The blog writing muse has been absent lately. Perhaps because I spend most of my days reading stuff and writing stuff, I am written out.
My job description at the moment is one word: writer. I send emails on a semi-regular basis to a fair amount of people, so even though I am crap at keeping in touch, I have a high gross level of correspondence. I over use the postal service sending letters and postcards. I keep a pen-and-paper journal that I write in almost every day. Periodically, I blog.
I don't consider myself a writer. If pressed, I grudgingly acknowledge that I am "a person who writes", in much the same way I used to say when I worked in restaurants that I wasn't a cook, I was a salad architect.
I am not exactly sure why I duck away from the mantle of writer.
For one thing, I don't think I am particularly brilliant at wrestling the english language into sentences and prose. I am a verbal person; mentally I am at my best when in the middle of a conversation with smart, quick, interesting people. I love the energy of good conversation at a dinner party. The idea of sitting alone in front of a cataract-inducing computer screen gives me cramps.
Including myself in the pantheon of writers seems to do them a bit of a disservice- diluting the genius, so to speak.
Also, my mother is the writer of the family. Delayed teenage rebellion dictates that I must run away from family occupations even if, secretly, I covet them.
However, since I am locked into being a writer for a year at least, I had better amputate the irritatingly self-absorbed angst and just get on with it. Practice. Writing. Bite the bullet and churn out the shitty first drafts. Torment the blog readers (do you really exist?) with aforementioned shitty first drafts and half baked ideas.
Since this particular forum has no special theme, randomness is endemic.
I am encouraged though. An email that recently landed in my inbox concluded thusly:
"I always get email-envy when I read your lines as they are so well crafted, unlike my steaming pile of email poo."
Email poo. Random self-absorption could get a lot worse.
lundi, septembre 25, 2006
mercredi, septembre 20, 2006
mercredi, septembre 13, 2006
Not Boring
Last night, after a day of dealing with incompetence, Cooper, the graphic designer and one of the housemates, and I sat in his room and drank beer and talked and talked.
Evidence that the universe has a sick and twisted and tender sense of humour: Coop's father died this summer too. A consequence of a motorcycle accident.
The two of us are like the survivors of a bomb blast. The ones who stagger from the wreckage apparently unharmed and head off down the street. The ones with wide empty eyes and shaking hands.
Most of the time we function passably. Some days we crash. Other days, like yesterday, it is a slow descent into awfulness: the way a leaf skates across the breezes before gently landing on the pavement.
We are our own therapy group. We drink and talk and smoke and talk. We compare weird relative experiences at the funerals or the most insensitive things people have said to us. We ask each other if we are crazy, or try to decide if we are crazy in the same sorts of ways. Because if we are the same kind of crazy, then maybe it is normal and will pass. We decide we are assholes for being far away from our families. We decide that we would be insane if we were at home. We laugh like maniacs.
For an hour or two we gently salve our wounds and we relax.
The best part of yesterday was when we were talking about how fucking emotionally erratic we are. Apparently, one of the ways that grieving manifests itself is by shortening my temper. Also I have zero patience. (Stop laughing. I had patience before, I just chose to override it.)
"Well," said Coop, "You know, the thing about this is... It's never boring."
Evidence that the universe has a sick and twisted and tender sense of humour: Coop's father died this summer too. A consequence of a motorcycle accident.
The two of us are like the survivors of a bomb blast. The ones who stagger from the wreckage apparently unharmed and head off down the street. The ones with wide empty eyes and shaking hands.
Most of the time we function passably. Some days we crash. Other days, like yesterday, it is a slow descent into awfulness: the way a leaf skates across the breezes before gently landing on the pavement.
We are our own therapy group. We drink and talk and smoke and talk. We compare weird relative experiences at the funerals or the most insensitive things people have said to us. We ask each other if we are crazy, or try to decide if we are crazy in the same sorts of ways. Because if we are the same kind of crazy, then maybe it is normal and will pass. We decide we are assholes for being far away from our families. We decide that we would be insane if we were at home. We laugh like maniacs.
For an hour or two we gently salve our wounds and we relax.
The best part of yesterday was when we were talking about how fucking emotionally erratic we are. Apparently, one of the ways that grieving manifests itself is by shortening my temper. Also I have zero patience. (Stop laughing. I had patience before, I just chose to override it.)
"Well," said Coop, "You know, the thing about this is... It's never boring."
jeudi, septembre 07, 2006
mardi, septembre 05, 2006
blighty
So yes. I am in England again. Buntingford, to be specific.
So far the weather has been damp and gray.
The beer has been good.
Lots of tea has been consumed.
On the list: Fish and Chips. Punting on the Cam. Gin and Tonics or Pimms and Lemonade.
Trying to avoid: Mushy peas. Salad cream. Rude children.
I am here working for a magazine, but I don't meet my editor until Thursday, so work-wise it's been mellow. Rest-of-life-wise it's been a whirl of travelling meeting people, unpacking, pretending to be sane.
I miss Canada like hell. Still not sure if this was my best plan.
"homesick, 'cause I no longer know where home is."
So far the weather has been damp and gray.
The beer has been good.
Lots of tea has been consumed.
On the list: Fish and Chips. Punting on the Cam. Gin and Tonics or Pimms and Lemonade.
Trying to avoid: Mushy peas. Salad cream. Rude children.
I am here working for a magazine, but I don't meet my editor until Thursday, so work-wise it's been mellow. Rest-of-life-wise it's been a whirl of travelling meeting people, unpacking, pretending to be sane.
I miss Canada like hell. Still not sure if this was my best plan.
"homesick, 'cause I no longer know where home is."
mardi, août 22, 2006
Mr Norton
My dad's first motorcycle was a 1969 Norton Commando He bought it when he was 23 and before he knew how to actually ride a motorcycle. He rode it up and down the ally behind British Motorcycles in Vancouver for about a month before he knew enough to ride it home.
When my mum met my father, the Norton was his only means of transportation.
The Norton was my dad's entry point to the world of (now) vintage British motorcycles. His next purchase was a 1952 Vincent Black Shadow which drew him into the community of Vincent owners in the lower mainland. A motley crew of men-Danny the tool and die maker, Tim the maritime lawyer, John and Dale the mechanics. And my dad: Gerry the hospital administrator. They met periodically to drink beer and monkeywrench. 35 years later, they still do. The best house was Jack's. Jack had named his eldest son Vincent and kept his bike on a piece of greasy carpet in the living room of his house.
My father's affinity for motorcycles gently shaped our lives.
My mum got her bike license and her own little Honda twinstar. When we moved away from the coast, my dad reluctantly sold the Norton, but kept the Vincent, mum's Honda and his own Moto Guzzi. I was about 14 before I knew that there was another way to start a motorcycle than kickstarting it. We took family holidays on the bike. I remember being wedged into the sidecar and the fierce rush of wind past my ears. We traveled to rallies: Calgary, California, New Zealand, England.
This spring my dad bought another Norton. A 1973 Commando. It is pristine, the only concession to the march of time is its electric start. I spoke to my dad the weekend after he brought the bike home, he was giddy and excited like a ten year old boy. He had ridden it around the block a few times and was planning to insure it when he came back from the California trip in June.
The bike is in the workshop in our basement. It's a room that I can hardly bear to go into.
Last week I was downtown with my friend Rhys. It was a bad day, one of the days when I want to eat sleeping pills like candy and have trouble finding the energy to brush my teeth. We came out of the cafe, and prepared to sit at one of the sidewalk tables. Rhys glanced past my shoulder, and the words, "Hey, that's a Norton" flew out of his mouth.
I turned around disbelievingly. That Rhys could correctly identify a Norton-I failed to remember that Norton is written on the tank and that Rhys is literate-and that there was actually a Norton a few feet behind me seemed far too much of a stretch in reality.
But there it was. A 1974 Commando. A year younger than the one in our basement. Like a moth to flame, I was standing beside the bike before I realized what I was doing. A lanky guy, a few years older than me, with red hair in need of a trim and the beginnings of a beard looked at me quizzically. I hadn't noticed him. This was his motorcycle.
Awkwardly, I asked about the specs of the bike and then blurted out, "My dad has one." Flushing scarlet, I realized that I had made a tactical error: he would ask who my dad was, I would have to explain that actually he died a month ago, and if possible the conversation would get more hellishly awkward. I apologized for bothering him and sprinted the 8 meters to the cafe table.
As we drank our coffee, the Norton guy put on his jacket and helmet. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him roll the bike off its center stand and balance it for a second, gauging the weight of the machine. Grasping the handlebars, he deftly flicked out the kick starter and jumped to kick it over. Nothing. He tried again. Some faint coughs from the Norton.
I cannot count how many times I have watched the same scene with a different cast and sets. I felt my heart being squeezed in a vice grip. I would lose it if I kept watching. I would lose it if I looked away.
It started on the ninth attempt. I counted.
The Norton guy opened the throttle and gently pushed his feet away from the pavement. He pulled out into traffic, looked over his shoulder at me and gave a small wave.
I closed my eyes and felt my self explode into a thousand tiny fragments.
When my mum met my father, the Norton was his only means of transportation.
The Norton was my dad's entry point to the world of (now) vintage British motorcycles. His next purchase was a 1952 Vincent Black Shadow which drew him into the community of Vincent owners in the lower mainland. A motley crew of men-Danny the tool and die maker, Tim the maritime lawyer, John and Dale the mechanics. And my dad: Gerry the hospital administrator. They met periodically to drink beer and monkeywrench. 35 years later, they still do. The best house was Jack's. Jack had named his eldest son Vincent and kept his bike on a piece of greasy carpet in the living room of his house.
My father's affinity for motorcycles gently shaped our lives.
My mum got her bike license and her own little Honda twinstar. When we moved away from the coast, my dad reluctantly sold the Norton, but kept the Vincent, mum's Honda and his own Moto Guzzi. I was about 14 before I knew that there was another way to start a motorcycle than kickstarting it. We took family holidays on the bike. I remember being wedged into the sidecar and the fierce rush of wind past my ears. We traveled to rallies: Calgary, California, New Zealand, England.
This spring my dad bought another Norton. A 1973 Commando. It is pristine, the only concession to the march of time is its electric start. I spoke to my dad the weekend after he brought the bike home, he was giddy and excited like a ten year old boy. He had ridden it around the block a few times and was planning to insure it when he came back from the California trip in June.
The bike is in the workshop in our basement. It's a room that I can hardly bear to go into.
Last week I was downtown with my friend Rhys. It was a bad day, one of the days when I want to eat sleeping pills like candy and have trouble finding the energy to brush my teeth. We came out of the cafe, and prepared to sit at one of the sidewalk tables. Rhys glanced past my shoulder, and the words, "Hey, that's a Norton" flew out of his mouth.
I turned around disbelievingly. That Rhys could correctly identify a Norton-I failed to remember that Norton is written on the tank and that Rhys is literate-and that there was actually a Norton a few feet behind me seemed far too much of a stretch in reality.
But there it was. A 1974 Commando. A year younger than the one in our basement. Like a moth to flame, I was standing beside the bike before I realized what I was doing. A lanky guy, a few years older than me, with red hair in need of a trim and the beginnings of a beard looked at me quizzically. I hadn't noticed him. This was his motorcycle.
Awkwardly, I asked about the specs of the bike and then blurted out, "My dad has one." Flushing scarlet, I realized that I had made a tactical error: he would ask who my dad was, I would have to explain that actually he died a month ago, and if possible the conversation would get more hellishly awkward. I apologized for bothering him and sprinted the 8 meters to the cafe table.
As we drank our coffee, the Norton guy put on his jacket and helmet. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him roll the bike off its center stand and balance it for a second, gauging the weight of the machine. Grasping the handlebars, he deftly flicked out the kick starter and jumped to kick it over. Nothing. He tried again. Some faint coughs from the Norton.
I cannot count how many times I have watched the same scene with a different cast and sets. I felt my heart being squeezed in a vice grip. I would lose it if I kept watching. I would lose it if I looked away.
It started on the ninth attempt. I counted.
The Norton guy opened the throttle and gently pushed his feet away from the pavement. He pulled out into traffic, looked over his shoulder at me and gave a small wave.
I closed my eyes and felt my self explode into a thousand tiny fragments.
vendredi, août 18, 2006
fame becomes me
So my brother is by far the cooler of the two of us. He's the guy with the hook-ups, the one who knows 2/3 of the interesting people in this city (while I know just 2) and the one who has the style.
Most of the time when we hang out, when we are both at the ancestral home in chach-ville, I am just along for the ride. I sit in the background, watching the entertainment, and occasionally catching Tim's eye when something funny needs shared appreciation.
A few weeks ago he came up with free tickets and backstage passes to the upcoming Hot Hot Heat concert. Something about a girl he works with being the girlfriend of the brother of the lead singer of the opening band.
I have barely heard of Hot Hot Heat, and never of the opening band but it seemed like a good way to spend a Tuesday night.
The audience at the show was mostly tanned girls between the ages of 15 and 20 in tiny tanktops and "indie boys" in tapered jeans, white teeshirts and too much hair product. There was no bar.
After the show (which was quite good, though the music was not so much to my taste) we toodled backstage with Alexandra, girlfriend of brother of guy... and met the bands. And the girls.
There were a number of girls just hanging around. We weren't sure if they came with the bands or were plucked from the audience, but the number of tiny tank-tops fluttering around the band members makes me suspect the latter.
A plan was formulated. We would head to a bar downtown and wait for the bands to finish packing up their stuff.
By the time the bands arrived at the bar, it was past last call (because in this city, last call on a Tuesday in the summer comes at 11:45) and the only place to get alcohol was at the strip bars.
Heading off to the strippers with my younger brother, his friends, and some marginally famous rock bands didn't weird me out as much as you may think it would. The early closing of bars in this town means that the bro and I have found ourselves with friends at the rippers rather more times than I like to admit.
The bar is fairly typical. Beer and dancing naked ladies. The lead singer of HHH is blatantly making out with a girl who I previously saw flirting with the bassist of the opening band, and later the drummer of HHH. The principle of upward mobility is rarely so easily observed.
Everyone was pretty loaded.
Suddenly, the song changes from random 50Cent to the most famous song by The Killers. The one that goes "...somebody told you... looks like my girlfriend... last summer..." Anyways.
The HHH singer surfaces at the opening chords of the song.
"Hey, this is the Killers," he comments to nobody in particular. "We toured with them last year."
Whipping out his mobile phone, HHH singer proceeds to text message the lead singer of the Killers.
"HEY MAN, I AM AT A BAR IN KELOWNA AND A NAKED GIRL IS DANCING TO YOUR SONG."
You know you've made it when...
Most of the time when we hang out, when we are both at the ancestral home in chach-ville, I am just along for the ride. I sit in the background, watching the entertainment, and occasionally catching Tim's eye when something funny needs shared appreciation.
A few weeks ago he came up with free tickets and backstage passes to the upcoming Hot Hot Heat concert. Something about a girl he works with being the girlfriend of the brother of the lead singer of the opening band.
I have barely heard of Hot Hot Heat, and never of the opening band but it seemed like a good way to spend a Tuesday night.
The audience at the show was mostly tanned girls between the ages of 15 and 20 in tiny tanktops and "indie boys" in tapered jeans, white teeshirts and too much hair product. There was no bar.
After the show (which was quite good, though the music was not so much to my taste) we toodled backstage with Alexandra, girlfriend of brother of guy... and met the bands. And the girls.
There were a number of girls just hanging around. We weren't sure if they came with the bands or were plucked from the audience, but the number of tiny tank-tops fluttering around the band members makes me suspect the latter.
A plan was formulated. We would head to a bar downtown and wait for the bands to finish packing up their stuff.
By the time the bands arrived at the bar, it was past last call (because in this city, last call on a Tuesday in the summer comes at 11:45) and the only place to get alcohol was at the strip bars.
Heading off to the strippers with my younger brother, his friends, and some marginally famous rock bands didn't weird me out as much as you may think it would. The early closing of bars in this town means that the bro and I have found ourselves with friends at the rippers rather more times than I like to admit.
The bar is fairly typical. Beer and dancing naked ladies. The lead singer of HHH is blatantly making out with a girl who I previously saw flirting with the bassist of the opening band, and later the drummer of HHH. The principle of upward mobility is rarely so easily observed.
Everyone was pretty loaded.
Suddenly, the song changes from random 50Cent to the most famous song by The Killers. The one that goes "...somebody told you... looks like my girlfriend... last summer..." Anyways.
The HHH singer surfaces at the opening chords of the song.
"Hey, this is the Killers," he comments to nobody in particular. "We toured with them last year."
Whipping out his mobile phone, HHH singer proceeds to text message the lead singer of the Killers.
"HEY MAN, I AM AT A BAR IN KELOWNA AND A NAKED GIRL IS DANCING TO YOUR SONG."
You know you've made it when...
samedi, août 12, 2006
Random Saturday
I was on Vancouver Island at my grandfather's house for a week and a half, planning, executing and recovering from an onslaught of relatives and the funeral itself. That the internet chez grand pere closely resembles two coffee cans and a piece of twine made anything more than checking emails a seventeen hour enterprise only to be undertaken whilst fortified with copious amounts of gin.
