mardi, juillet 31, 2007
my hometown makes my brain melt
Things I did this weekend:
1. went to the dump. three times. the dump people now know me by name.
2. avoided being hit by stupid tourist drivers who don't know what they are doing or where they are going.
3. decided not to look at aforementioned drivers' license plates to see if they were from Alberta.
4. was the whitest person on the beach.
5. drank beer on a patio. was chatted up by a 39 year old guy in a blinding hawaiian shirt who thought I was 21. the mind boggles.
1. went to the dump. three times. the dump people now know me by name.
2. avoided being hit by stupid tourist drivers who don't know what they are doing or where they are going.
3. decided not to look at aforementioned drivers' license plates to see if they were from Alberta.
4. was the whitest person on the beach.
5. drank beer on a patio. was chatted up by a 39 year old guy in a blinding hawaiian shirt who thought I was 21. the mind boggles.
samedi, juillet 28, 2007
happiness...
two scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream in a waffle cone still warm from the waffle iron.
lundi, juillet 23, 2007
ancient history
So I am cleaning out my years of accumulated stuff from my mum's basement. And while I am most certainly display the least packrat-like tendencies of all our family members, I have managed to squirrel away* an alarming pile of photographs, letters, school assignments, yearbooks, and other random crap that must have meant something to me once.
But since I am flying the coop soon** it is time for a little consolidation if not an outright bonfire.
This morning I found my grade 7 year book. The one made especially for my class when we graduated from elementary school and stood on the cusp of 5 anxiety ridden, hormonal, years of high school. We all had two profiles: our kindergarten one and our grade seven one...
"Claire is five years old. She has blue eyes and brownish hair. She has a two year old brother. Her favourite colour is blue and her favourite food is cookies. At school she likes to play with her friends. When she is not at school she likes to play in her tree house. Claire likes the summer best because she likes to swim. She takes ballet lessons and wants to be a ballerina when she grows up."
"Claire likes dancing, shopping, volleyball, cross-country skiing, running, reading , swimming waterskiing and motorcycling, but dislikes people who only talk about one thing all the time, computers, boring science classes, tennis, football, coleslaw, and rice salad. Her pet peeves are people who think they are the best at everything and stupid guys. Her favourite saying is 'But that's ok.' Her goal is to get through college, move to New York and be on Broadway. Her favourite parts of being in grade seven are not having anyone ahead of you in school and the privileges. Being a graduate of the year 2000 means she will be able to wear a 'Class of '00' sweatshirt, but it's also a big responsibility because people will have high expectations of us."
I could analyse these to death, but this is self indulgent enough. Mostly they make me giggle.
*Monday is the official "day of bad animal similes/metaphors"
**It's true, I could keep this up forever...
But since I am flying the coop soon** it is time for a little consolidation if not an outright bonfire.
This morning I found my grade 7 year book. The one made especially for my class when we graduated from elementary school and stood on the cusp of 5 anxiety ridden, hormonal, years of high school. We all had two profiles: our kindergarten one and our grade seven one...
"Claire is five years old. She has blue eyes and brownish hair. She has a two year old brother. Her favourite colour is blue and her favourite food is cookies. At school she likes to play with her friends. When she is not at school she likes to play in her tree house. Claire likes the summer best because she likes to swim. She takes ballet lessons and wants to be a ballerina when she grows up."
"Claire likes dancing, shopping, volleyball, cross-country skiing, running, reading , swimming waterskiing and motorcycling, but dislikes people who only talk about one thing all the time, computers, boring science classes, tennis, football, coleslaw, and rice salad. Her pet peeves are people who think they are the best at everything and stupid guys. Her favourite saying is 'But that's ok.' Her goal is to get through college, move to New York and be on Broadway. Her favourite parts of being in grade seven are not having anyone ahead of you in school and the privileges. Being a graduate of the year 2000 means she will be able to wear a 'Class of '00' sweatshirt, but it's also a big responsibility because people will have high expectations of us."
I could analyse these to death, but this is self indulgent enough. Mostly they make me giggle.
