tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86982392024-03-13T04:43:10.023+00:00the procrastination diariesclairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.comBlogger219125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-3082943287544924032009-08-22T00:29:00.001+01:002009-08-22T00:31:24.848+01:00Good things-iced americanos with coffee ice cubes<br />-free haircuts<br />-house plants<br />-holidays<br />-working washing machinesclairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-29777878159935394332009-05-28T22:48:00.003+01:002009-05-28T23:20:44.830+01:00Power Skirt<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/Sh8H1A3m7oI/AAAAAAAAAMM/vaW8n80-YAI/s1600-h/DSCF4577.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/Sh8H1A3m7oI/AAAAAAAAAMM/vaW8n80-YAI/s400/DSCF4577.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340996290432396930" /></a><br /><br />I've been wearing 'grown up clothes' for almost a year now, and it's almost stopped feeling like playing dress-up. <br /><br />Confirmation came last week when a St. Laurent-clad lawyer complimented an outfit (black heels, black blouse*, pearls at throat and ears) anchored with this skirt. <br /><br />It's hard being a perfectionist, and though I've let go of most of my AR tendencies** I'm a stubborn shopper. Schooled by my sewer-mother, (who in turn was schooled by <span style="font-style:italic;">her</span> seamstress mother) my picky-ness and taste often exceeds my time and means. If the fit isn't perfect, if it's not lined, if if cuts my arms off at the widest point... no matter how much on sale or how cute or how much I just need one more dress... I won't buy it. <br /><br />Actually, that's not entirely true. I do buy stuff. All the time. But then I try it all on at home and grimace and return it the next day. <br /><br />So I find myself spending a lot of time shopping, with little to show for it. But I'm learning about the age-old thrill of the chase; stalking the shops of Queen West and the Eaton Centre, waiting to pounce on a swath of fabric that will add a soupcon of maturity to my dead-last finish in the rat race. <br /><br />*evidence that I am nowhere near full maturity: the word blouse sends me into paroxysms of giggles.<br /><br />**any family member reading that clause just choked on their coffee.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-104967519836804582009-05-16T16:39:00.006+01:002009-05-16T22:19:59.208+01:00Breakfast<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/Sg7efz6jWCI/AAAAAAAAAL0/cIYFhUuuTTw/s1600-h/DSCF4527.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/Sg7efz6jWCI/AAAAAAAAAL0/cIYFhUuuTTw/s400/DSCF4527.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336447246573721634" /></a><br />(Long Horn Diner, Chattanooga TN)<br /><br />Saturday mornings I'd smell the scrambling eggs before I opened my eyes. Or the whirr of the ancient blender mixing orange juice concentrate and tap water into a froth. Once in a while I'd wake to the muted growl of the stove fan - which always started-up with a clunky reluctance and then increased to a frenzy that suggested it was trying to escape the confines of our bright and cluttered house. <br /><br />On special Saturdays, apparently determined at random, there would be pancakes. Made according to a recipe in my dad's head, we'd all sit around the kitchen island waiting for batches hot off the flat-top. Slathered with yoghurt and fruit syrup, or white sugar and lemon juice, we'd eat and talk and listen to the finest of CBC radio one and fight over who got to start the Globe's crossword.<br /><br />Pretty much the poster family for Can-con. <br /><br />After I moved away from my parents' house, Saturday breakfasts diversified: classic english fry-ups, mid-afternoon grilled cheese sandwiches, cafe brunches, huevos rancheros wrapped in naan, strong coffee. Most were consumed on the tail-end of a hangover. Most were location-specific. <br /><br />Consistency was coffee and the Saturday Globe, sometimes a few weeks old, that my father sent me every week for the three years I lived overseas.<br /><br />These days Saturday mornings are still often hungover. And I have better access to the Globe than I ever thought I would. But he doesn't really <span style="font-style:italic;">do</span> breakfast, and - spoiled by years of smelling scrambled eggs - I am loath to put in such effort just to assuage my grumbling stomach and yearning for an evaporated perfection.<br /><br />So we compromise.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/Sg7wnnoySDI/AAAAAAAAAME/Hc9b_njZwWo/s1600-h/DSCF4579.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/Sg7wnnoySDI/AAAAAAAAAME/Hc9b_njZwWo/s400/DSCF4579.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336467171926231090" /></a>clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-51307013557968940422009-05-07T04:06:00.002+01:002009-05-07T04:17:57.370+01:00not quite a year.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SgJQurN6KAI/AAAAAAAAALs/clOY7P9-nQg/s1600-h/DSCF4432.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SgJQurN6KAI/AAAAAAAAALs/clOY7P9-nQg/s400/DSCF4432.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332913671565355010" /></a><br /><br />This is the Tennessee River. Which winds and moseys its way across the landscape of the not too southern South.