le escape

is going well, thank you for asking.

the past two days have been the best in recent memory. Currently neasa and I are compiling a photo essay, which may at some point grace these hallowed pages...

the two of us, actually two halves of one rather insane human being, have been running between shoe stores like there's no tomorrow. Every so often we stop to eat, or drink-like last night when, for my good behaviour, I was awarded with a pub crawl of harvard square which ended up late/early staring out at the city from a 24th floor window. this morning: a bleary but heartbreakingly lovely breakfast whereupon I made the startling discovery that plastic cheese equates with real cheese here. hmmm. Montreal wins for omlettes.

drive through MIT campus, running riot around downtown. A two hour walk back from the bus stop, which was wierd, because it should have taken 3 minutes: insert yet another shoe store, mexican food, buying terrible terrible celebrity gossip magazines, German licorace sold by an aging transvestite, a whirl through the fine arts building, two movie stores....

sated with all things non academic, we have collapsed and are doing little more than reaching for more licorace and turning the shiny pages of US weekly.

having a wonderful time.

(looking into therapy for shoe addictions... ahhhh fuck it. it's genetic!)

"but if you wear spandex...

...don't you automatically fly?"

again, where I least expect it, grace comes in odd forms.

midnight conversations planning world domination by two superheros, Clout and Wiseness, had me laughing so hard my stomach aches now-a day later.

the ringer

details not necessary- been through the wringer this week.

Funny expression, (probably picked it up from my mum as I do most of my odd turns of phrase...case in point: kerfuffle.... or shambols...) It stems from what happened to clothes in the olden days when they used wringer washers. I am by no means well equipped to extrapolate on the details of wringer washers, but I have seen one and actually used it once or twice.

-Anglican summer camp, we used to threaten the kids with death by wringer washer if they didn't go to sleep fast so we could go make out with the boy counsellors-

The clothes would be washed sent through the wringer to get all the water out so they would dry faster. The wringers are two cylinders that sit one on top of the other lengthwise and roll in opposite directions. The clothes get fed through the small space between the two wringers and their rolling pushes them through and squeezes out all the moisture.

The clothes come out looking all limp and haggared. Fit only to be hung on a line in the breeze for an afternoon, slowly regaining their shape with each breath of wind.

Sometimes disasters occured and clothes got stuck in the wringer and tore at the seams. They would get hung up too, more carefully than the others, and would be mended when they were dry.

The wringers of exhaustion, stress, infidelity, insomnia and freak weather patterns have left me limp and ripped at the seams.

My breezes come in the form of pachebel's canon, hot water bottles and scottish accents, soup, and an escape to Boston.

It's taken a while to realize that there is no shame in escaping...

happy birthday...

...to me!

going to ottawa to skate on the rideau canal.

sooooo excited.

mutant parcel from hell...

this is the conversation I just had with my mother over messenger. Verbatim. And, having reduced both me and Nina to hysterics, I felt the need to share it.

(best to read it w/ my mother's voice in your ears... if you don't know my mum, she has a Canadian accent and a very dry sense of humour, and tends to start laughing before the funny parts. somtimes she snorts when she laughs-but it's not her fault: family trait. I come from a long line of laugh-snorters.)

Joan says:
your b'day pressies got sent y'day.

Claire says:
hoooray
PRESSENTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Joan says:
remember that you left your pressie from Aunty Cindy? So we had one box with her present already wrapped and another one from us. In hindsight, the logical thing would have been to get a monster big box for both and fill it up with popcorn and send that, BUT in typical 1st born, single focus (your Dad) fashion we wrapped two parcels separately.

Sooooooooooooo.... There I am: 2 pkgs in front of the Post Office lady who says: What have we got here?

Me: Birfday Pressies

She: When does the one for Montreal have to get there?

Me: They're both for MOntreal

She: The same address?

Me: Yes

She: ?????????

Me: a brief explanation

She: so, they're both going to the same address

Me: Yep

She: It's going to cost you a lot to get them there by Sunday
......she figures it out, tells me and then has to wave smelling salts under my nose.......
She: but it would be less if it was only one parcel

I have visions of taking the parcels home to your Dad. This is not a good vision.....

