It's ok, I am a doctor!

I have over 150 allergies and most of them decided to make my life a miserable version of an existence about one year and two months ago, November 2013. I was always exhausted. My breathing was laboured and felt like a full-time job that you hate to wake up to every single morning. And inhaling through both nostrils was a fantasy to me. I was desperate. I had no idea why this was happening all of a sudden and how to make it stop. I was in such a bad state I was about to give my pet rabbit away, because I thought her fur was to blame. On a whim I replaced her hay with a substitute pellet form that the little fur ball loved and alleviated my allergies to the point of coming to the conclusion that the rabbit is not the sole reason for my suffering. In January 2014, my body, still weak from almost two months of consistent exposure to an allergen could not deal with a typical winter flu and I was bed ridden with a high fever for two weeks straight. Then, in February I got a cold, one that lasted about twice as long as a regular cold should last. By that time I was a nervous, weak, exhausted and a completely frustrated wreck, With three term papers due at the end of the month and none of them started I felt like begging for a higher power's mercy. By March 1st I could not believe the miracle that just happened: I leaned back in my chair, bleary eyed, sleep deprived and wired on sugared coffee as I just submitted the last of my term papers minutes before midnight. I did it. In early March I decided to start practicing a regular regime of yoga, only to have that cut short by a small tear in my shoulder that occurred during downward facing dog in the first session. The pain accompanied me until June. During these troubling months of physical ailments my mother had her own worries with her allergies and began to tell me about a naturopath in her hometown (I do not live at home anymore nor in the some city as her). This naturopath, she informed me, uses the principle of NAET (Nambudripad's Allergy Elimination Techniques), a non-invasive procedure of acupressure to treat food and environmental allergies. For months, my mom raved about this treatment and how much it has been helping her and that I should really give it a try. Therefore in June, while visiting my family in W. I decided to give this treatment a try, since nothing else seemed to be helping and I did not want to continue to pop my allergy pills like Tic-Tacs. The initial visit consisted of a computerized test to determine all of my allergies. The naturopath, a very professional and quiet woman named S., would press a metal rod, which was connected to the computer to my right middle finger and miraculously my allergies appeared in chart form on the computer screen. Her office was bright and clean. Her receptionist a very friendly and calm woman with a sweet disposition. The actual treatment room had two large windows facing the small parking lot just outside the building and the air was fresh. Nevertheless, S. would barely say a word during that initial visit. I had absolutely no idea what exactly was going on and what I should expect. To be quite honest, S. gave me nightmares, I couldn't read her and was unsure if she even wanted to treat me. After the first treatment session my opinion and slight fear of this very professional woman disappeared and was replaced by gratitude, since I was beginning to feel better. Mind, I was not cured completely, but I could finally breathe through my nose again, eat strawberries and pet my rabbit without being afraid my dormant allergy to animal epiphelial would cause me to react. The downside of this arrangement was that I could only ever get my treatments when I was in W., which was a five-hour drive from my home. In October, during my last treatment session with S. in 2014 I asked her if she knew of a NAET practitioner in my home city. I was willing and eager to continue my treatments and could not wait to feel fully healthy again. Therefore, in late November I called the office of the practitioner that was listed on the NAET website to be available in my city. I specifically requested an appointment for the continuation of my treatment. This is where the most difficult part of this story has to be told. I made an appointment for Dec. 9, 2014 at 1pm. Leaving with plenty of time to spare I made my way to the office of Dr. B., a doctor of chiropractic and practitioner of NEAT (which include the acquisition of the NAET certificate). I searched both sides of the street for this doctor's office until I realized the receptionist on the phone gave me wrong directions from the subway, which meant I had no choice, but to walk 45 minutes west, since I missed three buses driving by. This should have been the first sign of bad things to come. When I finally arrived at the office I stepped into a very dingy looking rectangular main entrance, at the far end of which sat the receptionist, a pleasant enough person. Beside her stood Dr. B., extending his hand in greeting. He was a small man, heavily set around the waist with rather skinny arms and legs, on his head he was wearing a toupee with a shade of brown three shades too dark for his grey hair. Having been 30 minutes late, I was asked to wait for the next available time slot (a mere 10 minutes later). The waiting room was unbearably hot, especially for this cold but not freezing day outside. I was led down a dark hallway into the treatment room; a small, dark rectangular room, stifling hot, with incense burning somewhere and chant-like music playing from a portable CD player. Before I continue I would like to state for the record what I wore during this appointment to ensure that no one comes to the absurd conclusion that what I am about to share was in any way or form asked for on my part by the attire I chose. I wore black UGG boots, black jeans, a lime green broad-shouldered tank top and a grey zip sweatshirt hoody, zipped up. I was asked to sit down. I retrieved my list of allergies printed from the computer test done in June, which he shoved back into my hands and claimed computer tests are not reliable, but nevertheless, he told me, he wants to see where I am at in my treatments. Taking this as a statement that he is actually continuing where S. had left off, I