I am exhausted. Beyond exhausted. My fingers are killing me. But I just might catch my train. I won't go so far as to predict that I won't forget anything, but still . . .
Removing the countdown now. Next time you see me I'll be a good 10 pounds lighter! (and wouldn't you know it, my hair actually did good things today . . . still, I remain firm.) Blogging will be non-existent for at least one week while I journey the wilds. Ta ta for now!
Mood: jublilant
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: airplanes? thunder? rumblings in the clouds
Hair: hah! sucker!
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
If I were Stewie . . .
My fingers are going into that horrific gnarly arthritis stump thing that I dread. Especially now! Bad timing. I'm into the under 24 hours til departure phase with much stuff to do. Much computer stuff to do. Rain, rain, go away! Come again some . . . NEVER COME AGAIN! DAMN YOU!!
Mood: in pain
Drinking: tea
Listening To: rain, rain, rain, and more damn rain
Hair: cannot get thee to the scissors fast enough
Mood: in pain
Drinking: tea
Listening To: rain, rain, rain, and more damn rain
Hair: cannot get thee to the scissors fast enough
What Was I Thinking?!
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Mood: burning in my fingers, damn rain, damn arthritis, damn computer work that NEEDS to be done
Drinking: coffee, the instant kind, blech!
Listening To: some crazy twit of a bird peep peep peeping outside my window
Hair: TWO MORE DAYS!!!
Mood: burning in my fingers, damn rain, damn arthritis, damn computer work that NEEDS to be done
Drinking: coffee, the instant kind, blech!
Listening To: some crazy twit of a bird peep peep peeping outside my window
Hair: TWO MORE DAYS!!!
Monday, May 22, 2006
All Mighty
Last night I watched Bruce Almighty on ASN. I had never seen it before. It's typical, but there are some funny parts. When Jim Carrey says yes to everyone's prayers giving them exactly what they want, chaos overtakes Buffalo. There are riots in the streets and the city falls to pieces. I got to thinking about how true that is, if suddenly everyone's prayers were answered and they got exactly what they wanted, the world would break apart. This fits in with something I've been thinking about lately and talking over with my sisters--that often when we pray we ask for the wrong stuff. We ask for money or good health or for this to happen or for that to happen, when really what we should be praying for is the strength to handle whatever comes our way. That's all any of us really wants anyway. We just want to know that we'll be okay, that we'll get through it, whatever it is.
I didn't always get this, it was a long time coming and I'm not sure what was the final thing that gave me the a-ha moment, but it's been a few years now of relative peace and calm as a result. I have been through the wars--emotionally, physically, spiritually--on all planes. And I'm still here, still chugging along. Yes, I get stressed out by stuff, but it's different kinds of stuff now it seems. Most of my stress results from the fact that I've taken on too much, it's impossible for one person to finish it all. My stress (just like yours) is self-induced. I'm still working on achieving a balance so I don't have too much going on and I've got just enough in all the key areas to bring joy into my life. This is all stuff in my power, I have total control over this and I can work it out.
What I don't get stressed about anymore is the stuff I have no control over, the stuff that depends on other people. Because I can't control other people, no matter how much I might like to or how much smoother I think things might run if they'd just let me pull all the strings for awhile. For the last few years (you know it may have happened when I released my father issues, which after a lifetime of agony was solved in seconds with a simple flick of a switch in my brain) whenever something happens, or threatens to happen, something I don't want, something that hurts, whenever I get that old familiar feeling of heartache, I will cry my guts out. And I mean REALLY cry, Oprah's ugly cry, with sobs wracking my ribcage, the snot dripping off my chin, burning throat and eyes, blinded by big old tears, no subtlety whatsoever, let it all out kind of cry. I release every ounce of crazy irrational hurt and emotion into this cry. It lasts no longer than 5 minutes usually, many times it's all over in 1-2 minutes. It doesn't take long at all to get it out of me.
