The Details Part I

A theme for my recent excursion quickly emerged as one of excess and exploration -- do the things we hadn't when we lived in the city, without worrying about the price tag. I have spent every cent I've ever made and am likely to make in the coming years. But it was worth it. Ok, the complete uncensored Director's Cut Special Edition version coming right up! But it's a little long, so for now, only the first part. Photos also to follow when Stacy sends me some digital shots.

Thoughts from the train Friday Jan 20th and Saturday Jan 21st 2006

4:28pm -- Enroute to Toronto. Enroute to Jon Bon and Taia and Isabel and maybe even Kevin. I'm no longer horrified by the idea of seeing him. Whatever's meant to happen, will happen. And I'll be able to handle it, no matter what it is. I've been aboard The Ocean less than 10 minutes, chugging toward Dorchester, not yet past the prison, and already I've traded my boots for the hopefully warm green pom-pommed fuzzy slipper socks and am curled up with a cup of coffee. Not many travelling today in the new coach with the spacious blue seats. Stacy and I might even get to sprawl out yet, depending on how many people we pick up throughout the night. Have the latest issue of Fiction magazine before me. Settled in for the long haul. Life feels good.

5:03pm -- Moncton. Inspired to write the hotel scene from the short story I've been working on. Two paragraphs scribbled. Jagged dialogue. Hurts to go there.

5:35pm -- Can't get into the story. Enroute to Rogersville in darkness. Staring at my own reflection in the window. Might switch seats when Stacy boards in Miramichi. Had a banana. Buddy in the seat behind me reads the paper and mutters to himself. A little disconcerting. I don't like him at my back.

Later -- Clipping along at a great speed now, no slow mosey today. All day long I've had the sneezes. I worry something crawled up my nose while I slept. One of those spiders we eat every year. Or my sinuses are acting up unlike ever before. Or I'm allergic to something.

9:40'ish pm -- Between Jaquet River and Campbellton. Shortly after 9 they dimmed the lights. Dimmed is a mild term. They turned them right off. Plunged into blackness. Couldn't see Stacy sitting beside me. We've turned on our overheads to read and write. Just been on a bathroom break. Will NOT be revisiting that one again. Sent Stacy to the next car and she said it seemed better. Cleaner perhaps. Only undertones of urine, no evidence. Functional. Arriving in Campbellton now. Am reminded of the blue grass afternoon spent here many years ago. Back in the days of beer and cigarettes.

12:30am -- Somewhere in Quebec. Technically it's still Friday night, 11:30pm local time. We watched a movie in the lounge. A Jamie Foxx romantic comedy from a few years ago. Hadn't seen it before so it was a good time killer. The young man travelling with his father that's sitting behind us now that the mutterer switched seats reminds me of Bubbles from the Trailer Park Boys. He joined us about 10 minutes into the movie. A bit annoying with some of his chatter at the beginning but soon settled in and let us watch in peace. Trying to get comfy for sleeping. It's not too bad maybe. Though Stacy is too short for these seats. She's moved across the aisle into the single seat to see if she can have better comfort. I forgot about the churches in Quebec. Everywhere red and blue fluorescent crosses suspended in darkness.

Rimouski -- There's a lot of snow in Quebec. So much more than Sackville, which was positively green when I left. Is it possible I've moved to the best weather place? My cab driver was definitely flirting with me today. I hate being called sweetheart by people I barely know. Maybe I hate being called sweetheart altogether, cell memories of David. The cabbie is married. At first I thought he must be Dad's age, but further examination leads me to believe he's only in his 40's. He's got young eyes. Reminds me of Ronnie actually, prematurely aging. It's disturbing that he's the only one who ever comes to Salem. There used to be variety. Now there is only him. Maybe I'll switch cab companies for awhile. I've got that greasy bug-eyed travel feeling. Yuck! Wish I could sleep. I'm going to be so zonked upon Toronto arrival with two nights of little sleep on my back. Apparently I'm to do the contacting. I'm to take the hit. I can do it! I'm strong enough and smart enough and kind enough and honest enough and gosh darn it people like me! How does that go? From SNL? Seriously, I need to chill. It'll work out.

Dorval -- Not long now, relatively speaking. Comfort Class has declined on this ancient car, remnant of years ago trips. Would have been new then, not so flashy now. Soon everything French will be English again as we hit Cornwall, Kingston and beyond. Knots tightening in my stomach. Montreal station was the same as always only with more restaurants, more cafe seating. We were horrified to find people smoking. Different laws in French Canada perhaps, the tables had ashtrays so we assume no law broken. Had a great breakfast for only $6 with 2 eggs, bacon, dark rye toast, panfries, orange rounds and coffee. Our VIA hostess is efficient, designating two emergency exit window people and a third guy on the doors. In case of emergency I'm sitting amongst all the people who are supposed to know what to do, they've been given the talk, they've accepted the responsibility. Don't I feel safe.

Between Kingston and Belleville -- Farm country here now. Will soon be a constant view of suburbia all the way into downtown. I want off.

Night 1 -- Saturday January 21st

12:29am EST -- We're in Room 204 at the Radisson Admiral. Our window overlooks Queen's Quay West across the street from a Rabba Foods, staring straight into the base of the CN Tower. It's Saturday night and I'm dead tired. And severely weirded out. I feel out of sorts, out of bounds, unusual. It started from the moment we detrained. Union Station so familiar, yet so strange. The first thing I noticed was that the city stinks. I mean it seriously stinks. I'm not just talking about one stinky cab ride, the air is thick with scent. It makes me queasy. Stacy can't smell anything, thinks I'm a little off, and maybe I am, but I smell what I smell and so far I don't like it. By tomorrow I hope I acclimate. Arrival was like a huge assault on my senses, blurring me, I wanted only to get out and check in. Tunnel vision on the cab ride, focused and quiet as I listened to the radio news of two separate shootings so far this weekend. I had estimated somehow that a shooting happens every eight days or so, should have been able to get in and out without hearing of one while we were here, but as with most math, my calculations appear a little off.

We checked in, unpacked, freshened up and opted to dine in the hotel this first evening. Jerk chicken nachos from the bar menu though we ate in the dining room sitting at a table against the window with a dark view of the water, metro police boats at dock and the Island airport in the distance. Back to the room to get our coats and I called Mary Beth --

Hello.
Hello. How are you?
Good.
What are you doing?
Not much.
Do you know who this is?
. . . noooo, not really.
Kellie.
Kellie?
Yeah.
Underhill?
Yeah.
Ho-lee shit! What the fuck? You're here! What the fuck are you doing here? Where the hell are you? . . .

There's more. Surprisingly more, given the briefness of the call. She was freaked out and drinking a little and tres chatty, just like I remember. Her mother had neglected to mention we were coming into town. She had no idea. I hit her with the news completely out of left field. She wondered if I had run away. Run away? I asked. Yeah, she laughed, you never know with you. She told me about house renovations, a new patio, a pool. Told me lots of stuff, about lots of people. Wants us for dinner tomorrow, but we can't, have plans with Taia and Ian. I said we'd be out for a visit. So, that's that. We're going. Tomorrow. I'll feel better, less weirded after I sleep. I hope.

After the telephone call we headed out walking North on Rees to Bremner. Something going on at SkyDome (Rogers Centre now I guess). Not sure what. But kids everywhere with white skulls on black flags, t-shirts, balloons, ball caps. Scalpers saying tickets, tickets, tickets. So many people. Alan called Stacy while this wild-eyed guy circled us in the street. We both thought he was going to steal her phone. East on Bremner and in the south side of the Convention Centre for the Home Show. Yes, I HATE these kinds of things. But I figured if I went to something I couldn't endure for her, Stacy would have to repay later on with something I wanted to do and she couldn't endure. Luckily she decided it cost too much to get in for the short amount of time we had left before it closed for the day, so I was off the hook.

Exited onto Front Street and walked east stopping to take some pictures, sightsee, scope restaurants, find a washroom. Went to the The Library Bar in the Royal York Hotel and drank $12 martinis. I had a Cosmopolitan for Jenn and Stacy tried the Chocolate martini because it was listed as someone's favourite thing in the People magazine she read on the train. Mine was very good. Hers not so much. Looked muddy, unappetizing. Great setting though. I could've stayed there for a few drinks. But I was tired, my head buzzing thick, and Stacy was just buzzing, jittery, not wanting to stay still anywhere for longer than a few minutes. Probably just as well. On our return to the hotel we walked South on Bay to Queen's Quay West past the Air Canada Centre where we knew the boys were doing their first concert. Limos everywhere. Limos must be a big business here. Likely the famous people travel around less conspicuously.

Day 1 -- Sunday January 22nd

8:39am -- Listening to CHUM-FM. Avril Lavigne, Complicated. Drinking coffee with powdered milk. Big day today. Lots on tap. Woke with the alarm at 7:30am and headed for the shower, feeling less fuzzy, well rested and recharged. Got Stacy up after my shower and made coffee. Seattle's Best. Not bad, all coffee is good in the morning, but would be so much better with real cream rather than Coffeemate. People watched out the window for a few minutes, while Stacy's showering and getting ready to leave. Not many around early on a sunny Sunday morn. A few dog walkers and joggers. Lots of condo dwellers around these parts. It's a beautiful morning out there. Trying to get the temperature off the radio. Feel so much better today. Going to the AGO. Being here so far (and this could change in the coming days) but so far, I've no regrets about not living here. I miss Sackville already. Coming into the Tantramarsh this time back will be even more exciting, calming and peaceful than other trips. High today of +4, sunny with cloudy periods, she says. Good stuff! Wearing my pink boucle jacket with slimming bustier underneath, jeans with pink trim. Almost time to step through the looking glass. Breathe. Just breathe. You can do this, Kel.