Nan died after a prolonged illness at the age of 82. She had been living in a nursing home for four years prior to her death. Still, it was strange to see the uncles standing around in the kitchen, leaning on the edges of countertops. Had Nan been there, they'd have been shooed out into the already packed living room to make room for the plates and plates of food coming out of the oven, going into the oven...
I'm home now. Well, back at my parents' house. (I cannot yet refer to it as my mum's house...so much of it is my dad's.) There so much to do: little jobs like keeping up with dishes and laundry, and big jobs like thinning the trees around the house, selling the 55 Ford sitting in the driveway, and deciding how to proceed with probating the will. On top of the actual energy required to accomplish these tasks, the real kicker is the energy required to think about them and decide how to proceed.
I keep almost saying, "We should wait until Dad gets back..." So far I have managed to check my motormouth before it rolls off my tongue.
To add to the general state of confusion and chaos, I am leaving for England in three weeks. In the week following my dad's death, I was offered a position as researcher and writer with a magazine published by the UNEP. It is exactly the job I have longed for. And it is in Cambridge. Which is Very far away from my mum and brother. Sometimes things balance out in strange ways. Lately, everything does.
On the one hand, it is a really phenomenal opportunity that will open far more doors, career-wise, than I can even imagine. A job like this does not exist in the city I grew up in and where my mum currently lives. If I stayed here, I would be waitressing or tutoring, living at home, and mostly marking time until we were all "ok enough" for me to take off again. I have two friends here, and it would be all too easy to become (more of) an anti-social depressed recluse.
On the other hand, I haven't worked in an academic environment for at least a year. My research skills are terrible at best, and I have serious doubts about my abilities as a writer. I don't want to leave my mum and brother. I don't want to stretch myself and have adventures. I don't know if I can pull off being a functioning member of society, let alone holding down a job.
I think I am selfish for running away. I think I will regress into a neo-conservative evangelical with permed hair who wears oversized teeshirts printed with cats and who works the checkout at Saveonfoods if I stay.
Finally, in happier news... I finished the legwarmers. The pattern seems to be designed for people with pipe-cleaner legs, and I have, in my grand father's words, "shapely pins." Some aggressive blocking may help matters. They are black and green, and as soon as my camera gets fixed I may torment all of you with photos.
One of the benefits of going to the Island, was an excuse to take an afternoon to wallow in the Yarn Porn Store. A small fiber shop so stuffed with amazing yarn that hard core knitters have been known to pass out from sheer ecstasy. I can't remember exactly how it all went down, but I have a hazy recollection of diving head first into a pile of Noro, of my normally very pragmatic mother shoving six skiens of fuschia Manos Del Uruguay down my shirt, and something about hand-dyed sock yarn. Also, and this part is crystal clear, I remember the staff lady's lilting voice telling me that all knitting yarn was 20% off.
The rest, as I am sure you have guessed, was history.
Nan died after a prolonged illness at the age of 82. She had been living in a nursing home for four years prior to her death. Still, it was strange to see the uncles standing around in the kitchen, leaning on the edges of countertops. Had Nan been there, they'd have been shooed out into the already packed living room to make room for the plates and plates of food coming out of the oven, going into the oven...
I'm home now. Well, back at my parents' house. (I cannot yet refer to it as my mum's house...so much of it is my dad's.) There so much to do: little jobs like keeping up with dishes and laundry, and big jobs like thinning the trees around the house, selling the 55 Ford sitting in the driveway, and deciding how to proceed with probating the will. On top of the actual energy required to accomplish these tasks, the real kicker is the energy required to think about them and decide how to proceed.
I keep almost saying, "We should wait until Dad gets back..." So far I have managed to check my motormouth before it rolls off my tongue.
To add to the general state of confusion and chaos, I am leaving for England in three weeks. In the week following my dad's death, I was offered a position as researcher and writer with a magazine published by the UNEP. It is exactly the job I have longed for. And it is in Cambridge. Which is Very far away from my mum and brother. Sometimes things balance out in strange ways. Lately, everything does.
On the one hand, it is a really phenomenal opportunity that will open far more doors, career-wise, than I can even imagine. A job like this does not exist in the city I grew up in and where my mum currently lives. If I stayed here, I would be waitressing or tutoring, living at home, and mostly marking time until we were all "ok enough" for me to take off again. I have two friends here, and it would be all too easy to become (more of) an anti-social depressed recluse.
On the other hand, I haven't worked in an academic environment for at least a year. My research skills are terrible at best, and I have serious doubts about my abilities as a writer. I don't want to leave my mum and brother. I don't want to stretch myself and have adventures. I don't know if I can pull off being a functioning member of society, let alone holding down a job.
I think I am selfish for running away. I think I will regress into a neo-conservative evangelical with permed hair who wears oversized teeshirts printed with cats and who works the checkout at Saveonfoods if I stay.
Finally, in happier news... I finished the legwarmers. The pattern seems to be designed for people with pipe-cleaner legs, and I have, in my grand father's words, "shapely pins." Some aggressive blocking may help matters. They are black and green, and as soon as my camera gets fixed I may torment all of you with photos.
One of the benefits of going to the Island, was an excuse to take an afternoon to wallow in the Yarn Porn Store. A small fiber shop so stuffed with amazing yarn that hard core knitters have been known to pass out from sheer ecstasy. I can't remember exactly how it all went down, but I have a hazy recollection of diving head first into a pile of Noro, of my normally very pragmatic mother shoving six skiens of fuschia Manos Del Uruguay down my shirt, and something about hand-dyed sock yarn. Also, and this part is crystal clear, I remember the staff lady's lilting voice telling me that all knitting yarn was 20% off.
The rest, as I am sure you have guessed, was history.
vendredi, juillet 28, 2006
Into the Maelstrom
[my grandmother died this morning.]
In an email a friend mentioned striving to become an "emotional jedi", and, though my Star Wars theory is weak at best, I assume he was alluding to one's ability to slide through the wreckage of daily life without losing a sense of purpose and the all important zen.
I am not sliding right now. Sliding implies the pull of gravity and the potential for loss of control. I glide. Like an astronaut looking out the shuttle window and gently drifting head first into the sink. I think there never was any control, therefore the loss of it is a non-event.
I glide through my days the way I used to effortlessly consume
choose your own adventure stories: read for a while, come to the page where I had to choose to one of two or three options, choose one arbitrarily, continue, come to the end of the story, read another. My day to day choices seem unimportant; I will feel exactly the same if I go out for beer with a friend as if I lay on the couch and watched reality television programs. Zero emotional range.
Emotional Jedi. Teflon girl. Ice princess.
Everything is gray, and not in the nuanced, between-black-and-white sort of way. Gray in the whispery-November-stalks-of-shasta-daisies way.
But shasta daisies are perennials. And below the gray something simmers. Nothing else explains my fascination with Grey's Anatomy, the hospital drama that I've been watching on DVD. I am pretty sure that my mum and brother think I am deranged: having spent the better part of a month in the ICU of various hospitals, and having watched my father die in one, we were part of that drama, albeit with worse lighting. I think I watch to make sure that parts of me still hurt. To make sure that I haven't lost myself completely. To remind myself that it wasn't all a dream. Twisting the knives so I can bleed again.
I wonder: how long will this numbness last?
How bad will it be when I start to feel again?
In an email a friend mentioned striving to become an "emotional jedi", and, though my Star Wars theory is weak at best, I assume he was alluding to one's ability to slide through the wreckage of daily life without losing a sense of purpose and the all important zen.
I am not sliding right now. Sliding implies the pull of gravity and the potential for loss of control. I glide. Like an astronaut looking out the shuttle window and gently drifting head first into the sink. I think there never was any control, therefore the loss of it is a non-event.
I glide through my days the way I used to effortlessly consume
choose your own adventure stories: read for a while, come to the page where I had to choose to one of two or three options, choose one arbitrarily, continue, come to the end of the story, read another. My day to day choices seem unimportant; I will feel exactly the same if I go out for beer with a friend as if I lay on the couch and watched reality television programs. Zero emotional range.
Emotional Jedi. Teflon girl. Ice princess.
Everything is gray, and not in the nuanced, between-black-and-white sort of way. Gray in the whispery-November-stalks-of-shasta-daisies way.
But shasta daisies are perennials. And below the gray something simmers. Nothing else explains my fascination with Grey's Anatomy, the hospital drama that I've been watching on DVD. I am pretty sure that my mum and brother think I am deranged: having spent the better part of a month in the ICU of various hospitals, and having watched my father die in one, we were part of that drama, albeit with worse lighting. I think I watch to make sure that parts of me still hurt. To make sure that I haven't lost myself completely. To remind myself that it wasn't all a dream. Twisting the knives so I can bleed again.
I wonder: how long will this numbness last?
How bad will it be when I start to feel again?
jeudi, juillet 20, 2006
concentration
I flew back home a month ago today. Looking back, it seems like years since I left the south of France, and the blink of a hummingbird's eye since life was "normal". The absence of my father continually surprises me, blindsides me while I set the table for four.
Thinking is the worst. Not constructive list-of-things-to-do-today thinking, but the idle musing that happens while one is doing something else. I stay awake watching banal television until I am so exhausted that I fall asleep immediately. The before sleeping time terrifies me.
To fill my mind I have started knitting again. Because knitting falls into the category of things I can do and think about other things at the same time, I have chosen a complicated fair isle pattern knitted in the round. Should keep my mind occupied for a few hours a day at least.
Thinking is the worst. Not constructive list-of-things-to-do-today thinking, but the idle musing that happens while one is doing something else. I stay awake watching banal television until I am so exhausted that I fall asleep immediately. The before sleeping time terrifies me.
To fill my mind I have started knitting again. Because knitting falls into the category of things I can do and think about other things at the same time, I have chosen a complicated fair isle pattern knitted in the round. Should keep my mind occupied for a few hours a day at least.
mardi, juillet 18, 2006
jeudi, juillet 13, 2006
dimanche, juillet 02, 2006
and to dust you will return
Again, it is early and the house is quiet.
My dad died on Monday, six days ago.
It has been a tiring and busy week-the service and wake are today- and I have been on "Type A Personality Autopilot" for most of the time. That looks like me at my most efficient but with the air of zombie and no short term memory.
There is so much I could write about that has been funny or uplifting, but right now I can't.
It's going to be a long day today.
My dad died on Monday, six days ago.
It has been a tiring and busy week-the service and wake are today- and I have been on "Type A Personality Autopilot" for most of the time. That looks like me at my most efficient but with the air of zombie and no short term memory.
There is so much I could write about that has been funny or uplifting, but right now I can't.
It's going to be a long day today.
samedi, juin 24, 2006
48 hours
It is 5 am and I am wide awake (thank you 9 hour time difference jet lag). The sun is peeking over the mountains across the lake, and in a few minutes the whole valley will be awash in golden light.
Joan Didion wrote, after the sudden death of her husband, "Life changes in the instant," and for my family, our lives have changed in a series of instants: The instant of the accident, of the heart attack, of the decision to move my dad back to the hospital in our city, of hearing the neurologist carefully form the words "severe brain damage...discouraging progress," of hearing the surgeon rationalize amputating my dad's right leg, of nodding in agreement.
The 56 hours that I have been home have been the most horrific and agonizing of my life. I have been told that I am 'doing well' and 'holding it together,' but nobody has told me the criteria for achieving these two status'. We are all doing the best we can under extremely terrible circumstances. Most of the time when I am talking to doctors, nurses, concerned friends of the family, my voice is steady and I can even be humorous-albeit rather blackly humorous. And then I turn around and I just feel hollow, as though the contents of my body cavity were sucked out, or I rock back and forth like an autistic child as though by rocking I can control my desire to sob until my ribs split apart. I never imagined that I could feel this terrible and still keep breathing.
Joan Didion wrote, after the sudden death of her husband, "Life changes in the instant," and for my family, our lives have changed in a series of instants: The instant of the accident, of the heart attack, of the decision to move my dad back to the hospital in our city, of hearing the neurologist carefully form the words "severe brain damage...discouraging progress," of hearing the surgeon rationalize amputating my dad's right leg, of nodding in agreement.
The 56 hours that I have been home have been the most horrific and agonizing of my life. I have been told that I am 'doing well' and 'holding it together,' but nobody has told me the criteria for achieving these two status'. We are all doing the best we can under extremely terrible circumstances. Most of the time when I am talking to doctors, nurses, concerned friends of the family, my voice is steady and I can even be humorous-albeit rather blackly humorous. And then I turn around and I just feel hollow, as though the contents of my body cavity were sucked out, or I rock back and forth like an autistic child as though by rocking I can control my desire to sob until my ribs split apart. I never imagined that I could feel this terrible and still keep breathing.
vendredi, juin 23, 2006
change
Two weeks ago, my dad was broadsided by a jeep as he was motorcycling in Northern California. His injuries are extremely severe ranging from compound leg fractures to heart attack and anoxia (lack of oxygen to the brain).
My mum, brother and I are walking around like zombies and trying to remember to breathe.
Please pray for us.
There are no words for this existance.
My mum, brother and I are walking around like zombies and trying to remember to breathe.
Please pray for us.
There are no words for this existance.
mercredi, mai 31, 2006
South Georgia
The edge of a glacier. We stayed here all morning wating for it to calve. It didn't, but the hours in the stillness were the better for it.
King Penguin and chick at Right Whale Bay.
floating
I'm in Liverpool right now.
Truth be told, it seems to be a nice place. Highlights include: a sumptuous pub, the maritime museum's smuggling exhibit, yet another Tate gallery, interestingly unintelligible accents.
I am here because my first love lives here now. And in the six years since we were 17 and the orchestra played in the bushes as we walked around, we've become friends. It was one of those round about processes, and I am glad we have arrived where we have. He's great.
Before here was London. Three days of shite weather but glorious catching up with one of the Montreal girlies.
Because both of my friends have entered the real world and have jobs which require regular attendance, I have had a lot of time alone in the last week.
Still re-adjusting to crowded landscapes and many, many people, I've been walking around a lot. Staring at the little bits of ordinary lives that spill out from four walls of home and into the streets. Snippits of conversations. Clothing choices. Destinations.
As though the world around me is an ephemeral mirage, I observe my surroundings with placid detachment. Minimal engagement. I'm not sure where the cognitive, passionate, opinionated, me is, but it's certainly not here.
Truth be told, it seems to be a nice place. Highlights include: a sumptuous pub, the maritime museum's smuggling exhibit, yet another Tate gallery, interestingly unintelligible accents.
I am here because my first love lives here now. And in the six years since we were 17 and the orchestra played in the bushes as we walked around, we've become friends. It was one of those round about processes, and I am glad we have arrived where we have. He's great.
Before here was London. Three days of shite weather but glorious catching up with one of the Montreal girlies.
Because both of my friends have entered the real world and have jobs which require regular attendance, I have had a lot of time alone in the last week.
Still re-adjusting to crowded landscapes and many, many people, I've been walking around a lot. Staring at the little bits of ordinary lives that spill out from four walls of home and into the streets. Snippits of conversations. Clothing choices. Destinations.
As though the world around me is an ephemeral mirage, I observe my surroundings with placid detachment. Minimal engagement. I'm not sure where the cognitive, passionate, opinionated, me is, but it's certainly not here.
mercredi, mai 24, 2006
More January.
Zavodovski Island: the northern most island in the South Sandwich chain. It belches sulphurous gasses and steams. And has about 800,000 pairs of chinstrap penguins living on it.
They also hang out on icebergs.
(the horror of digital cameras is that I now have 700 pictures of penguins on icebergs...)
lundi, mai 15, 2006
the 5 month hiatus
is over, and I am back where the internet doesn't cost 13pence/minute (that's 30 cents) and isn't attached to a phone line.
haven't really decided what to do with this blog. There is too much to say about the South, and so many pictures.
And Europe is calling, and I will be there soon.
More adventures.
haven't really decided what to do with this blog. There is too much to say about the South, and so many pictures.
And Europe is calling, and I will be there soon.
More adventures.
dimanche, janvier 01, 2006
So here's the deal...
For the seven of you that actually read this...
On Thursday, 4 days from now, I am leaving Canada and heading to the Falkland Islands. Those would be the ones just east of the bottom of Argentina. They are pretty far away from everything I am familiar with, although I have it on reliable authority that they import a hell of a lot of good beer, and the prospect of actually being there in a week is scary and exciting and enormous.
I will be working on a small yacht called The Golden Fleece which will be heading to the South Sandwich Islands (just get the damn atlas out already)for a five week trip chartered by National Geographic. After that-provided I haven't died of seasickness-a trip to the island of South Georgia (I wasn't kidding about the atlas) for another five weeks.
The plans following ten weeks of sailing are a bit up in the air, they depend on sailing work and weather and my sanity, but I am planning to be in the UK and France by early May.
I haven't taken leave of my senses, nor am I going into this blindly. I am as aware of the risks and challenges as I can possibly be, short of actually experiencing them- and I will be doing that soon enough. I am well aware that this is not perhaps the most career forwarding plan I could have taken, and that it is dangerous. But I am only 23, the grad school and work plans have been shelved, not dropped. And I survived a year in the Middle East where people kept blowing stuff up- elephant seals, while a nuisance sometimes, have not yet shown a predilection for suicide bombings.
I know that my choice of location/occupation for the next few months is not mainstream, but instead of asking me if I am out of my mind, how about smiling and saying, "That's amazing, what an adventure".