<br /><br />Apparently, you can never step in the same river twice. But sometimes you do. Sometimes you just keep wading into the same river, until your shins get numb and the rock indentations in your feet harden, and the act of striding across the current takes every iota of your focus. Because the other options - being carried away downstream, or standing in mud on the bank - turn all of you numb. Not just your thoughts. Or your shins.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-8890079633271288102008-08-20T22:48:00.006+01:002008-08-21T22:16:27.179+01:00Gotham Afternoon.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SK3alCp9x_I/AAAAAAAAAIQ/cYQ3CkCaSBc/s1600-h/DSCF3930.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SK3alCp9x_I/AAAAAAAAAIQ/cYQ3CkCaSBc/s400/DSCF3930.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237082271604656114" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SKzrbELu1II/AAAAAAAAAII/d9rqIL5Pv4s/s1600-h/DSCF3907.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SKzrbELu1II/AAAAAAAAAII/d9rqIL5Pv4s/s400/DSCF3907.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236819316936987778" /></a>clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-22007542971217047902008-08-19T02:23:00.002+01:002008-08-19T02:26:41.276+01:00technicolor city<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SKohEE8cqiI/AAAAAAAAAH4/AMU3RHVlwC0/s1600-h/DSCF3898.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SKohEE8cqiI/AAAAAAAAAH4/AMU3RHVlwC0/s400/DSCF3898.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236033870702094882" /></a><br /><br />yes. I ran away a little bit.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-39235131016291279872008-06-20T13:30:00.003+01:002008-06-20T15:42:29.639+01:00shoeshine girlThe light is beautiful this morning. <br /><br />I woke up to the incessant clamour of an unfamiliar alarm, courtesy of having two pints too many and deciding not to cycle home. The owner of the alarm was already in the shower, and, as I groggily stumbled around in borrowed pyjamas trying to source and eliminate the beeping, a shaft of sunshine grazed my cheek and stopped me in my tracks. <br /><br />This city's been grey for weeks.<br /><br />I waited for water to boil in a rarely-touched saucepan. My gracious host, leaving for a business trip at 8:30, ran out to pick up drycleaning. The morning was off kilter. There was tea in the cupboard and milk in the fridge but no kettle or teapot. English breakfast steeped in a stein. When my host returned, it was with half a suit: somehow his trousers had been misplaced. <br /><br />All of a sudden there were not enough minutes to pick out a different suit, iron trousers, decide upon tie, collect papers, shine shoes. Ironing abandonned, I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor, armed with an old toothbrush and a dishrag, shining a pair of well worn shoes. <br /><br />I can't remember the last time I shined a pair of shoes. I can't remember not knowing how to shine a pair of shoes.<br /><br />My mind flicked from past to present as though I was looking through a <a href="http://www.edcenter.sdsu.edu/cs575viz/viewmaster.gif">viewmaster</a>. The drawer in the back hall stuffed with plastic bags and rags and pucks of polish in various hues. Flecks of sticky black on white kitchen tiles. My dad's voice reminding me to make sure I really worked the polish into the seams. My host's incredulity at this hitherto unnounced skill.<br /><br />I've spent this month grasping for my father - simultaneously aching for and terrified of catching a snippet of high resolution memory. I worry about forgetting. I worry that by the time I can revisit all of the days from before two junes ago and still remember to breathe, the memories will have faded from lack of exercise. <br /><br />There is a vast literature on grief, most of which I have not read. I think I don't want to find, in what is to me a vastly a-typical situation, that all of my feelings are textbook responses. So I don't know which <span style="font-style:italic;">stage</span> I am in. I'm not keeping a "personal journey" journal - other than this oft abandonned forum - nor am I in therapy - though I'm considering it. <br /><br />Instead I'm hanging on to what I know is true: I can shine a pair of shoes in 3 minutes. The light is beautiful this morning.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-83716705892662583162008-06-11T06:38:00.001+01:002008-06-11T20:10:23.740+01:00death by cerranoIt was the ham that did me in. Slivers of scarlet sliced off the bone in front of my eyes, melting on my tongue. It tasted nutty and creamy and like the smell of warm, damp pine needles. <br /><br />An hour into <a href="http://www.torontotaste.ca/">Toronto Taste</a> and I'd lost my heart to a 3000 dollar leg of meat. <br /><br />The event of the year for Toronto foodies, Taste is a gustatory extravaganza. For those who can afford it, forking over $225 for a ticket, guarantees face time with the city's hottest chefs, the chance to brush shoulders with local celebs, and the satisfaction of having contributed to a very <a href="http://www.secondharvest.ca/">worthwhile cause</a>. To the uninitiated (which includes your faithful scribe) perambulating around the Japanese Canadian Cultural Centre for a few hours on a Sunday afternoon feels a food fair designed by cirque de soleil, with the additional benefit of copious amounts of free alcohol.