boy watched her little one for a bit.)

Address located, I called 911. They sent police.

As I walked back to my street, I came upon the woman being comforted by V. and another neighbour J. I told them I'd called the police. The woman looked scared and mortified and quickly went home.

J. explained that he knew the couple and that they are both teachers. A teacher as well J., when he saw which house it was, he decided not to call the police because he knew them. But, as if, trying to make me feel better he says "You did the right thing by calling." Which really begs the question, well, why didn't he?

Three of us witnessed this event

I told him I was only worried that after the cops left, he was going to beat this poor woman to death. J. looked at me as if I'd suddenly grown a second head. "Oh no, he wouldn't do that they're teachers you know." Right, but he would terrorize his wife to the point where she was hiding behind the shed with her baby. I said, I hoped he was right.

I was having a glass of wine with DV across the street and J. came up to me. He said again "You did the right thing. But I think he was just drunk because it was the last day of school." As if this somehow justified the behaviour. "I'm sure they're both mortified," went on... as if this is throwing things at your spouse and calling her names... chasing her out of her own house is normal behaviour.

"J., I have no regrets about calling the police. If you and your wife were having that kind of fight and she was cowering in the back yard, I'd call the cops. We need to stand up for those who are too scared to stand up for themselves. I hope that this is the wake up call they need to get their lives and their relationship under control and that it didn't lead to her getting a savage beating. I also hope the police took this seriously."

This is clearly not what J. wanted to hear. I wanted me to say "OH, he's a teacher I'm sure he's a fine upstanding citizen." Certainly there are exceptional wonderful teachers out there... but the virtue of the profession does not exempt you from normal common decency. Too many horror stories start out this way and it's time for it to stop.