As the sobs subside and my vision clears I start talking to myself. And I tell myself only one thing. "Trust yourself. You are strong enough to handle whatever happens in this situation. You've come through worse and you'll come through worse again. No matter what happens you can deal with it. You are a strong independent woman. You can handle anything that comes your way." I keep saying this kind of stuff over and over in my head, sometimes out loud. I don't know why but I usually sit indian-style and weave when I'm doing this and I'll gradually start to calm down, my heart will stop pounding, and I'll find it difficult to keep up with the self-talk because all these ideas will start to form, start intruding on my conversation with myself, all these things that I can do, that I can control, things in my life that are going very well, things I'm thankful for. It all happens very quick. Within 15 minutes I make the transformation from crushed sobbing broken women to strong determined woman with a plan, a destiny to fulfill.
This is such a long way from the girl who used to lie to her mother, telling her she was going to a party with friends, so she could be alone, turn off all the lights, load up the jukebox with gut-wrenching songs like You Must Love Me and The Dance, lie on the pool table bathed in the soft blue glow of the jukebox to wallow in self-pity and loathing, and drink until well after dawn. That girl is dead. This other girl didn't just happen overnight. It took a long time. When I first started doing the self-talk I didn't even believe it, but I did it anyway. And I kept on doing it, until one day I did believe.
Yes, I still have blue days. Yes, I still wallow from time to time. Cocoon. Stay in bed much too long. Turn the phone off. Not answer email. But oddly it's never about anything big anymore. The big stuff I've got covered. I can handle it. Most of my blue days are hormonal-induced. I can plot them on my calendar, you can set your clock by my cycle. Yes, I'll feel down, weep at every show on television, feel lonesome and sad, but it's more of a general depression, with no root cause. . . other than the hormones. I'm not pining over a boy. My heart hasn't been broken. I'm not afraid to move forward. I'm not having a fight with anyone or facing a huge life decision or questioning my spirituality or wondering how I'm going to pay the rent or losing someone I love. Nothing big, nothing life altering. My blues are chemical, physical, cyclical and I've got the big stuff covered. I really can handle it, whatever it might be. And so can you.
I mean think about it, people survived the nazis, they came through the concentration camps having seen terrible things, having lost their entire families and they went on to live, to do things, to have moments of joy, to create something new. Everyday the human race endures. Family members are murdered. Children die. Incurable diseases are diagnosed. Horrible crimes are committed. Unthinkable terrible disasters happen. The inconceivable happens. And people get through it. They handle it somehow. And they're not special, not unique, no different or stronger than you or I. It's the human code, it's our make-up, we can handle the worst that is dealt to us and still persevere. That's just the way it is. You can witness it on the news everyday. Every minute of every day somebody somewhere is getting through something so rotten we can't even imagine.
And this is not in any way trying to diminish whatever it is that's going on in your life or mine. Nowhere in my self-talk do I say I have no right to feel this way about something so insignificant when compared to what's happening to people in other parts of the world, the kind of stuff you see on the news. Because the things that happen in my life are important. They mightn't be important on the world-scale, but they are damn important to me. Nothing in my life is insignificant or diminished because it's not going to make the six o'clock news. It's real and it hurts and for me it might be the most devastating thing I'll ever have to endure. Everyone has their own journey, and some are more radical than others, but none are insignificant. The point of bringing the world's devastation into the discussion is just to show that we're a species of survivors, not to make light or diminish my rent worries or broken heart by comparing apples and oranges.
And the big point is that once you believe (and I mean deep-down honest to god truly believe with every fibre of your being) that you will be able to handle anything that happens, that you will get through no matter what, that you will be okay. Once you believe this, life becomes a little bit easier, and more peaceful perhaps. So the next time something's going on in your life, instead of praying to win the lotto or that the boy will like you too or the test results will be negative or the vote will go your way or whatever, pray for the strength to handle whatever happens. Then trust that your prayers have been answered.
