Just Another Day

another day on the mighty miramichi. freezing rain. ice pellets. showers. and now, snow. yee-haw! heavy wind on the base tonight, dunno what it's doing in barnbonia. looks like a miramichi new years for me, head home on monday. all fired up with flipping the page, i am. itching to get this thing started. i've got plans! places to go! people to see! things to do! lottsa changes coming up . . . exciting stuff!

Mood: fired up
Drinking: i am dryer than a wooden god as thurman would say
Listening To: typing en masse
Hair: disheveled

Barnbonia

still here in the kingdom of barnbonia. the snow is much. i feel like i've gained a hundred pounds from all this crazy food i've been eating and being housebound for so many days, the inactivity aggravates my joints. feet aching. legs stiff. freezing rain now. not really good for road walking. i've survived this long without getting run over by a drunken underhill or jardine, why take chances now? there is always the treadmill i suppose . . . blah. sherry wants me to stay for new year's, go to her house, drink wine, toast, sing karaoke . . . blah. can't stop yawning. don't feel like doing anything . . . not even playing poker with mon pere. think i need to get out of here before i fall into an endless sleep. somebody throw me a towrope.

Mood: surprisingly sober
Drinking: wine, brandy, cognac, jacks and coke
Listening To: madagascar on the keenan tube and darth vader's light sabre attacking samuel
Hair: fading like a jet's trail

On Time

Knock on wood. So far I'm right on schedule for afternoon departure to Miramichi, where my father will meet me and whisk me away for last minute shopping details. No, not the mall, not Christmas gift shopping -- I am not completely insane. I'm talking about the liquor store and drink fixings from the grocery store. Hot toddies here I come! (And I've got this extremely weird craving for jacks and coke, dunno where that's coming from, but it might happen.)

Tonight I'll attend the annual Holiday Games Night at Casa Keenan. Jenn plans to extract her revenge for the many years of Trivial Pursuit shame I bestowed upon the Keenan clan and restore honour to her household by introducing the Friends trivia game into the festivities . . . whatever! We'll see who kicks ass in Texas Hold Em.

Mood: punchy
Drinking: nada yet
Listening To: brass in pocket, the pretenders
Hair: sleek and shiny

Ghost Town

It is not just my house that's quiet. Out on the runaround today I couldn't help but notice how quiet it is -- I could hear dogs barking on the other side of town. There is NOBODY out there! Seriously. Downtown was dead. I'm so used to the insanity of last minute Christmas shopping in Miramichi, but here I circled the Jean Coutu on my own, no line at the post office, very few cars parked on the street or in the parking lots . . . it's just weird! No traffic on Salem. Houses totally dark on all sides of me. It's like I'm the last one here.

Mood: boppy
Drinking: diet coke because it was on sale and i've given up wine
Listening To: You DO NOT even wanna know
Hair: attention garnering

Six Years

Six years ago today I became an aunt. On the 18th we went for breakfast at Darlene's where they were having a craft sale too . . . or something like that. It was a warm sunshiny sort of day. Over pancakes Sherry announced contractions, there'd been false alarms but we thought this might be the real thing. Steady throughout the day, but still not time. It was a weekend I think, a Friday or Saturday night, and I went to that guy's house, (mister cool dude who left such a lasting impression upon me that I can never remember his real name) who I'd been hanging around with all fall. We were sitting at the kitchen table drinking beer, thinking about going out to visit friends, wondering about road conditions because snow was coming down. It was probably going on 11 o'clock when the phone rang and Mom said it was time.

Mom and Dad picked me up and we made our way through the snow to the hospital. Hanging out all night waiting for a baby when you're half drunk and on pilled high-speed fast forward play is a pretty intense experience. They crammed us into a miniscule room to wait it out. We could hear Sherry puking her guts up in a room down the hall. I went in to see her, only briefly because she didn't want any of us to see her like that. If you looked up ashen in the dictionary you would see a picture of my sister from that night. She was the colour of E.T. when he lay dying. This was my first experience with birthing from so close and I hadn't thought it would be this scary. After what may or may not have been hours it was time and they wheeled her into the birthing room. We waited. And waited. And paced. And read magazines. And tried to stay awake. And waited some more. And no word. No sign. No Gary. No Sherry. No baby. No doctors or nurses. Nobody told us anything. Did it take this long? I had no idea. And finally in the wee hours of the morning Gary came out and told us the baby's head was too big, it was impossible and Sherry was going in for an emergency c-section. This was not part of the plan. This seemed serious. My stomach lurched and the back of my neck turned cold. This scared the shit out of me. But it happened all the time I was told by people more experienced in these matters, practically routine.

The waiting continued and for me it seemed more ominous than before. I was jittery, having a major problem staying still. I was pacing the hallway outside the little room when I saw Gary coming, big silly grin, wheeling his baby to the nursery. We swarmed him before he even got through the doors into the ward. A girl. Paulina Blaine after my mother and father. Dark. Sherry's mouth. So tiny. All her mother in these first few moments it seemed to me. Amazing how she hadn't been here an hour ago and now here was this new person, our blood, family. Looking at her later through the nursery window while we waited for Sherry to come to her room so we could make sure she was okay, I wondered where Paulina had been and where she'd go. Pure potential. It was overwhelming.

At first I was afraid to hold her, she was so tiny and fragile and perfect. But I got over that pretty quick, especially once Samuel and Jules arrived on the scene a few weeks later, and I spent a lot of time with Paulina -- godmother and babysitter. We used to see each other every day. A hugger, cuddler, stubborn, articulate, super smart. I'd rock her to sleep singing My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean, when I didn't have to blare Blue Rodeo. And now she's getting so tall I can barely pick her up. First grade, reading at something crazy like a fourth grade level. Knowing more about animals than I'll probably ever know. I miss seeing her everyday.

Happy birthday, Paulina!

Mood: remembering
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: my stomach growl
Hair: accentuating my eyes

Hurt

I hurt myself today
to see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
the only thing that's real
the needle tears a hole
the old familiar sting
try to kill it all away
but I remember everything
what have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
and you could have it all
my empire of dirt

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns
upon my liar's chair
full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
beneath the stains of time
the feelings disappear
you are someone else
I am still right here

what have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
and you could have it all
my empire of dirt

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

if I could start again
a million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way

I really liked this song when Nine Inch Nails did it. Really liked it. But then one day flipping through channels I stumbled upon Bravo videos and watched Johnny Cash just weeks after June died sitting at a piano in a room lined with photographs from his life with June staring at a picture of her standing on the piano top and singing Hurt. It broke my heart. I only saw the video a few times before he died. I like Nine Inch Nails, but when Johnny sings Hurt I'm always brought to tears.