Me: ummmmm

She: Is it ok if it is only one parcel?

Me: sure

She: OK
and she picks up the magic tape dispenser and proceeds to make 2 parcels into 1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I wanted to make a little sign and stick it on saying: Post Office Lady Did This!!

Claire says:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!
super

Joan says:
Honey: you’re laughing now; wait til you SEE it!!!

Soooooooooo while she is going ballistic with the tape dispensing I notice the Valentines and think –DAMMIT we didn't put your Valentine in…sooooooo the Valentine Mum picks out a not too sloppy one

Claire says:
oh god!

Joan says:
writes in it, licks and sticks the envelope, and writes your address on the front, and puts a stamp on except mail has gone up and I need a 1 cent stamp, which she is quite happy to sell me BUT…she wants to know

"And how much was the card?"
which is now in the licked and sticked envelope.....

hmmmmmm, says I

Back to the card rack.....
Is there another card?
Is the sky green?
Is there an "F" in way?

By this time, your parcel looks like something that would not get through any customs office anywhere and certainly ain't going to make it with anyone with a packing tape phobia

there is, miraculously, only me and the PO Lady (guess everyone else who needed postal issues could feel the vibes....) still at the counter.

Sooooooooooo I pull off about 3 cards, and hand them to her price side up

She: You want three more cards?

Me: Uh no, there isn't another one of the one that's already in the envelope so I thought you could choose your price

She now gives me the look I've been wanting to give her and STILL doesn't crack a smile.
(does she do things like amalgamate people's parcels to screw Canada Post everyday????)

Claire says:
hahahahahahahaha.

Joan says:
and then charges me for the cheapest card of the bunch laid out before her!!!

I pay up, say "thanks very much" and she said (straight faced) that you could keep any mail that got inadvertently caught under the tape!!!!! You'll see what I mean when the parcel arrives if some Canada Post fanatic hasn't slashed them apart!!! Make sure your paring knife is sharp - I think the weight went up about 500gms just tape alone.

Claire says:
this sounds like the mutant parcel from hell

Joan says:
hahahahahaha
make sure you have tongs and protective clothing

The PO Lady has been handling your mail from Dad since before Lebanon
so maybe she wondered who the Hell I was sending you parcels???

Claire says:
hahahahhaha
that is the best story ever
EVER

Joan says:
just hope it gets there "in one piece"
hahahahahaha

Claire says:
piece... being relative...right?

weather

so I bought some skates yesterday.

and now it is going to be hovering around 3C for the rest of the week.

one day I will appreciate this irony.

saturday

It's the first time I have been by myself, alone, in almost two days. Yesterday was a brilliant, wonderful day filled with brilliant wonderful people, but sleep was a relief in that I could finally shut down and not have to interact. Today I bounced from shopping w/ Ninn for bass player clothes, to choir rehearsal, and finally to the theatre where I am the front of house manager. I am in the otherwise unoccupied office right now, trying out the new internet connection. Wireless, my dears, is the greatist thing since the gold sequined shoes I caved into yesterday.

Yesterday Nina came over for tea which turned into dinner, and, while manger-ing on baguette and cheese and pate we talked for hours. About boys. Because, really... what else is there to talk about? Obviously the various males in our lives are the center around which we orbit. Of course it is necessary to spend hours discussing the inner workings of their brains. We have to learn to put ourselves in their positions, understand things from their perspectives: then it will all make sense. Really. How else could it work?

Or not. Forgive the cyanide laced sarcasm of the previous paragraph, it's been a rough few days on the XY chromosonal front. My own particular relationship is not the one at issue (things there are lovely, he skates like a deamon, makes me laugh, and is learning not to take my insanity personally) but some of my closest friends seem to be constantly evaluating and re-evaluating the status of their relationships. It is tiring to listen to, and must be more tiring to keep up on a daily basis. I wonder where the urge to have things be perfect comes from? And the lack of patience for things to work themselves out in a timely fashion?