<br /><br />Much as it was during my 9th grade food fair, the most popular kids tables were swamped. <br /><br />As I stood quietly in a corner of grill tent, munching pig's ear terrine on home-made crackers, Marc Thuet and his crew flung ribs to a salivating and sycophantic crowd that never seemed to dissipate. A master of charcouterie, Thuet was instantly recognizable by his tousled platinum coif, as were his family members - presumably there's a household bottle of peroxide, or else they are universally blessed with the fantastic hair gene. Watching Thuet's brigade chatting amiably with prada-loafered nobs I thought how apt some recent <a href="http://science.howstuffworks.com/old-couples.htm/printable">research</a> relates to commercial kitchens. Thuet is a <a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://media.torontolife.com/dynimages/features/parlour-games-main.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.torontolife.com/features/parlour-games/&h=450&w=299&sz=33&hl=en&start=2&um=1&tbnid=rZYojR-htCMvmM:&tbnh=127&tbnw=84&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dmarc%2Bthuet%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26sa%3DN">burly</a>, bulldog of a man. So are his staff. The three men on the front line were built like the proverbial <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Built+like+a+Brick+Shithouse">loo</a> and had accessorized their whites with bandannas and baseball caps. Compared to their fresh faced and crisply starched colleagues, the Thuet crew wouldn't have looked out of place at a Nascar rally or as extras on The Sopranos.<br /><br />Meandering out of the tent, I picked up a glass of Cave Springs Sauvignon Blanc (crisp! fruity! dry!) and promptly abandoned it for <a href="http://www.mistura.ca/index.php">Mistura's</a> mint and pea shooter topped with light mustard foam and garnished with a single succulent prawn. For a few brief seconds I contemplated making off with the tray of shooters, but decided not to when I realized the inevitable conclusion: discovered slumped in a corner, covered in pea puree, suffering a prawn induced coma. <br /><br />In the main ballroom, Mark McEwen took time out of bestriding the room like a colossus to chat to the <a href="http://www.indianricefactory.com/mrs_patel.html">doyenne</a> of spicing. Plate of biryani in hand, he paid his respects and then, flunky in tow, resumed his tour. Later, I marveled at his contribution to the festivities: a sweet potato pancake topped with a mint and crab cake wrapped in cured trout garnished with corn salsa, creme fraiche, and greenery that I would have identified had I not immediately gobbled the edible architecture.<br /><br />There was more, so much more* but my taste buds were overwhelmed and the backs of my eyelids filled with dancing canapes. <br /><br />I pulled up my bootstraps and headed back to the center of the center of the universe, munching pickled carrots (thanks <a href="http://www.jkkitchens.com/v2/welcome.html">Mr Kennedy</a>!)on the crowded subway.<br /><br /><br />*to wit: mini kobe burgers, potato/pea/salmon sushi, souffle, trifle, pate, carlo rota, <a href="http://www.hgtv.ca/homeheist/">colin and justin</a>clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-57991449528177177832008-06-06T04:59:00.002+01:002008-06-06T05:05:39.815+01:00Things I am afraid of, Vol 1Lightning.<br /><br />Particularly the cracking streaks that light the thunder clouds cerulean blue for a second before exploding into a flash of white light. <br /><br />Especially great bolts streaking across the sky whilst I am cycling. <br /><br />Good thing I decided not to wear my tin foil hat this evening.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-70104551243883191042008-06-02T22:07:00.009+01:002008-06-02T23:57:19.599+01:00Colour Theory<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SERrc-GgPgI/AAAAAAAAAHA/4tfNWObRCrU/s1600-h/DSCF3435.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SERrc-GgPgI/AAAAAAAAAHA/4tfNWObRCrU/s400/DSCF3435.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207405214597922306" /></a><br />It is <a href="http://www.macleans.ca/columnists/article.jsp?id=2&content=20080312_96248_96248">no secret</a> that the east of Canada had a rough winter. When the snow eventually quit piling up I heaved a sigh of relief and began dreaming of spring, completely forgetting about Canada's fifth season: the grimy thaw.<br /><br />The grimy thaw extends from the last snowfall until mid-May. It's as though the trees and lawns and citizens are holding their collective breath, waiting for the final blizzard of the season. In a stunning example of brinksmanship, Canadians and their flora refuse to tidy themselves up for spring before the warm weather hits and the weather gods refuse to grant warm weather until we sweep the winter's accumulated gravel off our streets. I think the only reason Spring actually occurs is that a day or two of the paralyzing curb-side stench of thawing dog shit galvanizes all parties.<br /><br />The upshot is six months of existing in monochrome.