began to cite my current allergy complains. I didn't get too far before I realized that Dr. B. liked to talk a lot. He then instructed me to sit on the chiropractic couch. He continued to talk, while I began to feel fuzzy from the heat and the smell of the incense. He performed the allergy test without the computer, explaining the sources of my complaints, sounding more like a machine gun than a practitioner helping a patient. Dr. B. just started a new bout of the verbal waterfall with respect to what is all wrong with me and what could be done to help me, when he took hold of my sweatshirt and lifted it to check if I had a rash on my back. After which he grabbed the collar of my sweatshirt, pulled it down my shoulder to check for a rash there as well, both times exposing bare skin. It must be said that his movements were as quick as the flow of words leaving his mouth. I had to stand up, because he wanted to check my posture, since he is a chiropractor he could help me with my back pain. I stood, facing forward with a straight back. He waved his hands around me, touching my shoulders from time to time. And then it happened: a tiny, well-positioned movement around my breast. Then another one, but this time he actually grazed my breast with the same swift and quick movement. He turned towards my back to check the alignment of my hips and cupped my buttocks twice, again with the same swift, quick movement. I wasn't sure what was happening. Dizzy from the heat and burning incense and in denial that a health care practitioner would touch a patient inappropriately, I was hoping this session would be over soon. He confirmed that my hips were misaligned and he offered to reposition them again, since he is a chiropractor. I have been to two different chiropractors before and both have helped me greatly in achieving some relief in my almost chronic stiff neck and back pain. Therefore, I was hopeful and optimistic that at least with respect to the offer of chiropractic services he would be able to be of assistance. During this entire time he was still talking without pause for breath or reply. In between his many explanations why I am basically a physical mess and offering the hip alignment, he also said that a bladder and uterus lift would be beneficial to me. I said yes to the hip alignment and without any further explanation and confirmation that I indeed want this bladder lift, I found myself face down on the chiropractic couch, which was tilted in such a way that getting back up quickly was impossible. Dr. B. announced that he was starting the hip alignment and proceeded to rub my thighs and buttocks repeatedly. Then he placed his hands underneath my lower abdomen, feeling for my bladder and gave the fleshy part a few light flicks. His fingers then traveled down towards my pubic bone, which he pressed thoroughly with his index and middle fingers. He rubbed my buttocks once more and instructed me to stand up and sit in the chair. Hoping the “treatment” would be over and he was just going to recap all he had included in this session, I clambered to a seated position and then sat in the chair. Dr. B. reiterated my problematic hips and recommended orthopedic insoles. He left the room and came back with the supplies to take imprints of my feet. He told me to take off my shoes and socks and before I could move he grabbed my foot firmly and yanked off my boot and sock. I wish this terrible experience was over after he took my foot imprints, but I had no such luck. I put my shoes back on and met him and the receptionist at the front desk. Once again, he spoke very fast about all the services, supplement and supplies I would need in order to get my health back in order. But I should not worry, since he will give me a good price on the orthopedic insoles, meaning he would make out the receipt for the insurance in such a way that I would still receive my benefits, if I already used all of my allotted money for the year. He spelled it out for me, giving the example that he would just put my fiance's name on the receipt, claiming that he received the services (i.e. the insoles), even though I am the one, who is receiving them, but the insurance would never know. He pressured me into paying for the insoles straight away ($400), plus $156 for the initial visit, which I did not ask for, and supplements. I stood firm, paid only the second amount, got bundled up in my scarf and coat and could not get out of the office quick enough. Now I am sitting here, almost two months after this terrible experience, attempting to put into words what has been subconsciously torturing me for just as long. It was easy to remain distracted for the first month, being the Christmas holidays. Once the holidays were over and life returned to normal I was left with a growing sense of anxiousness, depleted self-worth and a tendency to pick and scratch my constant hives I have from my allergies. I knew something was wrong, but I was sure this experience did not leave such a lasting and deeply bad impression on me. I was in denial, willing to shove it all under the proverbial rug. It really isn't such a big deal that a health care professional and therefore a person meant to be trusted deceives and touches his patient in immoral ways. Or is it? I cannot concentrate on anything for prolonged periods. I keep trying to distract myself without avail and I am two months behind in my school work. It is a big deal. Two days ago I called the Manulife Insurance fraud investigative department and left a message about this potential fraud. Yesterday I began writing all of it down, which promptly triggered a lovely combination of panic and anxiety. Today, I received a call from Manulife: an investigation into this Dr. B. has been launched and I was given the contact info for the College of Chiropractors of Ontario and the Board of Directors of Drugless Therapy with the intense encouragement to file a complaint with both. I am still shaking every time I talk about it and I feel that this sense of anger towards myself for not screaming “bloody murder” during the session will stay with me for a while. I should have done something, that's what I keep telling myself. But in the end there really is no should, only the truth (wise words written by Byron Katie in Loving What Is).