Night 2 -- Sunday January 22nd

1:26am -- Big day. I called Taia before we left this morning to make arrangements to meet later. This worked out well because they could pick us up on Brown's Line. I worried about the exit, but that problem was solved. We hit the AGO first. Saw a contemporary art exhibit by Michael Awad called Present Tense that was very interesting. Very cool photography. There's one of Queen Street, for example, that's like nothing but wide open space, blue skies and greenery. I loved it! We brunched in the AGO Cafe because we were short on time. Stacy got a fabulous souffle (perfect!) but my bacon 'n eggs left much to be desired (cold and slimy). We raced out of there without even getting to see any of the upstairs sculpture gallery (which is probably the best part) but oh well, next time.

From Union Station we caught the GO Train west to Long Branch. In Mimico I was surprised to see The Blue Goose Tavern still standing, still open, with Sunday matinee cars in parking lot. I went there only once that I recall, and I remember nothing about the place per say, except it was a little "rough." I either went there with MB on one of those crazy excursions to meet that gorgeous man or the great Bobby-Oh took me there one of those Pogey Days I skipped school to make sure he made it home off the Lakeshore alive. I think the latter. No doubt one of those days I ended up cursing him for his stubborn arrogant loud drunkness and stomping over the hill from The Eastwood all alone in the wee hours. It seems he got in trouble for taking me there, but maybe not, maybe it was just me who got in trouble for going.

Even more shocking was seeing Thurman's Moose Lodge as we arrived at our stop. Stepping out of the GO Station was deja vu of the hugest kind -- the legion, Arnold's, the stacks on the water, the guy who grows grapes in his front yard, the KFC, even Yu Chu's, all exactly as it always was. Some new occupants like Blockbuster, some we weren't sure of like the meat market. But how frigging eerie! Climbed the hill to Brown's Line like a thousand times before. Nothing was the same. Some things are the same. It was weird. Crazy. Totally out of hand. Centennial gone, renamed something like Hound and Fox, Pizza Pizza turned into a Subway, new buildings, new lamps on posts, new Alderwood neighbourhood signs . . . and there amongst it all one of those big black neon-lettered signs saying "Welcome back to Moonlighting!" Like it was just for us. Moonlighting Restaurant looking small and out of place surrounded by all the newness. Mary Beth told us that it's just been re-opened by the people who used to run it a long long time ago, when I lived here. Weirdness.

We walked down Brown's Line to Woodbury. My old street, and Stacy would go no further. Woodbury to Foch. I could see my old apartment, where Kevin still lives. A truck parked on the side of the street. His? Stacy seemed to be freaking out, thought she saw Jane walking the dog. I kept saying it'd be okay, but who was I kidding? I was traumatized before we even got to the house. Some new houses in the neighbourhood. A Hummer parked in the drive across the street from the old homestead. I knocked on the door and when this teenaged boy looking so much like Mary Beth opened it, I just stood there with my jaw scraping the ground. I think Stacy said, "Oh my God!" And that was it. But the kid let us in anyway. Chad, aged 15, wow! The last time I saw him, he was 8. That was the summer everyone came east for Violet's wedding (now divorced MB tells me). The summer I had the club and Marty nearly ran me over in my field, doing power turns, angry with me, jealous. Kevin took me out of there, kept me with him for days, wanted to keep me forever. The last time I saw Chad before that, he was a baby, a toddler wobbling around. It's hard to believe this child is the teenager who answered the door with the long hair hanging past his shoulders. Time has passed.

The house was different, but the same, seemed smaller than it used to be, different furnishings, different furniture arrangement. How did we all live there at the same time without someone killing someone? But then again, it did get pretty nasty by times. Ended up in the basement, the room Ronnie built originally, now made larger, still used for partying. Found out what everyone's been doing, where they work, live. Who got married. Who has kids. Some things are really different. Some things are amazingly the same. I felt numb, so surreal being there. But it was fine, things were okay, going along well, until I went to the washroom and returned to find Kevin there.

When I came out of the washroom I could hear a voice that sounded like his, but I hadn't heard anyone come downstairs, thought it was just Chad or the tv or something. Opened the door and there he was, standing in the middle of the room. I was thrown. And I wasn't the only one. He was like, "Whoa!" visibly taken aback. I think we both teetered on our feet like we'd hit a brick wall in mid-stride. Stacy thinks I said, "Oh my God!" But I thought he said that. Didn't think I said anything. I know I stopped breathing. Must've looked even more shocked than I felt because as I plopped back into my seat on the couch he was like, "What?! Do I look that different or something?" On the edge of anger. I said no, it was nothing, he looked the very same is all. And he does look the same. A little older, a bit crinkly around the eyes, a bit bigger around the middle (but he was always so skinny anyway) but basically the very same.

I know I should've expected to see him. I should've been prepared. But we'd been there over an hour before he arrived, I had decided I was going to get out of there without running into him. And then like every other god damn time with him, this frigging dramatic movie moment. I should've anticipated it, because of course that's how it would happen. Like that time at Union Station when we had broken up (supposedly forever) and I was leaving for NB and he was catching the GO Train back to Long Branch and we ended up in window seats across the platform from one another on trains that pulled out at the same exact moment headed in opposite directions and we held each others eyes until the very last. I remember we talked about this later, all the movie-like dramatics we'd had, some instigated, but most like this, completely the work of the universe. So no, I shouldn't have been surprised to find he had snuck into the room when I wasn't looking and likewise he shouldn't have been surprised to find I had snuck out and wasn't where he thought I'd be either. This is just the way it is between us.

I think he was nervous, chain-smoking, chattering away non-stop, asking tons of questions, offering up tons of information. Meanwhile I went quiet and jittery with a severe case of foot-in-mouth. Everything seemed to come out wrong. At one point I even said something to Stacy that didn't seem particularly nice the way it came off, which wasn't my intention, but from the high-pitch of my voice I'm sure it was obvious I was losing it.

I had hoped to see him and learn about some sort of wonderful life he had made for himself, but instead he seems to be going through a tough time right now. I felt bad. He seemed a bit more defeated than I recall, less optimistic. This is the guy that made me believe I could do anything I wanted, he could do anything, nothing was impossible. It doesn't seem like he believes that anymore. He has doubt. I've never known him to have doubt, or if he had it, to show it, to wear it in his eyes. Every other time we've been apart he's excelled without me. We've always been better apart. We'd come back together from great places and then tear each other down. We've talked about the way we drag each other down when we're together. Not intentionally, it just happened that way everytime. But now he's not excelling. He's barely getting by it seems. And he seems resigned to it and that makes me so sad. So while I felt really happy with my decision to not be there, to not be living in the old neighbourhood, to make a different life for myself, to be in Sackville where it seems that I really do belong, lord help me there's a part of me that wants to reach out and take care of that man. Find the fire in his belly. Help put the spark back in his eyes. There wasn't even any sarcasm coming out of him. No contempt. It was all wrong. And yes, I know I can't fix anything and to try would be disastrous. Logically I know this but my heart breaks to think of him being less than I know he can be. What is with me and this insane weakness of mine to take care of guys?! Prop them up and make their lives a little easier? Is this where my mothering instincts come out? I'm too chicken shit to commit to well just about anything, but willing to undertake the fixing of the most unfixable men on the planet. Maybe I should just have a child and be done with it. A child can't be more expensive than bikes and guitars and booze and drugs and golf. Oh my God! Golf! Nothing is more expensive than a bad golfing habit.

Yes, the whole visit turned unsettling and uncomfortable for me. In separate unrelated occasions both Kevin and MB mentioned a photo of me and him and Chad that still hangs on the wall in the party room. She showed it to me before he arrived. I think I also have the same one. Double-prints. Mary Beth was always big on double-prints. She gave both Stacy and I two photos of Chad. One from this year in his hockey uniform. The other his class pic from last year. Will I ever see the child again?

Taia and Ian arrived to collect us just when it seemed if it got any more unbearable things would turn truly ugly. Oh God! What an idiot I was! Could not get out of there quick enough, rushing the goodbyes, trembling, fumbling with coat and boots, giving Isabel the Sackville souvenir book and fridge magnet, the fake smile, great to see ya, if you're ever my way come visit. Blech! Phonier than a three dollar bill Thurman would say. Didn't know which way to turn or what to say, autopilot all the way. I couldn't even look at Kevin. Wouldn't look at him. Felt on the verge of the horrible ugly cry or a hysterical collapse of giggles. Don't know which would be worse. Just turned tail and ran. Awkward. Awkward. Awkward. Practically hyperventilating for hours afterward. Stacy kept telling me I was breathing on her, all the sighs coming out of me.

But it's over. I did it. And nobody screamed. And nobody cried. And I got out basically in the same shape I went in. I think. Though I've got a nagging feeling about it. Something remains. I don't know what it is. I suppose it's just my guilt still. But I've lived with it for about 8 years, I don't suppose another few dozen will kill me.

We had some time before picking up the divine miss M from a birthday party, so we went to Sherway Gardens. I was still zonked, unrecovered from Alderwood. I used to like shopping at Sherway when I lived here. My first job was at PJ's Pet Centre in the dog department -- grooming, walking, selling, those dogs broke my heart. I hated that job. But I liked the Sherway mall because it was a little more upscale and therefore not as crowded as the discount places like Cloverdale and Dixie. You could walk around leisurely even at peak times like near Christmas. Not so now. Or not so late Sunday afternoon near closing. It was like being in Champlain Place. Ugh! I've become such a street person, clausterphobic in the mall. Though I really barely noticed at the time, I was so shell-shocked, it's only now hours later that I realise how crowded the mall seemed to be. Stacy and I are not on the same shopping page. She needs kids stuff and homey things. I need clothing, in particular, tops. My wardrobe is severely diminished, I need to either fatten up a bit or get some new stuff. I choose new stuff. I'm quite fat enough. We looked around Tommy Hillfiger and The Pottery Barn and a kids store or two until the mall closed.