Maybe it's our ages: early 20's are not known to be humanity's most rational years. Maybe it is the immediacy of communication: it's easier to react without thought when we can pick up the phone and leave angry voice mails or fire off stinging emails. Maybe we so desperately want to know that things will turn out alright that we are willing to lose sight of the current to focus on a distant fuzzy version of a future.

Mostly, I think we all need a good dose of perspective.

protocol

walking three abreast on a sidewalk, already narrowed by snow banks, is a complete violation of basic sidewalk manners and protocol.

Don't do it.

Also: when walking with another person, the correct way to deal with an oncoming pedestrian is to move into single file to allow for ample passing room. Under no circumstances should one remain beside one's walking partner rudely forcing the oncoming party into the aforementioned snowbanks.

It's uncool. Really.

I will walk all over you.

epic sunday

Since we started brunching sometime last fall, Kate, Justine, Sait and I have had a few epic Sundays. The kind where we meet on a street corner at 1130 in the morning and part company around 630 in the evening, and in between, all manner of hijinks are gotten up to.

On epic sundays I get back to my apartment late in the afternoon/early evening, and sit in my brown chair exhausted but unable to stop smiling. I forget, in the middle of these afternoons, the stresses of life here, the annoying people I deal with on a daily basis, the strife in the world, and I laugh with my friends until my stomach is spasming and I can't breathe.

Yesterday was an epic Sunday.

All of us short on cash, and me with an abundance of eggs and flour, we cogregated chez moi to eat pancakes and watch episodes of six feet under. A nice sedate plan for a January brunching. Except the weather/temperature gods decided to go and create a spectacularly beautiful day, and bump the mercury up to -2. It was practically summmer.

Tv watching was abandoned in favour of skating at Parc Lafontaine.

The parc is to the east of my flat, and is quite a masterpiece of created greenspace (or whitespace in the winter). there is a large serpentine lake in the middle of it, now nicely frozen, and there are benches at intervals in the center of the ice to rest on or relace skates. Classical music playing through loud speakers. Lots and lots of Montrealers skating.

We rented skates and headed out. We were all of equal skating finesse and spent much of the rest of the afternoon chasing each other around the ice; Kate had an untiring appetite for spinning Justine and I around-especially when surrounded by lots of people. We saw children for what seemed like the first time in ages (the university bubble doesn't really make for integrated social interaction), and older couples skating around and around, holding hands.

It was bright and sunny and the air was crisp every time I inhaled. I wanted to stay forever.

Afterwards we hiked up Mont Royal with Justine's roommate Isabelle. We were supposed to be helping Justine take pictures of eggs for a photo assignment, but we missed the light by about five minutes so we climbed up to a lookout point and sat watching the lights come on in the east end. We ate cookies and drank hot chocolate out of a thermos, and slowly began to freeze to the bench.

On the way down, we eschewed the path, prefering to slide down the side of the hill on our bums, resulting in some really wet trousers and a lot of hilarity. Running through the snow in the forest we kept falling over because our feet would break through the snow cover and we would unexpectedly sink up to our thighs. Pelting down a hill at top knots only to be suddenly face first in the snow...

Kate made dinner at her flat, and while she and Phil and Ninn did their harmony homework, I fell asleep on her bed.

I'm still exhausted from it this morning.

teapots

this town is teapot deficient.

For a city with as much diversity as Montreal, it is remarkable what a homogeneity it is displaying on the teapot front. Currently there seem to be only three models of teapot on wide release:

1) the white 1-2 cup ceramic teapot. This model will nicely compliment our white flatware and serving platters. It will also not clash with the white (accented with red/blue/black) mugs. Sometimes this model has a bamboo like handle in an effort to relieve its crushing monotony of white and infuse it with a psudo asian sentiment. Now, I have a white teapot. And white dishware. But my teapot is in the shape of an elephant and I had the dishes well before the "boutique hotel" look came into vougue for apartment living. And they are from the dollar store. Buying a $32 teapot that could easily camoflague itself in an arctic lanscape is absurd.

