Je m’appelle Heather.

Moi, je parlez français.

Comment allez-vous?

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I was saving french lessons for retirement, but a good opportunity presented itself, so I jumped at it. A fellow yogi, who was also my son’s soccer coach this summer, is in my class. She’s a lot of fun, so Wednesday evenings will be entertaining to say the least, except for next Wednesday when I have to go to night court for my speeding ticket. Oh, I didn’t tell you about that?

Beautiful spring afternoon and I’m leaving work with Jimmie on my back, heading for guitar lessons. When I came out the side door of my building, Bob Dylan’s bus was parked on the street. A rental security officer asked me politely if I wouldn’t mind walking AROUND the bus. To which I responded, “Excuse me?” He repeated his request and I gave him a puzzled look, “That’s kind of dangerous, don’t you think?”

Pissed off, I walked straight into traffic without looking, just hoping for a photo-opp of me and Jimmie sprawled on Duke street because some washed-up singer thought I might be interested in looking at him while he sat on his bus. And, I mean no disrespect to Mr. Zimmerman, but, come on. Unfortunately, traffic was light.

Things got worse when I arrived at guitar lessons and told Roger of my trouble. He got me all worked up and told me I should have said, “Yes. Yes, I fucking mind walking around the bus. This is my sidewalk, I pay taxes for it, and I’m going to walk on it.”

Needless to say my brain was off writing this blog post on the way home from my lesson and wouldn’t you know, a very nice police officer thought he clocked me breaking the limit, slightly. I kindly accepted the ticket, but showed up in court two months later to plead not guilty and get my day in court. Next week is it. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Just to top it off, the next morning, while I’m impersonating a pace-car and cruise-controlling at 50 kmh, radio reports of the Bob Dylan concert went something like, “he didn’t say hi, bye, kiss my ass, or even acknowledge where he was. Just played and left. No encore.” How is that entertainment? No where near as cool as french lessons.

Salute, mon amis.