Then we piled into the car and headed east to Taia and Ian's house. Seems like a lovely old neighbourhood. Great house! With a porch. Jealous of all her movie paraphenelia, especially the Lost in Translation poster. She thinks her bathroom is small but I had a peak and it's truly got nothing on my Smurf bathroom. You could easily fit two of mine into hers. No exaggeration. I've seriously got the one where you can pee, wash your hands in the sink and your feet in the shower, simultaneously. Someday I'll have a real bathroom and I won't know what to do with the luxury of it all. We listened to '80's tunes, enjoyed snacks and wine and conversation. At some point Ian collected Mad, who returned with a new look, parrot painted on her face. She showed us all her Barbie dolls and hoped to trick someone into eating last year's chocolate Easter egg discovered earlier under the stereo. She's grown since I last saw her. What a cutie! And quite the crafty little character. She told us about the sign Ian made for The Rushton, a restaurant (that one of the Ferro owners opened) on St. Clair West across the street from Ferro where he works as a manager. It's a cool sign. A common topic of conversation and chuckles throughout the evening.

We went to Ferro for dinner. I loved the atmosphere there, loud, bustling, friendly. It's kind of like going to a big family dinner or something. Like being at a cousin's wedding maybe (a cousin you like and get along with, not the other kind). There's this feeling like at any moment someone could walk up, give you a bear hug and kiss both cheeks and that'd be okay. It's very relaxed. For the first time since leaving Brown's Line the knots in my stomach really started to unwind. I had the chicken with mashed potatoes and it was spectacular. For years now I've been saying the best chicken dish I've ever had was the chicken in mushroom sauce at Saddler's Cafe in Chatham (which isn't even on the menu there anymore) but this dish blew that one away. Juicy! Full of flavour! Scrum delicious! I licked the plate clean. Stuffed to the gills. The mashed potatoes were a bit of an accident, I didn't order them and I think the dish comes with roasted potatoes, but both Ian and Taia ordered mashed with their dinner so mine came the same way and now I know why they specified. Simply the best mashed potatoes ever. I'm not kidding. They were special. I will return to this place the next time I visit. And I do plan to visit again. I won't let so many years pass before I get back again.

After dinner we drove past Casa Loma so Stacy could see it, knowing we'd not have time to go there this trip and she's never been. I don't know how she escaped Rob's Casa Loma tourist train. I've been there several times. Everytime anyone would come up to Isabel's from NB, me and Rob took them to Casa Loma and up the CN Tower, cruising Yonge Street on Saturday night and through China Town in the middle of an afternoon. Always seeming to get stuck on the Lakeshore in a Blue Jays traffic jam. But somehow Stacy missed out on that. I guess because she came to stay, not to visit, so we didn't do the tourist scene with her. I don't even remember who all I took these places. But MB and even Kevin weren't ever that big on going downtown.

We said goodnight to Taia, Ian and Madeleine in Yorkville where they dropped us off. A beauty night for walking about. We cruised around a bit and then hit the Avenue in the Four Seasons for one drink. Nice! I could get used to these hotel bars. I wonder how much a night at the Four Seasons costs. Next time we'll stay one night at every hotel we love. From the Four Seasons we walked to Sassafraz. Horrified to find that their lounge allows smoking. Not at all what we expected. The restaurant part appeared to not be receiving any new customers, though there were some people in there the whole time we were there. Perhaps only VIP types were permitted in there. I have no idea. I don't know that we were in the right part of the place, but oh well, it was a touristy thing to do and we did it. We had the vanilla cheesecake and drinks. It was good. Interesting cheesecake though. Very light. Our waiter was young and good looking and foreign. I think Eastern European accent of some sort. So thick we couldn't understand a word the man said, but it didn't matter. While Stacy was in the washroom a man came in off the street with a professional camera in hand and took pictures of the couple sitting by the window. Thanked them and left. No idea what that was all about. Didn't really recognise the pair. Though I supposed the girl could've been Hilary Duff, the scruffy dude, her rocker boyfriend. But that seems rather bizarre. Stacy didn't think she looked like Hilary Duff, but turns out she thought I was talking about a different girl with the long bleached blonde Jessica Simpson hair. This girl was a little peaked in the face, hair pulled back, not so blonde, not bleached out, little make-up . . . but it's the teeth that make me think it really could've been her. Of course the whole idea is bizarre and I've had drinks and a long shocking day, so who knows? All I know is that whoever it was let this guy off the street take their picture like he belonged there. No idea what it all means. What's the use in celebrity stalking if you don't recognise the stars when you see them?

Ten Days Later

I am returned to my marshy nest from the concrete jungle. So which version do you want -- the Reader's Digest Condensed Book? or the Special Edition Director's Cut?

Mood: beyond tired
Drinking: organic tea
Listening To: The Special A.K.A. Too Much Too Young (live)
Hair: a tad orange

Message from the Man

Mike's commenting on our election.

I may as well come clean--I'm not voting. Now before you say anything, I KNOW! I promise not to say anything when the damn conservatives take over the country and ruin everything. I believe this is the first time since I turned 18 that I haven't voted. I mean I was one of those freaky teens who couldn't wait to turn 18 so I could participate in democracy. When I lived in Toronto I went through the biggest round-tuit in order to get registered to vote in the Ontario provincial election when Thurman neglected to tell the people that I lived in the house, which I think went a long way to help many people in my circle of friends at that time realise the importance of voting. At the same time I made all the calls to ensure I had a mail-in ballot to vote for the NB premier. Does all this past "above and beyond the call of duty" activity exempt me from this election? Not frigging likely. If I let myself think about it too much I'll freak out, politics is in my blood.

But this election just required too much effort on my part, (I needed to register for my new riding and I needed to pre-vote because I'm out of province on election day) during a month where I just felt swamped (impending trip, plus lots of bnm stuff and more). I tried to not care, told myself that my vote can't save us from Stephen Harper anyway, the country can't possibly be destroyed by one bum prime minister, how bad could it be? But the truth is, my vote does matter. Every vote matters. It mightn't keep Harper out of office but political parties receive funding based on the number of votes they get, so if I want the NDP or the Green Party to have the cash to become a contender I've got to give them my backing. And as for one bum PM destroying the country . . . well, look at how quickly Bush ruined America. It can happen.

So, I'm guilty. I've been bad. I promise to do better next time.

*****

It's Toronto-bound day! Finally! And I'm up early and getting ready and bursting with excitement. The weather for Sunday, Monday and Tuesday looks good for the city with highs in the low plusses and some sunshine or low chances of flurries. I think it's going to be an awesome trip!

*****

I've been sneezing my head off since I got up (before my alarm rang, I might add). I don't know if I'm having an allergic reaction to something or what the hell's going on, but all this sneezing is driving me batty.

Mood: sleepy-eyed
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Roger, Rick & Marilyn on CHUM-FM
Hair: wild 'n wooly

No Lappy

It's official. Da boss has banned the laptop. We will rely on the computers of strangers for our journey. There will be NO work. There may be a little blogging, depending.

I purchased snack foods for the train today -- granny apples, organic bananas, granola bars -- food on the train is so terribly expensive. It's a couple of bucks just for a small styrofoam cup of coffee, and money remains a concern heading into this thing. I think I'll be okay. Other purchases today included luggage tags, trial sized mouthwash, and a new writing journal, actually two new writing journals.

One is a women's journal with quotes from women writers on the inside cover, I've seen this journal before somewhere, some woman I know writes in this same one . . . Karen maybe? I'm not sure. The other is just a plain black hardcover composition book. I didn't buy these for the trip so much, though it'll be the train before I can start any writing I'm sure, but I've wanted something new for capturing long-hand thoughts, something solid and classy and inspiring, because there's a new story working it's way out and I'm tired of having creative thoughts jumbled with work notes and articles in spiral stenopads. So tomorrow (later today) I'll start some books just for the creative stuff, keep it all together, make it easier to find and use.

One week from tonight I'll be back in NB, will have given another workshop at the Access Centre. I'm looking forward to this workshop, feel prepared, ready, like I can really do this thing and help people, inspire them, feels good. Also received a rejection email today on one of the stories I submitted last June to a lit review in BC. Nothing specific to my work, just a form, nothing helpful, though it did say they'd look forward to seeing something else from me . . . which isn't always the case. I should workshop that story now with the Sackville group, but I need a God damn new printer to run off copies for everyone. Have to make getting a printer a priority next month. I'm stalled on many fronts without one. Perhaps a laser printer, ink will be cheaper even if the printer cost is more up front. Will have to research in full.

Mood: beyond wired
Drinking: drank a bottle of wine, nothing now
Listening To: CSI on Showcase
Hair: pulled back, still faded

28 Hours

I depart in 28 hours. Oh boy! Crazy weather here. Wild wind. Last night was insane with freezing rain and ice pellets. Today it's just windy and cold, all the snow has been washed away. The weather in Toronto looks good for Sunday and Monday. Packing for winter weather is difficult. I don't think I'll have time to go see Capote tonight. I know it's only two hours, I should be able to get out for a couple of hours, but I can't see it happening. Not surprisingly I've got new work coming in as I type, stuff that can't wait until I get back. It's always the way. The universe knows I'm leaving and sends me everything she's got in the last minute urgent category. Oh well. I'm at least used to this sort of departure.

Mood: scattered
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Afterglow, INXS
Hair: faded and fuzzy

Heart Palpitations

I am sick with excitement over impending trip. Dreams are filled with Toronto memories. Too much to do still. Trying to remain calm and practical. Stick to some sort of schedule.

The boy on the other side of my bedroom has moved in a girl and it's driving me nuts. I hope she is just visiting and will return to wherever she came from, be gone by the time I return from my excursion. She giggles. A LOT! And it's not infectious, but so juvenile-like annoying. And she's in there all the time. And he's in there with her when he's not in class. And they're so "in love" it's sickening. Please kill me now! But the worse thing is that the bitch cooks. I mean seriously cooks like three square meals a day, including bacon and sausage for breakfast, curried meats for dinner and burger-like midnight snacks. That boy is going to blow up if she stays much longer. And the smell of food cooking is everywhere in my apartment, making me hungry, making me want to eat burgers at midnight . . . but I'm not 22-years-old! I CAN'T get away with eating burgers at midnight anymore. Plus she's as laundry obsessed as me and considering the water supply is shared it's become a little difficult to take a shower without being frozen or scalded. Please let this just be a visit and not a permanent arrangement.