Mood: melancholy and wanting to visit uncle marcus
Drinking: tea, organic orange pekoe (because it's the only tea i have with caffeine)
Listening To: Hurt, Johnny Cash
Hair: copper top

Beer Not Kids

I've always read Rick Mercer's blog, but now that we're into election mode there's even more fun stuff going on over there . . . like this. I love it when he starts a petition! And he's got more signatures than the competing petition. Some funny comments in there too.

I caught some of his show the night Frank McKenna was on. Frank was pretty funny, holding his own with Rick, actually cracking him up. Like when Rick asked about softwood lumber and Frank gave the politically correct response, and Rick pressed -- but what if that doesn't work? Then Frank said something like we'd sue their asses. THAT was pretty funny. He's got the charisma to be PM. Maybe next time.

Mood: giggling
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: silence deafens, think I'm alone now doesn't seem to be anyone around . . .
Hair: shaking by the roots, it's D-Day, anything seems possible

Sleepless In Sackville

That dog was here again last night. I think he comes with the girl's boyfriend. He definitely arrives in the car with the PEI plates. He is adorable (the dog, not the boy, though the boy is ok too). It's some sort of little spaniel, black and white splotched, long floppy ears. He was in the drive when I got home last night and he attacked me, running circles around me in the snow, so playful. I could probably have a little dog here, not Nick the brute, but a small breed . . . I think this for about 20 seconds before I get to all the responsibility of a pet and ditch the idea. But I have been thinking I should offer to dogsit this particular beasty when my housemates go out, because I think they leave him alone, and I don't think he particularly enjoys his alone time. He barks and whines for hours on end. It breaks my heart. Maybe he is just a barker and a whiner and there are people with him in the house, but I think I should find out. It would be nice to have a dog for a few hours every now and then. So, I couldn't sleep because of the dog. When the dog slept, so did I but then the dreams came . . .

I dreamed I was in Paris under siege during the Second World War, Nazis in the streets, people disappearing from their homes at night. Nobody could be trusted. A dark dream. Cold. I was writing, I don't know what, but I had to keep it hidden in a hollow space under the floorboards beneath a rug. It seemed to be important writing, but very dangerous work. I would only work on it by the light of a small candle in a tiny room in the middle of my apartment that was more like a big closet with no windows, no light from outside. I was writing long-hand in pencil (which I absolutely NEVER do in real writing, hate pencil) and I didn't have proper paper so I was tearing bits of paper off the walls. In the back of closets, behind paintings and mirrors, in places where it might not be immediately noticed, the walls had been stripped for paper. An intense dream. Exhausting.

Mood: jumpy
Drinking: coffee, recycled, with cream
Listening To: washer whining wail
Hair: thought it wanted darkness, leaning into sunshine today

Orphans & Misfits

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Moonlight Madness

Impossible to sleep with this full moon stuff going on. Went to bed late. Woke way early with moon rays illuminating my desk. So I got up and made coffee. Struggled to get the computer to stay connected to the Internet. Seems stable now. I think the moon was screwing it up. I dreamed there was a serial killer on the loose. I knew him and I was on his list of people he intended to kill. He was a former co-worker or something. I was working for a big radio station, but not in news. I had a show, a mixed bag of things, some tunes, some call-in talk, some interviews with crazy artists . . . it was very controversial because I had a rep for being blunt and breaking the rules. It was a late-night show and I'd often be in the studio alone. I was on-air locked in the booth when he came for me. Nothing much happened really, and I wasn't even all that afraid. It was a little weird. Maybe a flashback to when the station manager used to wander into CFAN in the wee hours of the night just to torture me with his "trained-to-kill Legere" rottweiler. Too many dreams last night to mention. Nothing very interesting. Lots of travel. Surprisingly alert and refreshed upon waking. Think I'll head out to the Home Hardware today and see what I can find of interest, make a wine run while I'm out there. Have an urge to go to Moncton today, could easily catch the bus in a couple of hours, come back tonight, but I really shouldn't.

Mood: wired
Drinking: coffee, strong, black
Listening To: Bludsucker, Deep Purple (FIKSZ Radio Budapest)
Hair: in my eyes

White Out

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas on the Tantramarsh. Snow and more blowing snow. White out conditions. Lots of weather warnings in effect. One of the boys knocked on my door this morning, having overslept and forgotten the garbage (I did not oversleep . . . but of course forgot the garbage anyway). He wanted to know whether I'll be here next week (but of course! where else would I be?) and if I could take the garbage out then. Sure! Not a problem! . . . Now, to remember . . . I need to write it on the calendar or something. All of my housemates will be clearing out between Friday and Sunday, so I'll have lots of peace and quiet all next week. I am going to Mom's next Friday, not sure how long I'm staying. It's difficult to get any work done from there. Certainly stay through the weekend anyway for the Christmas crap. It's a good thing he dropped by because I had completely forgotten about the heat situation and they were planning on turning it off completely. The boy was quite shocked to learn they've been heating my downstairs. I told him to leave the furnace set at 18 or so, but to turn off their baseboards . . . maybe then I won't freeze to death. Someone took a half-assed swipe at the drive with a plow, but I've got to find a shovel to clean my step, unless one of the boys does it for me. Though I don't mind doing it. Seems pointless until it stops though.

Mood: hyper
Drinking: coffee, french roast, fair trade, black
Listening To: Dry the Rain, The Beta Band
Hair: greasy

Golden Globes

I did not make a point to catch the announcement live on tv this week, like I do usually with the Academy Awards, but still I was interested to see the line-up. The Globes are generally a good indication of what's to come at the Oscars. Joaquin and Reese are both up, but of course they're in that very odd music or comedy category which puts them up against The Producers. Likely up against gay cowboys at the Oscars. Hmmm. Could be interesting. I just love Walk the Line, Joaquin is perfect.

Full Moon?

We must be into a full moon, are we? It's been overcast and I don't have a moon calendar, so I can't tell. I'm going strictly on my dreams. Last night was INSANE! I went to sleep around 1:30, fell directly into dreams.

God! I travelled the world, scene after scene, place after place -- the Brook Hill, NBCC-Miramichi, The Eastwood Park Hotel, PJ Billington's, The Powertrack, on the Jersey turnpike in a blue Ford Mustang, sitting in a lounger chair by a pool on a cruise ship, picking blueberries with Muffin the day he died, watching the tide from the bench at the Alpine Motor Inn, Christmas shopping at the Eaton Centre, playing badminton with Dad on the front lawn and waving to Clyde as he drove by in that old green car, at a hockey game in Edmonton with Darren, dancing with Marty at the Renous Rec, taking the ring from Brett at Stacy's wedding, shopping for a prom dress in Fredericton, mass in a Rome cathedral, watching Vanilla Sky in the Sherway movie theatre with Kevin, having lunch at the Frye Festival . . . and places I can't even remember.

