I am so very exhaustedly pleased, as I lay here headachey and largely shattered on my comfy, cozy couch, to say yet another month is in the can. I know it’s a monthly. It’s all of six pages. But, by golly I swear it’s bloody well like giving birth every month. And, if you’ll indulge the birthing analogy just a little longer, this month was excruciating. I was prepared the day before ‘due date’. I had everything written, laid out, and all submissions in and placed… all but one. A blip on the heart rate monitor strapped around my heaving, bloated belly. So as I readied myself for the final push, the print to CutePDF…. I awaited eagerly, anxiously, the final contribution.

My last contributor, my one complication, in an otherwise uneventful, yet joyous, delivery. A fifty eight year old baby- I mean, man- with long, grey hair and a love for all things musical. He’s in a band. A percussionist- a genius on the maraccas; bloody brilliant on the tamborine. A middle aged master home builder who missed his calling in a for real rock ‘n roll band. He also has his finger on the pulse of all things musical in our area. With no wife and no kids, but for some young, groupie girlfriends, he is everywhere… and knows everybody. His life is one big ol’ party. He is my Music and Entertainment Reporter.

Granted, the job offers no compensation other than a case of beer and the honour and prestige of the title, Music and Entertainment Reporter. Understand that in our town, during the low season: quaint and charming, sort of Northern Exposure meets Deliverance. High season: Northern Exposure meets Deliverance meets Dallas- the Alberta oil money comes to town. So the title is one of great respect and admiration.

No, really.

I do appreciate that given there is limited compensation, expectations have to be managed. I must treat my talent with care, sensitivity and immense gratitude. Not to mention exuberant praise for the work they do… a case of beer only goes so far. Egos must be stroked, readily and consistently.

However…. when I say Wednesday. I. Mean. Wednesday. Even if your 58th birthday was Tuesday.

Thursday afternoon does not cut it. And “I’ll have it to you in 20 minutes” NEVER means four hours.

So, the music column for July has been replaced by a last minute sad-ass review of The Other Boleyn Girl. Music Man’s submission did finally arrive. Too late. I had pressed SEND an hour before. I haven’t been this angry at a man other than Husband in quite some time.

In this case, as with my children, I exercise consistency: You don’t play by the rules, you don’t play. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Take your commitments seriously and show your friends and colleagues respect. And please, we’re all busy adults here, if for whatever reason you can’t do somethin, let me know and then I can plan accordingly. Just don’t leave me hangin’!

Music man will not know he missed the boat until he picks up the issue at newsstand on the weekend to read it. He will call me. Angry. Dejected. Hard done by. Unappreciated.

And I will say, “Tough Tittie, Music Man. A woman in labour is not to be toyed with.”

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