Globe Night

Jack's back from the dead in the most explosive season ever (they've assassinated President Palmer, killed Michelle and seriously injured Tony, and now the Russians have taken Terminal One at Ontario airport) and even still I opted to wait until midnight to watch the second half of the four-hour season premiere, so I could catch the Golden Globes in their entirety. I've elected less sleep. More tv.

Highlights --

Could Don Johnson been more the proud papa? And for that matter could Miss Golden Globe have been more the "embarrassed to be on the same stage with my mother" daughter? And seriously who could blame her? Is Melanie on crack or what? And what is up with all the tattoos?

I felt bad for Matt Dillion on the red carpet before the show. He was so inarticulate and boring, god love him. He seemed a little dazed and confused. He's so frigging serious. He was good in Crash though. It's a good movie, but Matt on the carpet and then later even when presenting . . . kinda space cadet.

I was jumping up and down with Sandra Oh's excited win. One of ours. Go Canada! I was rooting for her, have enjoyed her for a long time. Ever since, what was it called? The Last Day?

Completely appalled by Drew Barrymore's breasts! I mean I totally love Drew, don't get me wrong, but she was definitely the actress in most need of a good bra tonight. I mean it wasn't so much that her nipples were completely exposed, it was her breasts hanging around her waist that was too much. Bras are good.

How great did Nicollette Sheridan look? She was gorgeous in that blue dress. She gets my vote for best dressed of the night, followed by Scarlett Johansen in red. Lovely.

What was up with the speeches? Geena Davis lies about a little girl, then House pulls names from his pocket and The Office guy reads the speech his wife wrote. There were a lot of unusual speeches tonight.

How jealous was I that Cynthia Nixon got to sit beside Ed Harris? I've got such a crush on him. Must be those amazing blue eyes.

Chris Rock was out of control. Seriously. I don't think those jokes were on the teleprompter . . .

How much did I love that Mary Louise Parker beat the Desperate Housewives, though the thank you to John Spencer was a little weird? But Felicity Huffman winning Best Actress in film Drama totally rocked! I teared up.

And how much do I love anything Irish?! Jonathan Rhys-Meyers! Kelly MacDonald! And of course my boy, Cillian, who was up for Best Actor in a Comedy/Musical. I just love him. I can never go to Dublin, I might not return.

Walk the Line smoked, like I hoped it would. Though it'll be up against Brokeback Mountain come Oscar time, which also smoked tonight.

Philip Seymour Hoffman! How long have I loved him? Since forever! Boogie Nights, Magnolia, The Talented Mr. Ripley, Almost Famous, Love Liza, Punch-Drunk-Love, Cold Mountain . . . I wanted to see Capote, and now I must go. It's playing Thursday night here as part of the Film Society nights.

Gotta love award night! And now I'm even more prepared to kick some serious butt and hold onto the Pink Panther in the 2nd Annual Keenan Oscar Competition.

Mood: pop-cultured
Drinking: water
Listening To: Jack Bauer
Hair: being treated for split endz

Looking Good!

Hello Kellie,
Here's your weekly horoscope for January 16 to 22.

Change of Scene

You may find yourself tied up in knots when it comes to your joint financial affairs, Kellie. Tuesday could be confusing as you may be offered a deal, but there may be reservations about whether you will actually get it or not. Don't worry too much, as this side of life will look a lot better after February 4. Meanwhile, Mars moves to square Neptune on Wednesday which could lead to one of those events that creates temporary chaos and seems to come out of nowhere. If you have big plans at this time, don't take anything for granted as they may materialize in a way that is completely different from anything you expected. In fact, they may not materialize at all, come to that. Be ready. The end of the week swings the spotlight around to travel and other such forms of excitement. The journey has to be a spiritual one as well as one of adventuring to places that stir up your interest. Mercury and the Sun move into Aquarius from Friday, so you may find it hard to resist an urge to escape to the blue yonder. The more tropical and the more magical the place, the better. You are due for a change of scene - go for it.

My trip is blessed! Oh happy day! I can't believe we're down to a few days. One week from today is the concert I have tickets for.

Mood: freaking
Drinking: cheap coffee
Listening To:
Hair: oy!

Another Saturday Six

From Patrick's Weekender.

1. Do you generally tend to be early, late or right on time?
It varies from all extremes, I'll be super early sometimes and super late at other times. But no matter when I arrive, my natural tendency is to run late, rush around like a crazy person. I think I'd always be late if I weren't so willing to just say fuck it and leave.

2. Did you belong to any clubs in high school? If so, which did you value the most?
I was in drama, public speaking, yearbook and radio. Drama was by far the one I valued the most. Going to the drama festival was the highlight of the school year. The upside to doing those things was getting pulled from regular classes. Grad year I was hardly ever in class.

3. Where was your favorite place to hang out when you were in high school? How often were you there and were you usually with friends or alone?
Hmm, not sure what this means, during school hours? In my spare time? During school hours you were most likely to find me in the office. Seriously, I used to be there so much I was answering the phone, sorting the mail and handing out absentee slips. The guidance counsellor's office was in the main office, and I spent a lot of time there with university calendars. We kept our ice cream freezer in the office. We sold ice cream at noon to raise money for drama. We also kept our chocolate bars there that we sold at sporting events to raise money for drama. And we had an office space there for the yearbook. Plus those times I got hauled in for misbehavin'. Yeah, as bizarre as it seems, most likely found in the office. Off school property, it's difficult to say . . . riding in cars with boys I guess.

4. Take this quiz (if you haven't already!): What chess piece are you? (Thanks to Charles.)

A White Bishop

You scored 1 Power-Finesse, 3 Leader-Follower, 3 Unique-Ordinary, and 3 Offense-Defense!

Despite your unusual talents, you are often overlooked by your
opponent. You are content to stay off to one side, allowing the
bloodbath to ensue. Occasionally however, you end up in the scrum
yourself, slaughtering the unbelievers. You don't last long when you do
that, though. After all, what are the sheep for if not to be shorn? One
unfortunate fact: No matter how hard you try, you can only reach half
the squares on the board.



My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

	You scored higher than 1% on Power-Finesse
	You scored higher than 58% on Leader-Follower
	You scored higher than 38% on Unique-Ordinary
	You scored higher than 57% on Offense-Defense

Link: The What Chess Piece Are You Test written by Gundark27 on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

5. When is the last time you played a board game and what game did you play? Did you win?
At Jenn's at Christmas we had the annual game night, but we were too wiped to play. We tried a few different games, but other than Friends I can't even recall everything we tried. It's safe to bet I wasn't going to win anything at the Friends boardgame.

6. You're called to serve on a jury. Would you rather sit on a capital murder case, a personal injury case, a wrongful death suit or a drunk driving case, and why?
Going to court, covering the trial beat, was one of the more memorable parts of journalism school. I liked watching trials, reporting on the proceedings. Inquest court on the other hand bored the crap out of me. So if I was on a jury and having to pay attention to every detail and make a decision, I'd want a fascinating subject, and probably anyone of those would suffice but if I had to choose I think I'd choose the murder case. Hypothetically at least.

Mood: shaky
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: Crazy, Alanis Morrissette
Hair: needing an intervention

Hawt Damn!

It's a balmy 14 degrees on the marsh. Went out with just a t-shirt and light jacket, nearly cooked. Windows open and letting the place air out. Clouding over tho, might cool some. Went shopping. I so much prefer street shopping. Window shopping from the sidewalk. I see Capote is playing Thursday night at the Vogue. The night before I leave, but still gonna have to try and get out to see that one. Bought a great mug at the thrift store, tried on a few things but didn't find any clothes I liked. Went to Reen's and picked up Sears parcel, haven't tried stuff on yet, but looks nice on the hanger. Bought some new make-up brushes at Jean Coutu, seriously needed them big time. The last time I bought a blush brush I was dating Ronnie, OMG I'm serious! I think he paid for it because I was still in high school, crazy stuff. Got some wooden kitchen utensils at the dollar store. Been wanting some because I keep melting plastic in my food. Yeah, I know, you'd think I'd learn after the first time but . . .

Mood: get up and go
Drinking: nothing right now
Listening To: Cab, Train
Hair: needing some work

Concert Weekend

It's a Mix 99.9 Bon Jovi Concert Weekend! Listen for a double shot of Bon Jovi, be the ninth caller through and win two tickets to sit onstage during the first of four sold-out concerts at the ACC. ONSTAGE! For the first concert, my tickets are for the second. But I will be in town, so it totally works for me. I've caught the contest twice and tried to win. Busy signals all around. It's funny, people call in whenever they hear Bon Jovi, without waiting to see if it's the contest. Last night Freeway was asking the girls for their home phone number so he could call them later and chat in order to get them to end the calls. It was pretty funny. Girls wanting tix, chatting up a storm, soon as he says give me your number I'll call you later -- silence! Too funny.

I kind of feel like I'm in that movie, I can't remember what it's called, but it follows a group of young people in the 60's as they go to NYC for the weekend to try and see the Beatles when they do Ed Sullivan. They do all kinds of crazy stuff like sneak into their hotel, but also they try to win a radio contest. It was a pretty good movie, can't remember much more than that, saw it eons ago. But it's just this dropping of everything and rushing to the phone that puts it in my head. Yesterday, putting on my make-up when I hear the first chords of Wanted, this crazy falling over myself commotion as I got into position in case it was a double-shot. I'm like a schoolgirl, which is kinda fun.