It was a whirlwind of images and people and snippets of conversations and movies and music, so bright and loud. And then it just stopped, like my mind hit a brick wall. Silence. Then I was sitting in the back seat passenger side of an older model 4-door dodge car, like a cop car. It may have been black but I couldn't say for sure because this scene was in grayscale, everything except my eyes, and my eyes were so blue, nearly turquoise. The car was parked in a big empty parking lot late at night, parked in the shadows as far from street lamps as possible. I could make out the shape of buildings surrounding me but couldn't tell whether they were businesses, factories or homes. Nothing was lit from inside. I could see my breath and hear my heart beating. Looking around panic started to well in my throat and my heart was pumping faster, my breath was coming in jagged gasps, everything was happening in slow motion.

And all of these people came out of the shadows and ran toward the car. I didn't recognise anyone. They looked normal enough, dressed in jeans and t-shirts, white vintage Nike's with the swoop design. They were coming at the car from all angles and I was trying to hit the power lock in the front seat to keep them out. It was like one of those zombie movies, except they didn't look like traditional zombies, just normal people who were after me to do harm for some reason. I struggled to wake myself up, but I was so tired from all the dream snippets, all the running around I'd been doing, it was a slow drift to consciousness, not a jerky snap out of it. I opened my eyes and noticed how quiet the house was, wondered if I was truly awake or just in another scene. After a few minutes when nothing extraordinary happened I figured I was really awake, rolled over and checked the clock thinking it might be time to get up -- 2:13.

I hadn't even slept a whole hour yet and already I was more tired than when I went to bed. And when I went back to sleep it was the same thing again, snippet after snippet, some memories, some made up situations, some places I've been, some places I haven't and I bounced along like that until 7 this morning, never hitting that brick wall again, never finding the grayscale parking lot with the creepy people. What an exhausting night!

Mood: sleepyhead
Drinking: coffee still
Listening To: If You Could Read My Mind, 54 Soundtrack
Hair: mussed up

Year In Review

End of the year meme making the rounds. Go back through your blog and list the first line or sentence of each month . . . this is your year in review.

January 2005 -- I know when I get an email from Carol asking me where the hell I am that it is time to show my face around these parts again :-) Happy New Year!

February 2005 -- I must've complained enough about the movie theatre because they finally opened some films I really want to see.

March 2005 -- Thanks to everyone who wrote and expressed their concern over my last post. I just needed to vent. Really, I am okay now.

April 2005 -- To dispel all the rumors . . . I am not dead. Nor have I been kidnapped by circus clowns.

May 2005 -- Well everything is final. Yesterday I signed a lease and paid my first month's rent.

June 2005 -- I got up at a decent time this morning.

July 2005 -- It's Live 8 Concert day -- From Aid to Justice -- and I've been up since early watching the coverage on CTV.

August 2005 -- The Family Guy spoofed Saturday Night Live last night.

September 2005 -- And we have a boy. Artist? Architecture? He's got design tubes.

October 2005 -- Got an amusing email from a fellow Sackville resident. She said her friends have been reading my blog and enjoying it very much, sending her emails even to discuss the details.

November 2005 -- Okay, I've definitely been watching way too much Sopranos this week . . . the dreams last night . . . mama mia! All the smacking around, the cursing, the shots fired . . .

December 2005 -- You Are An Invisible Ex . . . You're so over your ex, you hardly even remember you have an ex. You prefer leave all of the baggage behind you - far, far behind.

Not as fun as some I've read, but c'est la vie!

Mood: focused
Drinking: coffee, costa rican, with cream
Listening To: Everytime I See Your Picture, Luba
Hair: looking forward to being a little different by nightfall

A Second Helping of Madness

I went out for midnight madness on friday. It was snowing and the air was frosty so you could see your breath. They had a living nativity scene at the bandstand park and wagon rides from the post office to the firehall, down the back lanes. Not as many around this time, but I went out a little later too, so maybe a lot of the people with younger kids had already come and gone. With exams going on, it's been a lot more quiet around here anyway. Very Stars Hollow with the snow and the lights and caroling. I almost caught some Christmas cheer. I took advantage of the sale prices to stock up on some toiletries for myself. Bought my dad The Alamo on dvd and a spindle of blank cds that i'm burning a whack of country music to. got lee the dale earnhardt throw he eyed when he was here and a special edition 2-dvd set called 3, which is a movie about earnhardt's life i think. bought myself a mug by a potter from Moncton. at first i thought it was a little overglazed, was looking for something a bit less shiny, but i liked the size and colour and feel in my hand, now even the glaze is growing on me. good choice and a good deal too. sackville writers' group coming up this wednesday night, need to prep for that.

Mood: dazed 'n confused
Drinking: expresso
Listening To: Say I'm Sorry, Theory of a Deadman
Hair: needing to do something in darker shades

Spontaneous Road Trip

workshop went well. i even wrote a poem, deemed publishable by those who should know these things. go figure. in a bizarre twist ended up going to fredericton yesterday afternoon for a party. party never happened. well at least not in fredericton. had some not very great nachos. called freddy an early night and ended up in sussex. much like miramichi. did what seems to be becoming an annual tradition of milk drinks. accosted by prissy missy. extreme control exercised. wine and conversation til 6am. returned to my door, good as new.

cuz i'll never write another, never submit, here it be --

child weeping
hugs another
weeping child

Mood: beeboppy
Drinking: water
Listening To: Blaze of Glory, Bon Jovi
Hair: undone

Madness . . .

in general, and of the midnight kind. huge run-around day. a massive shopping list, many stops. at least one miramichier maybe coming in for tomorrow's workshop, YAY! fingers and toes crossed. i miss those girls so much. yesterday i saw the most beautiful people. a boy so sexually charged i was lifted off the ground in his presence. i may have been electrocuted from his touch. a girl i couldn't even bear to pass on the street. can you imagine being so beautiful that another woman would turn and walk the other way rather than meet you on the street?

Mood: purposeful
Drinking: coffee black
Listening To: still haven't found what i'm looking for, u2
Hair: shimmery in this grey light

NYE

Talked with Sherry yesterday. I have a phone cycle -- Mom, Sherry, Jenn -- Sherry before Jenn because she gets snotty if I don't call, while Jenn is more like me and could care less if anyone ever called, Mom first because I crack up when I don't talk to my mother for a long time, though she too could care less whether anyone ever phoned. So yesterday I called Sherry cuz it was her turn and found out the latest on all the kids' sickness, family Christmas plans, gifts that have been bought, gifts still open for me to buy, etc. And there was mention of New Year's Eve . . . the worst night of the year.

Okay, before I go any further I'm not one of those people who hates the New Year. I'm the opposite actually, I get a huge rush with the flipping of the calendar. Fresh start, new slate, endless possibilities, unknown future, so much potential -- knowing how much I love starting over, I'm like a kid on Christmas Eve with it, butterflies in my stomach, ear-to-ear grin. It's very exciting for me. I make new goals and become very productive and focused for awhile, the adrenaline carries me for a month or two anyway, sometimes right through spring and into summer, before I slam into the brick wall of fall. I love the New Year.

