A SALAD THAT STOLE MY HEART

I have a friend who cooks fine food. He is currently looking for work and wanted to try out a restaurant: Chow on South Granville. I had the beet salad as a starter from the Early Prix Fixe Menu. Feast your eyes on its description: "organic baby beet salad, Okanagan goat cheese, candied walnuts, bitter orange puree and vin cotto vineger." I am still thinking about it 24 hours later.

THE DENTIST IS NOT THE MONSTER

a poem by Bobbi, who loves dental hygiene almost as much as she loves wearing black sweaters . . . almost

As a child, I did not feel the same fear
I feel today about going
to the dentist.
In youth,
fears were
rabid wolves in my closet
unknown shadows running beside me in the night
bursts of flames behind
my eyelids.

In age, I greet this oral fear
when I wake to the radio’s
news, telling me of the
snow
and the wars.
I sit with fear at breakfast
I blow dry it around my head and spray
something pretty on it before I leave
for work.

My teeth are not beautiful
someone once said my face was
but I’m sure he wasn’t looking too carefully
too closely
at my teeth.
They have the bumps of childhood
the stains of sacred beverages
the stance of a disorganized battalion
unsure of where the battle is or how they can
come together in the end.

And then, it’s time and I drive
through slush and grey sky, married to tall towers
but loving the earth more.
They welcome me:
“Hi Bobbi”
“Just have a seat in the chair in room two, Bobbi.”
A touch here and a touch there while
the chair eases me, though I’m uneasy
into place.

The dentist rolls his chair up to me
his chest is right against my hair and the assistant
is leaning against
my left arm
so close
so close and touching, I feel
even through the three layers of black shirts I climbed
into this morning to stay warm
all over.

They keep asking me if I’m OK.
They keep asking me if I am OK.
And they wipe off
the bit of my
dread
as it leaks out under their tools and rubber dams
I am trying so hard not to come undone
dotting the stray tear as it escapes and makes
a run for it.

MY BACKSIDE

I have always had a hip thing, and in the last five years I’ve had a bit of a lower back thing, and then two weeks ago I fell (hard!) on the ice and now I have a bit of bruised tailbone thing. With this crippling combination I knew I needed a little more help than my stretching book could assist me with.

I met with a physiotherapist for the first time this morning. Apparently my ass is flat on one side! Who knew? I’m not sure I have the finest butt in the land, but I had no idea it was rather lopsided. It’s pretty funny, really.

I just finished some of the exercises and I feel better already. I’m eager to see what the effects of this will have on my running and the aesthetic appeal of my ass. What fun.

SEEING WITH MY FACE

My dad says, when I was little-girl-Bobbi Jae, I used to get frustrated when people didn't listen to me. In an attempt to get people's attention, my plea went something like this: "Look your face!"

I'm sharing another poem I'm working on with you, lovely blog readers. I'm stuck on a bit of a "face" theme, it would seem. But, maybe I've always been quite taken with faces and wondering a bit about my own. I still get nervous putting these little word creations up here, but you don't seem to mind and some of you have been wonderfully encouraging.

Thanks for looking your face.

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THANK GOD FOR MY NEW FACE

What I’m wondering today is if God snuck up on me and
changed my face for another
when I wasn’t looking. It seems that people
like me more, and I don’t really
know why.

My sister says she doesn’t see
a big difference in the way my face
looks. She would know. I think this face is
half hers. She said that as I grow (or shrink) there might be
more confidence, but I don’t look all that different. Or so
she says.

But what was up with the guy who
slowed his car down today as I jaywalked across
Fraser St? He slowed down just to ask me
if I wanted to smoke a joint with him. Strange new
happenings that merit some thought, don’t you think? Like I
don’t think enough.

And then there was the man at my favourite coffee
shop. I noticed him as I walked in because he
looked the part of the neighborhood: greying hair
ruffled in perfect cool, dark glasses and dark
clothes (like me). Our bits of conversation wove into
a real one. Lots of life shared in an hour.

And as I walk home through the streets that feel
a bit like my sheets, I’m still wondering: did
God swap my face for another
when I wasn’t looking? It seems people like me more
these days, and I don’t even know why.