Going out now for coffee, pick up my Sears parcel (I've ordered jeans in smaller sizes, cuz I think I've dropped again, those last ones aren't fitting so great, plus another amazing jacket sale I couldn't resist), gonna swing by the second-hand places and see if there's anything interesting, maybe go to the techy type place and get him to look at my camera (yes, i'm in possession of yet another bum camera, what is it with me and digicams?! am i not meant to take pics? you've seriously got to wonder), dreamed about fried chicken and think I should go to Save-Easy and get some to satisfy my craving (you can't get chicken in this town, which is so bizarre considering there's a chicken place on every corner in Miramichi) . . . Kellie out! Needing coffee big time!

Mood: mellow
Drinking: Organic Orange Pekoe
Listening To: Even An Ugly Man, Hawksley Workman
Hair: Tempted to take the scissors to it myself, like Frida

A Better Day

Streaming radio out of Toronto has helped knock me out of the crazy funk I've been in since Monday. Thank God for internet radio! Yesterday started with Humble Howard and moved on to tons of work, writing for work (and fun!), an energising walk about town, cooking (and devouring) a feast, house chores, a solid half hour of reading, even a little tv (what is that sitcom Seth Green's doing? Cracked me up totally!), and best of all a solid night's sleep. Doesn't get any better than that.

So I'm over the shock of the Alderwood visit. Of course I can handle this. It'll be fine. If he knows I'm coming he'll probably make sure he's not there anyway. And if not, that's okay too. It'll probably be very pleasant. I'm sure it'll be really nice to see everyone again. After all the crap I've had in my life, I'm still here, stronger than ever, even an afternoon of the worse possible scenario isn't gonna kill me (and seriously, the chances of that happening are way low). So I'm better now. Back in the swing, feeling less scattered and more focused. This is good.

The story thing I'm working on is progressing nicely. Plugging away a little everyday. I've gone back to the ten minute rule. Because it works for me. I mean I feel like I can spend 10 minutes creative writing, that's not going to cut too much into my work, I don't feel guilty taking it. But ten minutes usually becomes 30 or an hour, which is also fine. It's just my way of tricking my mind into thinking it's okay to spend time in personal creative pursuits. Kinda crazy. But it works. I'm writing, the thing is progressing. Though I'm still not sure what it is, definitely fiction, but a bit . . . I dunno, abstract maybe? It's possible I'm working on the bare bones outline of a piece I'll have to expand and fill in later. I haven't got it all figured out yet. It's an image, a concept, an idea I'm compelled to try and capture. The challenge is showing it.

Mood: perky
Drinking: coffee! give me coffee!
Listening To: Welcome to My Life, Simple Plan
Hair: Out there!

Getting In the Mood

Listening to Humble Howard's morning show on the Mix 99.9. Seems like very mild weather going on in Toronto right now. Here too past couple days. Rain this morning. Funny to hear Howard's voice again though. We used to chat everyday when I worked with his wife.

Had my writers' group last night. I've been so freaking tired this week, deadened. Couldn't get my head around discussing anything, but went anyway, figured I might pick up something just by being in the same room with creative energy. To be fair I have been plugging away quite steadily on a draft of something new this week, I'm not a total loser, but this sleepiness is pretty intense. I'm starting to wonder whether I've got mono or something. I am under considerable stress right now. Can't stop yawning. Surely there's more to it than those new sheets. Damn those sheets! Why did my mother buy me something that makes me want to stay in bed more? Why do that to me? I suppose I could take them off. Even thinking about them makes me want to go crawl back into bed. Must snap out of it! Listen to Howard. Laugh. Infuse my body with caffeine. WORK!!

Mood: cheery
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: The Humble Report
Hair: all over the place

Come Into the Light

Andrea says that Paper Napkin declares this National De-Lurking Week.

So . . . come out, come out, whoever you are!







Mood: challenging
Drinking: tap water
Listening To: Sunburn, Gordie Sampson
Hair: sopping in a towel

Tripping

Two weeks from today I will be boarding a train enroute to New Brunswick from Toronto. Whatever is to happen, will have happened. Since Monday's news I've been seriously freaking out. I can't even get my head around the concert, the whole reason for this excursion. I can't even get excited about Jon Bon, how pathetic is that? It's been a concern all along. Could we go and not haunt the old neighborhood? On Sunday I made an executive decision -- YES! We could totally go to the city without entering the west end. There's going to be so little time anyway, who could fault us for staying downtown and being total tourists after all these years? I felt good with this, and started to get excited, started looking at websites and maps and drafting a rough schedule and expected spending report in my head.

But then Monday came and the whole plan fell apart. Damn the universe! Why must she butt in? Why not just let me be? Let me veer as far off the path as I want. Leave me to find my own way back. Unexpected phonecall Sunday afternoon. Out of nowhere, a voice from the past, who has NEVER called before and will probably never call again. And my "stay out of the west end" plan has gone up in smoke, we're scheduled to visit. We're returning to the scene of the crime. People who don't believe there are powerful forces at work in the world, pulling the strings and manipulating our lives like puppeteers, simply aren't paying attention. Obviously, for some reason, I need to go back there.

Based upon my violent reaction to the concept (Monday night was spent in rather hysterical bouts of tears interspersed with an upset stomach that sent me reeling to the bathroom more times than I care to remember), yes, based on my reaction it appears this is a raw nerve for me. And having everyone tell me not to be so foolish, that it'll be okay, really doesn't help. It mightn't seem like a big deal, but for me, it's huge. I mean I start gagging and choking if I allow myself to think on it for more than a few seconds at a time. Yes, I know it's completely irrational, but that's just the way it is.

Maybe if I saw that he's okay, I could let go of some of this guilt. Maybe if he's not okay, if he had the opportunity to tell me face-to-face how much he hates me . . . if he made me cry once and for all . . . maybe that would be the end of it. That's all he wanted, my tears, some hint that it had mattered to me. He got a little crazy when I was slipping away and he couldn't stop me. Did insanely uncharacteristic things like revving his truck until the motor blew, leaving me at a party downtown in a jealous rage, breaking everything on the walls in the apartment including the light switch plates, trying to trap me into a pregnancy . . . we watched Sleepless in Seattle and he cried. He cried. I had never seen him cry before. He cried and I didn't. I had disconnected, fled already, mentally and emotionally, if not physically. He cried and I couldn't believe it, couldn't feel anything, couldn't do anything. The absurdity of it, finally some emotion from him, which was all I ever wanted, the root of my dis-satisfaction. Too fucking late.

He wept and I busted out laughing. I didn't mean to, was shocked and horrified and unable to stop, crazy uncontrollable giggles. I've never forgiven myself for laughing. I've never forgotten the way his eyes looked just then. But even that didn't destroy everything, we stayed in touch, were still connected despite my moving back to NB. We'd talk on the phone every few months. When I faced particularly difficult challenges, it was him I called. When he had news, he called me. And years went by like that. I had other boyfriends. He visited me and met them. Tried to convince me I deserved better (he was right about that). And this was fine for awhile and then he did the unthinkable.

One last trip to lay it all on the line and get me back. He talked marriage and building a house and moving to NB or anywhere I wanted to live and helping me with the business or supporting me while I did whatever it was that I truly wanted to do. Anything I wanted, if it was within his power, he'd see that I had it. He opened up like I'd always wanted, offered me the world. And I didn't know what to do, didn't know what I wanted to do. I was cruel, cold, unresponsive. He gave me his heart and I laughed. I've never hurt anyone like I did him. I've never seen someone's heart break right in front of me like that. I've never been involved in such an emotionally messy altercation. It's the worst thing I've ever done. It's one of the worst days of my life. And I know a lot of time has passed and I know he's moved on and is probably a hundred times better off to be rid of me. And he probably doesn't even think of me anymore, and if he does occasionally, he's probably past hating me . . . And there's a thousand logical reasons why it's perfectly okay for me to go there again . . . but when I think of it, all I can see is his hurt eyes, crying, and it breaks my heart to think I did that. He deserved better than that. I did him wrong like I've done nobody wrong before or since.

I always thought the universe punished me for what I did to him by sending me Marty . . . but maybe I chose Marty to punish myself. The universe obviously has other plans, because she's sending me back there. And maybe it's just to let me torture myself only to go there and not see him anyway. Or maybe it's to get closure on this once and for all. I'm just the puppet.

Walking to the store last night in the grey shadow of sunset, cursing the universe in my head, plotting how to still get out of this . . . when the setting sun struck the wall of windows at the athletic centre, rays bouncing off and reflecting back into the treeline, onto the sidewalk, illuminating me in a bright spotlight. I imagined the universe laughing at me, showing me who's the boss, like there's any way I could ever get out of it when it's what she intends for me to do.

Mood: moody
Drinking: water
Listening To: Don't Cry, GnR
Hair: tiny ponytail

Time to Laugh

You're going to be trapped in an elevator with seven comedians for three hours. Choose seven famous laugh-makers, living or dead, that you'd most like to spend time with when they were in their prime.

1. George Carlin
2. Mike Myers
3. Dana Carvey
4. Jack Black
5. Chevy Chase
6. Howie Mandell
7. Chris Farley

Fuzzy Dreams of Three

I dreamed it was Christmas dinner at the school. Except it wasn't for the kids, it was an evening event for adults, to be followed by drinking and dancing. Yes, it was at the cafeteria in the school. Yes, we had to line up forever in order to be served plates that we carried on trays to rows of long tables. A bit bizarre, I know, but in the dream this Christmas dinner/drinks and dancing was the highlight of the season, the biggest social event of the year. I'm talking men in ties and lots of slinky black dresses.

As odd as this part of the dream was, it didn't end there because in the dream I had three boyfriends. This in itself really isn't that odd, my early 20's were all about juggling, but never with all parties full knowledge and consent. In the dream I lived with an older man, in his sixties. We may even have been married. This man was very successful, well-respected, powerful. Our house was more like a mansion. I had anything I could have ever asked for and only the best. The wine cellar was amazing in itself. I loved this man. He was intelligent and witty and so very sweet and he spoiled me to death. But I had my bedroom and he had his and our relationship wasn't sexual at all. We had martinis by the fireplace before he kissed my forehead, said he'd see me in the morning and sent me off to the Christmas dinner with another man who had come to pick me up. The other man was waiting in the foyer. They shook hands. No sneaking around in this dream.