Merry Christmas Season

Hello again! I haven't quite decided how often I will post works to the Creative Corner, since it depends how dedicated I can be during the holiday season. The book reviews do not pose this dilemma, because it is a bit easier to give one's two cents worth to something someone else has written than to actually sit down and come up with a piece of fiction one feels worthy of posting. Speaking of the holiday season, I have been tempted for the past two weeks to update my Facebook status to read "It's the Christmas shopping season, so let's all act like dicks". Even for a perpetual Christmas elf like myself, the inconsiderate crowds in the shopping malls mixed with the blaring music that has anyone scream for mercy (even if it is Christmas music) and the thermostat set so high that after 5 minutes in any one store we start to feel like beef jerky, it was just a bit too much. Yes, they are those people that push and shove and even drive into one (and crush one's purchases) with their foot as they treat a potential customer like an unwanted stray dog. This happened to me not a week ago at a Christmas market. I was angry, I felt humiliated and mistreated as a man twice my size used his leg to exert force instead of just using his words. At the end he forbid me entrance into the store at all after I told him clearly not to push me. From what I can only assume, this man was an employee of a store that had too many customers in the store already, so in order to reduce the chance of theft he decided to play bouncer for this particular store. However, this could easily have been achieved in a civilized manner as I was able to witness at the store next door, which actually had a security guard employed to monitor the entrance and who was capable of letting customers know when they were allowed to enter. It took a good hour until I was able to leave this incidence behind me and enjoy the rest of the evening. The next morning I woke up and of course the memory of this unpleasant situation crept into my mind again, but instead feeling my blood boil at the though of it, I had to smile, even chuckle as I realized that a man twice my size felt the need to ban a tiny woman like myself from a home decor store, because I told him he acted out of line. Having shared this experience, I hope it helps bring my point across that no matter how many people act like grinches, let it go; leave it behind. Don't let someone's unhappiness spoil your day or the holiday season. Be good to yourself. Treat yourself. Sit on the couch in your "jammies", sip hot chocolate and watch Christmas movies, if that feels good. And have yourself a wonderful Christmas season. P.S. I posted two new book reviews ("Gathering Blue" and "The Pierced Heart") as well as a short monologue I wrote ca. six years ago that was inspired by the movie "Miss Potter" (2006).

Gathering Blue by Lois Lowry

Gathering Blue by Lois Lowry
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I was greatly disappointed with this installment of The Giver. I admit, up until chapter 13 I was actually quite interested in the story, but found the remainder of the book slow. In addition, after chapter 13 I noticed a change in the writing, which was very confusing.
I didn't mind the oddity of the story or the lack of details that surrounded the circumstances of the village, but I was greatly annoyed by what can only be described as the author's desperate attempt to make the story much longer than it actually had to be. Which brings me back to my previous statement of the change in writing style. It appears that after chapter 13 the author realizes that the story should be much longer and changes the narration to resemble more the style of a children's book, with many repetitions of various details that were just given. This made for a tedious and boring reading experience.
The characters in general were interesting enough, but there occurred no character development whatsoever throughout the entire story.
The twists and shocking surprises the author added in a rather unfortunate attempt to include depth to the story were very predictable and did nothing to improve the story.
Also, I had the impression the author tried to include moral lessons for her young readers, but considering the outcome of the story, it becomes questionable if such lessons should be given to her audience.
This book wasn't really worth the time and effort it took to read. I rated it two stars only because of the first 12 chapters that contained some intrigue, but at this point I cannot decide if I should recommend it.