<br /><br />Though I am not by nature a colour fiend - I'm pretty sure the divine <a href="http://www.fotolog.com/nbest/17703920">Miss N</a>'s moratorium on the purchase of black shirts still stands - its almost total absence from my life caused me to rebel in small ways.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SER4vHIy4sI/AAAAAAAAAHg/Ao6-3V30xdg/s1600-h/DSCF3556.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SER4vHIy4sI/AAAAAAAAAHg/Ao6-3V30xdg/s400/DSCF3556.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207419819912258242" /></a><br />As March eased into April my daydreams started to resemble a Robert Doisneau montage, except with less kissing and worse hair. I bought a <a href="http://whatitallcouldmean.blogspot.com/2008/05/wanderer.html">red coat</a> and yellow rain boots.<br /><br />Salvation came early in May when a friend let me dive into her closet and fish out old bolts of <a href="http://www.marimekko.fi/eng">marimekko</a> fabric. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SER5fQiQliI/AAAAAAAAAHo/rpRlG62Eq6M/s1600-h/DSCF3560.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SER5fQiQliI/AAAAAAAAAHo/rpRlG62Eq6M/s400/DSCF3560.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207420647068702242" /></a><br />For the past month the floor of my room has been covered with puddles of vibrant prints while plans for projects gestated. I drew. Calculated yardage and seam allowances, and paid close attention to sidewalk fashionistas.<br /><br />Outside my window, the cosmic game of chicken seemed to have stopped. One fiery tulip bloomed beside my front steps. Daffodils and magnolia trees followed suit. Time sped up and suddenly, weeks later, I had a free morning to play with fabric and draft patterns. <br /><br />Fueled by copious amounts of tea, I swatched and pinned and snipped and measured and re-arranged and made notes and sat back on my heels and chewed my lower lip and thought really hard about what I wanted to make. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SER5_IOTNzI/AAAAAAAAAHw/ce4QhMEtuQs/s1600-h/DSCF3558.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SER5_IOTNzI/AAAAAAAAAHw/ce4QhMEtuQs/s400/DSCF3558.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207421194593318706" /></a><br />And when I figured it out, the giggles started way down in my belly and, like effervescent prosecco bubbles, spilled out into the sunshine and jazz-filled bedroom.<br /><br />Apparently, I'm just contrary.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SER3-Hp0XvI/AAAAAAAAAHY/wVJy2rxPQ_c/s1600-h/DSCF3562.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SER3-Hp0XvI/AAAAAAAAAHY/wVJy2rxPQ_c/s400/DSCF3562.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207418978237177586" /></a>clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-25688762936461193992008-05-31T20:45:00.002+01:002008-05-31T20:50:41.596+01:00sightingsOn one of his very <a href="http://www.thestar.com/News/GTA/article/409014">last days</a> in Toronto, I managed to get in the way of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Susur_Lee">the master</a> while he was buying bananas at Dominion.<br /><br />My Saturday is complete.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-12433090676787619362008-05-30T19:13:00.003+01:002008-05-30T19:28:43.886+01:00SprungToday it is overcast and spitting enough rain that the grass and lilacs and tulips and apple blossoms shoot smell out into the breeze that winds through the brick and gabled Victorian mansions along Brunswick street.<br /><br />Spring is not something I thought about when I decided to move to this city which is so famed for its winters and sweltering smoggy summers.<br /><br />While I was sleepwalking through May the front gardens sprouted and drank up all the rain and grew and grew into lush front stoop oases that beg me to sit with a cup of tea and absorb lilac essence through my pores.<br /><br />Spending a morning pedaling along one way side streets in the Annex and catching raindrops and maple tree pods in my hair causes my thoughts to run together in swooping arching sentences completely devoid of punctuation.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-51603000406221677822008-05-28T18:30:00.002+01:002008-05-28T18:50:00.989+01:00I hear your cries in the desert...There isn't any good reason for the month-long blog hiatus.<br /><br />May seems to have disappeared in a flurry of cycling, sleeping, smelling like curry, drinking wine professionally, lunch and coffee dates, birthday parties and orange juice. Not a bad way to lose a month. <br /><br />I had a <a href="http://whatitallcouldmean.blogspot.com/">visitor</a>, (who posts far more frequently than I do... so scroll down for his take on the center of the universe) and I had...uh well I don't exactly remember, but it seemed important at the time.<br /><br />I'm hoping to get my act together in June. I will endeavor to establish more of a routine - writing, running, eating - and maybe this feeling of fragmentation due to centrifugal force will abate.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-12458777509532521982008-04-28T03:31:00.012+01:002008-04-28T06:59:04.265+01:00I was so fat...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVRHTSS_6I/AAAAAAAAAFw/Igbh7Iqez1g/s1600-h/DSCF3492.