The second man was young (well my age) and exciting and a lot of fun . . . and gorgeous! We met up with a bunch of friends and went to the Christmas dinner, laughing and having the best time. He was a great dancer and very sweet. We got a little drunk, my face hurt from smiling so much. After a few hours at the dinner, we changed and went snowmobiling. Racing through the woods in the moonlight, holding on as tight as I could, I totally loved him too. We ended up at a lodge where there was a sliding party going on with our friends. It was an evening of play in the snow, with lots of cuddling around the bonfire, cold lips warming with kisses. Around 11 we got into a truck and with me sitting in the middle beside him with my head resting on his shoulder and holding his hand, he drove me to my next and final destination of the night.

It was a log house overlooking a river, with a huge wrap-around porch where a third man leaned against the railing, smoking. It was a lot like the house I'd build if ever I was to build a house. He turned and waved when we pulled in. I kissed the second guy goodnight and bounded out of the truck and onto the porch leaping into this guy's arms, so happy to see him. We went inside, I changed into pyjamas and we drank brandied hot chocolate and ate cherries in front of the fire while I told him all about my day and the dinner and the winter party at the lodge. We talked for hours and then we kissed and made love and he carried me to the loft and we did it all over again in our bedroom. And I loved this guy too, but no more or no less than the other two, just differently. We got up early and cooked breakfast together and shortly before noon the first man arrived in a stretch limo to pick me up. He had a surprise for me, a trip to New York for a movie premiere. He'd packed my bag and we were heading straight to the airport . . .

I woke up then. An odd dream. What does it mean? That one man will never be enough for me? That I want too much, no single person could ever deliver? That I want everyone I see? That I fall in love too easily? That I should've appreciated Christmas dinner at the school more? That I need to do more winter activities like snowmobiling and sliding? That I should get a house of my own? That I need to take a trip? That I'm nuts?

Mood: foggy
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: the dryer tumble
Hair: growing more every day

Because of Winn-Dixie

This isn't one of those because poems.

Because the old lady said you can't hold onto anyone; you've just got to love them while you've got the chance,
because I miss Nick's smile,
because I'm excavating some particularly painful memories for a story,
because I don't think anyone could make a list of ten things about me,
because once upon a time he could've,
because he paid attention,
because I haven't slept,
because he cried and I laughed while love unfolded atop the Empire State Building,
because I'm embarrassed,
because I'm guilty,
because I'm afraid,
because I haven't been in that house since the old man died,
because I know that I'm going for sure,

I can't stop crying.

Mood: unsettled
Drinking: craving bourbon, settling for scotch
Listening To: The Blower's Daughter, Damien Rice
Hair: sticking straight up and out in one of those spiky poofy ponytails that normally require much product and spray . . . today, for me, it's just there, and it's perfect

Good Morning Sun

It's me again.

Killed a ginormous spider in the shower this morning. Damn things. I keep telling them if we're to cohabitate they need to stay under my radar, but they don't listen. I suppose the guy wasn't expecting to run into me so early, but still . . .

Did not sleep well. Bathed in moonlight most of the night, which is wonderful, but not conducive to sleep. Coupled with Sunday night anxiety and new sheets that seemed terribly warm . . . I caught a lot of a Mel Gibson movie on tv.

I've been working on something new, working it in my head mostly, jotting a line here and there, but this morning I wrote for a half hour, two new sections. Pretty exciting. Not sure what the thing is really. Fiction yes, but is it a story? Or a concept? How come I can't construct things properly? Or not easily construct things properly anyway. Maybe I don't know the proper way to do things. Maybe there is no proper way. Regardless, I'm happy I got some stuff down on it this morning. Progress.

Mood: creative
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: How Soon Is Now, The Smiths
Hair: slick

kinda funny . . .

Your Inner Blood Type is Type A

You seem cool and collected, though a bit shy. You are highly driven and a perfectionist, but that's a side you keep to yourself. Creative and artistic, you are a very unique person who doesn't quite fit in. People accept you more than you realize, seeing you as trustworthy and loyal. You are most compatible with: A and AB Famous Type A's: Britney Spears and Hitler

What's Your Inner Blood Type?

This Guy

About seven years ago I was doing every sort of meditation, self-hypnotic, witchy, spiritual, self-help type exercise I could get my hands on to fix my screwed up self. Nothing was too out there, nothing was out of bounds. At some point during my quest for inner peace and meaning in my life, after doing an exercise where answers were supposed to appear in your dreams, I started dreaming about this guy -- mid 30'ish, tall, lean, dark skin tone, wavy black hair hanging below his shoulders, mustache, brown eyes, light coloured shirt wore out loose over faded jeans, cuffs rolled halfway up his forearm -- he worked with his hands, a mechanic or carpenter maybe, but had an artistic side too, painted or did pottery. Maybe he was a potter. I never quite figured out all those details, but he did own a house and a half-ton truck. And he worked from home in the garage or a studio converted from the garage.

He was the most sensuous creature I ever never really met, slinky, an aura of passion, a deep thinker . . . I could hardly breath from the sexyness of him . . . and he was my boyfriend/lover/partner/husband whatever, we were connected, living together at this house. In the dream I was going to school, taking classes, part-time maybe, university or community college. I dreamed about him everynight for weeks. The dreams were normal everyday living type dreams, just me and him and this house co-habitating and working and studying and cooking and cleaning and laughing and being best friends and loving each other. There were hugs and kisses. The dreams were about love, trust, happiness, peace and feeling whole, all things lacking in my real life at the time. It was like I was living this other life at night when I went to sleep.

It was weird because he was a recurring character, weirder still that he was completely made-up, I'd never met this person anywhere before. And normally people I know play all the parts in my dreams. Usually an ex or a celebrity guest star is cast in the role of sidekick. It may not have been the first time a complete stranger came into my dreams and made himself comfortable, but it was certainly the first time I remembered every detail about the stranger and welcomed him back night after night. But after a couple of weeks he stopped showing up in my dreams and I missed him for a little while but then basically forgot about him.

Until now.

The past two nights this guy's been showing up in my dreams again. The situation is a little weird. I don't know this guy, I've never met him anywhere outside of my head. I haven't done any searching for answers dream inducement exercises. I'm the most content I've ever been in my adult life, the most at peace, the most together. And here he is again, seven years later, but he's changed. Like me, he's gotten older, a few wrinkles starting to show around his eyes, 40'ish now, filled out, broader chest, bigger arms, rounder butt, thicker thighs, I think he's been working out, black hair with a hint grey, cut shorter now but not balding, still full, clean-shaven . . . wearing black leather pants, jacket, boots, because he rides a motorcycle. In the dreams I have my own motorcylcle that I ride (I always said if I ever got any licence to drive it would be for a bike) and we're going places, day trips and longer trips on these motorcycles, a cottage we own on a lake, just me and him living our lives like we've been together all this time.

It's pretty freaking bizarre. I mean REAL people don't even age in my dreams! Even Gary still appears to be in his late teens/early 20's when he shows up in dreams with Sherry and kids, from the days when we hung out all the time and thoughts of him marrying my sister would have been a hoot. So for this completely invented in my head guy to be growing older and staying with me . . . kinda blows my mind. I don't know what it's all about . . . and I wonder if he'll show up again when I next sleep.

*****

Lots of stuff on the go today. Have to pick up a parcel at Sears. Yes, I know I said I'd spend less . . . but there's this jacket I've had my eye on for months. I wanted to buy it when it was $89.99. I was really tempted when it was $69.99. I almost had to chop my fingers off not to order it when it dropped to $54.99 . . . and stayed there for weeks. But when it went clearance in the Boxing Day sales at $34.99, I mean, there's only so much a girl can stand. Think I'll treat myself to a coffee at the cafe while I'm out, spend some time reading or writing or just studying people. I NEVER do that! And it's like my favourite thing to do. Then I'm going to head out to Home Hardware maybe, see about getting an iron, hit the liquor store for some wine and maybe some Jack Daniels, then check the Co-Op for chicken wings. It's looking like a semi-sunshiny sorta day here, mild temperatures, it's gonna be a great day!

Mood: sanguine
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Free For All, Ted Nugent
Hair: damp and drying natural

Times, They Are A Changing

Looking for a fresh notebook earlier (don't you love a fresh notebook? unspoiled pages full of possibility?) and I found one with just a few pages used. Journal entries from 2004 before I used to blog all the time. Something I wrote May 23/04 caught my attention. Here it is:

I remember one day a long time ago, maybe last summer, I wasn't in pain. I remember it because it was the first pain-free day in months. I remember it because there hasn't been another day like it since. I remember being in the kitchen, smiling, doing kicks like a rockette, tentatively at first then with more force as I realised how easily my knees bent, no popping, no grinding, just smooth high kicks. It was a sunny day, warm but not too hot, dry and not humid. I went outside with Nick and we ran around the yard. I felt light, like I could fly. God, I loved that day.

And I STILL remember that day! It was a good one. The first part of this century was all about physical pain for me. I am so much better now. I really am. And it's all happened since I moved. Whether it's the climate, the stairs, the walking everyday, the increase in veggies, the red wine, the lack of second-hand cigarette smoke, the absence of daily family stress, or some combination of all these things, I am the best I've been since 1998-99, whenever the symptoms first started to become overbearing and unable to be ignored. Everyday isn't about dealing with the pain anymore. I have periods of inflammation still, but I also have entire weeks where I feel no pain at all. I think I notice it most when I go to Miramichi. I don't know why, if it's the climate or the stress of visiting or what, but when I get within a few miles of Miramichi on the train or in a car I feel the ache in my bones. It's a little weird. Stacy says I bring freakish weather with me everytime I visit, maybe that's it. It was good to find this notebook and be reminded of how much my situation has improved.