2) the $6 china town teapot. the main attraction of this genre of teapot is its price and the fact that it is usually decorated by some nice painting of bamboo fronds. (fronds? stalks? branches? What is the correct bamboo terminology?) However, if one is seduced by the price and pretty design, it bears remembering that it was probably painted in some dodgy teapot-painting-factory in the nether regions of china, and that it is inevitably designed badly. The tops fall off while pouring, it is prone to cracking, it pours badly. And really, no matter how much money you save on a cheap teapot, if it pours badly it will drive you insane. Trust me. I applied thrift to the purchase of a kettle that pours water anywhere but into the apropriate recepticle and every time I use it I get a step closer to the straight jacket and pureed food.

3) the cast iron japanese teapot. This type of teapot is not a bad option as long as you are the type of person who will pay 75 dollars for what is, essentially, a nicely forged teapot in miniature. Truely beautiful, these teapots are perfect for people who not only know how to make proper Japanese tea but who also don't mind drinking said tea in thimbles. Firmly Anglo-Saxon, I distrust a teapot that doesn't make enough tea to fill one of my white dollar store mugs. There is no way that I will be hosting a tea ceremony any time soon; my flower arranging skills have been likened to that of a caffinated octopus with ADD, and I don't have enough egg cups.

the search continues...

home made hair cuts

A barber shop near my apartment has a sign in the window:

"we fix home made haircuts "

I wonder how many people have gone in specifically to have their home made wonders fixed.

Most of my friends cut their own hair, or get others to cut it for them. Mostly it looks pretty good, and, seeing as we live in Montreal-city-of-fashionably-insane-hairdos, we can get away with a lot. The other thing is that we wear touques for about 5 months of the year, and no matter how much you spend on a hair cut it will come out the same after any extended touque wearing experience.

Actually, come to think of it, it's been ages since my hair was cut. Not that it matters, since a) the above touque reasoning applies, and b) I just don't care that much.

No. That isn't true. I do care, a lot actually... the real reason my hair hasn't been touched by scissors in around a year is fear.

The last time I got my hair cut I went to a fancy salon/spa thing in the swish area of St Laurent. It was the kind of place that I feel out of place in because I am obviously not cool enough to be there. I sometimes wear corduroy: the people in this place would never dream of such suburbia.

The guy that cut my hair was very chatty-I don't do small talk well. All I wanted was a haircut that would make me look cool (in my cords) and not like a republican or an anchor-woman. By which I meant: no one length bobs and it better look good without the use of a straightening iron or blow dryer. Maybe because it is my hair and I have been dealing with it all my life, these instructions seemed simple. Chatty pink shirted stylist (Not hairdresser... stylist!) was either not listening or didn't think I was serious. He lost interest in me soon anyways because I was loath to discuss the scene in Montreal or the relative merits of feathering versus layering my locks.

I ended up looking like a Fox News correspondent... my stylist managed to make me into a republican anchor woman, without the nasty puce blazer.

I've been trying to forget the horror, and ignoring my hair seems to be working. It's getting a little long though... maybe this time I will take the scissors to it myself-at least I know I'll have a back up plan!

gentlemanly behavior

So Kate and I were eating lunch at the Midnight Kitchen yesterday, munching on vegan chilli and cake, when she brought up the question of what qualities a gentleman has to have. The list, by no means finished, is below. Bear in mind that Kate, being Scottish, has a mildly different take on the subject than I do: she thinks he should be able to ride a horse if the need came up, I think that being able to jumpstart a snowmobile is far more practical. But I guess practicality isn't the point of being a gentleman. Let me know if you think we've missed some integral element...

-should be able to ride a horse/snowmobile with passable ease if necessary

-should be able to remember types of drinks ("and a vodka tonic for the lady") and coffee/tea preferences without prompting

-able to play golf

-able to tell a joke well

-women: is charming enough to make any woman in the room feel beautiful, but knows to stop short of making her feel uncomfortable

-deals well with animals

-can converse on a wide variety of topics: politics, literature, current affairs, music...