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVRHTSS_6I/AAAAAAAAAFw/Igbh7Iqez1g/s400/DSCF3492.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194146931119685538" /></a><br /><br />A few weeks ago, in between attending sports matches, I was asked to participate in a piece of choreography that would open the second night of <a href="http://www.alternativefashionweek.com/main.php">Toronto Alternative Arts & Fashion Week</a>. This was amusing for two reasons: my dance career is long over, and I am far from fashionable* Nevertheless, I found myself in the Distillery District's Fermenting Building on a Thursday night surrounded by beautiful hipsters. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVRfDSS_7I/AAAAAAAAAF4/jErhFuob1kU/s1600-h/DSCF3521.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVRfDSS_7I/AAAAAAAAAF4/jErhFuob1kU/s400/DSCF3521.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194147339141578674" /></a><br /><br />The hours leading up to the show became progressively more frenetic. When I arrived, there were a few sound techs on seemingly permanent smoke breaks, random dudes in skinny jeans listening to ipods, and dancers rehearsing. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVS6DSS_8I/AAAAAAAAAGA/Sabyqb5R5hQ/s1600-h/DSCF3499.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVS6DSS_8I/AAAAAAAAAGA/Sabyqb5R5hQ/s400/DSCF3499.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194148902509674434" /></a><br /><br />Gradually the models trickled in. Through the door of the hair and make-up room drum and bass was underscored by the whine of hairdryers. Racks of plastic-sheathed garments created de facto dressing rooms. Along the back wall sat a row of stoic models - the bored centers of a cyclone of brush-wielding make-up artists.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVXIjSS_9I/AAAAAAAAAGI/cfiLQcPaydc/s1600-h/DSCF3510.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVXIjSS_9I/AAAAAAAAAGI/cfiLQcPaydc/s400/DSCF3510.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194153549664288722" /></a><br /><br />The dancers were also subjected to the brushes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVYPzSS_-I/AAAAAAAAAGQ/efwWqwBt6jk/s1600-h/DSCF3514.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVYPzSS_-I/AAAAAAAAAGQ/efwWqwBt6jk/s400/DSCF3514.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194154773729968098" /></a><br /><br />There was a flurry of styling (both hair and clothes) and the bass got louder and the audience babble rose, and the stage manager's headset crackled constantly. The washroom was filled with nervous pee-ers and delicately painted lips were bitten.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVbpjSS__I/AAAAAAAAAGY/QSxgyvo6-s8/s1600-h/DSCF3501.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVbpjSS__I/AAAAAAAAAGY/QSxgyvo6-s8/s400/DSCF3501.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194158514646482930" /></a><br /><br />The dancing was over in a second. I wasn't nervous so much as incredulous that I was actually performing again. Feeling my body lift and fall and be caught and spun. Glimpsing audience faces reacting to my presence, my performance. Suddenly thinking with my whole body. Breathing down to my coxis.<br /><br />After, I stood in the wings watching the spectacle. I'd never been to a fashion show before,** and the progression of beplumed bodies reminded me of the elaborate marionettes sold under the bridge in Prague. In the hands of master puppeteers, the strings disappear into a blur of colour and angular limbs. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVi1jSTAAI/AAAAAAAAAGg/Hig9jZbD60I/s1600-h/DSCF3543.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVi1jSTAAI/AAAAAAAAAGg/Hig9jZbD60I/s400/DSCF3543.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194166417386307586" /></a><br /><br />There were moments when I wondered if I'd somehow fallen through the rabbit hole into a world where gin and tonics flow like water, and everyone is well lit. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVkGjSTABI/AAAAAAAAAGo/aEUsgcjCpBM/s1600-h/DSCF3531.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVkGjSTABI/AAAAAAAAAGo/aEUsgcjCpBM/s400/DSCF3531.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194167808955711506" /></a><br /><br />But, like the ballet, the glamour stays on the runway side. Once behind the curtains, girls break their languid gaits and scurry to the wardrobe room, shedding clothing and hairpieces with every step. Faces resume normal expressions as models gasp for breath and wince as they slip out of towering stilettos. <br /><br />I had a blast. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVmnDSTACI/AAAAAAAAAGw/fVcDICmr9so/s1600-h/DSCF3522.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/SBVmnDSTACI/AAAAAAAAAGw/fVcDICmr9so/s400/DSCF3522.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194170566324715554" /></a><br /><br />-------------------------------- <br />*unless you count a wardrobe of jeans, cons, black tees and hoodies fashion. <br />**unless you count the one in the children's section of the Orchard Park Sears in about 1987. I rocked that runway.