*****

Last night I broke in my wok. Loving it! Always wanted one. Of course I nearly chopped my thumb off while slicing peppers. It's not cooking until I get hurt. No seriously, it's a bad cut. I have a permanent knick on my thumb anyway, but this was pretty intense, felt faint and everything with blood gushing onto the floor, soaking through the tissue wrap in seconds. Was worried I wouldn't be able to get it to stop, that once and for all I'd succeed in bleeding to death from a freak accident in the kitchen, wondered how long it would take to bleed out, how long should I let it go on before taking myself to the hospital. I got it to clot finally, but then everytime I did anything all evening the thing would bust open and start gushing again. It's pretty deep I think, maybe severed something in there, about an inch long and purplish black bruised. Being careful of it.

Yesterday was Samuel and Jules birthday. All my babies are growing up. I called them to wish them a happy birthday. Jules got a ballerina outfit and Samuel got hockey. They seemed well pleased and excited. I've mailed my gift to them, movie theatre gift certificates. Jenn sent me pics of Jules as the prima ballerina. I wish there was a way to put her in classes, she's got the grace, build and the discipline to be quite good I think. I haven't seen a ballet in a long time. Seems like something is touring here soon though. I should get tickets. I miss dance.

Mood: jubilant
Drinking: scotch whiskey
Listening To: Get Together, The Youngbloods
Hair: off my face

The Tiff

"I can't read this book because the writing is so bad."

That's all I said.

I didn't say the book was no good. I didn't say I didn't like the book. I didn't say the book was worthless or that it hadn't topped all the bestseller lists for months or been made into a blockbuster Hollywood film. I didn't say the author wasn't successful and rich and the luckiest damn writer in the world. I didn't say I could do better. I didn't say the story sucked or the characters were unbelievable or only a fool would read this trash.

I didn't say ANY of that stuff.

I said I couldn't read the book, which is NOT my opinion, but a fact. I've tried on several occasions and been unable to get past the first few pages because . . . and here's the kicker . . . the writing is so bad. FULL STOP. MAN THE TORPEDOS. And this too is NOT my opinion but a freaking fact. I'm not talking about talent, ideas, imagination or any kind of an abstract concept, I'm talking about skill. Writing is a craft. It can be taught. It can be learned. People can improve the skill. Does perfecting the skill necessarily mean anyone can learn to write better and then write the greatest novel of our time? ABSOLUTELY NOT! That's where all those abstract concepts come into play -- talent, imagination, great ideas, a unique vision, a burning desire to write, something compelling to say . . .

But the FACT is, there are better and worse ways to string words together to form sentences and tell stories, really basic structural guidelines that if followed help build a strong technical foundation for a story. I'm talking about stuff like the passive voice -- "Drugs were seized by the police." "The police seized drugs" makes the sentence active, more direct and punchy. I'm talking about stuff like overusing adverbs. One adverb every now and then might be tolerable, but when they pop up in every paragraph that's lazy writing. "The radio blared loudly." Blared is a strong verb showing loudly. "The radio blared." How about "He clenched his teeth tightly." Is there any other way to clench your teeth? "He clenched his teeth." I'm talking about stuff like using cliches -- white as a ghost, black as tar, leaves fluttering in the wind, a dark and stormy night -- make something up for christsake! If everyone and their dog (my cliche for the day) has said it, go another way, be original.

There are more things, but you get the idea. Doing these things produces bad writing. And a lot of bad writing is produced, published and sold in mind-boggling quantities. Just because a lot of people buy it, doesn't make it any less bad.

So I said I couldn't read the book because the writing was so bad.

If you think about it, I'm actually kinda qualified to say something like that -- I mean if you WANT to believe that bad writing is just a matter of opinion and not a technical fact -- when you consider that I've worked everyday for a lot of years with words and writing and writers, that I am a writer and an editor and pretty much nothing else, that writing is my niche and area of expertise, one might think that I would know a little bit about what I'm talking about, that even if bad writing doesn't exist and is just a matter of personal opinion that the opinion of someone such as me might be worth a bit more than the opinion of someone who isn't in the writing/editing field. One might think . . .

As a writer I'm always trying to improve my craft, learn ways to make my writing stronger. Great writing doesn't flow off anyone's fingertips on the first draft, as evidenced by the crappy writing I do here, all first draft stuff. Great writing evolves through editing and rewriting. A lot of things have to come together in order to achieve truly great writing -- you've got to have the skill, but you also need the ideas and the talent and vision behind the skill. Writing is damn hard! But when it's done well . . . ah! Beauty. Joy. Pure. But to become a better writer it's good to read a broad range of books from the greatest masterpieces to the most poorly written. There are lessons to be learned from reading bad writing as well as good.

When I said I couldn't read the book because the writing was so bad, I didn't mean the book should never be read by anyone ever. I wish I could read it. I wish it didn't irk me so much. I wish I could get past the writing and see what the millions of people who loved this book saw. But here's the thing, I read a lot of bad writing in the run of a day as part of my work. I read some really great writing too, but the percentage of bad to good is high. And I work long hours, I read a lot. Most of the time I work on helping to make the writing better. So my days are spent turning bad writing into better writing. When it comes to my personal reading, the reading I do for pleasure or to perfect my writing craft, I crave great writing or at least good writing, writing done well enough that the editor in me isn't hitching up over passive sentences or too many adverbs or cliches. And I don't have a lot of time for personal reading, I have to make a conscious effort, I mean I included it on my New Year's list for godsake. So why, when I spend so much time wrapped up in bad writing anyway, would I bother wading through more bad writing in my spare time? It's not logical.

But all of this is moot anyway. Because the tiff wasn't about the book or the author or the New York Times Bestseller list or writing at all.

I said I couldn't read the book because the writing was so bad . . . I should've known what would happen. I should've known to preface the statement with, "It's just my opinion but . . . " I've learned to drag out this phrase and plop it at the beginning of sentences to avoid being attacked. I realise this is a point of contention as well because my statement is seen as the provocation or first blow, so the attack I feel is viewed by opposing forces as nothing more than defensive measures. I would say I've got about a 50% success rate at avoiding these confrontations, and the other 50% I forget and we argue. In this particular case though, it honestly never crossed my mind because as I've already made quite clear this wasn't my opinion but a fact.

In everyday conversation I just state my opinion, whatever it is -- I believe in reincarnation. Blake killed his wife. I think worrying is a waste of time. The only person you can depend on is yourself -- The fact I'm saying these things implies they're my opinion, otherwise I would say something else like Jim believes in reincarnation or Sue thinks worrying is a waste of time. For me, prefacing your opinion with "It's just my opinion" devalues everything that follows. Actually it drives me a little crazy because it feels wishy-washy. It's like telling someone what you're about to say doesn't matter in the least, but here it is anyway. What is so wrong with just saying what you think?

To be fair I wasn't raised to say what I think. Children should be seen and not heard was an unspoken but enforced rule growing up and we were some of the quietest children ever. So well behaved you'd never know there were children in the house, visitors said. Shy, people said. Not allowed to talk, I remember. Speaking to adults was showing off and showing off was unacceptable behaviour punishable by the strap. Even when adults spoke first, asked me questions, I looked to my mother's eyes to see if I had permission to speak . . . and I never saw anything there that would lead me to believe it was okay, that I wasn't going to get flailed later if I answered. I have permitted despicable things to happen to me because I lacked the skill to speak. And I'm not blaming anyone, I'm not holding a grudge, everybody did the best they could at the time, I'm just stating a fact, a possible clue behind why what I see as weak communicating drives me nuts.

When I lived in Toronto I had to learn to speak up or get fired from my job. Literally. My supervisor took me aside one day and warned me that I needed to change my mousey style or I'd be out of work. They signed me up for assertiveness training, but by the time the course rolled around I didn't need it. Oh, I took it anyway, but everyone there wondered why my company thought I needed it. The second I left my supervisor's office that day I began the long process of teaching myself to be more assertive and outgoing, to speak up when I had something to say. It was a skill I worked on and practiced everyday. I pretended to be someone else. I even named my alter-ego to make it feel more like a play. I observed others and mimicked their behaviour. I remembered strong women I had worked with and thought about how they handled certain situations before I handled similar situations. And it was uncomfortable and felt wrong and fake for a really long time before it became natural. And I never understood how far I had come or why it had even been necessary until years later in Moncton with that whole sexual harassment thing with my boss and the way I handled it, dealt with him, in one of my more brilliant moments. But did that stop me from running from one abusive relationship to another and another until finally I had given all my power away and bottomed out to the point where I'm lucky to still be breathing? No, all the assertiveness training in the world couldn't have helped me there. I needed to learn that lesson the hard way.

But now I'm straying too far from the topic at hand. When I said I couldn't read the book because the writing was so bad, my mother took offense. She hadn't read the book, has no urge to read the book, so I didn't insult her personal taste. I never understand how these things happen, never see them coming. It's always a shocking moment, where I'm taken completely off-guard and just thrown into a spin. It always feels like a slap across the face out of nowhere, for no reason. The offense had nothing to do with the book but with what she perceived as me being snobby (the very idea that SHE might have raised a snob, after all those years of drilling into our heads that we were no better than anyone else), judgemental, close-minded, and shoving my opinion down her throat. And nothing pisses me off more than what I perceive as the close-minded judgemental mis-interpretation of my intentions. Instant flames. These things escalate so fast, it's difficult to know what's really going on. It's got to do with a difference of perception. What I see as weakness (just my opinion so it doesn't matter), she sees as openness (I've got my opinion, you've got yours). What she sees as close-minded (this is what I think and that's that, you'll never change my mind so don't even try), I see as directness (this is what I think). Something like that . . . all I know for sure is that if I had said, "It's just my opinion, but I can't read this book because the writing is so bad" the tiff wouldn't have happened.

