The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

Pick up the earlier part of the story here…soon to be posted on my friend Tim’s website here.

And then of course, I can’t forget her final question: “Do you work? Or are you a homemaker?” My favourite question in the world, which when phrased just so sounds like, “Do you do important things outside the house for money? Or do you sit around in your robe and watch soap operas with a cigarette dangling out of your mouth while your child runs around in a dirty diaper?” And because I didn’t want to explain my existence in all its actor-and-writerly-complexities, I simply responded with a smile: “I’m a homemaker.”

From now on I think that’s what I’ll say. Probably in a scary drawl.

So funny or not funny?

I guess it’s funny if I can laugh…at myself, at the beauty of all that humanity meandering the corridors of Shoppers Drug Mart, picking up scattered produce. All of us trying to make a living, feel important, feel like we have our stuff together…

Can I laugh at myself?

How seriously do I take myself?

You know who else takes themselves very seriously? British people. Yes, I would be generalizing here. But broad strokes equals funny. That is if we can laugh at ourselves…wait…

In fact, let me tell you about how serious. A few years ago I was sitting in a concert hall with my mother listening to a string quartet.
These were the pre-baby days when I did artsy things like go to concerts. Now I just watch tv, which happens to be just as fun, particularly if there are bags of chips present. But I digress.

The concert hall was perfectly quiet. Pins were dropping and I heard every one. What can I say, I have good ears.

And then I start to hear this ticking. A perfectly timed ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. I start looking around. What is this ticking? I whisper to my mother, ‘Do you hear that ticking?’ (‘Cause maybe I’m crazy.) But she hears it too. And though she seems prepared to ignore it, I simply cannot. I’m practically vibrating with the intensity of the ticking. Maybe it’s somebody’s watch? I shift in my seat and try to do a discrete 360 degree glance at all my neighbours, hoping to spot someone anxiously trying to put an end to the irritating ticking.

But everyone around me is perfectly still. Poised. Listening to the beautiful music. What gives?

Now I’m starting to get angry. I absolutely cannot go on with this concert until I find the source of the ticking, and then silence it. Whatever it takes. I shift in my seat some more. Is it coming from beside me? Behind me? Is it me? Am I ticking? I’m starting to freak out. Internally again. (This seems to be a theme with me.) I finally pinpoint the ticking as coming from the woman behind me. I have zeroed in on the culprit. I look back at what happens to be a lovely specimen of a woman with long blonde hair and whisper, ‘Is that your watch ticking?’ I’m feeling a little cocky. I have found her out. The ticking woman. I’m sure she’s going to be extremely apologetic and probably give me money and chocolate as penance.

But instead she stares at me hard and replies in her perfect British accent, ‘No. That’s my hawt.’

‘Oh…your hawt.’ YOUR HAW—HEART??!!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the ticking was the sound of the woman’s heart. More specifically her pace maker hard at work. Well then. Biggest foot in my mouth. Ever.

I promptly turned around in my seat and screamed. Internally of course.

So now I’m wondering, just wondering if I should have a little more patience with the crazy Shoppers Drug Mart woman who pinned me down for a credit card with her watery voice, called me a useless homemaker (not in so many words), and then practically vomited her shock when she heard what in my family we deem a perfectly respectable salary. I may or may not be projecting my own angst.

‘Cause maybe her “I’m so sorry,” was akin to my, “Oh…your heart.” An embarrassed retort. A foot in mouth riposte hastily delivered in a moment before the internal scream.

And I certainly understand the internal scream. Pauvre humanity when we don’t have patience for each other’s ticking…