*Monday is the official "day of bad animal similes/metaphors"
**It's true, I could keep this up forever...
dimanche, juillet 22, 2007
limbo
clearly "soon" is relative.
I left England a month ago, but it seems simultaneously like a moment and decades since I stepped on the plane.
I am not good at saying goodbye. I hate the implied permanence and the wrench in my sternum when we actually part and walk away from each other. The sudden absence of loved ones, when an hour ago we were laughing and drinking wine, throbs for days. And every encounter leading up to the appointed minute of waving through a train window borrows the upcoming sadness. Like paper towel absorbing spilled coffee.
While goodbyes are not my forte, being said goodbye to is even worse. I hate being left behind. I feel so futile, (is that even possible? for one's entire being to be futile?) whenever I am the one wishing safe travels and helping with luggage. Standing at Heathrow crying into my sleeves I remembered a teeshirt slogan: "If you leave me, I am coming with you." Except it was in French, so it sounded much more chic and less desperate. And, to be fair, when people leave me I don't always want to go off on their adventures with them, I just want to be going on my own and not right back out the whooshing airport doors and into a normal Saturday.
So then it was back to canadia: cupcakes, wild laughter, a drunken thursday, and manic conversation started the relocation off. Then another trip to the damn airport to put someone I love on a plane, and a few days of quiet before an orgy of landscaping and construction. When I am 87 I would like to be able to haul landscaping ties around in 30 degree heat. My grandfather did for the better part of a week, and now we have a nice retaining wall that is both level and not about to fall over.
The garden is planted with goodies: peppers, beans, tomatoes, and carrots. But since le frere used the carrot patch for theatrical pyrotechnics practice* we have seen no carrots. To be fair, I don't think he knew about the carrots because I didn't label them, but then, I wasn't expecting the symphony of fire in our back yard.
As promised, Morocco...
The Sahara, 15 km from the Algerian border...
(in an effort to force myself to actually write more regularly, the photos will be spread out over a bunch of posts. for all 2 of you who read this...)
*yes, my brother was setting of fireworks in our vegetable garden. No, I don't have pictures.
I left England a month ago, but it seems simultaneously like a moment and decades since I stepped on the plane.
I am not good at saying goodbye. I hate the implied permanence and the wrench in my sternum when we actually part and walk away from each other. The sudden absence of loved ones, when an hour ago we were laughing and drinking wine, throbs for days. And every encounter leading up to the appointed minute of waving through a train window borrows the upcoming sadness. Like paper towel absorbing spilled coffee.
While goodbyes are not my forte, being said goodbye to is even worse. I hate being left behind. I feel so futile, (is that even possible? for one's entire being to be futile?) whenever I am the one wishing safe travels and helping with luggage. Standing at Heathrow crying into my sleeves I remembered a teeshirt slogan: "If you leave me, I am coming with you." Except it was in French, so it sounded much more chic and less desperate. And, to be fair, when people leave me I don't always want to go off on their adventures with them, I just want to be going on my own and not right back out the whooshing airport doors and into a normal Saturday.
So then it was back to canadia: cupcakes, wild laughter, a drunken thursday, and manic conversation started the relocation off. Then another trip to the damn airport to put someone I love on a plane, and a few days of quiet before an orgy of landscaping and construction. When I am 87 I would like to be able to haul landscaping ties around in 30 degree heat. My grandfather did for the better part of a week, and now we have a nice retaining wall that is both level and not about to fall over.
The garden is planted with goodies: peppers, beans, tomatoes, and carrots. But since le frere used the carrot patch for theatrical pyrotechnics practice* we have seen no carrots. To be fair, I don't think he knew about the carrots because I didn't label them, but then, I wasn't expecting the symphony of fire in our back yard.
As promised, Morocco...
The Sahara, 15 km from the Algerian border...
(in an effort to force myself to actually write more regularly, the photos will be spread out over a bunch of posts. for all 2 of you who read this...)
*yes, my brother was setting of fireworks in our vegetable garden. No, I don't have pictures.
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