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-73576175549524958722008-04-25T18:11:00.002+01:002008-04-25T18:18:37.624+01:00juxtapositionI am eating lunch at my favourite cafe. (Actually: <a href="http://linuxcaffe.ca/">caffe</a>.) <br /><br />My bowl of udon soup is underscored by a plate extolling the virtues of Camembert, "creme fine de Normandie."clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-7954467047237022422008-04-11T19:29:00.002+01:002008-04-11T19:46:11.304+01:00Wholesome Sunday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_-uV8EIRxI/AAAAAAAAAFo/MJ_1f8IjhVk/s1600-h/DSCF3491.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_-uV8EIRxI/AAAAAAAAAFo/MJ_1f8IjhVk/s400/DSCF3491.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188056987678033682" /></a><br /><br />There was sunshine and crowds and people with brooms. There were kosher dogs with honey mustard, corn relish, and sourkraut. Peanuts in the shell, cracked open and eaten without taking our eyes off the batter. Shell dust covering my knees. Shells crunchy underfoot.<br /><br />A grand slam. <br /><br />A center field collision. <br /><br />We actually stretched during the 7th inning stretch.* And we rated the home team's at-bat music. You can tell a lot about a guy based on his choice of at-bat music.<br /><br />Baseball cards wrapped in wax paper.<br /><br />Nine dollars well spent.<br /><br /><br /><br />*I always assumed that the 7th inning stretch referred to the notoriously long 7th inning. Are 7th innings notoriously long? I have no idea.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-5090187139663336282008-04-03T19:23:00.011+01:002008-04-03T20:51:36.809+01:00Ripe with surprisesWho knew a trip to the family homestead for Easter could be so illuminating? In five short days I learned that the soundtrack to the <a href="http://www.tourismkelowna.com/">city of beauty</a> is a 24 hour hit list of power ballads of the early 90s, that I still have the power to shock (and deeply piss off) my Harper loving relatives, and that finding a wireless signal is akin to tracking the elusive snow leopard.<br /><br />I also learned that I deeply, deeply love minor hockey. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_UoE8g-QMI/AAAAAAAAAE4/a4sgwnoU80c/s1600-h/DSCF3463.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_UoE8g-QMI/AAAAAAAAAE4/a4sgwnoU80c/s400/DSCF3463.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185094611416006850" /></a><br />My dear friend <a href="http://whatitallcouldmean.blogspot.com/">R</a> had a spare ticket to game five of the series* between the Rockets and the Thunderbirds, which he kindly forked over after I repeatedly threatened to tie him to a chair and read excerpts from Naomi Klein's latest tome. R watches live hockey games a lot. I have been to two: once when I was eight and once when I was eighteen and living in Wales, birthplace of ice sports. <br /><br />We found our seats seconds before the game started and had barely gotten comfortable when the Rockets scored. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_Ur6Mg-QNI/AAAAAAAAAFA/GhatWS1UrTQ/s1600-h/DSCF3460.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_Ur6Mg-QNI/AAAAAAAAAFA/GhatWS1UrTQ/s400/DSCF3460.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185098824778924242" /></a><br />The arena erupted. Everyone was yelling. Two burly, bulldogish men beside us high-fived and man-hugged. Two rows down, a permed 40ish woman had, I think, managed t jump onto her chair while holding a beer and a bag of popcorn.<br /><br />Then we all sat down again. By the end of the first period we were up 2:0 and I had learned what the blue lines were for and how hockey offside differs from soccer offside. <br /><br />During the first intermission R and I headed to the concession stand to get <a href="http://www.okspring.com/beer.html">beverages</a>. There were kids everywhere, mini people in jerseys counting out quarters for twizzlers or dodging in and out of the queues for bathrooms or beer. More kids than I have seen in one place for a really long time. (Incidentally, where do Torontonians keep their children? I live up the street from an elementary school and I rarely see any human being under four feet tall.) On the way back up to the bleachers, I watched an older brother slip an ice cube down his sister's back.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_UvX8g-QOI/AAAAAAAAAFI/WD_XcgvmnSk/s1600-h/DSCF3459.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_UvX8g-QOI/AAAAAAAAAFI/WD_XcgvmnSk/s400/DSCF3459.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185102634414915810" /></a><br />A few goals by the Thunderbirds evened out the score, and, to the apparent delight of fans, some questionable checks turned into a small brawl.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_Uw18g-QPI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/SQmrUcMRHO8/s1600-h/DSCF3467.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_Uw18g-QPI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/SQmrUcMRHO8/s400/DSCF3467.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185104249322619122" /></a><br />According to R, my fountain of information, hockey fights last for as long as the refs think nobody is going to be severely hurt. Obviously, this decision can lead to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amKozbaTU_o">problems</a>, but, as you can see, our little interlude was well supervised. Serious injury, R assured me, is rare - most fights end because one player loses his balance on an overzealous swing.