But New Year's Eve is a whole other thing. You know what I'm talking about -- parties, food, countdown, kissing that certain special someone on the stroke of midnight -- NYE is the biggest most anticipated party of the whole year. Now, I'm all for parties (hell, I made a living out of partying) but I cringed yesterday at the mention of going out this NYE. Here's the thing, there's just too much expectation, too much pressure, no party can possibly live up to the promise of NYE. Ok, I don't even know if that's true, but it sounds reasonable. All I know is that I've been involved in some pretty shitty New Year's Eve celebrations . . .

There was the year we went to Brampton to go out with friends to a ball happening at a hotel or someplace. When I realised my boyfriend didn't tell me we'd be staying overnight, I should've given up on having a good time. But optimistic me dressed to the nines in my flirty dress and spiky shoes with no overnight travel amenities or even a pair of socks, couldn't see far enough into the future to understand how this outfit might feel by the following evening after a day of football and beer with a big turkey supper thrown in for good measure. I was determined to have a good time, excited about going out on the biggest night of the year for the first time. And then everyone else got too stoned (except me who doesn't do stoned . . . and by too stoned I do mean vegetative) and we never left their basement, never did a countdown, no great food, no dancing, not even many drinks. I welcomed the New Year from a lumpy couch sitting between too uncommunicative lumpy guys staring at a taped motocross race on a tiny fuzzy screen. Yee-haw!

Or there was the year we were in NB for NYE and we went out to a club with some of my friends and their boyfriends/husbands. My first experience with a typical rapider type NYE. My expectations weren't even that high for this excursion. It wouldn't have taken a whole lot to convince me I had a good time. For this event I was underdressed, or should I say too club-sexy dressed for the company I was keeping. The other girls had suits made just for this occasion, the kind of skirt blazer thing you'd wear to church on Sunday, bright and colourful with a longer hemline, no cleavage, etc. And let's just say I was dressed to go clubbing on the Lakeshore. There was the added stress of a dinner to get through, because that's what they do, go for chinese before the ball. And it was always stressful introducing my boyfriend to people because so many didn't like him (my mother included). He was just too logical and sarcastic for a lot of people around home. But we got through the dinner and he seemed to be fitting in good enough. At the club it seemed we were all overdressed, jeans were the norm. There were no decorations, no snacks, no bells and whistles -- nothing to indicate this night was anything special other than an inflated cover and some crazy rule that the bar could stay open an hour later on NYE, which only prolonged the torture. I spent the evening removing my friend's friend's husband's hand from my thigh under the table, hoping to hell my boyfriend didn't notice and cause something in a Miramichi bar that no Toronto-born boy ever wants to get involved in no matter how much of a bond he feels with the river, and also hoping the wife did not notice because she was big and burly and the more she drank the more she appeared to be itching for a fight and if there's anything I know about rapiders it's that if anyone was going to get flattened in this situation, it wouldn't be her husband.

There was the year I went to the legion NYE dance with my parents, Sherry and my boyfriend. And a guy, who I vaguely recognised from the train station but did not know as well as I would in later years when I would spend Christmas with all the local misfits and orphans at his annual gathering, asked me to hold out my hand, and I did, and he dropped a huge dill pickle into my palm, forever earning him the nickname of The Pickle Man. My God! What an ass he could be when he drank! I remember just sitting there for a few seconds and staring at this pickle in my hand, the whole table went silent and then I thought my boyfriend was going to kill somebody. And the whole thing led to a big old jealous row between me and him when he wouldn't believe that I'd never met this pickle man before in my life and there was no reason to clock him.

Then there was the year we went to the Powertrack, before it was mine. A last minute decision, nearly comical in its outcome -- about a dozen people, a tray of coldcuts . . . my drunken bored boyfriend being a complete ass. NYE at the Powertrack was always stressful, that was my first experience, but I hosted three events of my own.

Bands charge an unbelievable amount of money for NYE. They multiply their regular fees by at least ten. Even DJs wanted at least a grand or $1500 for NYE. For a shitty little bar back in the woods of Dungarvon, $5000 for a band for one night is a pretty hefty investment. Plus food, decorations and party favours. Add in stocking the bar beyond capacity and every year I would spend every cent I had (except a small float) getting ready for the NYE event. Going into the evening I wouldn't have the cash to pay the band at the end of the night, I'd have to make it and more during the course of the evening. Hardly anyone buys their tickets to these things beforehand, so I'd only have maybe 20 names on a list of people who were supposed to show up. I was lucky to have friends and family who would bartend just for tips. On a busy night like that you could make a couple hundred bucks easy in tips.

NYE was the most stressful night of the year for me. The first year I think it went well. I forget which band I had that year, maybe the boys from out the road because they were cheap (or maybe that was the second year after I forked out a ton of money to a local band the year before). The first two years were kind of the same. I did the food myself. And I do mean myself. Kellie up at the crack of dawn on NYE (or had she even gone to bed) chopping veggies and making dips and putting together trays. I would work all day prepping food for 150 people, making sure last details were taken care of, lugging booze (I used to be able to carry three cases of beer like nothing), etc. Those years we did the big finger food buffets. It was a lot of work, an exhausting few days. Then I'd have to glam up for the event, which was no small chore. Every year, a different gown, the hostess with the mostest greeting everyone with a warm smile. I would bartend a little, walk around chatting with people, laugh at stupid jokes, flirt with any of the single boys (yes, a NYE event where single people were welcome), flirt with wives but not husbands, trying to make everyone feel special and welcome . . . working the room on NYE was a helluva job.

The first year I think I wore the black crushed velvet dress with the plunging neckline and all the Austrian crystal jewellry. My bra snapped half-way through the evening and I had to toss it, which seemed to only improve the tip situation. I worked the bar all night that first time. We made a killing. Sold out of everything, literally. People had a good time. I had enough money to pay the band and enough left over to pay the bills. I think I was on my own that year, not seeing anyone. But maybe my boyfriend was there the first year, it was always hard to tell with him whether he was with you or not. He could've been there. Anyway, the second year was way more complicated, so complicated I can't even remember much about it, can't remember what I was wearing, can't really remember how it went. I think I made money. The second year was the year that my boyfriend, my lover and my ex-boyfriend were all there, at the same time, hanging out together.

My ex had driven from Toronto in some of the worst winter driving conditions ever, braved the icy most treacherous Plaster Rock highway, to declare his undying love for me and let me know he would do anything (move to NB, marry me, help me run the business, ANYTHING) to make it work with me, to make a life with me. He wanted a family and he wanted me in it. It was the most uncharacteristic and impulsive thing he had ever done. He opened up to me more on that disastrous brief visit than he ever did all those years we were together. It was pretty overwhelming.

