Natural Disasters

I survived my third earthquake yesterday. I was at Walmart with my friend, S. The whole building started shaking and at first I thought 'earthquake' until S ran screaming from the bathroom and yelled at me, "P get out of here, now!"

I always listen to directions, so I dropped my groceries back into the cart and ran outside, thinking she must have known something more than I did. Maybe it was a G20 bombing of Walmart or something . . . but, alas, she was just taking precautions and there were no explosions or firebombs forthcoming. I headed back in to buy A her lunch provisions for her school program next week. S waited outside.

On a subdued weekend afternoon in our West End Vacouver neighbourhood, I notice a strange phenomenon. All the cats had gathered in the middle of the street in a circle and seemed to be having some kind of conference. I called to my then boyfriend and he came out to see too. That's when everything started shaking. The cats were well positioned to avoid falling debris. They knew it was coming.

In the middle of my work day at the Talent Agency on Sunset Boulevard the building started to slide left, then shifted right. Everyone in the office was nonchalant. It was just another earthquake. Thankfully, they said, the building was on wheels. That explained the shifting.

So . . . my three stories of the earth rocking beneath my feet.

Today, the sky seemed to fall in. I just made it in off the Queensway where I was driving about 80 the whole way back from IKEA and prayed that my replacement tires would not fail me and Bluebelle. It was like driving atop a river the whole way home. Other drivers, I'm sure, were cursing me, but I didn't care.

I'm usually a terrible talk-back driver. Once when I was driving I heard A in the back seat use a particularly nasty tone of voice as she said, "What are you doing?"

"I'm just driving love, why? What's the matter?"

Her demeanour changed, "Not you, mommy," she explained, pointing to a car. "It's that car. It's not driving properly."

"Oh," I said, realizing that she was mimicking my oft-spoken reprimand to other drivers.

Last week, as I grumbled as a car cut me off, she said, "Is he a fuck, too, mama?"

Yikes! Little did I realize that word ever came out of my mouth in her presence.

"Well, no. Mommy does get mad at bad drivers, though, doesn't she? But that's a bad word, babe. You shouldn't say that word. I'll try not to say that word again."

I can say it when she's not around, though. I may have said it today. It could be the most natural response to my experience of unending disasters . . . but I'll hope they end soon.

No word from my lawyer. Not yet. I'm hoping I haven't caved too much for my sense of self-preversation.