<br /><br />The next highlight of the evening was the zamboni run.<br /><br />Zamboni technology has clearly advanced since my childhood - these things were fast.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_UzQ8g-QRI/AAAAAAAAAFg/azCK7QXqv6A/s1600-h/DSCF3472.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_UzQ8g-QRI/AAAAAAAAAFg/azCK7QXqv6A/s400/DSCF3472.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185106912202342674" /></a><br /><br />Later, at the pub I inevitably end up in when I am "home", R and I decided that hockey was far more fun than the Shock Doctrine. Perhaps not as good as the 80s and 90s nooner, but still pretty freakin' rad.**<br /><br />*If you have to ask what series this was, your ignorance of high culture appalls me.<br />**Yes, in the land of my childhood, all things are judged based on their relative levels of freakin' radness.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-18422912069854033012008-04-01T04:21:00.001+01:002008-04-01T04:42:08.854+01:00lazy monday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_GsMsg-QLI/AAAAAAAAAEw/22P71PqgMNA/s1600-h/DSCF3483.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R_GsMsg-QLI/AAAAAAAAAEw/22P71PqgMNA/s400/DSCF3483.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184113980188016818" /></a>clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-18552926928365092862008-03-21T21:19:00.004+00:002008-03-21T22:34:18.384+00:00endurance artI've been procrastinating this afternoon. My sole task, to re-jig one paragraph of a cover letter, loomed like the proverbial mountain and I spent the better part of four hours reading the interwebs. <br /><br />There's been a lot of that the past month. After two years of nearly non-stop <span style="font-style:italic;">stuff</span> I needed a break. And then I got one and realized that unemployment doesn't suit me. I'm too neurotic to relax and, when I finally do relax, I am too lazy to rouse myself or even just my mind. <br /><br />However, there is only so much Gawker a girl can read before her eyes bleed, and I found myself listening to The New Yorker's podcast of Adam Gopnik <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/online/2008/03/17/080317on_audio_gopnik">talking about magic</a>. Talking about David Blaine, Gopnik referred to him not as a magician, but as an endurance artist.<br /><br />I like that. <br /><br />Dealing with the unemployment and the uncertainty and the terror and the boredom? That's not coping. That's Endurance Art.<br /><br />My inner twelve year old is less impressed with a kind of magic that relies on patience and a stubborn aversion to quitting. The twelve year old likes time travel. <br /><br />And she got a taste of it earlier this week when I went back to Montreal for the first time since I graduated from university. Three years isn't very long in geological time, but enough stuff has happened since I vacated 88 Bagg Street that three days in the Plateau were challenging. <br /><br />The little Chinese restaurant has closed. So has the tiny grocery store with the ancient cash register run by the (similarly) ancient Jewish couple. Otherwise, the universe was as it should be. Sort of. I guess I thought I'd just slip back into the city and it would fit, but what I thought I was slipping back into only exists in memory. (I can't remember if I've written here about my relationship with memory, and, unsurprisingly, I'm too lazy to check right now... suffice to say that I spend most of my time in the present - the past too full of pathos and the future unknowable.) Stomping through what used to be home, I kept slipping into scenes that only played out before my eyes. It was like suddenly becoming a reflective 93 year old man.<br /><br />Fortunately, I was kept from total reminiscence by wonderful people who filled me with delicious food, wine, beer, tea and laughter. There were long walks to the pastry shop and midnight jazz and enough time spent at Thompson House to make up for the three year lull. <br /><br />I could get used to such endurance art.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R-Q3cMg-QKI/AAAAAAAAAEo/ObUURj0Whwo/s1600-h/DSCF3451.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R-Q3cMg-QKI/AAAAAAAAAEo/ObUURj0Whwo/s400/DSCF3451.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5180326428918300834" /></a>clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-63074927479555945542008-03-14T02:44:00.004+00:002008-03-14T03:13:36.666+00:00culure...flu...culture...flu...the national ballet performing "An Italinan Straw Hat"... <a href="http://www.tallischoir.com/">Tallis Choir</a>...lots of sudafed... <a href="http://www.immaculatemachine.com/home.php">Immaculate Machine</a>... <a href="http://www.jenngrant.com/music_main.html">Jenn Grant</a>... <a href="http://www.ibreakstrings.com/">Wil</a>... <a href="http://www.satf.ca/index2.php?pageName=music&theAlbum_name=GreatestHitsVolume4">Sexually Attracted to Fire</a> (didn't actually <span style="font-style:italic;">hear</span> them but met one of them and he was a stellar dude.) ... more sinus medicine... <a href="http://www.thenewpornographers.com/">The New Pornographers</a>... Be Kind Rewind... totally incapacitated by flu 2.0clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-28814248283438703192008-02-29T17:37:00.009+00:002008-02-29T17:49:04.051+00:00distraction<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R8hFhSjCEnI/AAAAAAAAAEg/DZn2o-h0xqM/s1600-h/DSCF3434.