Saturday perfection

it's the very best if you can start your saturday on the night before, playing soccer in the sudden, sodden spring. this means you'll sleep a sleep so untroubled that the only dream you'll remember in the morning is that you started a new tube of toothpaste. you won't even remember that dream until you go to brush your teeth and think: that's odd.

take your coffee back to bed. say good morning to that sleepy person lying next to you. snuggle the cats. leaf through the globe and mail, saving some for sunday. when you get up, tell yourself you have to drive to the farmers' market rather than ride your bike because they'll have bedding plants. then buy a huge hydrangea with eight blue globes: there, you had to drive. run into jen, smiling in the sunshine. run into carmen, who tells you todd is still in the hospital but doing better. carmen herself is doing better, you note. load up the car with hydrangea and go back for an herb garden.

at 11:45 you realize you're going to be late for your lunch date. at the exact moment you text ted to say "i'm running ten minutes late," he texts you to say "i'm running ten minutes late." over vancouver rice bowls at the ARTery, mutual friends trickle in. karen's taking her dog to hip hop in the park. amy's maybe going to check out the office show: me too! the vue writers are staying for the live music, a girl named jill and her ukelele, but we sneak out.

hey, do you want to just park at your place and walk down? i do. the show is ... well, i like blair brennan's shrink-wrapped tools. gerry morita dances. someone sings. alice major reads. it's the office as figured by people on artists' grants. as you walk back out into the sunshine on 124th street, you think how this is ultimately what you'd want, artists on grants thinking about an office rather than artists in offices dreaming about grants.

ted says he'll walk you a bit. then amy runs after. we meander until we're at our place. does anybody want a drink? better: a fudgsicle. we haul mo away from her yard work, sit on the deck drinking ice water in glasses with green palm trees. our grass is greening too.

after ted and amy leave, you do a little solidarity yard work: put the amazing hydrangea into a pot, clear a couple of beds. just when the heat is starting to feel oppressive, you hail your new neighbours in the back alley: lovely liliane, 8 months pregant, and 3-year-old julia, who has a new bike. romanian, edmontonian, downtown dwellers, friends of david and susan's: me too! julia is determined to get herself up on the swingset, then the rings. we women watch her, our chat sweetly empty. the afternoon melts away.

what could make this day better? you grill your food: no cleanup. you get a message from dear friends saying that all is well, meaning they are well, meaning all is well. you put on the etsy dress you bought on impulse, which of course fits perfectly. you walk to the roxy to see darrin's new play buddy. you hold hands.

walking home you catch the scent of night blossom. you can't tell what it is, exactly, and you can't tell where it comes from, but you can't get enough of it. you would lose yourself here if you could. too soon, it evanesces, and you are home.

Best saturday things

• finding the mousetraps empty
• having the market to myself
  
• running into leslea at amy's AGA show
  
• albrecht durer's trees
• getting a pass from the parking patrol
• dropping off flowers to a friend
• a free night.
  

Saturday morning

one of the most marvelous contradictions in life is the constitive contradiction of saturday morning. lying in bed, mo still asleep, and early, i think of all the things i will do. this morning's list included:

• yard work: cleaning up roofing nails, mowing the lawn, weeding, putting in a few more annuals, replacing my mysteriously dying basil, cutting suckers, rescuing the mock orange, tidying up the raised bed and, most satisfying of all, yanking caragana
• shopping: the farmers market, the italian centre, the greek market, antonio's
  
• baking: muffins, granola, flatbread
• riding: a longish bike ride through the river valley parks.
  

lying in bed i had only to decide what to do first.

i don't know exactly what happened to all those grand schemes of mine, only now it's quarter to one and i'm lying on the front porch day bed, reading and daydreaming, waiting for a yoga class at 2.

Saturday morning, spring

this, right now, is my favorite moment of the week. i’ve woken up in a sun-filled loft called saturday morning. i’m lying in bed, a hot cup of coffee to my left, a dreaming girl to my right. it’s spring here, at least indoors, and nothing is required of me. i could do anything.

i might paint my study green today. or build myself a bookcase. or run and run and run through the river valley. i might read a book about argentina. there's a pair of disappointed chickadees on the balcony right now, taking a break from househunting and reevaluating their choice of neighbourhood: maybe i’ll fix the birdhouse for them. i might mix up a batch of granola. i’d love to wash the windows, get rid of all that winter dust so we don’t miss a drop of the new spring sunshine. i might take pictures, take a jacuzzi, take myself out for breakfast. or i might nuzzle right back into the duvet and take a nap.

saturday morning shout-outs: to sweet ted, dancing, and his grandma, departing. to beautiful catherine, living. to anthony, reading spivak. to my anonymous new friend D, smiling back at her kidneys. to st city roasters, who did an especially nice job on this pound of ugandan coffee. to all my snowed-in friends in ontario: keep the chocolate handy! to gogol, takin’ it to the streets. to my friends with kids, whose weekend pleasures are so different from mine. to lez grrls (edmonton chapter), who make me laugh. to renee, promoted. to jen, happy birthday, you international woman! and to all the poets who make something beautiful of this day.