Being that I am neurotic enough for everyone I know, let's not focus on the negative, just wish me luck.
And if you want a damn post card, you better send me your address.
On Thursday, 4 days from now, I am leaving Canada and heading to the Falkland Islands. Those would be the ones just east of the bottom of Argentina. They are pretty far away from everything I am familiar with, although I have it on reliable authority that they import a hell of a lot of good beer, and the prospect of actually being there in a week is scary and exciting and enormous.
I will be working on a small yacht called The Golden Fleece which will be heading to the South Sandwich Islands (just get the damn atlas out already)for a five week trip chartered by National Geographic. After that-provided I haven't died of seasickness-a trip to the island of South Georgia (I wasn't kidding about the atlas) for another five weeks.
The plans following ten weeks of sailing are a bit up in the air, they depend on sailing work and weather and my sanity, but I am planning to be in the UK and France by early May.
I haven't taken leave of my senses, nor am I going into this blindly. I am as aware of the risks and challenges as I can possibly be, short of actually experiencing them- and I will be doing that soon enough. I am well aware that this is not perhaps the most career forwarding plan I could have taken, and that it is dangerous. But I am only 23, the grad school and work plans have been shelved, not dropped. And I survived a year in the Middle East where people kept blowing stuff up- elephant seals, while a nuisance sometimes, have not yet shown a predilection for suicide bombings.
I know that my choice of location/occupation for the next few months is not mainstream, but instead of asking me if I am out of my mind, how about smiling and saying, "That's amazing, what an adventure".
Being that I am neurotic enough for everyone I know, let's not focus on the negative, just wish me luck.
And if you want a damn post card, you better send me your address.
dimanche, décembre 25, 2005
today please...
have a wonderful day. Whatever you choose to celebrate.
Even if you've got nothing-celebrate vicariously, through me, because I finished the moehair monstrosity. And it doesn't look half bad.
As usual I have nothing profound to relate, I just hope that whoever reads this is surrounded by people who love them, lots of food and wine, and music.
Even if you've got nothing-celebrate vicariously, through me, because I finished the moehair monstrosity. And it doesn't look half bad.
As usual I have nothing profound to relate, I just hope that whoever reads this is surrounded by people who love them, lots of food and wine, and music.
mercredi, décembre 21, 2005
ethics
la famille was out to dinner on Sunday.
A friend of mine, and the daughter of the family who were feeding us, is working on her PhD. She's doing something related to business ethics.
She taught her first university course this past semester and was regaling us with anecdotes of university scholarship.
The best one concerned plagiarism.
She had a student lift his entire term paper from the internet. Which is not actually that funny.
Except that the course was on ethics!
A friend of mine, and the daughter of the family who were feeding us, is working on her PhD. She's doing something related to business ethics.
She taught her first university course this past semester and was regaling us with anecdotes of university scholarship.
The best one concerned plagiarism.
She had a student lift his entire term paper from the internet. Which is not actually that funny.
Except that the course was on ethics!
mercredi, décembre 14, 2005
poetry-life-poetry
(with great thanks à János...such a necessary reminder right now.)
"...Ah poems amount to so little when you write them too early in life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)- they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gestures which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming: to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for someone else-); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that’s rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars,- and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of woman screaming in labour, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves- only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them."
"...Ah poems amount to so little when you write them too early in life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)- they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gestures which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming: to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for someone else-); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that’s rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars,- and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of woman screaming in labour, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves- only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them."
lundi, décembre 12, 2005
brief joys
-painting clay penguins
-Tracy Chapman singing "Never Yours"
-flying down a rolling hill, half blinded by late afternoon sun, the wind in my face and the snow sizzling under my skis
-sleep. Long, uninterrupted, sleep.
-watching the sun inch over the mountains across the lake, the golden wash of light spreading over the valley...
-Tracy Chapman singing "Never Yours"
-flying down a rolling hill, half blinded by late afternoon sun, the wind in my face and the snow sizzling under my skis
-sleep. Long, uninterrupted, sleep.
-watching the sun inch over the mountains across the lake, the golden wash of light spreading over the valley...
vendredi, décembre 09, 2005
my newly cut hair looks like...
...the love child of Chewbacca and Jennifer Aniston circa 1993.
Trust me, people, when I tell you that this was not the look that I was going for.
Fortunately, as the owner of the tutoring business that I work for pointed out, I don't get out much. (She made this comment after I spent 5 minutes expounding on the greatness of a cbc radio documentary I heard last night about the history and political culture of Alberta. Given the fact that I was both enthusiastic and mentioning Alberta and Politics in the same sentence I am surprised that she didn't immediately conclude that I was drunk.)
Thus, few people will ever see the hideosity.
In other news:
-yes, Jeremy, I probably did misspell Chewbacca... I don't care.
-I am dealing with my mental meltdown in the best of WASPy ways: total denial. No, I am not terrified of the distance. Yes, I love the fact that I have no plans after the next 6 months.
-Christmas knitting is continuing apace. By which I mean that I don't have a hope in hell of finishing what I planned to finish...Someone will doubtless find me mummified in red moehair yarn sometime around New Years.
Trust me, people, when I tell you that this was not the look that I was going for.
Fortunately, as the owner of the tutoring business that I work for pointed out, I don't get out much. (She made this comment after I spent 5 minutes expounding on the greatness of a cbc radio documentary I heard last night about the history and political culture of Alberta. Given the fact that I was both enthusiastic and mentioning Alberta and Politics in the same sentence I am surprised that she didn't immediately conclude that I was drunk.)
Thus, few people will ever see the hideosity.
In other news:
-yes, Jeremy, I probably did misspell Chewbacca... I don't care.
-I am dealing with my mental meltdown in the best of WASPy ways: total denial. No, I am not terrified of the distance. Yes, I love the fact that I have no plans after the next 6 months.
-Christmas knitting is continuing apace. By which I mean that I don't have a hope in hell of finishing what I planned to finish...Someone will doubtless find me mummified in red moehair yarn sometime around New Years.
lundi, décembre 05, 2005
crash and burn
In classic fashion, I have managed in the past two days to nosedive off the bandwagon of my staid little life. It's nothing serious, and I will pull myself together directly, but it's always alarming when I realize how self destructive I can actually be.
This all sounds very melodramatic and overwrought. Which is fine, because it is how I feel right now. I'll probably recant the whole thing tomorrow!
I don't handle change very well. Even if I am not happy in my current incarnation, and it's certainly been the autumn of my discontent, change in the equilibrium scares me. I knew the whirlwind would start in late November when my parents arrived back from their holidays, that it would intensify when my dear brother returns from kangaroo land, and that Christmas week itself would be stuffed full of relatives, friends, food, and noise. I was hoping that the chaos would distract me from niggling doubts about my choice to leave everything familiar and move to a place where there is one flight out per week, and long distance phone rates are astronomical; or the rising ball of hysteria that rises in my throat every time I think about applying for a master's program.
This too shall pass, and I guess once I am on the plane I will have the choice to settle down or spontaneously combust.
This all sounds very melodramatic and overwrought. Which is fine, because it is how I feel right now. I'll probably recant the whole thing tomorrow!
I don't handle change very well. Even if I am not happy in my current incarnation, and it's certainly been the autumn of my discontent, change in the equilibrium scares me. I knew the whirlwind would start in late November when my parents arrived back from their holidays, that it would intensify when my dear brother returns from kangaroo land, and that Christmas week itself would be stuffed full of relatives, friends, food, and noise. I was hoping that the chaos would distract me from niggling doubts about my choice to leave everything familiar and move to a place where there is one flight out per week, and long distance phone rates are astronomical; or the rising ball of hysteria that rises in my throat every time I think about applying for a master's program.
This too shall pass, and I guess once I am on the plane I will have the choice to settle down or spontaneously combust.
samedi, novembre 26, 2005
In which our heroine learns some valuable lessons
1)that now that the parentals are home, any desire to use the automobile must be submitted in writing not later than 48 hours before the desired time of departure. All applications must be completed in triplicate and filed well in advance of the aforementioned 48 hour consultation period. Success is never guaranteed and furthermore, acceptance of application may be terminated at any time prior to the automobile actually pulling out of the driveway. Termination of this kind will often be accompanied with an explanation such as "We need to do some errands, you are welcome to come if you like," or "I'd forgotten that you had mentioned that, [desire to use auto]can't you do it later?"
2)The feelings accompanying knitting lace are akin to being stretched on a medieval rack for the duration of the project.
3)Attempting to knit one's first lace pattern using moehair yarn is frankly, insane. Whoever is stupid enough to think this is a good idea deserves to be tortured (on a rack maybe?)...
4) There was a fourth, but I am about to run out and try to snag the car in my 15 second window of opportunity....
2)The feelings accompanying knitting lace are akin to being stretched on a medieval rack for the duration of the project.
3)Attempting to knit one's first lace pattern using moehair yarn is frankly, insane. Whoever is stupid enough to think this is a good idea deserves to be tortured (on a rack maybe?)...
4) There was a fourth, but I am about to run out and try to snag the car in my 15 second window of opportunity....
samedi, novembre 19, 2005
jeudi, novembre 17, 2005
Surcharge
I consider myself a nice little social democrat who sees the purpose of taxation (to fund public infrastructure and programs not covered by the invisible hand) and does not really get bent out of shape about paying 1/3 of my wages into the coffers of (a possibly corrupt) government.
That being said. There is a limit.
I was at the local Canada Post outlet this afternoon, shipping parcels of love and affection to some dear friends, and the clerk asked if I wanted to keep my receipt. Out of habit I said yes.
I glanced at it in the car (to figure out how I just spent $16.43 on postage for 3 small parcels,) and noticed that under the total for the parcel that was sent to Montreal, a small typewritten line informed me that a fuel surcharge of $0.65 had been applied.
There are a plethora of reasons that this small line of type caused me to go from mellow to apoplectic rage in less than 2 seconds. Here are a few of them:
1. The surcharge only applied to the parcel sent within Canada. The stuff sent to Brazil and the UK, destinations much further away and thus probably using slightly more fuel, had no such vile surcharge applied.
2. The above point makes me wonder if fuel used within Canada is somehow more expensive to use than if the same fuel was used in another country. As though it magically gains value when it crosses the 49th parallel. That or Ralph Klein is papering his walls with twenty dollar bills at the expense of the rest of the country. Come to think of it, the prior two hypotheses may not be mutually exclusive...
3. I can deal with fuel surcharges when I AM ACTUALLY CONSUMING THE FUEL BEING USED. The ferries add surcharges, so do airlines. This makes sense to me because I am actually on the vessel using the fuel. I am not on the Canada Post plane/bus/truck that is taking my parcel to the other side of the country, thus I am not actually using that fuel. The company is. A company that is totally subsidized by the government and thus which already has my money going into it... The evil bastards at CP are therefore making me pay for their fuel twice: once in my taxes and once when I use their service.
4. On top of the indignity of #1-3, the thing that really made me shoot fiery rage out my nostrils was that the clerk informed me that standard shipping to send my parcel from BC to Montreal would take 7-10 days. At this rate of speed, I am convinced that Canada Post has abandoned fuel powered vehicles all together and has reverted to horse and carts. Or sleighs for winter. Which begs the question as to the necessity of a fuel surcharge in the first place... Wouldn't it be more efficient to ask for donations of hay and apples for the horses?
7-10 days. Seriously. I could walk there faster.
That being said. There is a limit.
I was at the local Canada Post outlet this afternoon, shipping parcels of love and affection to some dear friends, and the clerk asked if I wanted to keep my receipt. Out of habit I said yes.
I glanced at it in the car (to figure out how I just spent $16.43 on postage for 3 small parcels,) and noticed that under the total for the parcel that was sent to Montreal, a small typewritten line informed me that a fuel surcharge of $0.65 had been applied.
There are a plethora of reasons that this small line of type caused me to go from mellow to apoplectic rage in less than 2 seconds. Here are a few of them:
1. The surcharge only applied to the parcel sent within Canada. The stuff sent to Brazil and the UK, destinations much further away and thus probably using slightly more fuel, had no such vile surcharge applied.
2. The above point makes me wonder if fuel used within Canada is somehow more expensive to use than if the same fuel was used in another country. As though it magically gains value when it crosses the 49th parallel. That or Ralph Klein is papering his walls with twenty dollar bills at the expense of the rest of the country. Come to think of it, the prior two hypotheses may not be mutually exclusive...
3. I can deal with fuel surcharges when I AM ACTUALLY CONSUMING THE FUEL BEING USED. The ferries add surcharges, so do airlines. This makes sense to me because I am actually on the vessel using the fuel. I am not on the Canada Post plane/bus/truck that is taking my parcel to the other side of the country, thus I am not actually using that fuel. The company is. A company that is totally subsidized by the government and thus which already has my money going into it... The evil bastards at CP are therefore making me pay for their fuel twice: once in my taxes and once when I use their service.
4. On top of the indignity of #1-3, the thing that really made me shoot fiery rage out my nostrils was that the clerk informed me that standard shipping to send my parcel from BC to Montreal would take 7-10 days. At this rate of speed, I am convinced that Canada Post has abandoned fuel powered vehicles all together and has reverted to horse and carts. Or sleighs for winter. Which begs the question as to the necessity of a fuel surcharge in the first place... Wouldn't it be more efficient to ask for donations of hay and apples for the horses?
7-10 days. Seriously. I could walk there faster.
mercredi, novembre 16, 2005
The countdown is on...
... on so many levels.
one week until the parentals arrive back from their respective adventures. The 23 year old part of me is quite excited to have them back: no more grocery bills, sometimes my laundry will be done for me, people to talk to in the house other than the cat and the voices in my head. The 3 year old inside of me is screaming "What did you bring me? What did you bring me? Presentspresentspresents!!!"
Hopefully we can get her under control sometime in the next seven days.
Also one week until the great MEC pilgrimage whereupon I will equip myself for the approaching travels while trying not to terrify the sales staff with my addiction to goretex, polypro long underwear, and any type of footwear. Pray for them, for they know not what is about to descend upon them.
Four weeks until the petit frere arrives from his year of insanity. I am so, so excited to see him, but I am also kind of freaking out about a Christmas present for him. If it is going to be knitted I'd better sort it out and start the sucker now.
(knitting update: the cabled scarf is finished and on its way to the recipient. The alligator mittens are blocked, but I need to figure out how to make french knots for the teeth... And I got a fair amount of a touque (for me) finished this morning as I waited for the snow tires to be attached to the car.)
And Seven weeks until I depart for the bottom of the world. The Falklander is en route to South Georgia to count birdies, and I am counting the days until I can terrorize the population of las Malvinas.
Is it any surprise that I am not getting much done? I just sit on the chesterfield (hahaha, such a canadian term) and count days on my fingers.
one week until the parentals arrive back from their respective adventures. The 23 year old part of me is quite excited to have them back: no more grocery bills, sometimes my laundry will be done for me, people to talk to in the house other than the cat and the voices in my head. The 3 year old inside of me is screaming "What did you bring me? What did you bring me? Presentspresentspresents!!!"
Hopefully we can get her under control sometime in the next seven days.
Also one week until the great MEC pilgrimage whereupon I will equip myself for the approaching travels while trying not to terrify the sales staff with my addiction to goretex, polypro long underwear, and any type of footwear. Pray for them, for they know not what is about to descend upon them.
Four weeks until the petit frere arrives from his year of insanity. I am so, so excited to see him, but I am also kind of freaking out about a Christmas present for him. If it is going to be knitted I'd better sort it out and start the sucker now.
(knitting update: the cabled scarf is finished and on its way to the recipient. The alligator mittens are blocked, but I need to figure out how to make french knots for the teeth... And I got a fair amount of a touque (for me) finished this morning as I waited for the snow tires to be attached to the car.)
And Seven weeks until I depart for the bottom of the world. The Falklander is en route to South Georgia to count birdies, and I am counting the days until I can terrorize the population of las Malvinas.
Is it any surprise that I am not getting much done? I just sit on the chesterfield (hahaha, such a canadian term) and count days on my fingers.
vendredi, novembre 11, 2005
How to make me laugh...
...out loud, so hard that I almost shot juice out my nose.
Send me a postcard that instructs one how to "survive adrift on a life raft."
"You are more likely to die of exposure or hypothermia than of anything else."
hahahhahaha!
Send me a postcard that instructs one how to "survive adrift on a life raft."
"You are more likely to die of exposure or hypothermia than of anything else."
hahahhahaha!
jeudi, novembre 10, 2005
obsessed
A small indication that I may in fact knit too much:
Recently, the restaurant has been pretty slow. So slow in fact, that we did not have any tables before noon today. As much as I love standing around and making minimum wage for breathing, I tend to want a little something more out of life. The mitten I am knitting fits perfectly into the front pocket of my work apron. I can knit during the slow periods and quickly stash it when guests make an appearance.
I finished the mitten this afternoon. I am a genius.
Recently, the restaurant has been pretty slow. So slow in fact, that we did not have any tables before noon today. As much as I love standing around and making minimum wage for breathing, I tend to want a little something more out of life. The mitten I am knitting fits perfectly into the front pocket of my work apron. I can knit during the slow periods and quickly stash it when guests make an appearance.
I finished the mitten this afternoon. I am a genius.
vendredi, novembre 04, 2005
Do not choose a coward's explanation...