Mood: philosophical
Drinking: coffee, the super cheapo stuff, with cream . . . look for black and instant tomorrow as I clean out my pantry in preparation for trip departure
Listening To: rain thrumming on the skylight
Hair: thinking it should do before and after shots for the blog this thursday
I didn't always get this, it was a long time coming and I'm not sure what was the final thing that gave me the a-ha moment, but it's been a few years now of relative peace and calm as a result. I have been through the wars--emotionally, physically, spiritually--on all planes. And I'm still here, still chugging along. Yes, I get stressed out by stuff, but it's different kinds of stuff now it seems. Most of my stress results from the fact that I've taken on too much, it's impossible for one person to finish it all. My stress (just like yours) is self-induced. I'm still working on achieving a balance so I don't have too much going on and I've got just enough in all the key areas to bring joy into my life. This is all stuff in my power, I have total control over this and I can work it out.
What I don't get stressed about anymore is the stuff I have no control over, the stuff that depends on other people. Because I can't control other people, no matter how much I might like to or how much smoother I think things might run if they'd just let me pull all the strings for awhile. For the last few years (you know it may have happened when I released my father issues, which after a lifetime of agony was solved in seconds with a simple flick of a switch in my brain) whenever something happens, or threatens to happen, something I don't want, something that hurts, whenever I get that old familiar feeling of heartache, I will cry my guts out. And I mean REALLY cry, Oprah's ugly cry, with sobs wracking my ribcage, the snot dripping off my chin, burning throat and eyes, blinded by big old tears, no subtlety whatsoever, let it all out kind of cry. I release every ounce of crazy irrational hurt and emotion into this cry. It lasts no longer than 5 minutes usually, many times it's all over in 1-2 minutes. It doesn't take long at all to get it out of me.
As the sobs subside and my vision clears I start talking to myself. And I tell myself only one thing. "Trust yourself. You are strong enough to handle whatever happens in this situation. You've come through worse and you'll come through worse again. No matter what happens you can deal with it. You are a strong independent woman. You can handle anything that comes your way." I keep saying this kind of stuff over and over in my head, sometimes out loud. I don't know why but I usually sit indian-style and weave when I'm doing this and I'll gradually start to calm down, my heart will stop pounding, and I'll find it difficult to keep up with the self-talk because all these ideas will start to form, start intruding on my conversation with myself, all these things that I can do, that I can control, things in my life that are going very well, things I'm thankful for. It all happens very quick. Within 15 minutes I make the transformation from crushed sobbing broken women to strong determined woman with a plan, a destiny to fulfill.
This is such a long way from the girl who used to lie to her mother, telling her she was going to a party with friends, so she could be alone, turn off all the lights, load up the jukebox with gut-wrenching songs like You Must Love Me and The Dance, lie on the pool table bathed in the soft blue glow of the jukebox to wallow in self-pity and loathing, and drink until well after dawn. That girl is dead. This other girl didn't just happen overnight. It took a long time. When I first started doing the self-talk I didn't even believe it, but I did it anyway. And I kept on doing it, until one day I did believe.
Yes, I still have blue days. Yes, I still wallow from time to time. Cocoon. Stay in bed much too long. Turn the phone off. Not answer email. But oddly it's never about anything big anymore. The big stuff I've got covered. I can handle it. Most of my blue days are hormonal-induced. I can plot them on my calendar, you can set your clock by my cycle. Yes, I'll feel down, weep at every show on television, feel lonesome and sad, but it's more of a general depression, with no root cause. . . other than the hormones. I'm not pining over a boy. My heart hasn't been broken. I'm not afraid to move forward. I'm not having a fight with anyone or facing a huge life decision or questioning my spirituality or wondering how I'm going to pay the rent or losing someone I love. Nothing big, nothing life altering. My blues are chemical, physical, cyclical and I've got the big stuff covered. I really can handle it, whatever it might be. And so can you.
I mean think about it, people survived the nazis, they came through the concentration camps having seen terrible things, having lost their entire families and they went on to live, to do things, to have moments of joy, to create something new. Everyday the human race endures. Family members are murdered. Children die. Incurable diseases are diagnosed. Horrible crimes are committed. Unthinkable terrible disasters happen. The inconceivable happens. And people get through it. They handle it somehow. And they're not special, not unique, no different or stronger than you or I. It's the human code, it's our make-up, we can handle the worst that is dealt to us and still persevere. That's just the way it is. You can witness it on the news everyday. Every minute of every day somebody somewhere is getting through something so rotten we can't even imagine.