My boyfriend was in one of those weird places that year too where he was all lovey-dovey, mild mannered and behaved, talking all kinds of crap about getting married and building a new house that would be just ours and lots of insanity.

What neither of them knew was that I was desperately trying to find a way to get out of my current relationship without anyone getting killed so I could be with the guy I'd been seeing behind everyone's back for a couple of months. My ex figured this out before he went back to Toronto. It's safe to say he left heart broken, which is something I've always felt really bad about, but what could I do? I couldn't be with him just to make him happy. I still think he's a really good guy, and lord knows I miss his friendship, his advice, his belief in me, his support, the way he could motivate me to do things I would never have dreamed of trying -- I miss all that stuff and more, he sets the bar when I meet someone new and they've got to go beyond it to stand any chance, but I don't love him in that way and I wasn't in love with him that New Year's either. And he was pretty pissed about it! But I'm getting ahead of myself, the showdown with my ex happened New Year's Day, and I'm telling you about NYE.

So there I was that NYE at my club with all the pressure to have a successful night, having to be "on" for all the customers, with my ex-boyfriend, my boyfriend and my soon-to-be-out-in-the-open boyfriend all hanging out and having beers. Juggling is not one of my strong suits. And as if this wasn't enough stress to keep me chain-smoking all night, the phone starts ringing and it's my lover's ex-wife calling from Alberta and she knows I've been seeing her ex-husband. But she doesn't want to talk to my lover. Oh no, she wants to talk to my boyfriend. And for most of the evening I manage to keep this from happening, but eventually they do connect and while he's on the phone I give my lover the heads up that major shit is about to hit the fan.

And I wait for it, wondering just how much stuff is gonna get messed up, sizing up the crowd and making mental notes of who I can ask to help me restrain him and which boys will jump in to help him, and deciding this is his crowd, they'll all help him and I am screwed severely. And he hangs up and comes out from behind the bar and gives me a smile and a kiss and goes right back to his conversation as if nothing has just transpired.

I had to sit down I was so weak in the knees. What happened?! She didn't tell him?! I couldn't believe it. And rightly so, because of course she told him but he just couldn't believe that I would ever cheat on him (despite all the times he cheated on me) and even if I was capable of doing something like that certainly his best friend (and my lover) was not. So he thought she was just trying to stir up shit, making things up. This is what he told me when we talked the next morning. And I seized the opportunity to tell him the truth, because I couldn't stand the lies and the secrets anymore, and I wanted so badly to be away from him but seemed powerless to leave unless he released me. He was calmly disappointed with me. There's no other way to put it really. He didn't scream, didn't say anything hurtful, didn't take out the gun or throw the bed on top of me or hit me or any of the things I expected. He just told me I had disappointed him and made me leave.

And then I walked to my mom's in the cold, went into my bedroom and had just settled in for a good "I don't know what the hell I'm doing" psychotic cry when my Toronto ex showed up with his heart in his hands and I had to break it. Happy fucking New Year!

The last NYE I hosted at the Powertrack I decided I couldn't handle all the food prep, or didn't want the hassle of it that day. The previous two events had gone very well and this year I had booked "the" band, the one with a following and solid track record of filling the venue on NYE, so I figured I could relax on the DIY food and order in fried chicken, salads, rolls, that kind of thing. And I stocked the bar even heavier than I had in previous years in anticipation of this large crowd. And I prepared myself mentally to endure an evening of probably the worse country music known to mankind. I wore my shimmery gold gown and didn't work the bar at all, but spent the evening working the room. And true to form the band drew an awesome-sized crowd. We were packed. It was a different crowd though, not the usual people who hung out there. A lot of new faces, a lot of people there for the first time.

When the countdown happened I looked around for my boyfriend. He was on the dancefloor with another girl. His eyes locked onto mine and he gave me that horrible grin that said, "I can fuck this girl if I want. Maybe I already have. Maybe I will later. Maybe I'll make you watch." And I figured I deserved this treatment on this night of all nights because of sins I committed the year before. I turned away before he kissed her though, there's only so much shame and humiliation a body can live with at any given time, and I had other things to worry about than my boyfriend.

The evening had started to go wrong when we put out the buffet and all the chicken disappeared within minutes before half the crowd had even got through the line. I couldn't believe it, there was enough so there should've been left-overs, but it was easy to see what had happened when we cleaned up -- plate upon plate containing three and four pieces of uneaten chicken, it made me sick. I hated this crowd of cheap greedy hoarders. Oh and it didn't take long to see how cheap they really were, every time I looked to the bar, the bartenders were standing around chatting. People were getting drunk and disorderly but they weren't buying anything from us. It was infuriating. I had a club full of dead-beats and thousands of dollars I had to make by closing time in order to pay the band. I would finally give up and close the club forever five months later, but that was the night that broke us, we never recovered from that huge loss. I had to beg for a discount (which I didn't get) and borrow cash from my parents at the end of that evening in order to pay the band. I was left penniless with the biggest mess after any event ever. Not only were they cheap and greedy but they were destructive and dirty too. Oh how I loathed that crowd.

And do you think that's it, the last of the terrible New Year's Eves? Hell no! There was the year my friend had bullets with people's initials carved in them and I couldn't talk to him and my boyfriend wouldn't take him serious and I ended up worrying all night, not that he would kill the people the bullets were intended for, but that he would kill himself. That was a pretty shitty NYE.

Then there was the year we had the party at my parents place and I brought that guy I was seeing at the time, I can never remember his name just that my mom called him the cool dude. I regretted inviting him, regretted hanging out with him at all, he was too old for me, and I realised all of this during the evening, realised that what I really wanted to do was to just hang out with my friend, go home with him, have fun and real conversation . . . and maybe even see about having something more like he had always wanted. But I mean I couldn't just abandon my date, especially in my own parents house. I couldn't just walk away. I needed to figure out a way to ease out of this thing before it got way out of hand. That was also the NYE I chipped a front tooth, by the way, which is always great fun. Anyway, as it turned out I could've just walked away and that would've been okay. Because that's exactly what he did. He dropped me off at my parents on the evening of January 1st, drove away and I never spoke to him again. He never called, never dropped in, it was just over. Three months tossed to the curb like nothing happened. Which was fine by me. But man I wish he could've done it a little earlier so maybe I might've had a good NYE.

I don't think I've done anything since. It's certainly been many years since I've done anything special to mark NYE. Maybe I shouldn't cringe at the thought of celebrating. Maybe it's time to give it another shot, no expectations, just to see what happens. Maybe the world has changed. I know I have.