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The Pierced Heart by Lynn Shepherd

The Pierced Heart by Lynn Shepherd
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

In my opinion The Pierced Heart is Lynn Shepherd's best work to date. I was surprised to find the story on average 100 pages shorter than her previous three books, but as so often the reader is reminded that it isn't really about the length of the book that defines its quality. With only ca. 230 pages the author created a story of suspense, grotesque, eeriness and the possibility of the supernatural. As with all books in a series, it is impossible to review this book in a standard manner, since various elements of the overall story may be the focus while others are left for later installments.
The plot: as with all of the author's stories in this series, she decides to focus on one particular classic literary work and creates a story that encompasses elements of the classic. Having said that, the author's decision to focus on Bram Stoker's Dracula for this installment provided the perfect bridge and vehicle to further the overall story arc that includes the main character. As an avid admirer of the classic literary works, I appreciated the intricate weaving of the traditional Dracula elements (that are responsible for the eerie mood) with the details of the detective's story. It was a well-paced story that focused more on the actions than the overall narration of the characters the reader knows so well by now.
The characters: as mentioned above, this story is not really character-driven, which at this point in the series is not a bad thing to do. We are; however, left with an interesting twist at the end of this story that provides for greater character focus in future installments. To be quite honest, personally I did not mind the story-driven approach the author adopted.
The narration: I find it remarkable how skilled the author is in including elements of the classic literary work she uses as a foundation for her stories, not only with respect to the plot, but also in her writing style. It showcases her knowledge of the classic as well as her competence as a writer.
I was a bit surprised to find rather medicocre ratings for all books in this series. I admit that the writing style the author uses does not allow for a quick and easy read, but a rich reading experience that takes time and focus. It places great value in the authenticity of the story, instead of the quick fix entertainment kick.

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Dear Norman

My dearest, at the present moment I’m tucking along on this very bumpy train (as you can see by my childish chicken scratch), thinking of you. It is the 4th of December sometime in the late afternoon. I lost track of time hours ago, no, days ago. The sun is fast setting behind the snow-covered horizon. The little fluffy, clouds in the darkening sky have turned a deep, rich pink, almost red. They are beautiful! Mother Nature has tucked the earth in for its long winter’s nap. Nothing can be seen for miles except whiteness and bare trees. A natural solitude that affords peace, tranquility and harmony, but never loneliness. The only loneliness exists with me, inside me; an empty feeling that started the moment I turned around and left you. It is dark outside now, that was fast! Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, it is winter. In the dark sky above this ancient train there hang hundreds of stars, tiny specks that look like diamond dust on a velvet blanket. They are beautiful! I look at my hands, my left one in particular, holding this pencil. I examine my chewed up thumb and my painfully short fingernails (I can’t even scratch an itch!). my attention lingers on my ringer finger, my bare naked knuckle, on it should be a small diamond (just like the ones sparkling in the sky above me right now) secured in a delicate white gold mount and a thin band embracing my finger. One of many “ should have been’s” in my life. I expect to arrive soon at my new destination, with this train ride a “new chapter” of my life has begun, a chapter that does not include you. Who would have thought it was going to end like this. Nothing is written in stone, but I think one thing is very certain: great things can be expected of me, dark and freakishly insightful, but great! You encourage me to pursue my talent, make something out of me, so I will. That’s why I am on this train, without you, on the quest of refining my “gift”. I never told you, but you were the one, are the one. I could beat myself black and blue for never letting you know. And now it is too late. When I remember you, I will always remember your laugh, the way your lip curled as you smiled, how bright your brown eyes sparkled. My happiest moment of us would be you and me laughing in the student pub over a drink. Nobody can bring back those happy times, but I’m sure as hell going to hold on to those memories with dear life. I miss those times, moreover, I miss you, will always miss you. As I placed one single rose on your coffin, I knew my fate was sealed: there will be no other, ever! When I was finally persuaded to leave your side I knew that my heart will only beat for you. Yours may never beat again, but mine will beat for our two souls, separated on this mortal earth until we are once more united. Please know, my dearest, I’ll be yours until the end of time!

Welcome and Finally

Welcome to my blog. This has been in the making for over a year and I finally feel confident enough to post and publish reviews and creative pieces. Currently I have three sections on this blog: Home, for any announcements and updates I would like to share; Book Reviews, a collection of all the book reviews I wrote in the past year; Creative Corner, a place where I have been encouraged to share my writings.

The book reviews are taken from my Goodreads account. I have been participating in the 2014 Goodreads Reading Challenge and decided to share my opinions and general thoughts after finishing each book. 

The Creative Corner represents a different challenge for me. As I try to write on a regular basis again, I also made it my goal to share these pieces of creative writing in this blog. With each written piece my intention is to express creativity, reflect life and at times even question reality. Above all, I mean no harm.