And this is not in any way trying to diminish whatever it is that's going on in your life or mine. Nowhere in my self-talk do I say I have no right to feel this way about something so insignificant when compared to what's happening to people in other parts of the world, the kind of stuff you see on the news. Because the things that happen in my life are important. They mightn't be important on the world-scale, but they are damn important to me. Nothing in my life is insignificant or diminished because it's not going to make the six o'clock news. It's real and it hurts and for me it might be the most devastating thing I'll ever have to endure. Everyone has their own journey, and some are more radical than others, but none are insignificant. The point of bringing the world's devastation into the discussion is just to show that we're a species of survivors, not to make light or diminish my rent worries or broken heart by comparing apples and oranges.
And the big point is that once you believe (and I mean deep-down honest to god truly believe with every fibre of your being) that you will be able to handle anything that happens, that you will get through no matter what, that you will be okay. Once you believe this, life becomes a little bit easier, and more peaceful perhaps. So the next time something's going on in your life, instead of praying to win the lotto or that the boy will like you too or the test results will be negative or the vote will go your way or whatever, pray for the strength to handle whatever happens. Then trust that your prayers have been answered.
Mood: philosophical
Drinking: coffee, the super cheapo stuff, with cream . . . look for black and instant tomorrow as I clean out my pantry in preparation for trip departure
Listening To: rain thrumming on the skylight
Hair: thinking it should do before and after shots for the blog this thursday
Sunday, May 21, 2006
May Two Four Annis
One year ago today I moved to Sackville. It seems longer. It seems like yesterday. What a crazy year! I feel like I've spent too much time away, not enough time here. It's because I went to the Maritime Writers' Workshop last summer. It's because Grammie died. It's because I started giving workshops at the Access Centre and took workshops at every opportunity. It's because I went to things like tastings and readings and launches and art openings all over the province. It's because Stacy got married and I was maid of honour. It's because we went to Toronto. It's because I had to go to meetings.
It wasn't my imagination, I really did a lot of running around this past year. But I'm tired of it. I want to slow down. There's so much happening right here that I've yet to experience. Plus I can't afford to go galavanting all over the province anymore. I'm tapped beyond tapping. I need to slow down. People will have to come to me from now on. I'm not venturing forth unless it can't be avoided.
The Keenans sent me a lovely e-card to celebrate the occasion. Of course, they remember the date, as they are the ones who helped me move. Jason assembled all my furniture. Jenn ended up having to drive the Sturgeon's van because the brake line snapped or something when we were in Amherst doing the last minute necessity shopping (cleaning supplies, towels, face cloths, mop, broom, batteries, extension cords, etc.) so Jason drove their car home. We had take-out Wendy's picnic on the floor for lunch. I nearly went insane cleaning for the next week, trying to make the place feel like my own.
Remembering another anniversary today too. Might not have been the 21st of May (I think 22nd for some reason, because things ALWAYS happen to me on the 22nd) but it was May 2-4 weekend, 1994 maybe? Whatever year I moved from Toronto to Moncton. I was visiting at my parents for the long weekend. It was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon and we were sitting around the picnic table doing the family bbq thing I think. I had a few beer that afternoon. Sherry and I decided to go for a walk to the store, get some ice cream before supper.
He drove by us a couple of times and then stopped, offered us a ride. He was drunk, had his sons with him, it was his weekend. We said no, we wanted to walk. I don't even know how it happened. We were just talking and joking, hadn't seen me in a long time of course because I had been in Toronto. He was teasing his oldest boy, who was maybe 15 at the time, teasing him about them taking me and Sherry out on a double date, making the boy blush. It was funny. Fun. We were all laughing. And somehow he said something about me and him going out later and I said sure, but I thought we were still joking around. I didn't take it serious. I forgot all about it as soon as they drove away. And we went on to the store and got our ice cream and walked home and continued to sit outside, listening to music and drinking beer and likely vodka and 7. Other people came--uncles, neighbours, friends. It was one of those impromptu backyard sort of parties that used to happen when people would just stop in because they saw you outside.