-in conversation, actually listens to what others say and does not monopolize the discussion-keeps the ball rolling

-knows when to send flowers and when to offer up the heartfelt apology

-never criticizes/spats with partner in public

-dresses apropriately for all occasions (kate went on about morning suits and smoking jackets...I just wanted a moratorium on plaid shirts and sports jerseys when not at sports matches...)

-will use moisturizer if he has dry skin

-has cufflinks in his posession

-walks on the street side of the sidewalk when with a woman, to shield her from splashes

-can hold his own in a game of pickup football (soccer) with the lads (boys)

-has basic mechanical knowledge (ie: can diagnose car trouble and can change oil/tires/windshield wiper fluid)

-punctual.

"doing well"

(thanks neasa)

I am beside myself. For the first time I think I finally understand that turn of phrase. I feel like I am standing beside my self, much like a base coach, whispering suggestions in my ear and watching to see whether I follow them. Similarly to the poor base coach, I am increasingly feeling that no matter the intensity of my suggestion to myself-(for example: "Claire, you really should eat.") following through is up the capricious whim of a completely unknown two year old.

Melt down is not really the world for this, closer to willful self destruction.

If I could, I would run away and deal with life here later, when somehow I am stronger and more able to cope. But, due to financial constraints, I would only be able to go as far as my two feet would carry me. Escaping reality in the side streets of Laval or St Hubert is really not what I had in mind. As soothing as video lottery terminals and neon signs advertizing all you can eat poutine 24 hours are...

"I think she overstresses, sometimes, to maintain a recognizable stress-level"

somehow I seem to have outdone myself this time...it's a slippery slope

broken things

It's been a bad couple of days for keeping things together.

My headphones lost an ear piece.

My christmas present watch from my brother fell out of my jeans pocket when I hung them up to dry off the cuffs. The glass face which protects the hands dislodged itself and when I tried to play Miss Fixit, I cracked the glass.

A particularly out-of-left-field and shattering arguement with someone who is becoming quite dear to me left my (already shaky) peace of mind jarred.

The death of a friend of friends in a skiing accident. I didn't know him at all, but it's still tragic and horrible. And those of us who have lost other people (such a lame euphamism: "lost" for death... as though those of us left living have absent mindedly misplaced our loved ones) are grieving Chris and mourning our private sorrows.

Days, I guess are like this: fragile.

family pictures

"there's a security guard. Quick! don't look like you're planning to do anything naked..."
~emily

"if we get caught, I'll just tell them it's nothing sexual-we're related..."
~jaymie

honestly, my darling cousins are completely and totally insane. the concept of photo booths has a whole new dimension for me now.

saltspring

I wonder how many people in the world carry a piece of a place within them... somewhere that is home to them, the smells, sounds and the feel of the air on their faces...

Even though I didn't grow up on the west coast, it's embedded somewhere behind my diaphragm, between my ribs. The rhythm of waves on shore is a background track to much of my life, and the smell of low tide makes me smile. I'm never here long enough, and never frequently enough.

On the ferry from Saltspring to Crofton this afternoon, in the blinding sunshine, I wanted time to stop. I wanted to be alone-but-not-lonely standing on the top deck of a boat watching the driftwood and fishing boats, one masted dingys and kayaks, for the rest of eternity.

Justine said she thinks of me as surrounded by water, as though even when I am on dryland, I am somehow aquatically inclined.

The coast is my check. The tune, whistled in the wind, that I am relentlessly trying to pick up and carry.

perspectives

being mouthy and strangely competant in most aspects of my life, it comes as a bit of a suprise to a lot of people that computer glitches that do not fix themselves right away leave me frothing at the mouth and planning ways to kill off the gremlins that are clearly inhabiting my harddrive. In all honesty, besides turning the sucker on and off, I have no idea how anything works, programs, downloads or otherwise, and I intend to keep it that way. However, had I a thimble's worth of common sense or laced my cereal with slightly less stubborn juice, I could probably be convinced that learning how to debug my parent's computer could be a useful way to spend my time. I would then have been able to check my hotmail account, my university email, and write on this little page of self indulgence.

As it is, I have been happily out of touch with the "real" world since returning to BC.