Mood: optimistic
Drinking: coffee, costa rican, with a dab of cream
Listening To: Everybody Hurts, REM
Hair: still shedding like a god damn long-haired dog

Expired

All the perishables in my house expire today. I wonder what time. Will everything be good through midnight? Perhaps I should've started injesting things earlier this morning. Something to think about.

Mood: cheeky
Drinking: coffee and lots of it
Listening To: this is the day the music died
Hair: getting curlier by the day . . . what is up with that?!

Another Mad Weekend On the Rise

Another Midnight Madness coming Friday night in beautiful downtown Sackville with hot cider and wagon rides, magicians and movies, and of course can't forget the SALES. Another WFNB writing workshop on Saturday that I've organised. Exciting new venue. Poetry, which is WAY beyond my comfort zone. Another houseguest Saturday night. I predict a good dinner someplace nice, many drinks out and about, a fun adventure with breakfast possibly at that new place I still haven't visited. And this morning, I received another invite to Fredericton for this weekend on Friday. Oh boy! That's a challenge, don't know if it's swingable or not. But I shall try my best to switch hats and roles as seamlessly as possible.

Mood: revved
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Regis on tv
Hair: hat head, not hat induced, soon to be camoflauged with a new hat

Mi Vida Loca

If you’re coming with me you need nerves of steel
’cause I take corners on two wheels
It’s a never-ending circus ride
The faint of heart need not apply

Mi vida loca over and over
Destiny turns on a dime
I go where the wind blows
You can’t tame a wild rose
Welcome to my crazy life

Gathering tunes to burn for Dad. It's insane how I still know every note of most of these. Mi Vida Loca was not the Pam Tillis song I always sang at karaoke, that would be Maybe It Was Memphis. I don't think Mi Vida Loca was an option or I surely would've picked it because it's got to be easier to sing. It was on the jukebox I know, and my theme song long before that. Somewhere between here and there I think I might've tamed, stopped taking corners on two-wheels. Though I still go where the wind blows and believe in destiny turning on a dime, it's not quite as out of hand as it once was. I must've had a Pam Tillis tape at some time or something because even Shake the Sugar Tree and Two Sparrows in a Hurricane are on the tip of my tongue.

Blame It On Your Lying Cheating Cold Dead Beating Two Timing Double Dealing Mean Mistreating Loving Heart . . . yep, still remember all the words. Insanity. The clutter in my brain! I remember sitting in the back seat of that old green four-door dodge and Patty Loveless came on the radio. Even stoned (which I don't do well or often) I didn't mix it up, got all the adjectives in the right place.

So there you have it . . . I used to be country in a former life.

Mood: taking a break, no kitkat
Drinking: nothing right now
Listening To: Merle Haggard, You Never Even Call Me By My Name
Hair: windblown

At last!

Your Weekly Horoscope (Dec 5-11)

Now that Mercury has turned direct in Scorpio and Jupiter is well placed in this zone, there is no stopping you at work, Kellie. You may feel like conquering the world, or at least meeting the challenges that come your way with additional verve and panache. If you need to get fit, this is the time to do so, although Jupiter can also make you feel fairly lazy if you are not prepared to push yourself. It will take some willpower but the rewards will be well worth it. Mars turns direct in Taurus on Friday and this is going to help you to visualize your goals more realistically and to plant them in the depths of your subconscious mind. Things should start to sprout and germinate within from this point onward. You will sense that things are happening even if you can't see much evidence on the surface. The Sun highlights your partnerships and relationships, bringing then into focus and giving you a chance to make arrangements or talk through any issues if necessary. Saturn is going to be retrograde in Leo for some time, so you need to get used to weighing every word and thought and assessing its true value. A promising opportunity may come your way on Saturday.

Mood: energised baby!
Drinking: coffee, luke warm, with cream
Listening To: the sound of work being done and crossed off my list
Hair: itching for change . . . again

Kinda True . . .

You Have a Phlegmatic Temperament

Mild mannered and laid back, you take life at a slow pace. You are very consistent - both in emotions and actions. You tend to absorb set backs easily. You are cool and collected. It is difficult to offend you. You can remain composed and unemotional. You are a great friend and lover. You don't demand much of others. While you are quiet, you have a subtle wit that your friends know well. At your worst, you are lazy and unwilling to work at anything. You often get stuck in a rut, without aspirations or dreams. You can get too dependent on others, setting yourself up for abandonment.

What Temperment Are You?

Mood: dancing
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Keep the Faith, Bon Jovi
Hair: swinging

Routines

I lose track of time when I'm in the shower sometimes, just thinking stuff you know. I think I may be the most relaxed in there, which means it really bugs me when the boys steal all my water with their laundry or dishes. It's funny the stuff I'll remember or think about while I'm showering though. Like today for instance, I found myself thinking about gag routines I've had with people.

People were always asking Marty how we met -- I mean other than the obvious stalking me since I hit puberty thing that he did (still does?) with all the girls along the road. How'd an old outlaw like you manage to rope a smart young girl like that? And Marty would very seriously explain how he saw me walking on the road one day. He'd liked me ever since I was a teenaged girl walking past his house every night on my way to Blackville. So he stopped, took his gun out of his glovebox, forced me into his car and I'd been with him ever since.

The first time he said this we were at a dance or a club someplace and this guy had stopped by our table to say hello (guys were always doing that, guys generally thought Marty was a good guy or else they didn't want to piss him off). I was sitting there bored out of my skull at the car and woodswork conversation and I could tell the guy actually thought this might've really happened (which I thought was freaking hilarious, especially since with my phobia I'm most likely to get shot in the back recklessly running away from a gunslinger, least likely to ever approach for any reason).

So when the guy looked to me for confirmation whether this was a joke or not, I nodded that this was true and switched into a spontaneous redneck double-wide act where I grabbed Marty's arm, looked deep into his eyes and started reminiscing about that great day by the side of the road with the gun. The guy did not know what to think. Seriously, he thought this was possible. I thought we were going to die laughing when he finally left our table, still not knowing for certain whether we were kidding him or not. So this became one of our acts, a routine we did. One of many actually.

I'll never forget the night at the biker's club that Marty called me over from a conversation I was in with someone else and asked me to tell someone like Reg or Keith or maybe Paul how he'd ever got to take me out in the first place. "Pulled a gun on me when I was walking to get me in the car, and I never left." I spun away as the man gasped, my blunt straight-forward answer seeming to make it even more believable to them, though in reality I was just pissed he'd called me over for this bit again. Marty and I had a bunch of acts we'd pull on people, from one-liners to elaborate scenes. We never planned any of them, they'd start with an ad-lib and then grow from there. We had a lot of fun with them, but occasionally things got a little out of hand . . . like that time one of Marty's friends called to invite me into a threesome with him and his girlfriend . . . we may have brought that onto ourselves, a good schtick gone wild.