...that hides behind the cause and the effect.
You sent me Leonard Cohen and made me weep in the middle of the morning.
And now, sitting here 36 hours later, still drained and feeling like my skin has been rubbed raw, I am trying to think it all through. There is so much I want to say to you but at the same time I wonder about the point of it all. So I will write it down here... in a semi public forum... in half formed thoughts and cryptic phrases. Cowardly, yes. But you do it too- just in verse, and thus think of these sentences as my stanzas.
"Damn you for being so content and reserved in your satisfaction elsewhere, and damn you for not fawning over me for the rest of your entire life..."
I won't fawn over you for the rest of my life-I think too highly of you to do that. And debating my levels of contentment and reservation could go on for ever. And it's all mental masturbation anyway: a pleasure occurring only after prolonged periods of narcissitic introspection.
I wonder about the value of digging through the debris of two years worth of memories to get at a dozen moments of pure joy. On the one hand, my moments of joy are held apart by months, years even. Allowing the mess of everyday sift overtop of them leaves me with a mind of memorytape unwinding in my skull like an analogue tape that a two year old got a hold of. I should keep my joy near at hand, to be taken twice daily as an antidote for mundanity and mediocrity.
On the other hand, I will go to great lengths to avoid pain. And all the rememberings of our good times eventually slide into how we lost our respective grips and how childish we were, and how-though I am not lonely for the whole relationship-I would like to sink into one of our endless Sunday afternoons like a warm bath.
That picture of a girl looking over her shoulder in a parking lot somewhere in Conneticut, I don't even recognize her. She looks like someone I could be friends with, but there's no pulling of heartstings when I see my two-years-ago self glancing over her shoulder daring the two-years-ago you to catch her in the act.
I don't even have a stable mental image of you. You reinvent-adapt to circumstances. No loitering for you. Movement. Progress.
You pointed out that we weren't friends, and you are right. We weren't. I think part of the reason I can't disengage myself from you is that I have no label for what we were. I can't find the right branding iron to cauterize that ten months of existence. Lovers? it says too little and too much at the same time.
It's why I am wary of a friendship with you now. She who builds her house on quicksand should not be surprised when she is sucked back in.
If we could go back and play the film again, would we edit? Would we ask the actors to be kinder to each other and a little less like vipers? Would we change to more flattering lighting? Alter the beginning and ending to create a full plot arc? Would we fastforward to the crisp winter mornings, running for the bus or up the Main, holding hands and pelting along like the world would end if we stopped... our breath coming in jagged gasps...
I can't help you with the solitude and loneliness. If it means anything, know that I have been there too: Surrounded by people, unfamiliar sounds shooting out of every throat, judged on appearance, personality ignored. It is hard and you will survive. Something inside of me aches in recognition when you described the alienation.
Damn you too.
You sent me Leonard Cohen and made me weep in the middle of the morning.
And now, sitting here 36 hours later, still drained and feeling like my skin has been rubbed raw, I am trying to think it all through. There is so much I want to say to you but at the same time I wonder about the point of it all. So I will write it down here... in a semi public forum... in half formed thoughts and cryptic phrases. Cowardly, yes. But you do it too- just in verse, and thus think of these sentences as my stanzas.
"Damn you for being so content and reserved in your satisfaction elsewhere, and damn you for not fawning over me for the rest of your entire life..."
I won't fawn over you for the rest of my life-I think too highly of you to do that. And debating my levels of contentment and reservation could go on for ever. And it's all mental masturbation anyway: a pleasure occurring only after prolonged periods of narcissitic introspection.
I wonder about the value of digging through the debris of two years worth of memories to get at a dozen moments of pure joy. On the one hand, my moments of joy are held apart by months, years even. Allowing the mess of everyday sift overtop of them leaves me with a mind of memorytape unwinding in my skull like an analogue tape that a two year old got a hold of. I should keep my joy near at hand, to be taken twice daily as an antidote for mundanity and mediocrity.
On the other hand, I will go to great lengths to avoid pain. And all the rememberings of our good times eventually slide into how we lost our respective grips and how childish we were, and how-though I am not lonely for the whole relationship-I would like to sink into one of our endless Sunday afternoons like a warm bath.
That picture of a girl looking over her shoulder in a parking lot somewhere in Conneticut, I don't even recognize her. She looks like someone I could be friends with, but there's no pulling of heartstings when I see my two-years-ago self glancing over her shoulder daring the two-years-ago you to catch her in the act.
I don't even have a stable mental image of you. You reinvent-adapt to circumstances. No loitering for you. Movement. Progress.
You pointed out that we weren't friends, and you are right. We weren't. I think part of the reason I can't disengage myself from you is that I have no label for what we were. I can't find the right branding iron to cauterize that ten months of existence. Lovers? it says too little and too much at the same time.
It's why I am wary of a friendship with you now. She who builds her house on quicksand should not be surprised when she is sucked back in.
If we could go back and play the film again, would we edit? Would we ask the actors to be kinder to each other and a little less like vipers? Would we change to more flattering lighting? Alter the beginning and ending to create a full plot arc? Would we fastforward to the crisp winter mornings, running for the bus or up the Main, holding hands and pelting along like the world would end if we stopped... our breath coming in jagged gasps...
I can't help you with the solitude and loneliness. If it means anything, know that I have been there too: Surrounded by people, unfamiliar sounds shooting out of every throat, judged on appearance, personality ignored. It is hard and you will survive. Something inside of me aches in recognition when you described the alienation.
Damn you too.
mardi, novembre 01, 2005
Sanitization
When I was little enough to be stuffed into a cat/princess/witch/gypsie costume and paraded around our street, clutching a pillowcase that gradually filled with the largest amount of chocolate my little eyes had ever seen in once place, sixty to seventy children would tramp up to our front door. "Trick or treat!" they'd yell in squeaky little voices, and we would capitulate by dumping peanuts and caramilk bars into their pillowcases. I don't think any of us ever thought of a trick to play if anyone refused candy. Our brains were so loaded up with a pre-emptive sugar high that we could think of nothing other than "candycandycandycandy..."
This year, the first I have spent at my childhood home in six years, we had 12 trick or treaters. 12. I was so disappointed. Also, I had about 36 liters of candy just sitting in the front hall like a predatory wild beast.
As I sat there, with my friend R, waiting for the non-existent hoards of costumed beasties, we got to wondering about the decline. Was it just a function of my neighborhood aging, of the kids growing up and moving on to Halloween parties where they dressed up like naughty nurses and drank orange punch out of bowl?
Possibly, but certainly not the whole story.
The real culprit, we decided, was the Evil Subdivision. The Subdivision exists as a sprawling ring of stucco houses on treeless lots that encircles the older part of the neighborhood in which I live. The older area has architecturally different houses that were built over a period of 20 years. The yards are large and individual and full of gardens and pine trees. There are no sidewalks, but the roads are wide with large shoulders. There are no streetlights, but all of the houses have porch lights.
The Evil Subdivision went up almost overnight. All the houses look the same, the only trees are ornamental because the developers bulldozed the whole area at the outset of construction. Ornamental lawns are good. Chaotic perennial borders are not. These places have a front walk slicing through the sidewalk every 3 meters. There are streetlights.
While I do understand the attraction of closely spaced, well lit houses to both wary parents and candy hungry kiddies, I think it is fundamentally wrong to attempt to sanitize Halloween.
It is supposed to be a dark and scary night.
You are supposed to hear unexplained howls in the darkness.
Subdivisions suck out the mystery of life. Be wary.
This year, the first I have spent at my childhood home in six years, we had 12 trick or treaters. 12. I was so disappointed. Also, I had about 36 liters of candy just sitting in the front hall like a predatory wild beast.
As I sat there, with my friend R, waiting for the non-existent hoards of costumed beasties, we got to wondering about the decline. Was it just a function of my neighborhood aging, of the kids growing up and moving on to Halloween parties where they dressed up like naughty nurses and drank orange punch out of bowl?
Possibly, but certainly not the whole story.
The real culprit, we decided, was the Evil Subdivision. The Subdivision exists as a sprawling ring of stucco houses on treeless lots that encircles the older part of the neighborhood in which I live. The older area has architecturally different houses that were built over a period of 20 years. The yards are large and individual and full of gardens and pine trees. There are no sidewalks, but the roads are wide with large shoulders. There are no streetlights, but all of the houses have porch lights.
The Evil Subdivision went up almost overnight. All the houses look the same, the only trees are ornamental because the developers bulldozed the whole area at the outset of construction. Ornamental lawns are good. Chaotic perennial borders are not. These places have a front walk slicing through the sidewalk every 3 meters. There are streetlights.
While I do understand the attraction of closely spaced, well lit houses to both wary parents and candy hungry kiddies, I think it is fundamentally wrong to attempt to sanitize Halloween.
It is supposed to be a dark and scary night.
You are supposed to hear unexplained howls in the darkness.
Subdivisions suck out the mystery of life. Be wary.
jeudi, octobre 20, 2005
Unrealistic Expectation:
To think that someone, anyone in a position of authority at the restaurant would have realized that if the menu changes, new menus must be printed.
This realization (if it indeed occurred) would be expected to arise sometime before 45 minutes before the restaurant opened for the day.
A small footnote to this unreality would be that the chef (who is the grand architect of the menu changement) would take some responsibility for the colossal fuck up (at some point in chef-school they must cover the infintessimal detail that overhauling the menu requires more than just changing the food one orders in for inventory. It also requires one to write down a list and descriptions of the new dishes for the manager to type up as a menu).
THE FRONT END STAFF CANNOT PRINT THE DAMN MENUS IF THE CHEF HAS NOT GIVEN A LIST OF THE NEW MENU ITEMS TO THE FRONT END. WHY IS THIS SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND?!?!!
This realization (if it indeed occurred) would be expected to arise sometime before 45 minutes before the restaurant opened for the day.
A small footnote to this unreality would be that the chef (who is the grand architect of the menu changement) would take some responsibility for the colossal fuck up (at some point in chef-school they must cover the infintessimal detail that overhauling the menu requires more than just changing the food one orders in for inventory. It also requires one to write down a list and descriptions of the new dishes for the manager to type up as a menu).
THE FRONT END STAFF CANNOT PRINT THE DAMN MENUS IF THE CHEF HAS NOT GIVEN A LIST OF THE NEW MENU ITEMS TO THE FRONT END. WHY IS THIS SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND?!?!!
dimanche, octobre 16, 2005
One day I will learn...
... not to try to knit the fairly complicated cable scarf-that will be a birthday present in less than a month-while watching a film with subtitles.
This kind of hubris can only lead to problems.
This kind of hubris can only lead to problems.
samedi, octobre 15, 2005
Pinterland
Harold Pinter has won the Nobel Prize for literature.
I am so pleased.
IB HL Theatre Arts Individual Project: Directing The Birthday Party.
I have never learned so much about myself and human nature from one rather short piece of literature.
Read his work. Watch his plays. They will transform you.
I am so pleased.
IB HL Theatre Arts Individual Project: Directing The Birthday Party.
I have never learned so much about myself and human nature from one rather short piece of literature.
Read his work. Watch his plays. They will transform you.
vendredi, octobre 14, 2005
We all knew it would lead to this eventually...
I bought shoes on ebay.
Little white and red striped adidas sneakers with blue soles. Quite retro and cool from the .5x.5 inch picture of them on the ebay webpage. And they were in size seven which (I think) is my shoesize.
One click of the "buy now" button and it was history.
This was in August. The falklander had just left and I was feeling a little vulnerable and fragile. I waited for noon every day just so I could walk to the post box and check for my shoes.
They didn't arrive.
I started emailing the seller obsessively, and went so far as to get her contact info from the source and call her in Minneapolis. Nothing. No response. In desperation I reported "an item not received" to ebay and waited for something to happen.
A few days later I got an email from the seller. She had been quite ill and in hospital for much of late August and September and apologized for the delay in sending the shoes, but that they were now on their way.
My first thought was not, "Oh no... I hope she is going to be ok.."
My first thought was "Wow, if she had died I would never have gotten the shoes...that would be horrible."
[we will discuss how I am a horrible, shallow and generally vile human being at a later date.]
The shoes were in the mailbox when I got home from the Family-without-family Thanksgiving extravaganza this past weekend.
Apparently my feet are not size seven-at least according to Adidas. They are more like a six. My orthodics were not created for nothing though, and neither were really heavy wool socks...It's almost winter, about time I started wearing extremely warm socks anyways. If all else fails, I can hand the shoes over to the frere. It wouldn't break my heart.
Whilst in the midst of a small hissy fit over the lack of my ebay shoes, I may have acquired these. Thus far, as there is no concrete shoe-on-foot confirmation that this purchase actually occurred, it is but a vicious rumor.
The first step to conquering an addiction is admitting you have a problem.
Little white and red striped adidas sneakers with blue soles. Quite retro and cool from the .5x.5 inch picture of them on the ebay webpage. And they were in size seven which (I think) is my shoesize.
One click of the "buy now" button and it was history.
This was in August. The falklander had just left and I was feeling a little vulnerable and fragile. I waited for noon every day just so I could walk to the post box and check for my shoes.
They didn't arrive.
I started emailing the seller obsessively, and went so far as to get her contact info from the source and call her in Minneapolis. Nothing. No response. In desperation I reported "an item not received" to ebay and waited for something to happen.
A few days later I got an email from the seller. She had been quite ill and in hospital for much of late August and September and apologized for the delay in sending the shoes, but that they were now on their way.
My first thought was not, "Oh no... I hope she is going to be ok.."
My first thought was "Wow, if she had died I would never have gotten the shoes...that would be horrible."
[we will discuss how I am a horrible, shallow and generally vile human being at a later date.]
The shoes were in the mailbox when I got home from the Family-without-family Thanksgiving extravaganza this past weekend.
Apparently my feet are not size seven-at least according to Adidas. They are more like a six. My orthodics were not created for nothing though, and neither were really heavy wool socks...It's almost winter, about time I started wearing extremely warm socks anyways. If all else fails, I can hand the shoes over to the frere. It wouldn't break my heart.
Whilst in the midst of a small hissy fit over the lack of my ebay shoes, I may have acquired these. Thus far, as there is no concrete shoe-on-foot confirmation that this purchase actually occurred, it is but a vicious rumor.
The first step to conquering an addiction is admitting you have a problem.
samedi, octobre 08, 2005
What they don't teach you in Chef school...
is how to count, apparently.
Which is why I really shouldn't be surprised when, in the middle of running the 3rd course of a 5 course dinner to the restaurant owner, his financial partners, and 12 food and wine writers, I come into the back to pick up my last two plates of salmon and find them non-existent. Odd, because when I left the kitchen a mere 30 seconds before there were two little salmon filets in the last pan, waiting to be plated.
I look at the executive chef and the sous, searching their faces for an explanation. Maybe they plated the last two very quickly and sent them out with another server and I didn't notice.
Or... maybe they didn't count their plates and decided that they were done plating without checking with me. And maybe they didn't want to waste any fish. And maybe the salmon in between their teeth, slowly being masticated and digested when it should be on a plate in my hands and heading out to the last two people without dinners at the FREAKIN VIP TABLE!!!!!!!
It is for moments like these that the phrase "actually, just insert the most foul epithet you can think of here... If I try to think something up I'll just get apoplectic again..." was invented.
More than anything it is the pure stupidity that drives me round the bend.
Which is why I really shouldn't be surprised when, in the middle of running the 3rd course of a 5 course dinner to the restaurant owner, his financial partners, and 12 food and wine writers, I come into the back to pick up my last two plates of salmon and find them non-existent. Odd, because when I left the kitchen a mere 30 seconds before there were two little salmon filets in the last pan, waiting to be plated.
I look at the executive chef and the sous, searching their faces for an explanation. Maybe they plated the last two very quickly and sent them out with another server and I didn't notice.
Or... maybe they didn't count their plates and decided that they were done plating without checking with me. And maybe they didn't want to waste any fish. And maybe the salmon in between their teeth, slowly being masticated and digested when it should be on a plate in my hands and heading out to the last two people without dinners at the FREAKIN VIP TABLE!!!!!!!
It is for moments like these that the phrase "actually, just insert the most foul epithet you can think of here... If I try to think something up I'll just get apoplectic again..." was invented.
More than anything it is the pure stupidity that drives me round the bend.
jeudi, octobre 06, 2005
Under Pressure
(this post should be read with the sweet strains of Queen pulsing in the background)
Never let it be said that I do not take deadlines seriously. I do. I place them high up on golden pedestals, and promptly ignore them until 48 hours before they arrive.
My entire university career was based on this method of time management, and it is good to realize that I have not abandoned it simply because I have a degree now.
The first major instance of deadline-avoidance-stress-and-minor-meltdown occurred earlier this summer when I realized, 4 days before a wedding that I had known about for 6 months, that I had nothing to wear. Obviously the only solution was to sew myself a dress using sari fabric that used to be my curtains (hello Scarlett!) and also modify the entire bodice of the pattern. I got the dress finished on the ferry ride to Vancouver Island 4 hours before the holy ceremony of matrimony began, and the final touches (cutting the tulle crinoline to the correct length) were performed by the most wonderful of all wonderful Falklanders whilst I stood, wearing the grape coloured concoction, on a chair in the middle of my grandfather's kitchen, a mere 5 minutes before we had to leave for the church. The dress actually looked quite hot, despite the picture of curtains and tulle that is most likely running rampant in your sick little heads.