I am at my grandfather's house on Vancouver Island now, (where the computer still won't take me to hotmail...) staying on the coast for a few days to see relatives and friends before heading back east. I wish I could say that the past few weeks have been a whirlwind and this is a well deserved break, but truthfully, Kelowna was quiet and I slept a lot.

I only keep in touch with about two friends and one was working a lot and the other didn't get back until the 23rd. I went to a few open houses, did some christmas shopping, cooked a little, slept a lot... nothing to light the pond on fire.

The usual entertainment sufficed: making up answers to my parent's friends queries about my post-university plans (lap dancer got some priceless reactions), watching a lot of movies, knitting (I am my grandmother), and slipping out of conversations that involved marriage, babies and my prospects therein. I love how I think that the perspective in Montreal is so skewed-grad school obsession, academic excellance trumping mental health- but really, it's got nothing on the good old hometown.

It is good to be on the coast, I am running out of ways to be polite about my lack of direction or ability to hold sucessful husband auditions.

home (?) again...

I am sitting in the Westbank library, checking email while my mum does groceries for my father's voluntary unemployment dinner tonight. It's finally happened. He is retired!!! In celebration we are going skiing tomorrow and picking out a Christmas tree.

My darling brother has taken off to Australia, from the sound of his voice over a sketchy phone line, is having a ball. He started work at the hotel today, and I hope it went well-jetlag and sharp kitchen knives are not always the best combination. It was hard to watch him go through airport security, he looked so young and small and ... then I realized that I was 2 years younger when I took off and far less pulled together. Terrifying the amount of trust my parents must have had in my apparent good sense!

The house is quiet without him. I miss joking around and cooking dinner with him, fighting over the amount of spice the sauce needs.

mum is done groceries now.

off to cook some prawns!!!!

perfection

I have re-acquired my copy of Bird By Bird. (thanks sait!) It is written by Anne Lamott who is an insanely talented and honest writer; a woman whose words make me laugh out loud on the metro, and keep me up reading by flashlight in the middle of the night.

The actual book is something of a personality. I can't remember where or when I got it, but I have a strong suspicion that my mum bought me my own copy after I disappeared hers. It is worn and there is lots of underlining throughout and the odd margin note. I am so glad to have it back, especially at the beginning of exam period, because somehow Ms Lamott puts me in perspective. A commodity I am dearly in need of right now.

"I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you and have a lot more fun while they're doing it."

I keep remembering a sign on the wall of the ballet studio in Kelowna: "We aim for perfection; excellence will be tolerated."

What was I saying about perspective? Permanently skewed??? Yes, I thought so.

avoiding the new testament

Yesterday I accidentally fell asleep in the TNC office for 5 hours. I dreamt about a crocodile in a my bathtub and waging civil war in a grocery store. Weird stuff. When I woke up it was dark and I felt like I had missed the entire day, which, I guess in a way, I had. I was worried that I would be up all evening, but I managed to fall asleep around midnight with relative ease. I feel like I am about to get back on the 'terminal exhaustion' bandwagon. Bloody exam schedule.

Last day of lectures for me today... we managed to convince the seminar prof that we didn't need to meet on thursday, so I unexpectedly have time to do laundry this week. Exams start on the 7th (and I have two that day) and then a week to prep my seminar paper and study for ethnic conflict. Right now I am exhibiting zero motivation on all fronts. I know enough about myself to realize study avoidance has gotten extreme when I would rather learn my choir music than do a few readings. So far I haven't resorted to cleaning the apartment obsessively, but I am sure that will come.

I wonder if other people manage to self-sabotage as well as I do. Realistically, I should just get down to work and save myself the anguish and annoyance... but I seem completely unable to do so right now. Probably why I am writing random crap on here.

"I listen to the wind, to the wind on my soul/
where I'll end up, well I think only God really knows/
I've set it on the setting sun/but never never never never/
I've never wanted water once/I've never never never/
I listen to my words but they fall far below/
I let my music take me where my heart wants to go/
I swam upon the devil's lake /but never never never never/
I never make the same mistake/no, never never never"