The time has come.
No more "fooling and farting around" as my mother would call it.
No more dawdling, procrastinating, avoiding.
I have to mark.
All day.
In fact, I have mark in every spare moment I have between now and Tuesday.
Assignments.
Midterms.
Yee. Haw.
Last evening, I experienced an occurence of astronomical proportions.
My son, my Pookie, asked me if I wanted to go to the movies with him.
Just him and me.
Of course, I jumped at the opportunity, as some time has passed since the two of us spent time together.
Just him and me.
I would have seen anything, even Beastly again.
Which, in spite of it's potential, was one of the worst movies I've ever seen.
Luckily, the visuals made it remotely tolerable.
However, Keith spared me the indignity and the injustice of having to sit through Beastly again.
Instead, we saw Red Riding Hood.
Not bad, not bad.
Virginia Madsen's performance could have been a lot stronger.
Billy Burke, aka "Bella's Dad" from the Twilight series was okay.
What made the film worth watching was Julie Christie, as "Grandma."
Julie Christie from the original Dr. Zhivago.
Along with Gary Oldman.
Whose never given a bad performance as far as I can see.
Sid and Nancy. . . amazing.
Best of all was sitting in the theater with Keith, engaging in our pre-viewing preamble.
We've decided to make this at least a once a month activity.
I'm looking forward to it.
Ask anyone what they find challenging about Montreal and you'll get the same response.
Driving.
Montreal looks as if a bunch of men got together after smoking too much crack and decided it would be fun to make a city.
Which is the only logical explanation for how the roads and streets in Montreal are configured.
For Montrealers, however, the highways and bi-ways of their fair city are just a part of their everyday world.
A fact I still can't wrap my head around.
There is no where to go in Montreal that doesn't take ten years off my life.
Not even walking.
During our we-have-to-get-out-of-the-house-stroll Tuesday afternoon, Stephen and I marched along Gouin. . .pronounced Gooo-eeeen.
And almost got ourselves killed in the process.
Narrow sidewalks and catastrophic drivers do not the best combination make.
Add the swimming pool sized puddles and the mounds of snow piled high on the sidewalks and you had yourself a recipe for disaster.
Which is why we didn't stay on Gouin very long.
We cut through the parking lot of the Notre Dame de Bel-Amour church parking lot.
A church bearing icicles so thick, so heavy, so long, so huge, the looked like the thickest part of tree trunk.
I was astounded that the church didn't collapse.
These icicles literally stretched from the roof into the ground.
But I digress.
Stephen's parents have been driving in Montreal since they were old enough to drive.
Over 60 years.
They know how to get around Montreal the same way I know how to get around Fredericton.
Just on a much grander scale.
And as sometimes happens, once people begin to get older, the ability to negotiate a two ton motor vehicle through the treacherous and always expanding streets of Montreal can change.
And as also sometimes happens, people are less-than-willing to accept that perhaps they should consider driving less.
Given his parent's insistence that everywhere we go, we go in their car, we were treated to more than one drive around Montreal with Stephen's parents.
Mostly his 80 year old father sat behind the wheel, maneuvering here and there as he took us to our favourite destinations.
While Stephen and I sat in the back with our hands clutched together.
Me with my eyes shut.
And Stephen's mother in the front seat yelling at him to "take it easy on the gas pedal" and commenting that he "drives with a lead foot."
I love Stephen's father.
That needs to be clear.
But I'm not 100% certain he should be driving for much longer.
I'm used to driving in dangerous conditions.
Remember, I drive with Stephen, or as I like to call him, Mario Pidwysocky.
75 kms thought the residential areas of Fredericton.
My constant reminders to slow down.
Perhaps even the odd reference to possessing a "lead foot."
Mmmmmm. . . .
More of those patterns seem to be emerging.
Driving with Stephen's dad was akin to taking a ride on a rollercoaster.
Without the locked-in-so-you-can't-move part.
Let's just say it took everything I had to not throw myself on the snow covered ground, kissing it with reckless abandon, everytime we reached a destination.
That just would have been unseemly.
And the conditions of the roads and streets throughout Montreal aren't exactly conducive to smooth, effortess driving.
Potholes the size of moon craters dot the urban landscape.
Cars duck and dive around them.
Sharp turns left or right in a futile attempt to avoid losing major parts of their cars.
All while driving at a breakneck 120 kms on the 70 km Decarie Expressway or the Metropolitan.
The side streets aren't any better.
What little driving you do amid the myriad of stop signs that prevent you from getting anywhere in any decent length of time, is always interrupted by the constant bouncing up and down, rolling around, and rattling like a lone pea in a tin can.
The result of the constant heaving of the streets.
Pavement rising up similar to the ground heaving as the result of the underground creatures moving hither and yon in the low budget, yet somewhat entertaining film, Tremors.
Include the never ending contruction, the exits barre, the poor road conditions and the psychotic drivers and you have all the reasons I would rather eat dandruff than drive in Montreal.
Throw in a snowstorm or two, and I'd rather watch a John Wayne film than peruse the streets of Montreal.
Must mark.
Must mark.
Must mark.
Those papers keep staring at me.
I feel the same way when the dogs look at me with the "I-have-to-poop" look on their faces.
Like I'd better do something or there'll be trouble.
Finally, I have readers in Japan. I read about the eartquake and tsunami, and I hope and pray you and your families are safe. If there is anything we can do, just say the word.
Title Lyric: A Hundred Miles of Bad Road by Andy Griggs
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