With that said, welcome once more and enjoy.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

One may say that friendship is an integral and important part of a person's life. The existence of a friend to confide in and to share secrets with, someone that accepts us as we are and make us feel loved is something most people love, cherish, sometimes take for granted, but are always aware of its significance. Most people, but not all. Such is the case of Catherine Montenegro. A bright young woman, intelligent, very pretty and cold as a fish. She is of the opinion that friends, friendship or the spending of “quality time” with other people when not discussing topics that expands the human mind in an efficient and academic way is just not worth it. Although her fellow classmates and people in her age group always say that these years are crucial to finding themselves through experimenting, it wasn't the sort of experimenting she was willing to participate in. And she was sure that those were the only experiments they were conducting. Therefore, as every young, ambitious and already very successful woman with her goals and head screwed on the right way would do she ignored them. All of them, she couldn't bother.

It was a dark, grizzly Tuesday in late November, zero hours of sunlight, Catherine checked before leaving the house eight hours earlier. She was sitting on the city bus heading back home to the more suburban and wealthier part of town where her aunt and legal guardian owned her stylish and modern four bedrooms, four bathrooms (two of those with jacuzzi bathtub and en-suite), centre-isle kitchen, fully finished basement, large backyard and a two-car garage house. Catherine was a single child, her parents died in a car accident on their way back from Banff. They left Catherine with said aunt for a two week romantic retreat in a desperate attempt to safe their failing marriage after both participated in extra marital activities. Dr. John Montenegro and Prof. Camilla Montenegro, successful as they were, weren't capable of keeping their professional lives separate from their private lives, Consequently, Dr. Montenegro found himself helpless in the arms and voluptuous bosom of the head of the paediatric department, whereas Prof. Montenegro found the fire and stamina of a grad intern irresistible. The unhappy and guilt ridden couple booked a cozy chalet hidden in the heart of the Rocky Mountain winter wonderland to give themselves time and opportunity to “figure things out”. On the day of their departure they drove their rented car back to the rental lot when the doctor lost control on an icy road, plunging their midnight blue Mercedes into a creek, killing both.

That was 15 years ago. Catherine is now 25, for anyone who asks her if she still remembers her parents, she gives a slight nod of the head with eyes turned to the floor. According to societal protocol that is what one is supposed to do when asked personal questions about deceased family members. It doesn't matter if the person asking is out of line or not close enough to the surviving relative to ask such questions, Catherine has ascertained that in such delicate manners the right for privacy is nullified. Catherine also noticed that no one is actually interested in the truth. When faced by death, the dying or the fact that we all die, people seek comfort in the surreal, sometimes even in the absurd to make sense of the unshakable and inexplicable truth of the conclusion of life as we know it. Catherine did not really care. Her knowledge was based in scientific facts. Matters of the here and now. Her parents lived, gave her life, raised her until their death and made sure that she was cared for in case of the unforeseeable. She was then raised by another very successful offspring of the Montenegro clan, Dr. Joan Hamill, once married, once divorced and sister of the deceased Dr. Montenegro. Catherine's education was of the finest. It was rooted in elementary physics and chemistry with her favourite subject being biology. The top of every class she ever took (excluding the nonsensical requirement of physical education), she was motivated, supported and pointed in the right direction, the path of a great and bright future as an academic genius. In Catherine's view her parents were fine people, who did their best, giving her the genetic foundation of great intelligence and success and for acquiring legal guardianship from another great mind that understands and values the importance of nurturing intelligence.

With her tote stuffed to the brim with books, Catherine stepped off at her usual bus stop at the corner of Morningside Dr. and Aspen Lane Park and slowly walked through the remaining leafs still stuck to the wet sidewalks that the wind has not yet blown away. It was a quarter past three o'clock and it was almost as pitch dark as late at night. Thankfully the street lights started to illuminate the street with their warm orange glow and the automatically timed Christmas lights began to pop up along the familiar strip of Aspen Lane Park, as Catherine took this walk for the last time.

“I'm here!” Catherine called through the empty house, with the echo coming back hollow and cold.

“In the kitchen!” came the equally hollow and cold reply from the back of the main floor. “How was your appointment? And the Library?” Joan asks as she saw her niece approach. She noticed a slight slouch in her walk and a defeated look on her face.