More recently, I offered to sew up some curtains for my friend and her roommate so that the stalker, when he is let out of jail, can no longer stare into their kitchen all evening. My friend is smarter than I thought. She gave me all the materials and then invited me to an "orphan" Thanksgiving Dinner, this upcoming Friday evening. There is no way I can attend the dinner if the curtains are not finished. There is no way that I will finish the curtains in the next 48 hours given the fact that I worked a double today, and have another tomorrow and I work Friday morning. Did I forget to mention that I offered to bake pumpkin pies as well?
Something has to give. I have a feeling it will be that annoying biological necessity: sleep.
PS: The curtains are a fairly simple premise...4 black rectangles with a smaller rectangle of red printed material appliqued on top. There should be about a 2 inch black border around the outside of the applique if the black fabric is straight. It's not. In fact, it is so NOT FREAKIN' STRAIGHT that I keep gnashing my teeth and muttering curses under my breath about its lack of straightness and I am worried that someone will overhear me and plunk me in a diversity awareness workshop.
She's gonna be getting some pretty warped curtains. Right angle corners are for chumps.
Never let it be said that I do not take deadlines seriously. I do. I place them high up on golden pedestals, and promptly ignore them until 48 hours before they arrive.
My entire university career was based on this method of time management, and it is good to realize that I have not abandoned it simply because I have a degree now.
The first major instance of deadline-avoidance-stress-and-minor-meltdown occurred earlier this summer when I realized, 4 days before a wedding that I had known about for 6 months, that I had nothing to wear. Obviously the only solution was to sew myself a dress using sari fabric that used to be my curtains (hello Scarlett!) and also modify the entire bodice of the pattern. I got the dress finished on the ferry ride to Vancouver Island 4 hours before the holy ceremony of matrimony began, and the final touches (cutting the tulle crinoline to the correct length) were performed by the most wonderful of all wonderful Falklanders whilst I stood, wearing the grape coloured concoction, on a chair in the middle of my grandfather's kitchen, a mere 5 minutes before we had to leave for the church. The dress actually looked quite hot, despite the picture of curtains and tulle that is most likely running rampant in your sick little heads.
More recently, I offered to sew up some curtains for my friend and her roommate so that the stalker, when he is let out of jail, can no longer stare into their kitchen all evening. My friend is smarter than I thought. She gave me all the materials and then invited me to an "orphan" Thanksgiving Dinner, this upcoming Friday evening. There is no way I can attend the dinner if the curtains are not finished. There is no way that I will finish the curtains in the next 48 hours given the fact that I worked a double today, and have another tomorrow and I work Friday morning. Did I forget to mention that I offered to bake pumpkin pies as well?
Something has to give. I have a feeling it will be that annoying biological necessity: sleep.
PS: The curtains are a fairly simple premise...4 black rectangles with a smaller rectangle of red printed material appliqued on top. There should be about a 2 inch black border around the outside of the applique if the black fabric is straight. It's not. In fact, it is so NOT FREAKIN' STRAIGHT that I keep gnashing my teeth and muttering curses under my breath about its lack of straightness and I am worried that someone will overhear me and plunk me in a diversity awareness workshop.
She's gonna be getting some pretty warped curtains. Right angle corners are for chumps.
mercredi, octobre 05, 2005
Watched
Mostly Martha
My Life Without Me
The Shipping News
Yes, I have too much time on my hands. But, these are excellent films that you all should watch. Right now. Go. To the video store.
My Life Without Me
The Shipping News
Yes, I have too much time on my hands. But, these are excellent films that you all should watch. Right now. Go. To the video store.
vendredi, septembre 30, 2005
lundi, septembre 26, 2005
Inheritance
Some families have jewels. Others have artwork, sets of porcelain dinnerware, property, cars, motorcycles, that form the bulk of the family assets. Actually, all of the aforementioned things are held onto by my particular family with two clenched fists,-for the record, we hoard...we don't distribute- but one asset stands above all the rest.
The Geraniums.
Actually, they are Pellargoniums: true geraniums are strictly annuals, but our family geraniums have been around since well before my time. I think my grandmother had insano geraniums and gave cuttings to my mother at some point (or this could be the story of the christmas cactuses...but it all works out to the same thing: I kill the plants and I am as good as dead,) and since that point the geraniums have thrived in the Has/Wil Ent. household.
They are beautiful plants, mature beings that completely fill 5 gallon planters with only a little bacopa to round out the edges.
About 5 minutes before my darling mother embarked upon her grand adventure she said something about bringing in the sensitive plants inside before the first frost. I think I may have written down which plants were deemed "sensitive", but clearly the most important were the geraniums.
If I kill them, the entire 23 years of my life is a mere blip on the radar of humanity. I will have committed geranium genocide.
So last night it was supposed to have dipped to 1C. That is 1 degree above freezing. And this is according to the dodgy CBC. (Can one with Liberal sypmathies ever really trust them again?) In true mature: I-can-take-care-of-a-whole-house style, instead of hauling the plants inside I invited a bunch of girls over to drink and hottub.
This evening the plants don't look dead. But I'm not taking any chances. No Protestant universe that I know will allow me to drink away two nights without consequences when the plants could be suffering.
They are all inside now. All ten planters that had geraniums in them. And the fuschia, for good measure. I am pretty sure that not all the geraniums are intimately acquainted with my inheritance, I'm not taking any chances though. They were suprisingly light to haul inside. Their lightness has nothing to do with my total abandonment of plant watering in the last 3 weeks. No, of course not.
The Geraniums.
Actually, they are Pellargoniums: true geraniums are strictly annuals, but our family geraniums have been around since well before my time. I think my grandmother had insano geraniums and gave cuttings to my mother at some point (or this could be the story of the christmas cactuses...but it all works out to the same thing: I kill the plants and I am as good as dead,) and since that point the geraniums have thrived in the Has/Wil Ent. household.
They are beautiful plants, mature beings that completely fill 5 gallon planters with only a little bacopa to round out the edges.
About 5 minutes before my darling mother embarked upon her grand adventure she said something about bringing in the sensitive plants inside before the first frost. I think I may have written down which plants were deemed "sensitive", but clearly the most important were the geraniums.
If I kill them, the entire 23 years of my life is a mere blip on the radar of humanity. I will have committed geranium genocide.
So last night it was supposed to have dipped to 1C. That is 1 degree above freezing. And this is according to the dodgy CBC. (Can one with Liberal sypmathies ever really trust them again?) In true mature: I-can-take-care-of-a-whole-house style, instead of hauling the plants inside I invited a bunch of girls over to drink and hottub.
This evening the plants don't look dead. But I'm not taking any chances. No Protestant universe that I know will allow me to drink away two nights without consequences when the plants could be suffering.
They are all inside now. All ten planters that had geraniums in them. And the fuschia, for good measure. I am pretty sure that not all the geraniums are intimately acquainted with my inheritance, I'm not taking any chances though. They were suprisingly light to haul inside. Their lightness has nothing to do with my total abandonment of plant watering in the last 3 weeks. No, of course not.
jeudi, septembre 22, 2005
Have you given it your best shot?
Yes, I have.
And now I am quitting. And it feels great.
A word of explanation. I rarely quit anything. I hang on until the bitter end, gritting my teeth and grimacing, destroying my health and mental well being, because I started this and I will finish it. Quitting is for the weak willed, and that certainly doesn't aply to me.
But today, or last night really, while watching TV, the realization came to me in a flash: Nobody is forcing me to keep going. I am not happy with this situation. I can quit. Everyone involved will be happier. My mental well being (such as it is) will be restored. There is no shame in this decision.
The yarn for the leg warmers I am, er.. was knitting was only 3 dollars a ball (which should have been my first clue that it is total and utter rubbish.) Secondly it is acrylic and "fun yarn". A more misleading label has never been created. I cast on the suckers 4 times before surrendering to the hideosity of the yarn and its complete inability to do the most basic of knitting patterns: 2x2 ribbing. So I quit. Or, if you like, I fired the yarn.
This afternoon's excursion is to the yarn store in Duncan. Twice the size of the store at home. It's like a porn shop for knitters.
Stay tuned for my newest love affair: braided cables. Be still my beating heart.
And now I am quitting. And it feels great.
A word of explanation. I rarely quit anything. I hang on until the bitter end, gritting my teeth and grimacing, destroying my health and mental well being, because I started this and I will finish it. Quitting is for the weak willed, and that certainly doesn't aply to me.
But today, or last night really, while watching TV, the realization came to me in a flash: Nobody is forcing me to keep going. I am not happy with this situation. I can quit. Everyone involved will be happier. My mental well being (such as it is) will be restored. There is no shame in this decision.
The yarn for the leg warmers I am, er.. was knitting was only 3 dollars a ball (which should have been my first clue that it is total and utter rubbish.) Secondly it is acrylic and "fun yarn". A more misleading label has never been created. I cast on the suckers 4 times before surrendering to the hideosity of the yarn and its complete inability to do the most basic of knitting patterns: 2x2 ribbing. So I quit. Or, if you like, I fired the yarn.
This afternoon's excursion is to the yarn store in Duncan. Twice the size of the store at home. It's like a porn shop for knitters.
Stay tuned for my newest love affair: braided cables. Be still my beating heart.
mardi, septembre 20, 2005
To the man caught stalking my friends:
Dear Sick Fuck:
I realize that you are quite possibly suffering from a mental illness and need serious treatment, and that the system failed you and that you belong in a home somewhere on serious medication. If this is the case, forgive me for the rampant thrashing of your character that I am about to embark upon. Of course it's not your problem... it's the system.
That being said:
I fail to see how anyone EVER can convince themselves that spying on two women is acceptable behavior. In fact, I am rendered utterly speechless at your audacity of standing on their porch and staring into the kitchen window for TWO HOURS. Of course you weren't doing anything, I know, just watching. Not planning to break into the house later when they were sleeping and fondle them like you did in Town X and Town Y, near here, last month.
I think you are totally and utterly the dregs of society. It is people like you that makes me question my adherence to liberal principles and my adherence to the The Charter. Even in the depths of my imagination I cannot comprehend a way to replicate the subtle violation you perpetrated upon them. Thus, I am relegated to the relatively unsophisticated option of physical torture. If I had my way, I would hurt you physically, maybe with razor blades dipped in Habanero sauce, since there is no way to replicate the amount of terror and insecurity and fear that you have instilled in two of my friends.
You sicken me.
Claire
I realize that you are quite possibly suffering from a mental illness and need serious treatment, and that the system failed you and that you belong in a home somewhere on serious medication. If this is the case, forgive me for the rampant thrashing of your character that I am about to embark upon. Of course it's not your problem... it's the system.
That being said:
I fail to see how anyone EVER can convince themselves that spying on two women is acceptable behavior. In fact, I am rendered utterly speechless at your audacity of standing on their porch and staring into the kitchen window for TWO HOURS. Of course you weren't doing anything, I know, just watching. Not planning to break into the house later when they were sleeping and fondle them like you did in Town X and Town Y, near here, last month.
I think you are totally and utterly the dregs of society. It is people like you that makes me question my adherence to liberal principles and my adherence to the The Charter. Even in the depths of my imagination I cannot comprehend a way to replicate the subtle violation you perpetrated upon them. Thus, I am relegated to the relatively unsophisticated option of physical torture. If I had my way, I would hurt you physically, maybe with razor blades dipped in Habanero sauce, since there is no way to replicate the amount of terror and insecurity and fear that you have instilled in two of my friends.
You sicken me.
Claire
jeudi, septembre 15, 2005
soundtrack 1
The scene: Grey day, the type that should be whiled away in front of the fire, eating soup and reading Wuthering Heights.*
The reality: Grey day barely noticed amid a flurry of house cleaning. Our protaganist wonders why she is cleaning before the party she inadvertently offered to host.
The sountrack: Requiem Op. 48 by Gabriel Faure. Suitably fiery and melancholic: mirroring exactly our protaganist's feelings about aforementioned house cleaning. The Oxford Camareta does a nice version, but really, almost anything will do as long as the soprano isn't warbley. Warbley sopranos should be strangled and/or made to sing alto. Quietly.
*for the record, I've never read WH. But seriously, it has the word "wuthering" in the title... how can it not be good to read on a rainy day?
The reality: Grey day barely noticed amid a flurry of house cleaning. Our protaganist wonders why she is cleaning before the party she inadvertently offered to host.
The sountrack: Requiem Op. 48 by Gabriel Faure. Suitably fiery and melancholic: mirroring exactly our protaganist's feelings about aforementioned house cleaning. The Oxford Camareta does a nice version, but really, almost anything will do as long as the soprano isn't warbley. Warbley sopranos should be strangled and/or made to sing alto. Quietly.
*for the record, I've never read WH. But seriously, it has the word "wuthering" in the title... how can it not be good to read on a rainy day?
mardi, septembre 13, 2005
Paris
this is for my darling neasa, at this very moment moving to Paris to have some spectacular adventures accompanied by red wine, amazing cheese and stylish people. It is also stolen shamelessly from the other newly minted Parisian.
I would like everybody to know that I have been working on being happy for you neas, since you blythely fired off an email which ended 'and Monday I move to Paris,' as if it was the most normal thing in the world to be doing. And, 4 days of battling paralyzing jealousy later, I have succeeded. I am happy for you that you are in Paris. However, more than that, I am happy you will be in Paris in the spring when I will come and sleep on your floor until you kick me out or just stop noticing that I am there, until I become so infused with Paris that I blend right in to the cafe curtains.
I love you so much my dear, and I am awaiting the stories...
"Is this simply the unique perversity of the human heart that it wants (and wants and wants) what it doesn't have--Italian food in Paris, American Jazz in Saint-Germain--and, only when it is about to lose it, returns to the things that drew it to the desire in the first place? Or was there a kind of peace in it too? We would now never be Parisians or integrate; we might not even stay in town more than another eight weeks. Loss, like distance, gives permission for romance. In a better-ordered Vienna, Romeo and Juliet would have grown up to be just another couple at dinner." --Adam Gopnik, Paris to the Moon
I would like everybody to know that I have been working on being happy for you neas, since you blythely fired off an email which ended 'and Monday I move to Paris,' as if it was the most normal thing in the world to be doing. And, 4 days of battling paralyzing jealousy later, I have succeeded. I am happy for you that you are in Paris. However, more than that, I am happy you will be in Paris in the spring when I will come and sleep on your floor until you kick me out or just stop noticing that I am there, until I become so infused with Paris that I blend right in to the cafe curtains.
I love you so much my dear, and I am awaiting the stories...
"Is this simply the unique perversity of the human heart that it wants (and wants and wants) what it doesn't have--Italian food in Paris, American Jazz in Saint-Germain--and, only when it is about to lose it, returns to the things that drew it to the desire in the first place? Or was there a kind of peace in it too? We would now never be Parisians or integrate; we might not even stay in town more than another eight weeks. Loss, like distance, gives permission for romance. In a better-ordered Vienna, Romeo and Juliet would have grown up to be just another couple at dinner." --Adam Gopnik, Paris to the Moon
mercredi, septembre 07, 2005
at this rate, menopause will be a breeze...
So I have heard that women in menopause start to kind of lose their minds. Not in an old, aging synapses kind of way; more along the lines of sporadically misfiring cylinders on 20 year old motorcycle. Nothing too serious, but disconcerting nonetheless.
At my current rate of mind loss, there won't be anything left by my 24th birthday, let alone for menopause to destroy.
It's the little things:
I was completely oblivious to the upcoming birthday of Charlotte, until she emailed to tell me her plans. (New York City... please excuse me while I die of jealousy and go drown myself in the mill pond). And I know exactly when her birthday is.
Forgetting to eject the damncat from the interior premises before going to bed for three days in a row. The damncat wakes me up at 4 am to be let out if I don't do it before I sleep, and thus one has to wonder how many times I will stumble, cursing, up the stairs to the front door in the middle of the night before I clue in.
Leaving the iron on while I am at work all day.
Usually such instances of stupidity would be evenly spaced over a month and the repercussions would only affect me. Circumstances have changed drastically from the norm-if the phrase "normal circumstances" can even be applied to my life with a straight face-and I am now in charge, and the boss of, a whole house, large yard, two cars and many many kilometers of carpet that needs to be vacuumed regularly. The parentals have gallivanted off to Europe (mummy) and to circumnavigate the Mediterranean on a motorcycle (daddy). I have been left at home to feed the damncat and to water the plants. The responsibility might just kill me.
And then there'd be nobody to let the cat out.
At my current rate of mind loss, there won't be anything left by my 24th birthday, let alone for menopause to destroy.
It's the little things:
I was completely oblivious to the upcoming birthday of Charlotte, until she emailed to tell me her plans. (New York City... please excuse me while I die of jealousy and go drown myself in the mill pond). And I know exactly when her birthday is.
Forgetting to eject the damncat from the interior premises before going to bed for three days in a row. The damncat wakes me up at 4 am to be let out if I don't do it before I sleep, and thus one has to wonder how many times I will stumble, cursing, up the stairs to the front door in the middle of the night before I clue in.
Leaving the iron on while I am at work all day.