Darren and I had a few too, but there was one we did a lot at the club that used to drive other guys nuts. I'd be bartending or running around dumping ashtrays or whatever, working. There'd always be guys hanging out at the bar, trying to take me home with them or whatever, it was just part of the business. I never took it personally (tho it did sour me on the human race after a few years, some of my faith has been restored since) because to these guys any girl behind the bar was getting the same treatment, it went with the territory.

Darren would start about an hour or so before closing time, coming up to the bar every so often to try and get me to go home with him. There was always some other guy hanging out there close by, investing his whole evening into the same goal and generally getting nowhere but drunk. It would go something like --

Are you coming to the party at my place after?
Maybe. Who's all invited?
You.
And I'd give him the look that clearly said no, he'd grin and spin back to his pool game. Until the next time, 10 or 15 minutes later.

Seriously though, Fear and Loathing is on later, you should come to my place and we'll watch it.
Oh, you got your cable fixed?
No.
The look, the grin, to the poolroom for a few shots, then --

If you come over I'll make you some fettucine.
Do you have chicken?
No.
Alfredo?
No.
Pasta?
No.
By this time the guy catching all this usually starts laughing and joking with me about how Darren doesn't mind being shot down, sucker for punishment and all that. He can't wait to see if Darren will try again.

Really though, you should at least come by after for a drink.
Do you have any beer?
No.
Rye?
No.
Vodka?
No.
Anything alcoholic?
Um, no.
The things that he would offer me ranged from bubble baths to the most elaborate feasts and of course he never had any of the fixings toward any of it . . . and his tub was filthy. This would go on until after last call, after the bar window was lowered, after we had firmly established that he had nothing to offer. And then --

Well come on, let's at least go back to my place and have a game of crib.
Do you have a crib board?
No.
A deck of cards?
No.
Umm, ok.
I'd shrug like saying yes was a completely random afterthought and the other guy's jaw would flap open, completely flabbergasted. Fun times!

While I was thinking about this earlier I remembered all kinds of routines I've had with people over the years, acts put on for our own amusement, and I thought -- How freaking weird is that?! I mean, do other people do that? Is it a 20's thing? Have I outgrown the desire to concoct elaborate acts to fool people? Because I haven't had any skits going on with anybody in quite some time. Is it a creative thing? Because the people I've had running acts with were mechanics and drug dealers and woods workers and carpenters and the like, labourers and outlaws, not artists or writers. So tell me, am I alone here on this? Do you have any routines? Are you acting out with a friend for your own amusement?

Mood: sunshiny
Drinking: water (hydration is important)
Listening To: coffee perk downstairs
Hair: fluffy

Creativity Afoot

I did the things on my list this week, consistently, making a new list every night for the following day. It feels good to cross things off a list, even if some of them are minor mundane household crappy chores that I must do no matter whether I've written them down or not. Crossing those things off helped me to get to the doing of the good stuff.

I pulled out my Duff and Merrin story. Truly it's not much of a story yet. A few pages, mostly dialogue. I wondered about turning it into a play. The dialogue is fun, the setting fairly simple and the whole story could easily take place in a single act, one set. But what do I know about play writing? What do I even know about short stories? Best to work on that form before I branch out, I thought. But they're different forms. You're right, I shouldn't be afraid to dive in.

Why didn't I go back to Callum, you ask? It takes so much out of me to get into his story, so much effort, plus I seriously need to research, go to church even, (I swear his God obsession is keeping me out of this book) and I'm itching for faster results. I can have a complete first draft of a story in a matter of days or a week depending on how hard I go at it. I want to create a finished product, gain some much-needed creative momentum. And with short fiction that's very possible. Maybe possible even with a short play, even if I don't really know what I'm doing.

I need to submit some old stuff too. Looked at some potential places for Midday Caller. Need to edit it with suggestions from all the feedback I got on it from the old girls network and also the local writers' group, but that won't (shouldn't) take long. I've had four others out since early July, would presume as we hit the five month mark that some response might start to trickle in on those soon, sometime during the next couple of months. Maybe something will stick. If I were more dedicated to the submission process something would certainly stick somewhere sometime. It's not even that I mind the rejection so much. Nobody's ever said anything really terrible in the few rejections I've got. They've actually been quite encouraging. I'm not sure why I haven't been submitting more. It could be that rather than a fear of failure, I have a fear of success.

Mood: pleased
Drinking: cold coffee
Listening To: the train heading through the back of town
Hair: kinda greasy, needs to see some shampoo

The Last Day of Masthead

Tuesday April 19, 1991. The last day of the Wednesday Ryersonian Masthead someone took a photograph. Nineteen of us, 18 students plus the instructor, jammed into the corner along the shared wall to Miller's office with the journalism faculty mailboxes and Ryersonians pinned high around the room. Black and white. Did Brendan the photo dude set a timer to snap the shot? Did Miller take it? It's startling to realise I've forgotten nearly everyone's name.

I remember Brendan, who's sprawled out on a counter behind me doing his best "thinker" pose. He was my photographer that day I went to Oakham House to cover the organic wine tasting and chef demonstration. Neither one of us was much of a wine drinker and with very few students showing up there was a lot of wine to be drunk. Some I actually enjoyed, which was unusual in this place and time. The chef made some sort of pasta dish with chicken and a cream sauce. After a couple of hours we wobbled next door to file the story, the back page held for us. What a buzz! I think his parents were also the ones who didn't think Elvis had died, followed the sightings news and would frequently take strategically planned trips hoping to see him for themselves.

I remember Deanne, standing beside me with her arms folded across her chest that impatient "take this damned picture already" look pressed into her tight smile. I knew her a bit better than any of the others, which is to say we were friendly but not really friends. I didn't hang out with any of my classmates, didn't go to any of their parties (if they had any). I never really bonded with anyone in this group, not like I did with my first year class. I was actually really focused on schoolwork, as hard as that is to believe, plus Stacy had moved by then. Also I was depressed I think, starting to withdraw from Kevin and the city, in my mind getting ready to leave.

Deanne's family were into publishing already, magazines I believe, and I thought she was really lucky to have an in. After graduation she would go work with her family, a prospect that didn't thrill her. She felt pushed into something she had only a passing interest in. These bits gleaned from smalltalk over cigarettes in the foyer or the basement lounge. The no-smoking laws had been passed already but nearly everyone, staff and students, in the journalism building smoked so we kept right on. Those were grey times anyway, when the first smoking-in-the-workplace laws were going through.

I remember Zap, the features editor, standing just to my left and in front of Deanne. He was so good natured and funny, he had a calm and optimism about him that was really great to be around. The girl on my right is Amy, the assistant editor. She looks like Andrea off 90210. A good three inches shorter than me and maybe a size larger, somebody outed her toward the end of that last year. I don't think it was meant to be a cruel thing, it was more a slip of the tongue that happened just as one of those really quiet moments hit the newsroom. Everything and everyone stopped for a couple of seconds, she turned bright red. I remember feeling really bad for her. Not that anyone treated her any differently or anyone was a jesus freak or a homophob, but if she had've wanted anyone to know we would've known. How hellish to have a secret blown wide-open like that.

