Lucia Frangione

I ask my New Years Resolution what it needs to be this year. I am expecting “punctuality” or “work out 4 x a week” or “learn Italian”. Instead, she winks and declares,   “Make more mischief”.   My soul – surprisingly – agrees. Once again, God is everything I don’t expect.   I am rather confused on both fronts. Why mischief? And what does that happen to do with my soul? Last year it was “fiscal responsibility” and it was a success. Should I not continue along the path of security and sobriety? Mischief indeed! There are so many more…

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I waddle down the stairs to the laundry room, a basket of whites so tall I can’t see over them. New Years Eve. Honestly. The laundry room should be clear. I’ve been afraid to do laundry since someone threw my last load of Nora’s clothes out with the trash. I open the door with my hip, ooh, I’m not alone, someone is in here. I set down my sheets and turn to see – gasp – ! It’s her! My prime laundry tossing suspect. I don’t know why, really, but I’m scared. I stand still as a mouse cornered by…

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I love New Years Resolutions, I love lists and goals and brand new calendars. I love coaches and logs and measuring success. I love buddies and accountability and going hard core. I love teams and sweat and brand new strategies. I love seeing results, I love being ahead of the curve, I love taking on just a little more than expected. So I’m a real champ, real dedicated, I last for a good long while…until I slip up. Then, the purity of the pursuit is lost, I sniff failure, I kick myself in the head, I hate the goal for…

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  Tonight I am kindly invited to a birthday party for a fellow I hardly know. I love intimate gatherings but parties aren’t my strong suit. I have no good reason not to go and he’s a very nice fellow, it’s a surprising honor to be invited, so I decide to be brave and attend.  I bring with me a dozen apple hand pies freshly baked. If I am a social dud, I still have something to offer. I decide to dress in my unflattering yet entirely hip tunic. To be honest, I know that any woman who is a…

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My beautiful Algerian girls left today for home. We kissed each other good-bye and cried. None of us slept well last night. It is very likely we will never see each other again. As Nora and I say to each other often, “This is what it is to love someone: you miss them when they’re gone.” The very kind friend who has taken care of my cat delivers my keys after breakfast. I serve him coffee. He talks rather often of a woman overseas I am sure he’s still very much in love with. The more he tells me about…

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  My dear travelers from afar are soon flying back to Algeria and northern stars. I take my Muslim friends to a Christmas party (Karen Ydenberg and Darcy White). I say “Karen is an opera singer so there’s sure to be some good carol singing, and she’s also Dutch, which means: great cookies.” True to my prediction, carols are sung by a host of fabulous musicians and singers who end the evening with an impressive hallelujah chorus in the parlor beside heaped plates of cream cheese cranberry shortbread served by their lovely three daughters. Darcy is a fabulous host, pouring…

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Dear Neighbour, I’m not sure who you are, but this is Lucia in 101. I am the single Mom with the eight-year-old girl. You may have even recognized my laundry: since it contained my daughter’s red raincoat, her figure skating bag, her hat made by Auntie Ana that we fight “dibs” over, and her favourite toy dog. My daughter is the only child in the building. I’m not sure why you thought our clean laundry in the dryer was garbage and threw it in the trash outside. Perhaps it was because I left it unattended for a few hours today?…

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I sit in my jammies for half the quiet lovely snowy day and write and write and write. It is a glorious egghead Saturday. My old dog and I circle the hood to stretch our legs and shake fuzz balls from our brains and I marvel at how fascinated he is, anew, by the smells along McLean. My kitten’s new favourite game is knocking my keys off my desk while I write. Scares the hell out of me every time. If she could speak English, her first word would be “gotcha”. There’s been a shift in my writing. I’m sure…

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It is snowing in Vancouver and my old man Husky cross, Tartuffe, remembers his puppyhood. I haven’t seen him trot in months. Today, he actually gamboles across the field towards a frisky shepherd. He leaps! His old arthritic legs stiff and airborne. They don’t look sore or lame, they look hipster disengaged: a teenager too cool to use the handlebars. He looks back at me, knowing I must be impressed, his hooded blue eyes saying that singular ubiquitous word with many meanings: “Dude!” At the end of the field, lovers are building a snowman, giggling as only the young and…

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Ooh I have to rant. It is becoming increasingly difficult for me to understand how someone can call themselves a Christian and feel justified in calling homosexuality a sin when it isn’t in the Bible. Every single reference misquoted in the Bible from Genesis to Revelations is specifically about pagan temple male prostitution, the abuse of young boys in certain rituals and practices, orgies and promiscuity within a marriage. All of these examples make sense to me and I agree: all those scenarios are likely to bring someone harm. At the very least: these Biblical references are suspect. Are we…

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