Usually such instances of stupidity would be evenly spaced over a month and the repercussions would only affect me. Circumstances have changed drastically from the norm-if the phrase "normal circumstances" can even be applied to my life with a straight face-and I am now in charge, and the boss of, a whole house, large yard, two cars and many many kilometers of carpet that needs to be vacuumed regularly. The parentals have gallivanted off to Europe (mummy) and to circumnavigate the Mediterranean on a motorcycle (daddy). I have been left at home to feed the damncat and to water the plants. The responsibility might just kill me.
And then there'd be nobody to let the cat out.
mardi, septembre 06, 2005
all I need...
In my life, is a carpet cleaning blog.
no more anonymous comments people. leave a paper trail. That way the government can find you.
no more anonymous comments people. leave a paper trail. That way the government can find you.
Mungry
Mungry: adjective. A contraction of the phrase "money hungry". Most often used to describe people in the service industry who get pissy when they have a slow night and try to cadge more tables from the manager or the hostess; and who are all fine on busy nights. Rarely performs back duties (ie: polishing glassware), often tries to get other servers/bartenders/co-workers to leave early in hopes of taking over their section. Pejorative.
vendredi, septembre 02, 2005
bon voyage
So today is departure day pour papa... off to London, Belgium, Italy, Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Turkey, Greece, Italy, France, London. All on Motorcycles. With the godfather who used to be a spy.
I am so jealous I could puke.
Travel safely daddy. I love you.
I am so jealous I could puke.
Travel safely daddy. I love you.
mercredi, août 31, 2005
original sin
A few nights ago my best friend in my home town, who we will call R, and I went off for an evening on the town. Since we both had to work the next morning, our wild night out consisted of watching March of the Penguins and heading off to a swanky restaurant for dessert.
R and I have known each other since grade eight when he had a bowl cut and no friends and I wore plaid flannel shirts and wanted desperately to be popular. (In retrospect it was no wonder I had no friends- plaid flannel shirts?!?)
R is witty, intelligent, self deprecating and a great observer of the absurd. Which serves him well as he is the only one of my highschool friends who has stayed in our hometown and never once ventured abroad to a larger city. He is the guy I call when my love life is in the toilet, when my house is about to burn down and when I need to laugh so hard I spew juice through my nose. He knows me better than I know myself most of the time, and he is one of those fundamentalist Christians who believes that Jesus is coming back next Monday at 4 pm, just in time to roast the sinners and the gays and to exalt the pious before a dinner of wings and watching the football game. I, on the other hand, am the kind of liberal Anglican who, if the big JC arrived on my doorstep, would offer him a beer and continue watching The Daily Show-extrapolating during the commercial breaks on the joys of pre-marital sex, the value of contraception, the importance of a woman's right to choose, why I think the phrase hidden agenda has been grossly overused by the Conservative Party, and the relative value of The Walrus vs the Atlantic Monthly.
Needless to say, R and I are the kind of friends who will be friends forever, even into the afterlife: our respective ideas of hell is where the other will end up, so I am pretty sure, if God has a sense of humour, we'll see each other there.
The highlight of the evening was dessert at the aforementioned swanky restaurant. A friend of mine tends bar there, and took great pleasure in plying us with various spectacular alcoholic creations. Dessert was (and I will put this in layman's terms for those not fortunate enough to work in the service industry) ginger creme brule, with apricot spring roll and roasted brandied apricot slices. AND... chocolate mashed potatoes with home made raspberry sorbet and coulis.
In case you missed that, I said chocolate mashed potatoes, people.
They were divine. One of those life changing experiences that happens in a split second, leaving you wondering how you could have lived your life up until now not knowing about chocolate mashed potatoes.
On the drive home R and I were unusually silent. For my part, I was savouring juxtaposition of the magnificence of the bleak and vast Antarctic landscape against the magnificence of the recently consumed potatoes.
I have no idea what R was thinking about. I like to think he was mulling over how to rationalize consuming something so obviously sinful. But he's evangelical, not catholic, so I am still at a loss...
R and I have known each other since grade eight when he had a bowl cut and no friends and I wore plaid flannel shirts and wanted desperately to be popular. (In retrospect it was no wonder I had no friends- plaid flannel shirts?!?)
R is witty, intelligent, self deprecating and a great observer of the absurd. Which serves him well as he is the only one of my highschool friends who has stayed in our hometown and never once ventured abroad to a larger city. He is the guy I call when my love life is in the toilet, when my house is about to burn down and when I need to laugh so hard I spew juice through my nose. He knows me better than I know myself most of the time, and he is one of those fundamentalist Christians who believes that Jesus is coming back next Monday at 4 pm, just in time to roast the sinners and the gays and to exalt the pious before a dinner of wings and watching the football game. I, on the other hand, am the kind of liberal Anglican who, if the big JC arrived on my doorstep, would offer him a beer and continue watching The Daily Show-extrapolating during the commercial breaks on the joys of pre-marital sex, the value of contraception, the importance of a woman's right to choose, why I think the phrase hidden agenda has been grossly overused by the Conservative Party, and the relative value of The Walrus vs the Atlantic Monthly.
Needless to say, R and I are the kind of friends who will be friends forever, even into the afterlife: our respective ideas of hell is where the other will end up, so I am pretty sure, if God has a sense of humour, we'll see each other there.
The highlight of the evening was dessert at the aforementioned swanky restaurant. A friend of mine tends bar there, and took great pleasure in plying us with various spectacular alcoholic creations. Dessert was (and I will put this in layman's terms for those not fortunate enough to work in the service industry) ginger creme brule, with apricot spring roll and roasted brandied apricot slices. AND... chocolate mashed potatoes with home made raspberry sorbet and coulis.
In case you missed that, I said chocolate mashed potatoes, people.
They were divine. One of those life changing experiences that happens in a split second, leaving you wondering how you could have lived your life up until now not knowing about chocolate mashed potatoes.
On the drive home R and I were unusually silent. For my part, I was savouring juxtaposition of the magnificence of the bleak and vast Antarctic landscape against the magnificence of the recently consumed potatoes.
I have no idea what R was thinking about. I like to think he was mulling over how to rationalize consuming something so obviously sinful. But he's evangelical, not catholic, so I am still at a loss...
dimanche, août 28, 2005
15 minutes
If you were told you had 15 minutes to leave your house, what would you take with you?
my one bag consisted of:
1pr boxer shorts (bought in cardiff while at bording school)
1 marines teeshirt
lots of comfy underwear... totally forgot to pack bras...
1 pocket watch, courtesy of petit frere
1 pr red Fluvogs boots
1 pr grandmother's shoes from 1940 that fit and look divine
1 pr gold sequined flats. becase I had to.
2 prs of red shoes: the grocery shoes from first year uni, and the Boston shoes that are magical.
(how many shoes now...don't ask...)
1 pr jeans and 1pr lululemon pants
3 scarves from the middle east: one from Halab, Cairo and Damascus...
3 tees: one from paris, one courtesy of le frere from mtl. one a fave...
one scarf woven by mum.
my letters from the past 4 years, my camera, and some valuable jewelry.
It all fit into one duffle bag.
The photo albums, computer hardrive, and legal papers did well in laundry baskets.
Forest fires... the new way to downsize....
my one bag consisted of:
1pr boxer shorts (bought in cardiff while at bording school)
1 marines teeshirt
lots of comfy underwear... totally forgot to pack bras...
1 pocket watch, courtesy of petit frere
1 pr red Fluvogs boots
1 pr grandmother's shoes from 1940 that fit and look divine
1 pr gold sequined flats. becase I had to.
2 prs of red shoes: the grocery shoes from first year uni, and the Boston shoes that are magical.
(how many shoes now...don't ask...)
1 pr jeans and 1pr lululemon pants
3 scarves from the middle east: one from Halab, Cairo and Damascus...
3 tees: one from paris, one courtesy of le frere from mtl. one a fave...
one scarf woven by mum.
my letters from the past 4 years, my camera, and some valuable jewelry.
It all fit into one duffle bag.
The photo albums, computer hardrive, and legal papers did well in laundry baskets.
Forest fires... the new way to downsize....
jeudi, août 25, 2005
famous....
hahaha...
I have blog comment spam. Which is funny, as I think there may be about a sum total of seven people, plus my mother, who read this thing.
I have blog comment spam. Which is funny, as I think there may be about a sum total of seven people, plus my mother, who read this thing.
dimanche, août 21, 2005
For better or for worse...
So I was at a wedding last weekend. Avec l'homme. And since a lot of our mutual acquaintances are getting married or planning to get married, weddings have been on the brain of late.
The weekend wedding was quite lovely, except for some parts where I was whispering to the Falklander that I was going to have to go throw up in the bushes for a few minutes, and that if the priest at my wedding called me a princess I would shove my bouquet down his throat and drown him in the font.
However, the bride was beautiful, the groom was handsome, and the wedding party all charmingly attired and flowered. The wedding took place in a garden, the reception in a dining room with vaulted ceilings and huge windows. There were two ponds to walk around for exercise or to escape the small talk, and the weather was gorgeous. The whole thing was exactly as though it had been planned in two colour coded 3 inch binders for the past year. Which it had.
This particular wedding was full of celebration, which all weddings should have in abundance, but short on reality. It was the perfect fairy tale wedding.
I think the thing that really bothered me was that the wedding seemed not to reflect the reality that my dear friends were diving into. Marriage is hard, HARD work. The divorce rates show that, statistically, (the most heinous kind of proof), 50% of marriages in North America don't last. Children, finances, stress of living with another person and modifying ones own life to accommodate theirs takes its toll eventually. Perhaps the generation I belong to has less gumption and stick-to-it-ness than that of my grandparents or even my parents. Or maybe society has changed to recognize that a lot of the long lived marriages of the past were not the Hallmark card platitudes that we were led to believe. Either way, marriage in this particular day and age, seems-to the cynical-a bit of a waste of time.
But, cynical and black hearted though I am, I don't think this marriage was a waste of time. I think it was wonderful and necessary and one small public statement of the kind of love that we are short on in our troubled times. I just wish a few more things had been said:
A recognition that my friends are extremely brave. That marriage is difficult and challenging and terrifying, even for such young bright people. That hard times will occur. That they are both strong individuals and that marriage should not subvert their individuality, but strengthen both of them as people.
I hope that one day I will be as brave as they are, not stop running full tilt toward the precipice of the unknown and the unknowable.
The weekend wedding was quite lovely, except for some parts where I was whispering to the Falklander that I was going to have to go throw up in the bushes for a few minutes, and that if the priest at my wedding called me a princess I would shove my bouquet down his throat and drown him in the font.
However, the bride was beautiful, the groom was handsome, and the wedding party all charmingly attired and flowered. The wedding took place in a garden, the reception in a dining room with vaulted ceilings and huge windows. There were two ponds to walk around for exercise or to escape the small talk, and the weather was gorgeous. The whole thing was exactly as though it had been planned in two colour coded 3 inch binders for the past year. Which it had.
This particular wedding was full of celebration, which all weddings should have in abundance, but short on reality. It was the perfect fairy tale wedding.
I think the thing that really bothered me was that the wedding seemed not to reflect the reality that my dear friends were diving into. Marriage is hard, HARD work. The divorce rates show that, statistically, (the most heinous kind of proof), 50% of marriages in North America don't last. Children, finances, stress of living with another person and modifying ones own life to accommodate theirs takes its toll eventually. Perhaps the generation I belong to has less gumption and stick-to-it-ness than that of my grandparents or even my parents. Or maybe society has changed to recognize that a lot of the long lived marriages of the past were not the Hallmark card platitudes that we were led to believe. Either way, marriage in this particular day and age, seems-to the cynical-a bit of a waste of time.
But, cynical and black hearted though I am, I don't think this marriage was a waste of time. I think it was wonderful and necessary and one small public statement of the kind of love that we are short on in our troubled times. I just wish a few more things had been said:
A recognition that my friends are extremely brave. That marriage is difficult and challenging and terrifying, even for such young bright people. That hard times will occur. That they are both strong individuals and that marriage should not subvert their individuality, but strengthen both of them as people.
I hope that one day I will be as brave as they are, not stop running full tilt toward the precipice of the unknown and the unknowable.
dimanche, août 14, 2005
Quote of the month
"the best thing about getting old is that I don't care anymore. I just put on my shoes and walk out the door like a doukhobor."
mercredi, août 10, 2005
They'd rather shoot rats at the dump
To date, shoveling a bunch of pine needles and branches into a trailer and then taking it to the local dump to unload has not been at the top of my list of summer fun activities.
But when unloading said trailer takes one minute and forty eight seconds, even I am suckered into a repeat performance.
The dump, man. It's where it's at.
(insider trading tip... buy stocks in dairy queen. the way the falklander and I are putting away ice cream will guarantee you multiplying dividends for years to come.)
But when unloading said trailer takes one minute and forty eight seconds, even I am suckered into a repeat performance.
The dump, man. It's where it's at.
(insider trading tip... buy stocks in dairy queen. the way the falklander and I are putting away ice cream will guarantee you multiplying dividends for years to come.)
vendredi, août 05, 2005
wine goggles
female customer: "you know, you really are a very beautiful girl. No, I mean it, you have such a lovely face."
momentarily flustered server: "ahhh.... thank you, um, that's very sweet..."
female customer: "oh don't pay attention to anything I say. I'm drunk, I don't know what I'm talking about."
momentarily flustered server: "ahhh.... thank you, um, that's very sweet..."
female customer: "oh don't pay attention to anything I say. I'm drunk, I don't know what I'm talking about."
vendredi, juillet 29, 2005
offspring
there are two choices:
either you educate and discipline your children so that they can sit in a restaurant quietly, order some concoction off the menu, and generally act pleasantly...
or you can arrive at the restaurant, assume that the servers are your built in baby sitting device, and let your progeny run wild to the horror of 100% of the staff and 99% of the other patrons.
When I run the world, those who choose the latter option will have to muzzle, leash and sedate their spawn upon entry to anywhere where the napkins are not made of paper.
either you educate and discipline your children so that they can sit in a restaurant quietly, order some concoction off the menu, and generally act pleasantly...
or you can arrive at the restaurant, assume that the servers are your built in baby sitting device, and let your progeny run wild to the horror of 100% of the staff and 99% of the other patrons.
When I run the world, those who choose the latter option will have to muzzle, leash and sedate their spawn upon entry to anywhere where the napkins are not made of paper.
jeudi, juillet 28, 2005
some cheese with that wine?
Work, over the past few days, has been interesting. At risk of turning this rather eclectic bit of self absorbed mental masturbation into a restaurant blog...
and no, I would never dream of usurping the throne of the master
I am on my 12th day of work in a row. At this point, customers cease to be viewed as humans and more as biological waste disposal units with a peculiar function that allows them to choose what they ingest.
At point in time, after working 2 doubles in 3 days, I am only just hanging on to maintaining my general public-worthy smile and I am blatantly making things up. The vegetables with the halibut? Carrots, Chinese broccoli and mashed potatoes. A wine pairing with the duck? Whatever the hell you want. The cooking method used on the salmon? LADY, LOOK AT YOUR FUCKING MENU... IT SAYS GRILLED SALMON FOR A REASON!
(Does Chinese broccoli exist? Only God, and the Chinese know- and realistically, if it does exist I am sure there is a perfectly acceptable name for it in Cantonese or Mandarin that is not replete with neocolonialist connotations.)
I have taken to accruing a particular pleasure in watching yuppie men order a bottle of our most expensive wine to impress the friends they are taking out to dinner. The farce unfolds in the predictable manner: he orders a completely inappropriate bottle for their food choices but one of the most expensive on the list. I bring bottle, present it, open it, and pour a taster for him. Throughout this process he ignores me completely. He lazily reaches out a hand - with not quite metrosexually buffed nails but dammned close - and grasps his glass by the bowl. Swirls the wine around and takes a deep inhale of the bouquet. By this point I am wondering if he will be able to smell anything at all other than his own inflated ego and the mere pick me up of white powder lingering in his nasal passages. But of course, although the wine is about 4 degrees too warm and should most certainly NOT be paired with duck breast, he pronounces that "It'll do," and I make my round of the table; dousing the yuppie, his friend, and their wives with wine. When I make my way back to his glass, the ordering yuppie graces my presence with a glance.
"How do you find the difference between the 1998 and the 2000?"
...now this is a test. I have to say what I think he wants to hear. If I deviate from the script, all - and by all I mean any hope in hell of a tip - is lost...
"Well sir, I haven't had a lot of experience drinking the 1998 as it is quite rare and highly sought after," (this to soften up his ego... He is drinking exclusive wine, and I, a mere mortal, cannot afford to indulge so often,)
"But I must say that the 98 has a fuller body and a more complex bouquet than the 2000 which is just coming into fruition."
...take that you platinum credit card, presumptuous bastard: I said 'fruition' to you...
The trump card is that we don't carry the 2000 vintage on our wine list, so that, unless he has extensive wine experience, he will never know what I am talking about. Nor does he care. He's just watched Sideways a few too many times and wants to come off as a sommelier in front of his golfing buddies. He really wishes he were drinking beer, and his botoxed and scalpeled wife/trophy girlfriend/highly paid escort would rather have a wine spritzer. Nobody at the table is happy with the possible exception of the hapless friend who -based on my previous conversation with his friend the yuppie - thinks that he is drinking the nectar of the gods. Even if he thinks the nectar of the Gods is a bit warm, it's nothing to scoff at.
and no, I would never dream of usurping the throne of the master
I am on my 12th day of work in a row. At this point, customers cease to be viewed as humans and more as biological waste disposal units with a peculiar function that allows them to choose what they ingest.