I remember Mary the editorials editor sitting at the back with the men, her posture ram-rod straight, chin jutted out. She looks like Kyra Sedgwick, but more serious. She understood the male/female workplace. A feminist. She understood how difficult it might be for women to break into the old boy's network. She was very efficient, while still being approachable and human. Sitting beside Brendan is Mike the news editor, trying to look relaxed and natural with one knee up draped with his arm, and failing big time. Mike was a rules guy, an anal rules guy. Everything was black or white with Mike, no shades of grey. Fluxuations in routine, bending of rules, did not go over well with him, would throw him into a tizzy. He was just generally uptight and someone I only spoke to directly when I absolutely had no other choice. Because of course people like this get on my last nerve, I'm all about switching it up, tossing the rules, trying new things. Despite his severe short haircut, Glen the editor sitting beside Mike was way more relaxed. He kinda looks like a young Ron Howard, red hair, fair complexion, freckles. A jock in high school, he was a big bruiser of a boy. His girlfriend, also in journalism but not this class, looked like Josie Bissett of Melrose place, one of those supertall skinny girls. I was indifferent to Glen . . . and his girlfriend. They seemed like nice people.

At the very back, in the centre of the group, is Marc, another copy editor. He's the one with the curly blonde hair covering his ears, slight build, a bit older than most of us. He was an ideas guy, creative, airy, a bit neurotic sometimes when he'd pace the newsroom chainsmoking and pulling at his hair, but really intelligent and well-read -- oh yes, you know I had the biggest crush on him. His girlfriend was an artist, sculptor I think, and she was a good ten years older than him, a hard-looking ticket you'd easily mistake for a prostitute on the street, with a toddler girl from a previous relationship. She was moody and jealous and demanding and would show up at the school all the time and throw fits in the foyer. But he had such patience for her. Sometimes he'd completely break down after she left.

Living with the Vulcan Kevin, this vulnerability in a man fascinated me. I couldn't understand why he would stay in this crazy destructive relationship (though essentially I was doing the same thing, although a bit more subtle), why he would pick her over so many nice girls in the world (and I was certain he could have any one of those nice girls that he desired, though I'm pretty certain his battered ego saw the world differently). He had no idea I liked him. I wasn't gushing all over him or anything like that. I didn't speak to him as much as I didn't speak to anyone else. At that time with my low self-esteem and shyness, I would never have acted upon any sort of a crush like that. I would never have thought it remotely possible to attract a boy like this. And in retrospect, thank god for that, because my life was complicated enough then without throwing a big old boy/girl attraction wrench into school too.

And there I am, 21-years-old soon to be 22, chubby faced, hands folded in front of me, open-mouthed smile, shoulder-length brown layered and semi-feathered hair with too long bangs hiding my eyes, wearing pencil-legged faded jeans and my green Goodnight Desdemona (Good Morning Juliet) t-shirt with the pink lettering. Look at those cheeks on me! And is that a dimple in my chin? I don't even have one of those, do I? My face is really fat. I remember I gained a lot of weight before I moved home, would've been later this same year I think. The constant partying and crazy CFAN shiftwork knocked the fat off me pretty quick once I got here. But that's stuff for another post.

Mood: nostalgic
Drinking: coffee (only the best for the weekend!) with cream
Listening To: Ben Folds, The Luckiest
Hair: severely askew

Words to Live By

February 17, 1993

To Kellie,

Our Motto:

Don't you ever make
my cousin cry again!

Love,
Stace

Sixth grade I think. It was noon hour and we were on the hill behind the school, in the elementary field. Maybe we had been playing football or soccer. Maybe it was just one of those crazy chasing games. But it was me and Stacy and all the boys. The other girls would've been down in the playground or on the pavement playing skip or yogi (is that what that elastic jumping game was called?) It was always me and Stacy and all the boys.

Anyway, I'm not real sure how it happened or even which boys were there, but somehow Stacy ended up tackled and on the ground in tears. I'm thinking Junior, Troy and Larry were there, but they had been held back and were older than us, and a little scary. Billy and Cam would've been there. Maybe Perry and Michael and Gregory. An odd mix of Blackville boys with Renousers sounds appropriate.

At any rate when Stacy got hurt I blew some sort of gasket. Before I knew what had happened I marched across that field and grabbed Tommy by the throat pulling him toward me (and maybe even a little off the ground) And hissing through clenched teeth I gave him my most menacing icy glare and said, "Don't you ever make my cousin cry again!"

Of course I endured a lot of teasing about this incident throughout high school, but that day I learned a valuable lesson I never forgot -- people fear uncharacteristic violence -- so when the quiet girl goes postal people generally get out of the way.

I found some photographs and things in my old room the last time I was in Miramichi and brought them home with me. One of them is our motto that Stacy printed for me way back when. Think I'll buy a new frame and hang it.

Mood: oh so sleepy
Drinking: coffee, the canadian blend NOT the good stuff, with cream
Listening To: John Mayer, Your Body is a Wonderland
Hair: severely mussed

Told Ya So!

It's the first of December. In about six weeks I go to Toronto. I've started reading Michael Winter's blog. I've started checking the club listings. I've started thinking about restaurants, about the Annex, about Yorkdale. I've visited the LCBO website and priced things I can't get here. I remember walking in the snow by City Hall, watching the ice skaters, the Christmas window displays at Simpson's, the smell of hot dog vendors . . . I've started to think about how much money someone of my age and experience might earn in a year. I've started to think about opportunity, about potential, about writers and artists and community, about living in the centre of the publishing universe as a free woman, unattached and self-sufficient. I knew this would happen.

Yesterday I wanted to spend my last few dollars on an insanely high-priced bouquet of fresh flowers at Save-Easy. I wanted to inhale the bright colours, close my eyes and see the reds and purples, carry the vase from room to room so I would never be without. I used to buy insanely high-priced bouquets of fresh flowers at Save-Easy, on the verge of withering, I'd count myself very fortunate to get three or four days out of them. No flowers this month. But soon.

Sometimes I think my mother wills me to fail, just so she can be right. Sometimes I think I do, just to over-ride her indifference.

Mood: head thick and oh so heavy with anti-drugs
Drinking: roobioos tisane (naturally decaf, i might add)
Listening To: Feist, Inside Out
Hair: surprisingly easy to maintain

You Are An Invisible Ex

You're so over your ex, you hardly even remember you have an ex You prefer leave all of the baggage behind you - far, far behind As they say, indifference is the opposite of love!

What Type of Ex Are You?