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R8hFhSjCEnI/AAAAAAAAAEg/DZn2o-h0xqM/s400/DSCF3434.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172460610251788914" /></a><br />I've got nothing to relate except that <a href="http://www.gladstonehotel.com/cafe.html">The Gladstone Hotel</a> makes really good grilled cheese sandwiches.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-53207552885722671802008-02-25T23:51:00.003+00:002008-02-26T00:09:12.926+00:00Peak.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R8NWJAgP55I/AAAAAAAAAEI/72qJ_YNIDvg/s1600-h/DSCF3428.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R8NWJAgP55I/AAAAAAAAAEI/72qJ_YNIDvg/s400/DSCF3428.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171071509905532818" /></a><br />The amaryllis is dying now. Paperwhites going strong.<br /><br />(And go listen to <a href="http://www.myspace.com/idanrab">Idan</a>. He kept me sane today.)clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-87186096925365265492008-02-22T22:51:00.002+00:002008-02-22T23:22:18.292+00:00Imbibing.Ingestion of all sorts has been on my mind lately.<br /><br />There is a nebulous plan afoot for serious writing about edible/drinkable things. If I get my act together, (read: if I do some research!) the plans should solidify early next week. <br /><br />This time last week I was dragging a jet lagged boy to Fiesta Farms in search of dandelion greens and quail eggs. We found both eventually, and the rest of the weekend passed in a blur of eating and drinking. Street meat. Lithuanian beer. Omelettes. Ribs and rack of lamb... <br /><br />When I tried to order a beer (Steamwhistle... it's good and local!) in the cafe at the top of the CN Tower, the server asked me for ID. <br /><br />This happens all the time. <br /><br />To wit:<br /><br />Places I have been carded.*<br /><br />1. Riley's Cold Beer and Wine Store, Westbank BC, age 19**<br />2. Some depanneur in North Montreal, age 23***<br />3. Sommerfield Supermarket, Llantwit Major, age 24****<br />4. Lufthansa flight 322, age 24<br />5. Sommerfield Supermarket, Buntingford, age 25*****<br />6. The CN Tower, Toronto, age 26<br /><br />Later in the day, when we had descended to earth, we meandered into one of my favourite bars in the city. Smokeless Joe's. At some point the story of my recent carding was related. The bartender took a closer look at me and said "How old are you?" <br /><br />"How old do you think I am?" I rejoined.<br /><br />"Twenty-one."<br /><br />Yipes. Maybe I should start wearing makeup.<br /><br />Bearing all of this in mind, I plan to sit at home tonight reading a good book and drinking a beautiful Cab Sav. Feeling youthful.<br /><br /><br />*with end notes. Also, this is not an exhaustive list.<br />**I had forgotten my wallet and the women wouldn't believe I was of age. Adding insult to insult, the previously served patrons were girls from my brother's grade 11 class who had fake ID.<br />***I must be the only person EVER to be carded in that city<br />****The same supermarket I bought beer at when I was at boarding school and actually WAS underage. When I hauled out my driver's license it was deemed unacceptable. I had to go back to the car for my passport which was grudgingly accepted.<br />*****Clearly, I should never shop at Sommerfield again.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-57403936672023047092008-02-19T22:33:00.003+00:002008-02-19T22:36:12.073+00:00this is not a plant blog...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R7tZsggP54I/AAAAAAAAAD4/QWmTfY5B_GE/s1600-h/DSCF3415.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R7tZsggP54I/AAAAAAAAAD4/QWmTfY5B_GE/s400/DSCF3415.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168823618512086914" /></a><br />but you are forgiven for thinking it might be.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R7tZWAgP53I/AAAAAAAAADw/hTZZdFgN4-A/s1600-h/DSCF3416.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R7tZWAgP53I/AAAAAAAAADw/hTZZdFgN4-A/s400/DSCF3416.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168823231965030258" /></a><br /><br />There has been on day of sunshine in the last fourteen. The light was so bright and unexpected that we shuffled blindly through the snow in Trinity Bellwoods park, holding each other's elbows and skidding on the flashing ice.<br /><br />When everything nature is dormant or dangerous, and everything life is upside down, I am surprised and delighted by my ability to nurture living things.clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8698239.post-28380642955995740162008-02-14T21:46:00.001+00:002008-02-14T21:49:23.455+00:00Sky is grey, land is grey...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R7S3WAgP50I/AAAAAAAAADY/HMpP6hkpAds/s1600-h/DSCF3408.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_8YQ4I0xdHtE/R7S3WAgP50I/AAAAAAAAADY/HMpP6hkpAds/s400/DSCF3408.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166956261221066562" /></a>clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03335029170906229046noreply@blogger.com0