At point in time, after working 2 doubles in 3 days, I am only just hanging on to maintaining my general public-worthy smile and I am blatantly making things up. The vegetables with the halibut? Carrots, Chinese broccoli and mashed potatoes. A wine pairing with the duck? Whatever the hell you want. The cooking method used on the salmon? LADY, LOOK AT YOUR FUCKING MENU... IT SAYS GRILLED SALMON FOR A REASON!
(Does Chinese broccoli exist? Only God, and the Chinese know- and realistically, if it does exist I am sure there is a perfectly acceptable name for it in Cantonese or Mandarin that is not replete with neocolonialist connotations.)
I have taken to accruing a particular pleasure in watching yuppie men order a bottle of our most expensive wine to impress the friends they are taking out to dinner. The farce unfolds in the predictable manner: he orders a completely inappropriate bottle for their food choices but one of the most expensive on the list. I bring bottle, present it, open it, and pour a taster for him. Throughout this process he ignores me completely. He lazily reaches out a hand - with not quite metrosexually buffed nails but dammned close - and grasps his glass by the bowl. Swirls the wine around and takes a deep inhale of the bouquet. By this point I am wondering if he will be able to smell anything at all other than his own inflated ego and the mere pick me up of white powder lingering in his nasal passages. But of course, although the wine is about 4 degrees too warm and should most certainly NOT be paired with duck breast, he pronounces that "It'll do," and I make my round of the table; dousing the yuppie, his friend, and their wives with wine. When I make my way back to his glass, the ordering yuppie graces my presence with a glance.
"How do you find the difference between the 1998 and the 2000?"
...now this is a test. I have to say what I think he wants to hear. If I deviate from the script, all - and by all I mean any hope in hell of a tip - is lost...
"Well sir, I haven't had a lot of experience drinking the 1998 as it is quite rare and highly sought after," (this to soften up his ego... He is drinking exclusive wine, and I, a mere mortal, cannot afford to indulge so often,)
"But I must say that the 98 has a fuller body and a more complex bouquet than the 2000 which is just coming into fruition."
...take that you platinum credit card, presumptuous bastard: I said 'fruition' to you...
The trump card is that we don't carry the 2000 vintage on our wine list, so that, unless he has extensive wine experience, he will never know what I am talking about. Nor does he care. He's just watched Sideways a few too many times and wants to come off as a sommelier in front of his golfing buddies. He really wishes he were drinking beer, and his botoxed and scalpeled wife/trophy girlfriend/highly paid escort would rather have a wine spritzer. Nobody at the table is happy with the possible exception of the hapless friend who -based on my previous conversation with his friend the yuppie - thinks that he is drinking the nectar of the gods. Even if he thinks the nectar of the Gods is a bit warm, it's nothing to scoff at.
mardi, juillet 26, 2005
clearly, we also make grape flavoured gin.
"I'd love a beer, what do you have on tap?"
"I'm sorry sir, we are a winery restaurant and only licenced to sell the wine we produce."
"So you don't have any beer?"
"No sir, but we do have a very extensive wine list and I'd be happy to answer any questions you may have about our wines."
"No, that's ok. I'll have a martini."
"I'm sorry sir, we are a winery restaurant and only licenced to sell the wine we produce."
"So you don't have any beer?"
"No sir, but we do have a very extensive wine list and I'd be happy to answer any questions you may have about our wines."
"No, that's ok. I'll have a martini."
samedi, juillet 23, 2005
evaporation
I find it chronically wierd when, upon seeing somebody that a year ago I would have gone to the moon for, there is no expected leap in heartbeat.
"I don't love you anymore, goodbye."
"I don't love you anymore, goodbye."
mercredi, juillet 20, 2005
how to annoy me
-call me honey. at any time, at any place: I will rip your face off.
-ask me to recite all the desserts on offer, ask me to repeat them, then order 2 coffees, 1 decaf and a peppermint tea.
-San Pelligrino. With lime, NOT lemon.
-dishwash slowly. I know you are tired and it's a shitty job, but I did it too and I was faster than you on my slowest day. Speed it up and you will escape the dishpit far faster. Also, I will have some forks to reset my tables with.
-go home with the pen I put in your bill fold so that you could sign your credit card bill. I am not your personal stationary supply. Bic pens are not collectibles.
-ask me to recite all the desserts on offer, ask me to repeat them, then order 2 coffees, 1 decaf and a peppermint tea.
-San Pelligrino. With lime, NOT lemon.
-dishwash slowly. I know you are tired and it's a shitty job, but I did it too and I was faster than you on my slowest day. Speed it up and you will escape the dishpit far faster. Also, I will have some forks to reset my tables with.
-go home with the pen I put in your bill fold so that you could sign your credit card bill. I am not your personal stationary supply. Bic pens are not collectibles.
dimanche, juillet 17, 2005
Departure Bay
I'm crying while I fold my laundry. Randy Bachman's Vinyl Tap is on CBC, and he's playing Canadian female musicians and he plays Diana Krall's song Departure Bay. She's from Nanaimo, and so am I-in a round about way: my dad grew up in a house on Departure Bay Road- and this song hits me from so many angles. If you can, get a hold of it and listen: there's a chord change in the line, "I just get home, and then I leave again," that breaks my heart.
The fading scent of summertime
Arbutus trees and firs
The glistening of rain-soaked moss
Going to the dairy queen at dusk
Down narrow roads
In autumn light
The salt air and the sawmills
And the bars are full of songs and tears
To the passing of the tugboats
And people with their big ideas
I just get home and then I leave again
It's long ago and far away
Now we're skimming stones and
Exchanging rings
And scattering and sailing from Departure Bay
The house was bare of Christmas lights
It came down hard that year
Outside in our overcoats
Drinking down to the bitter end
Trying to make things right
Like my mother did
Last year we were laughing
We sang in church so beautifully
Now her perfume's on the bathroom counter
And I'm sitting in the back pew crying
I just get home and then I leave again
It's long ago and far away
Now we're skimming stones and
Exchanging rings
And scattering and sailing from Departure Bay
A song plays on the gramophone
And thoughts turn back to life
We took the long way to get back
Like driving over the malahat
Now a seaplane drones and time has flown
I won't miss all the glamour
While my heart is beating and the lilacs bloom
But who knew when I started
That I'd find a love and bring him home
Just get me there and one we will stay
A long time off and far away
Now we're skimming stones and
Exchanging rings
We're scattering and diving in Departure Bay
The fading scent of summertime
Arbutus trees and firs
The glistening of rain-soaked moss
Going to the dairy queen at dusk
Down narrow roads
In autumn light
The salt air and the sawmills
And the bars are full of songs and tears
To the passing of the tugboats
And people with their big ideas
I just get home and then I leave again
It's long ago and far away
Now we're skimming stones and
Exchanging rings
And scattering and sailing from Departure Bay
The house was bare of Christmas lights
It came down hard that year
Outside in our overcoats
Drinking down to the bitter end
Trying to make things right
Like my mother did
Last year we were laughing
We sang in church so beautifully
Now her perfume's on the bathroom counter
And I'm sitting in the back pew crying
I just get home and then I leave again
It's long ago and far away
Now we're skimming stones and
Exchanging rings
And scattering and sailing from Departure Bay
A song plays on the gramophone
And thoughts turn back to life
We took the long way to get back
Like driving over the malahat
Now a seaplane drones and time has flown
I won't miss all the glamour
While my heart is beating and the lilacs bloom
But who knew when I started
That I'd find a love and bring him home
Just get me there and one we will stay
A long time off and far away
Now we're skimming stones and
Exchanging rings
We're scattering and diving in Departure Bay
samedi, juillet 16, 2005
I was wrong
I actually did start work today.
(insert gospel choir here singing "Praise the Lord and Hallelujah")
It was not quite the miraculous experience that one may have expected having lunch at a rather fine restaurant in a rather spectacular location. All I was praying for was another set of arms and that time could move in two separate dimensions: slow for the front and super fast for the kitchen...
Needless to say, the whole time-travel thing didn't really work out in my favour, which left me explaining to my darlink tables that really, an hour wait for a sandwich was a perfectly acceptible timeframe. It's amazing how easily people can be bought: a basket of bread keeps them happpy for at least 45 minutes.
Lesson of the day for future restaurant experiences:
If you are so starving hungry that you HAVE to order your appetizers right NOW, and will order your mains later; BE PREPARED FOR A LONG WAIT FOR YOUR MAINS!!! This is not our special way to fuck with you, there is method behind this waiting. See, here's what happens: When I ring in an order with the first course and the second course on it at the same time, the kitchen begins to prepare the mains at the same time they whip out your appetizers. When you finish your appetizers, I clear your plates and tell the kitchen to pick up the mains for your table; they then finish up cooking your mains, plate them and I take them out to in (what is hoped to be) a matter of minutes. This all happens because main courses take longer to cook than salads- thus, while you are masticating your mixed organic greens, your medium/well steak is being fired. DO YOU INFIDELS KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES TO COOK A MEDIUM/WELL STEAK??? I didn't think so. So, if you insist upon ordering your mains after you order your apps, then your mains will not have the cooking grace time of how long it takes you to eat your apps, and you will be waiting 'till the cows come in to nosh on your overpriced pasta and your roasted chicken breast panini.
Just sos you know.
(insert gospel choir here singing "Praise the Lord and Hallelujah")
It was not quite the miraculous experience that one may have expected having lunch at a rather fine restaurant in a rather spectacular location. All I was praying for was another set of arms and that time could move in two separate dimensions: slow for the front and super fast for the kitchen...
Needless to say, the whole time-travel thing didn't really work out in my favour, which left me explaining to my darlink tables that really, an hour wait for a sandwich was a perfectly acceptible timeframe. It's amazing how easily people can be bought: a basket of bread keeps them happpy for at least 45 minutes.
Lesson of the day for future restaurant experiences:
If you are so starving hungry that you HAVE to order your appetizers right NOW, and will order your mains later; BE PREPARED FOR A LONG WAIT FOR YOUR MAINS!!! This is not our special way to fuck with you, there is method behind this waiting. See, here's what happens: When I ring in an order with the first course and the second course on it at the same time, the kitchen begins to prepare the mains at the same time they whip out your appetizers. When you finish your appetizers, I clear your plates and tell the kitchen to pick up the mains for your table; they then finish up cooking your mains, plate them and I take them out to in (what is hoped to be) a matter of minutes. This all happens because main courses take longer to cook than salads- thus, while you are masticating your mixed organic greens, your medium/well steak is being fired. DO YOU INFIDELS KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES TO COOK A MEDIUM/WELL STEAK??? I didn't think so. So, if you insist upon ordering your mains after you order your apps, then your mains will not have the cooking grace time of how long it takes you to eat your apps, and you will be waiting 'till the cows come in to nosh on your overpriced pasta and your roasted chicken breast panini.
Just sos you know.
vendredi, juillet 15, 2005
Yes, you too can pay 40$ for eating sandwiches and inhaling the fumes of cow anus.
The bulldozers are still in front of the restaurant. I have not the arithmetic skills to calculate the probability that I will actually WORK tomorrow; I'm guessing that it's something close to a snowball's chance in hell, or that my leg hair will miraculously disappear for ever.
Also, the landscapers have put a huge load of manure on the newly planted flowers and shrubs so the whole place smells like shit.
Also, the landscapers have put a huge load of manure on the newly planted flowers and shrubs so the whole place smells like shit.
lundi, juillet 11, 2005
5 am
is the hour that I awoke this morning. A combination of the lingering effects of one glass of red wine too many, and the gut wrenching pain of menstrual cramps. Now I would like to think of myself as stoic, but the sad reality is that when I have cramps I would sell my first born child to the white slave traders if they had a bottle of extra strength advil on hand. (Yet another reason I should never beget offspring.)
Seriously, I long for the days when a woman's monthly bleed was a time of rest and rejuvenation and maybe a few afternoons spent in a sweat lodge or a sauna. Those times, at least in my current cultural habitat, are long gone sadly... Instead I have a full day ahead of me, a day that has to start with getting dressed and pretending to be human.
It's only 6:30 though, being human can wait.
Seriously, I long for the days when a woman's monthly bleed was a time of rest and rejuvenation and maybe a few afternoons spent in a sweat lodge or a sauna. Those times, at least in my current cultural habitat, are long gone sadly... Instead I have a full day ahead of me, a day that has to start with getting dressed and pretending to be human.
It's only 6:30 though, being human can wait.
dimanche, juillet 03, 2005
port hardy
has attitude and a rugged worn-down look that belies its steel and perseverence.
the kind of place where change comes slowly and what's good enough for the parent's generation is good enough for the children.
a town that has no problem giving the pretentions of anything south of Campbell River a big Fuck You.
I admire that.
the kind of place where change comes slowly and what's good enough for the parent's generation is good enough for the children.
a town that has no problem giving the pretentions of anything south of Campbell River a big Fuck You.
I admire that.
mardi, juin 28, 2005
and happy hangover...
... to the most beloved petit frere.
on this, your western hemisphere birthday, when you are restoring yourself from the eastern hemisphere birthday, I hope that you managed to drink a pint of water before you passed out and took a tylenol or paracetemol or advil or SOMETHING so that you didn't wake up this morning feeling like death.
And if you did. My sympathies, it will pass... and you are 20!!!!!!!
My little gravel eating, civilization drinking dragon... I love you so much and am missing you like hell.
party hard. I love you.
on this, your western hemisphere birthday, when you are restoring yourself from the eastern hemisphere birthday, I hope that you managed to drink a pint of water before you passed out and took a tylenol or paracetemol or advil or SOMETHING so that you didn't wake up this morning feeling like death.
And if you did. My sympathies, it will pass... and you are 20!!!!!!!
My little gravel eating, civilization drinking dragon... I love you so much and am missing you like hell.
party hard. I love you.
this house
is where I learned to shell peas and that 3 raspberries in my stomach to one in the bucket is a fine ratio. More of a home than much else right now.
We took the ferry to Vancouver yesterday to change some flights and to see some friends from Wales. The friends are engaged and have a lovely flat and garden and barbeque and tiki torches... scary and lovely at the same time.
Now in Duncan, chilling w/ le grand pere, who is at the moment listening to the police radio on the scanner. Nothing like good old small town almost-crime!
A dispatch on Gabriola will follow. Suffice to say that I am sunburned and had to be talked out of buying a pair of tie-dyed yoga pants (I have never done sun salutations in my life), but the eagles and the seals and the swinging from trees made up for the mud and chick pea fiasco.
We took the ferry to Vancouver yesterday to change some flights and to see some friends from Wales. The friends are engaged and have a lovely flat and garden and barbeque and tiki torches... scary and lovely at the same time.
Now in Duncan, chilling w/ le grand pere, who is at the moment listening to the police radio on the scanner. Nothing like good old small town almost-crime!
A dispatch on Gabriola will follow. Suffice to say that I am sunburned and had to be talked out of buying a pair of tie-dyed yoga pants (I have never done sun salutations in my life), but the eagles and the seals and the swinging from trees made up for the mud and chick pea fiasco.
lundi, juin 20, 2005
dimanche, juin 19, 2005
re-evaluating
my prioraties.
It's funny being back chez parents and having to adjust to the different pace of life. Dinner has a specific time. Plant watering is apparently part of my job description. Phone calls are overheard-at least, one side of them anyways. And my perspective shifts to accomodate the other side of me that was often back-burnered in the whirl of Montreal.
Particularly helpful for perspective was sitting atop Mount Edith, half way between Banff and Lake Louise, in the driving snow and wind, contemplating exactly what kind of crazy one would have to be to decide to head down the back of the mountain to find an unmarked trail that may or may not get back to the bottom. Apparently, that is the kind of crazy that I have become: because a few mouthfulls of trail mix later I was blissfully tramping down a snowbank behind an overzealous Falkland Islander whose definition of fun is shooting fat american tourists for sport.
Perspective is also watching the interaction between my mother and my grandfather, both being careful and protective of the other in completely different ways. Family lunches, besides convincing me that I am something of a sociological and political sport*, are good for reminding me of my place in the affection/dependence/inheritance chain.
And yes. I did see a bear. It was a small black bear cub and it meandered through our campsite on Thursday night just checking the place out. Perspective...was achieved again as I quickly realized that my postition in the universe could be little more than bear kibbles. Take that-over educated, eastern canada inflated ego!
*sport: a plant (or part of a plant), animal, etc. which exhibits abnormal variation from the parent stock or type in some respect.
It's funny being back chez parents and having to adjust to the different pace of life. Dinner has a specific time. Plant watering is apparently part of my job description. Phone calls are overheard-at least, one side of them anyways. And my perspective shifts to accomodate the other side of me that was often back-burnered in the whirl of Montreal.
Particularly helpful for perspective was sitting atop Mount Edith, half way between Banff and Lake Louise, in the driving snow and wind, contemplating exactly what kind of crazy one would have to be to decide to head down the back of the mountain to find an unmarked trail that may or may not get back to the bottom. Apparently, that is the kind of crazy that I have become: because a few mouthfulls of trail mix later I was blissfully tramping down a snowbank behind an overzealous Falkland Islander whose definition of fun is shooting fat american tourists for sport.