Are we doomed to keep going round and round like this forever? Or will I up the percentages over time and remember more often to preface my opinions in a way my mother feels less threatened? But why should I have to do ALL the work? How come she can't accept that just because I say what I think in a direct way doesn't mean I'm not open to other ideas? If I were even a quarter as closed-minded as what my mother makes me out to be, I would never learn anything new, never change my mind about anything. I'd be dumb as a post. And this doesn't jibe with the way I feel about life in general. Philosophising has always been one of my favourite past-times. I love seeing the way different people approach the same subject and develop opposing theories. I love looking at something old in a new way and having an a-ha moment. I've got a curious nature. Discovery is a rush. I get a glimpse of something and I go searching for everything there is to know. And yes, I'm passionate about things and I can be frank and forward and even shocking sometimes, but I don't see these things as being negative qualities. And when I do get all fired up about something, excited by something new, it seems like as soon as I open my mouth to say anything about it, two syllabels in I'm talking to the hand from behind the wall where I'm judgemental and closed-minded and automatically wrong. And I feel like that little kid again, who's spoken out of turn, which pisses me off big time. Will we ever learn to really communicate? Will we ever understand who the other person is?

I visited too long this Christmas. Overstayed by at least a good three days. Something to keep in mind for next time.

Mood: awakened
Drinking: coffee (the cheap generic brand, see, spending less)
Listening To: traffic (my town is alive again)
Hair: massive

Best of 2005

the best of 2005
[song: welcome to wherever you are, bon jovi]
[movie: crash and walk the line]
[band: hedley]
[book: i'll have to go with The Wreckage by Michael Crummey cuz nothing else jumps out and i just read that one over the xmas holiday]
[play: do people still do plays?]
[party: crap! there were lots of good times . . . the week spent in freddy closing a different bar every night stands out though]
[website: zip.ca]
[course/job: gerry beirne's workshop at the wfnb agm in moncton]
[joke: A man walked into a bar with his pet monkey. The bartender said, "You can't bring that monkey in here!" The man said, "Don't worry, he won't cause any trouble."
Within seconds the monkey jumped on the pool table and swallowed the cue ball. The bartender yelled, "Hey, he just ate my cue ball. No one can play pool anymore! Get out!"
The man left but came back one week later with his monkey. He apologized to the bartender and promised no more trouble. The bartender let him and the monkey stay.
Later that night, the monkey walked over to a bowl of grapes, put one in his ass, and then ate it. The bartender said, "That's disgusting! Why did he do that!"
The man said, "Since he swallowed the cue ball, he sizes everything up before he eats it."]
[TV show: deadwood]
[celebrity news event: brad and angelina]
[reality show: the amazing race]
[item of clothing you received/bought: do shoes count as clothing? no? wool coat then]
[crisis (personal): crises? what crises?]
[crisis (worldwide): where to begin? killer weather, crazy oil prices, war, poverty, bird flu, etc.]
[memory: so many, and they're all mine, not sharing]
[new thing you tried: scotch, and it's pretty good stuff]
[thing you meant to do this year and didn't: write and submit more fiction]
[thing that changed for you this year (made '05 different from '04): moved from miramichi to sackville]
[thing you used to like and don't anymore: beer]
[hug: there were hugs?]
[epiphany: i can only control my own thoughts and actions]
[thing that made you feel old: any time my arthritis was in flare]
[thing that made you feel young: walking]
[idea you had: i have so many, who can keep track?]
[mistake you made: believing fairytales]
[drink you had: the bowmore sherry cask]
[thing you can hope for in the coming year: mo' money!]

Mood: bit achy but trying to ignore it
Drinking: organic orange pekoe
Listening To: partying in the street
Hair: pulled back with stragglies

Taking Stock

It's that time again. Time to take stock of 2005 and plan for 2006. If you've been following this blog for at least a year you know I'm big on setting goals, writing them down, putting them out there. Now it's time to pay the piper, assess the situation.

The things I wanted to do in 2005 with results were:

1) Drop one size by April and maintain it throughout the rest of the year (Success! I totally did this, maybe not by April, but completely accomplished. By the end of the year I was hovering around the lost two sizes mark, meaning somedays I'm in and somedays I'm not depending on water retention, lol, and this with little effort on my part. I credit living in a two-storey apartment, daily walk abouts town for mail and supplies, very little eating out, and generally making healthier grocery choices)

2) Attend the WFNB AGM in April no matter where it is held in New Brunswick (It was held in Moncton and I went, even though financially I was a little strapped at the time. In past years I likely would've missed it due to lack of funding, but I didn't let financial woes stop me from doing much in 2005)

3) Attend the Northrope Frye Festival in Moncton this spring (Again, financially strapped but totally went and had the best time)

4) Move to an apartment by June (signed a lease in April and moved to Sackville in May)

5) Go to a U2 concert no matter where in Canada, hopefully Toronto (too financially strapped from the move to plan for the U2 tour I realised pretty early on, just couldn't put together that kind of cash and time even to get out there. But by fall I had recovered enough to take in the Rolling Stones and book a trip to Toronto to see Bon Jovi coming up a couple of weeks into this new year, satisfied with that progress, will catch U2 the next time they're around)

6) Attend the Alden Nowlan Literary Festival in Fredericton in the Fall (there wasn't any, however I did take in some Fall events like the Whiskey Fest in Fredericton and the Wine Fest in Moncton that were tons of fun and totally on my radar for 2006)

7) Submit my fiction to magazines at least once a month (failed, semi-miserably, one third completed this, submitted four short stories with no response as of yet, they're all still out there)

8) Finish writing my novel, to have a complete draft done by December (failed big time, i wrote little on the novel this year, refuse even to call it a novel anymore, it's a book and I have no idea what I'm doing with it . . . but I KNOW what I'm NOT doing with it, I'm not showing anymore of it to anyone until all the gaps have been filled in, because most people can't follow what I'm doing when huge chunks are missing between point A and point B. Not their fault and totally understandable but I tend to expect too much of people, so it kinda pisses me off, which is counter-productive to the book)

Overall I did pretty well with doing the things I wanted in 2005, except for those last two points regarding my personal type writing. But to be fair there was a lot of activity in that area of my life that I hadn't anticipated. In March I gave what I would consider my first "real" public reading by participating in the Read an EBook Week event at the Fredericton Public Library. And Joe taped it for broadcast on his radio show (yeah, I know I sound like Jacqueline and not at all like me because I was so freaking nervous, but still . . . it's something) Thank the goddess he had the foresight NOT to tell me before I read that it was being taped or I likely would've passed out. In April at the WFNB AGM in Moncton I emceed the Friday night readings, became a Director on the Board, and read publicly again (and with more success) for open mic at the Cafe Felix. Beginning in late May I took a 5-week writing workshop at Mount A with Christina Decarie. In July I attended the Maritimes Writers' Workshop at UNB and received the Goose Lane scholarship, which I'm told went to the best piece of writing submitted over all the categories. During that week I read again (and with no recollection of whether I had my voice or someone else's) as part of the Odd Sundays open mic at Molly's. By September I was an active member of the Sackville Writers' Group. I think it was October I gave my first writing workshop at the Access Centre in Blackville, which has led to further invites and workshops scheduled in 2006. In November I went to Catherine Bush's reading in Moncton, attended Sandra Phinney's workshop in Sussex, and hosted/attended Beth Powning's workshop in Sackville. In December I organised another workshop with Yvonne Trainer in Sackville and even though it covered poetry, took it too. So yeah, I did a lot of things that totally freaked me out and made me very uncomfortable, lots of growth in this area, 2005 seems like a big year in retrospect.

Okay, out with the old! In with the new! This is my absolute favourite part of cracking the spine on the new calendar. I do a more detailed proper goal setting exercise on paper, (you should too, cuz writing it down makes a difference) but for here just a brief (and incomplete) list.

The things I will do in 2006 are:

1. Make more money. Yes, it's the Year of the Dollar (or Buck if I want to put a double meaning on it . . . which could be interesting and worthwhile) and I'm jumping onboard! (see how that double meaning could be pretty exciting?)

2. Spend less. It may be shocking to some, but I have not been living very frugally (or even realistically) this past year ;-) I need to tighten up my purse strings and focus on paying off some bills if I ever hope to do something completely nuts and out of character like . . . buy a house. Why the hell not?! Everybody else is getting one. Real estate is a pretty safe investment. Sooner or later (several years down the road yet) I'll want to own a home and I need to start positioning myself to get one.

3. Read more books. I used to read for personal pleasure at least 20 minutes everyday, but somewhere in the hectic schedule of 2005 I stopped reading and I MISS IT BIG TIME! I've got tons of books on the shelf that I haven't read, great bookstores in town, a library very close by -- there's no reason why I can't be reading.

4. Make an effort to attend more events on my own and meet more new people. I'm talking about the Film Society movies on Thursday nights, the jazz bands at George's Roadhouse, gallery openings, etc. Initially I missed a lot of these things last year because they seemed to happen only when I was out of town, but as winter settles in and I'm not out of town as much and there are even more events happening in conjunction with Mount A, it would appear I've fallen into a comfort zone where I pretty much invent any excuse NOT to go to these things alone. What's up with that?! I've never minded going to things alone. Some things I've even preferred to go alone. I know it's healthy to enjoy spending time with yourself, but hermit-like antisocial behaviour is not healthy at all. This changes, right here, right now.

5. Get my passport. I don't have one, pretty much can't leave the country without one, and Italy looms on my horizon. I need to prepare for world travel. First logical step would appear to be a passport.

6. Attend the Harvest Jazz & Blues Festival. Every year I list events I want to attend. I've never listed this one though . . . and I've never attended, despite always wanting to, and sometimes even being in Fredericton when the event happens. So this year, it's the only event officially making my list.

And that's it. That's all I'm listing for this year. Some big things that will take a lot of time and energy, some tiny things that I can do easily. Nothing health and writing related, but never fear, these things exist in extensive detail in my "real" goal setting. It'll be interesting to look back next year and see how I've done with these six things though.

Happy New Year!