perfectionism

Perfectionism insists that I post in a chronological order, but because I'm shuffling from one laptop to another, while working and packing and eating and sleeping almost simultaneously, I'm just realizing that if I post anything, any date, it will be an improvement on nothing at all. So take that, perfectionism. But still it tells me it doesn't really care because it has a capable hand in disorder, too.

So here are some pictures from the beginning of rainy, tired August, when my best friend Bridget came to visit from Ohio. And isn't it funny how after a while certain words begin to stick together? - it's hard to say 'Bridget' without saying 'from Ohio' now. Now THAT shows how careful you need to be when choosing your living space, because you even have to consider what you're sticking yourself to in a wordy sort of way as well as a literal one.

Actually, the only pictures I have from her visit are from Hopewell Rocks. Her aunt Linda and fun cousin Carly took us. And since I must give credit where credit is due: they are two tough cookies. Bridget and I clung to each other, gazing in disbelief at our unrecognizable feet (one of us might have wailed: ‘I have never been this dirty in all my life!’ and okay, it was me) that faded away ankle deep in chocolate pudding mud. That chocolate pudding mud is very deceiving. And though I’m trying very hard to be a good sport, the adjective disgusting is sticking to ‘chocolate pudding mud’. Anyway, while Bridget and I squirmed, laughing in disgust at the mud, and hair sticking to our faces from the mist, Linda walked out so far she was the size of my little finger. And Carly, laughing in a nice way, snapped a picture of our horrified faces (which I would like to get ahold of).

But these pictures are pre-mud, pre-mist, and pre-torrential rain. Pre-Rachel covered in mud, though I never fell, thanks to the child who stepped in front of us in line and promptly sprayed the mud off his legs unto mine. Here's the first view I had, off the top of the stairs (which my arthritic granny knees came to know very well indeed).
and a lucky lady with an umbrella! oh to be prepared.

And me. And Bridget. Not a good, clear photo. But we're together.
and here Bridget is viewing the walk out to the sea dispassionately.
After that the rain poured down and I had to stuff my camera in my sweatshirt pocket, so that I looked like a mama kangaroo. We pulled ourselves up the ramp, sliding helplessly in slimy flip flops. Though we cleaned up as best as we could with the hoses, we still bedraggled and straggled through the woods, bursting forth upon civilization as the rain stopped and the sun shone. I noticed more than one newly arrived silky haired tourist staring at our damp forms, perhaps wondering if we'd teleported from some South American country in the midst of the rainy season.

We ate two doughnuts apiece to sugar-rush our weary selves and immediately fell asleep.

An hour later we hugged muddily at the bus station and then I was delivered promptly at four in Summerside by the bus, and promptly at five at work, by my mother, STILL spattered with 'chocolate pudding'. I changed furiously fast in the bathroom so I could babble about my adventure. Disgusting? Oh, perhaps. But certainly worth it. While I bus-sed, Bridget flew. And it'll be a while before either of us are in a position, financially speaking I guess, to visit often.

So those four days we spent together were jewels. (I think C.S. Lewis says it best: 'My day was the colour of a peacock's chest.') Chatting over a pizza; visiting her old and sometimes crazy neighbors who insist you gulp down a filthy cup of tea, and nearly catch you hiding their frozen jelly roll in your napkin ('and I INSIST you try a spoonful of my beans'); singing vigorously along with her father, johnny cash kitchen parties into the wee hours; saying the most ridiculous, egotistical things to each other and laughing gleefully, unselfishly if we top each other; trying on as many things as possible in Smart Set, which is, sorry, Our Store and always has been, and don't those salesladies know it; and finally, beautifully, the Deep Sleepover Talk. Isn't there something about talking in the dark?

But maybe it's more just talking to Bridget. There's a certain thing I try not to complain about, and most people simply forget about it, which is more than fine with me. But I 'complain' to her. 'I know,' she says. 'I've learned to pick up your signals over the years.'

It's not that other people don't know my signals. It's that she knows even when I'm not signaling. It's our way. We both strive for perfection, but are sympathetic to the imperfection in each other.

It's why the words 'best friend' stick to 'Bridget'.