Perspective is also watching the interaction between my mother and my grandfather, both being careful and protective of the other in completely different ways. Family lunches, besides convincing me that I am something of a sociological and political sport*, are good for reminding me of my place in the affection/dependence/inheritance chain.
And yes. I did see a bear. It was a small black bear cub and it meandered through our campsite on Thursday night just checking the place out. Perspective...was achieved again as I quickly realized that my postition in the universe could be little more than bear kibbles. Take that-over educated, eastern canada inflated ego!
*sport: a plant (or part of a plant), animal, etc. which exhibits abnormal variation from the parent stock or type in some respect.
mardi, juin 14, 2005
vendredi, juin 10, 2005
one week
it always is a bit of an adjustment to return here. My mind takes longer to wrap around stuff that used to be second nature to me.
Like the fact that the drycleaning place went out of business, so the pet store beside where the drycleaners used to be is now taking drycleaning. My drycleaning is getting done at a pet store!!!
(I'm scared to pick it up incase of feathers...)
Like the fact that the drycleaning place went out of business, so the pet store beside where the drycleaners used to be is now taking drycleaning. My drycleaning is getting done at a pet store!!!
(I'm scared to pick it up incase of feathers...)
dimanche, juin 05, 2005
the movement
was accomplished in a daze of sleep deprivation and hangover. Packing drunk is an experience I would rather not like to repeat.
other highlights included:
Apparently Air Canada now thinks it is necessary to charge its passengers for the privilege of eating their shitty airplane food. Which means that in order to have sustenance of any kind on the 7 hour flight to BC, I was given the options of roast beef sandwich ($6) prepared no less than 2 weeks ago, or a styrofoam cup of instant noodles ($4) which I could have picked up myself from the supermarket for about 75 cents. There were other possibilities too, but really, who spends $2 on packaged cookies? Somebody somewhere in the bureaucracy thinks that because we, the passengers, are a captive audience we must also have lost our fucking minds as well as our price parity index.
I, however, outsmarted them by pre-eating a shawarma that I bought at around noon and then gaining nourishment from gingerale for the remainder of my time on the stale air and screaming baby filled flights. Consequently, upon landing and seeing the darling man that was picking me up, I promptly ripped off his arm and, with minimal mastication, devoured it.
other highlights included:
Apparently Air Canada now thinks it is necessary to charge its passengers for the privilege of eating their shitty airplane food. Which means that in order to have sustenance of any kind on the 7 hour flight to BC, I was given the options of roast beef sandwich ($6) prepared no less than 2 weeks ago, or a styrofoam cup of instant noodles ($4) which I could have picked up myself from the supermarket for about 75 cents. There were other possibilities too, but really, who spends $2 on packaged cookies? Somebody somewhere in the bureaucracy thinks that because we, the passengers, are a captive audience we must also have lost our fucking minds as well as our price parity index.
I, however, outsmarted them by pre-eating a shawarma that I bought at around noon and then gaining nourishment from gingerale for the remainder of my time on the stale air and screaming baby filled flights. Consequently, upon landing and seeing the darling man that was picking me up, I promptly ripped off his arm and, with minimal mastication, devoured it.
jeudi, juin 02, 2005
the killers
the advantage of going to a concert where most of the audience is still in high school is that I can see over their heads and, for once, actually see the people on stage.
t minus 48 hours. not enough time. not quite real.
t minus 48 hours. not enough time. not quite real.
mercredi, juin 01, 2005
mercredi, mai 25, 2005
packing up
Whilst packing stuff to haul back to the land of wine, gainful employment and a shared bathroom, I realized that I am the owner of 2 potato mashers.
And I have never actually made smashed potatoes while living in this city.
Once again, my life is being whittled down to fit into my luggage requirements. I am not totally sure how I feel about it: like any middle class north american girl who shops at the Gap, I LIKE to have nice things. Not necessarily in abundance, but certainly-much to my chagrin- STUFF is important to me. I remember when I was moving into the apartment where I now live and the idea that I would have to acquire such trappings as a bed, table, chairs, bookshelves, and, God help me, side tables, made me slightly nauseated. Now getting rid of them feels like the first sharp tugs on the stem of a plant that is about to be forcibly transplanted, roots dangling in the air, none of the cozy protective dirt to insulate the shock.
(that was a really bad simile, almost would have been acceptable in grade nine poetry... but hey, let's cut the woman some slack: she's obviously in an advanced state of grief over the imminent loss of the physical embodiment of an ikea catalogue. No more happy Swedish existence, whatever will she do?)
The tactic so far has been to adopt the personae of the housewares fairy. I show up unannounced at my friends' doors and bestow upon them my excess stuff. The significance of a freely given slotted spoon should not be taken lightly.
And I have never actually made smashed potatoes while living in this city.
Once again, my life is being whittled down to fit into my luggage requirements. I am not totally sure how I feel about it: like any middle class north american girl who shops at the Gap, I LIKE to have nice things. Not necessarily in abundance, but certainly-much to my chagrin- STUFF is important to me. I remember when I was moving into the apartment where I now live and the idea that I would have to acquire such trappings as a bed, table, chairs, bookshelves, and, God help me, side tables, made me slightly nauseated. Now getting rid of them feels like the first sharp tugs on the stem of a plant that is about to be forcibly transplanted, roots dangling in the air, none of the cozy protective dirt to insulate the shock.
(that was a really bad simile, almost would have been acceptable in grade nine poetry... but hey, let's cut the woman some slack: she's obviously in an advanced state of grief over the imminent loss of the physical embodiment of an ikea catalogue. No more happy Swedish existence, whatever will she do?)
The tactic so far has been to adopt the personae of the housewares fairy. I show up unannounced at my friends' doors and bestow upon them my excess stuff. The significance of a freely given slotted spoon should not be taken lightly.
samedi, mai 21, 2005
pass the salt.... bermuda??
It's funny when you think you know someone quite well and then they come out with something completely divergent from what you think you know about them.
Like that my father went to Bermuda. Twice. In the 70's. And came back with a fleet of sailboats, one of which he shipped accross Canada on the train for $75.
He's visiting for a few days before heading back to BC and putting a motorcycle together. I think I convinced him that fixing the little Honda 180 in the basement and teaching me to drive it would be a great project for the summer. I guess the Hastings side is finally rising within me...
Today's adventure: how much gin to buy to facilitate our G&Ts for the next 3 days... Realistically, can there ever be too much?
In other news, I figured out how to post pictures on here, and I am deciding if I like it. Mostly due to my technical ineptitude and general laziness I haven't really tinkered around with pictures, preferring to let my garbled sentences be the window to my soul. And I have this feeling that if I got used to posting pictures I would drop the writing all together. Which would further the laziness. ho hum. Any thoughts?
Like that my father went to Bermuda. Twice. In the 70's. And came back with a fleet of sailboats, one of which he shipped accross Canada on the train for $75.
He's visiting for a few days before heading back to BC and putting a motorcycle together. I think I convinced him that fixing the little Honda 180 in the basement and teaching me to drive it would be a great project for the summer. I guess the Hastings side is finally rising within me...
Today's adventure: how much gin to buy to facilitate our G&Ts for the next 3 days... Realistically, can there ever be too much?
In other news, I figured out how to post pictures on here, and I am deciding if I like it. Mostly due to my technical ineptitude and general laziness I haven't really tinkered around with pictures, preferring to let my garbled sentences be the window to my soul. And I have this feeling that if I got used to posting pictures I would drop the writing all together. Which would further the laziness. ho hum. Any thoughts?
mercredi, mai 18, 2005
mini golf and water towers
We left Boston around 8 on Friday night, the culmination of a day filled with route planning, meeting his sister, coffee with neasa, moving boxes, packing the car, a tour of Boston with MIT electrical engineers. Driving out of the city with my feet on the dash board and a 480 mile blast to Salisbury Maryland ahead, I could not have been more excited.
I think it is the movement between fixed points that does it for me. So exhilarating to start in one city and end up in another one... the time between punctuated by music, rambling conversation, consumption of gummy bears and animal crackers. Or just quiet, the contented silence between two people who have reached the point where not everything needs to be said. Restful.
The coast of North Carolina and the sand dunes...houses on stilts for no particular purpose. Finally, standing by the Atlantic for the first time in 4 years. We took out the motorcycle and sped around Nag's Head, ending up at a lighthouse in the middle of a marsh. The light was spectacular. Riding back, the setting sun filtered through the trees and into my helmet and it was as though I was in the middle of Vivaldi's mind when he was writing the autumn movement of the 4 seasons.
Charleston, SC: a sudden departure from America. We couldn't figure out where it felt like we were, but certainly NOT the States. The coffee house put our coffee into plain white paper cups... art galleries with quite blues playing... public gardens...cobbled streets. Shutters and little ally ways. Plans to go back.
In retrospect, the 4 days are a series of snapshots in my mind. click: carrying boxes in the elevator of his building in Boston. click: stopping on the bridge over the Delaware Bay at 3 am to look at the stars. click: running down dunes to escape being told off by the park ranger for the second time. click: sitting in the car watching the rain come down in the middle of nowhere, Georgia. click: smoking cigars and singing to nirvana on the radio.
perspective, which I have been sorely lacking, was restored this past weekend. And laughter... so much laughter.
I think it is the movement between fixed points that does it for me. So exhilarating to start in one city and end up in another one... the time between punctuated by music, rambling conversation, consumption of gummy bears and animal crackers. Or just quiet, the contented silence between two people who have reached the point where not everything needs to be said. Restful.
The coast of North Carolina and the sand dunes...houses on stilts for no particular purpose. Finally, standing by the Atlantic for the first time in 4 years. We took out the motorcycle and sped around Nag's Head, ending up at a lighthouse in the middle of a marsh. The light was spectacular. Riding back, the setting sun filtered through the trees and into my helmet and it was as though I was in the middle of Vivaldi's mind when he was writing the autumn movement of the 4 seasons.
Charleston, SC: a sudden departure from America. We couldn't figure out where it felt like we were, but certainly NOT the States. The coffee house put our coffee into plain white paper cups... art galleries with quite blues playing... public gardens...cobbled streets. Shutters and little ally ways. Plans to go back.
In retrospect, the 4 days are a series of snapshots in my mind. click: carrying boxes in the elevator of his building in Boston. click: stopping on the bridge over the Delaware Bay at 3 am to look at the stars. click: running down dunes to escape being told off by the park ranger for the second time. click: sitting in the car watching the rain come down in the middle of nowhere, Georgia. click: smoking cigars and singing to nirvana on the radio.
perspective, which I have been sorely lacking, was restored this past weekend. And laughter... so much laughter.
jeudi, mai 12, 2005
midnight train
to georgia.
or rather, a long drive. But really, when am I ever going to get to go to Georgia again? Leaving tonight for Boston, then to Atlanta...
to the flying boy: safe travels, godspeed. I cried all the way home.
or rather, a long drive. But really, when am I ever going to get to go to Georgia again? Leaving tonight for Boston, then to Atlanta...
to the flying boy: safe travels, godspeed. I cried all the way home.
lundi, mai 09, 2005
apartment
I am sure that somewhere along the line, I realized that, to transform myself in to an adult, I would have to begin to be able to let go of things. Given the choice, I would make like a packrat and save everything I could get my hands on. Stuffed toys from my babyhood? Ok! Costume jewelry from grandmother? Sure! Grade four art project? Why not...
Over time I have managed to pare down my deep carnal longing to put things in boxes and just KEEP them. My closet is regularly cleaned out. I give old books to charity or to friends whom I think will like them. I don't let left-overs languish in my fridge. Until 2 years ago my worldly possessions could fit into standard luggage requirements. I value my portability.
What is harder for me to let go of are the intangibles. Relationships, places, experiences. You know that teeshirt that says "If you leave me, I am going with you"?...
And now I am leaving Montreal for good in less than a month. And I have to give up my apartment. And I really, really, REALLY, don't want to. I feel a bit like a dog in the manger, but this apartment should be MINE FOREVER.
So much for maturity.
Over time I have managed to pare down my deep carnal longing to put things in boxes and just KEEP them. My closet is regularly cleaned out. I give old books to charity or to friends whom I think will like them. I don't let left-overs languish in my fridge. Until 2 years ago my worldly possessions could fit into standard luggage requirements. I value my portability.
What is harder for me to let go of are the intangibles. Relationships, places, experiences. You know that teeshirt that says "If you leave me, I am going with you"?...
And now I am leaving Montreal for good in less than a month. And I have to give up my apartment. And I really, really, REALLY, don't want to. I feel a bit like a dog in the manger, but this apartment should be MINE FOREVER.
So much for maturity.
dimanche, mai 08, 2005
further juxtaposition
Friday night: la cousine et moi head to Thompson House, the graduate student's house. An old stone mansion on the edge of Mount Royal that was donated to the University, it is now a fantastic place to go, drink, talk, and eat. Being the grad student's house, it is constantly filled with grad students: extremely intelligent, funny, articulate people that I adore. The walls are all wood paneled or papered with distinguished paper, and there is fantastic art all over the walls. Beer is cheap, a snooker table is upstairs, and the view of Montreal is unparalleled. Every time I walk through the door I feel like I should be wearing tweed and tortoise shell glasses.
Saturday night: la cousine et moi head to a techno show. Miss Kitten is playing. The cavernous hall is filled with beautiful, sweaty people gyrating to a heavy bass and random electronic noise. There are video screens hung on the walls showing digital collages of Japanese animation, exercise videos, and soft porn. There is a lot of dyed black hair, piercings and tattoos. And tall people, I am constantly dwarfed by dancing giants. Strobe lights blind me and the smell of pot in the air bring back the memory of the last concert I was at, which ended badly in a un-planned introduction to the public health care system. We leave around 3, la cousine having given her (read, my) phone number to about 4 different people. I am now really wishing for call display...
Bizarre. We are so different, we two... and yet, so similar in other ways. Apparently we look alike: who knew?
Saturday night: la cousine et moi head to a techno show. Miss Kitten is playing. The cavernous hall is filled with beautiful, sweaty people gyrating to a heavy bass and random electronic noise. There are video screens hung on the walls showing digital collages of Japanese animation, exercise videos, and soft porn. There is a lot of dyed black hair, piercings and tattoos. And tall people, I am constantly dwarfed by dancing giants. Strobe lights blind me and the smell of pot in the air bring back the memory of the last concert I was at, which ended badly in a un-planned introduction to the public health care system. We leave around 3, la cousine having given her (read, my) phone number to about 4 different people. I am now really wishing for call display...
Bizarre. We are so different, we two... and yet, so similar in other ways. Apparently we look alike: who knew?
jeudi, mai 05, 2005
women
it seems that I am surrounded by women these days. Which isn't really a suprise, given that my gender makes up 1/2 the population, but suddenly there are these really strong, smart, funny and beautiful women in my life. I'm not sure how to cope.
Some people (and you know who you are) would not EVER see a sudden onset of women to be a problem. I don't either, it's just funny. All my close friends have mostly been guys. Apart from two rather fraught and disasterous friendships in the highschool years, I haven't ever had close female friends.
You know, girlfriends. The ones you call at 2pm having just woken up with a hangover to plaintively ask if she has any idea how your clothes could have possibly ended up in the kitchen... the ones who you can spend 24 hours in the company of and not want to kill them or set them on fire. The ones who remember the names and identifying characterisitics of all your former men without the use of polaroids or name tags.
Yesterday, in the company of two of these women, I laughed so hard my stomach ached for hours. Bent double sitting on the curb, my breath coming out in short gasps as I tried to both laugh and talk a the same time.
I have no idea what set us off... does it matter?
Some people (and you know who you are) would not EVER see a sudden onset of women to be a problem. I don't either, it's just funny. All my close friends have mostly been guys. Apart from two rather fraught and disasterous friendships in the highschool years, I haven't ever had close female friends.
You know, girlfriends. The ones you call at 2pm having just woken up with a hangover to plaintively ask if she has any idea how your clothes could have possibly ended up in the kitchen... the ones who you can spend 24 hours in the company of and not want to kill them or set them on fire. The ones who remember the names and identifying characterisitics of all your former men without the use of polaroids or name tags.
Yesterday, in the company of two of these women, I laughed so hard my stomach ached for hours. Bent double sitting on the curb, my breath coming out in short gasps as I tried to both laugh and talk a the same time.
I have no idea what set us off... does it matter?
juxtaposition
today, the first warm day in ages, sees me running errands on St Laurent: cutting keys, fixing my watch, dropping the cousin off to have her hair chopped and chemically altered. It's sunny and for the first time in months I am enjoying the feeling of the sun on my back.
as I am leaving the city soon, I've been noticing more and more the things about it that I am going to miss.
and today I realized that I will miss most horribly the cultural juxtapositioning of a city caught between the Seine and the rough and tumble new world.
there was a man on the sidewalk busking in the most franco of ways: the accordian.
and he was dressed as a cowboy.
as I am leaving the city soon, I've been noticing more and more the things about it that I am going to miss.
and today I realized that I will miss most horribly the cultural juxtapositioning of a city caught between the Seine and the rough and tumble new world.
there was a man on the sidewalk busking in the most franco of ways: the accordian.
and he was dressed as a cowboy.
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