“Fine. Kind of pointless, since I won't be going back. The library was not bad. Unfortunately, they still haven't caught up with time yet. Not enough outlets for laptops, nor seating in general and they lost the books I put on hold while having lunch in the nearby plaza. Of course, that was my fault”, Catherine could feel her blood pressure rising again at the stupidity she had to endure from the sleepy looking librarian before embarking on the search for her books by herself.

“At least you ate, we have a bit of a drive ahead of us.”

“uhm.”

Dr. Joan Hamill, tired of the city life and exhausted from emergency room shifts and multiple stabbings and shooting victims, took the advice of an old friend of hers and decided to join forces with her in a small town two hours north of the hustling and bustling city she called home all her life. St. Micheal’s Memorial Hospital is in the picturesque town of Woodbridge. Catherine claimed it is nothing more than a village. At the beginning of the year Joan ran into an old friend from her undergraduate years, at a conference held in the hospital she worked in and found out that this friend, Patricia Langley, was director of internal affairs at said St. Micheal's Memorial Hospital in Woodbridge. Not long after their reunion Patricia was informed of an impending opening at the hospital in their family planning unit. Joan had shared her grief of lack of job satisfaction and was encouraged to apply for the position, if she was serious about starting a new life. Obtaining the position was the easy part considering the difficulty Joan faced the day she wanted to break the news to Catherine. Catherine was hopeful of obtaining a part-time position in the lab in the hospital and had volunteered many hours in order to impress anyone and everyone just to obtain some field experience, preferably in exchange for money. However, these new plans of Joan's went against all that Catherine was hoping for. One may wonder why a woman of 25 years of age cannot just move out and start her own life. Catherine was financially dependent on her aunt, since the intelligence and foresight of her parents did not extend to their financial matters. Even after the house the Montenegro family owned was stripped and sold for all it was worth, there was no money left to invest in a long lasting trust fund for Catherine. The little bit money that her parents began to put aside for her educational endeavours ran dry long ago, as Joan promised her brother before his death that she would make sure that her little niece received the best that money could get. Furthermore, having suffered an infected and consequently ruptured appendix a bit over two years ago resulted in Catherine missing her final exams and the following two semesters due to complications during her recovery. She was able to obtain an aegrotat standing for the semester she attended classes; however, the time was lost and she missed her seamless transition from undergraduate to graduate studies. Dealing with such a setback is more difficult for some people than for others. For Catherine it was a tragedy and caused her to experience extreme anxiety, lack of appetite, insomnia and made the life for everyone around her a complete hell on earth. Based on a preliminary psychological evaluation she was not really a threat to herself in the sense of accomplishing severe and permanent damage, but her behaviour with its main goal being to catch up with the rest of her generation, at least the intelligent part that was able to continue their studies without any unnecessary interruptions, was alarming.

Joan was singing along with the radio loudly as the city, the lights and the noise smoothly transitioned into picturesque landscapes of Victorian style houses, four-way stop signs and the first traces of snow that actually stayed on the ground.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bells rock, jingle bells pop and jingle bells knock...” she belched out as loud as she could, while Catherine rolled her eyes in sheer agony and wondered if the stray cat she just saw was about to walk backwards as even it could hear the horrific sounds Joan called “singing”.

“Please, Joan, for the love of God! If you sing along, please listen to the lyrics and try to stay on key, unless you are declaring psychological war on me. I'm begging you, please. And besides, who plays Christmas songs in November?” Catherine was sure this was only the first of many small, yet overpowering differences between city and country life. Before too long she would find her overenthusiastic and slightly mid-life crisis plagued aunt in the kitchen, making apple sauce from scratch while watching the Martha Stewart channel.

“Relax and who cares if the words don't match the song, it's fun. You know, you can let down your hair a bit, too. This is the country, things move slower here. People still appreciate life and nature and all its beauty and not just their extra venti soy mocha late. Which reminds me, have you heard from that one girl that's supposed to be attending school at the Woodbridge campus?”

“I like my hair in a bun, it keeps it out of my face. And what girl are you talking about?”

“The one from your psychology class? The one with the book, the same one you had? You know?” Joan knew she was testing Catherine's patience with each additional question, but she hadn't given up hope yet that one day her niece would actually make a real friend.

“Everyone in that class has the same textbook, so that doesn't really narrow it down. If you are referring to the fine arts student, who happened to have the same copy of “War and Peace” by Leo Tolstoy, her name is Natalie. Yes, she will continue her graduate work at the Woodbridge campus.”

“Excellent! Maybe you can get a coffee together and talk about art and literature. You have so much in common.”

“Sure and Christmas comes in November here in Woodbridge.”