And along about 6:30 or so the phone rang and it was him, calling to confirm our date, to see when he could come pick me up. I felt terrible. Because I hadn't taken him seriously at all. And here I was, a little drunk on a Sunday evening and so not wanting to do this, but I felt bad for him. I felt sorry for him because his wife had left and he'd been serious when I hadn't and his boys were right there in the room with him when he called . . . so I said sure. I didn't see the harm in spending one evening hanging out with him . . . hah! But what can I say, that's what I thought. My intentions were shallow, but good. One night stand, return to Moncton, hope the cutie patootie band boy from the stock room at work asked me out. And that's how I felt at the end of our first date, all the next week in Moncton, and the following weekend when I arrived again at my parents because Stacy was home from TO for a visit.
But there he was, calling and dropping into my house, and just following me around in general . . . and he'd bought me a gift, a pin he thought I might like . . . and he just wasn't taking no as my final answer.
And the cutie patootie band boy from the stock room never asked me out, but the married boss was taking me on business lunches where no business was discussed and planning to take me on business trips to exotic islands where there would be nothing fitting my job description on the agenda and soliciting my counsel on all matters of business regardless of whether it was my area of expertise or not in an entirely inappropriate manner. And I had this guy, this last guy I'd sort of had an affair with, who was calling me all the time and wanting to come visit and wanting me to meet him in Vegas for a vacation with his family i.e. parents, siblings, in-laws, etc. and behaving very creepily on the phone, to the point where Sherry lied and told him I had taken off and nobody knew where I'd gone. They suspected Halifax, but couldn't be sure. He bought that because he hadn't known me very long and I had just (to his way of thinking) fled Toronto on a whim.
Strange times. Long boring story.
Anyway, before I become totally lost in nostalgia, a funny thing happened. I was reading on someone's blog I think about this movie from 1960 called The Apartment starring Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. This was yesterday morning I read about this movie I had never heard about before and the guy said to rent it and I made a mental note to look for it and add it to my Zip List . . . Then on CBC Late Night what movie are they showing last night? The Apartment with Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. It was odd, like I thought of it and there it was. That's so funny when that happens. So of course, I can't ignore the signs, obviously I'm supposed to watch the thing, there's no other reason for this movie to suddenly turn up on my radar like that. It is a wonderful film. I love Jack Lemmon anyway and Shirley MacLaine too of course, though I've seen so little from when she was young and gorgeous, I tend to forget she wasn't always the character she is now.
She's got some great lines in this one. I think I was supposed to watch this just to hear her say, "Some people take, and some people get took." And on this anniversary weekend especially, that seems important. Cuz that's how it went down. I got took. Just like Shirley MacLaine. But Jack Lemmon's around here someplace . . . I just know he is.
Mood: happy happy baby
Drinking: water, in a clear plastic container with LOVE written on it
Listening To: is that cello? violin? musicians in da house
Hair: my good father, you don't want to know
It wasn't my imagination, I really did a lot of running around this past year. But I'm tired of it. I want to slow down. There's so much happening right here that I've yet to experience. Plus I can't afford to go galavanting all over the province anymore. I'm tapped beyond tapping. I need to slow down. People will have to come to me from now on. I'm not venturing forth unless it can't be avoided.
The Keenans sent me a lovely e-card to celebrate the occasion. Of course, they remember the date, as they are the ones who helped me move. Jason assembled all my furniture. Jenn ended up having to drive the Sturgeon's van because the brake line snapped or something when we were in Amherst doing the last minute necessity shopping (cleaning supplies, towels, face cloths, mop, broom, batteries, extension cords, etc.) so Jason drove their car home. We had take-out Wendy's picnic on the floor for lunch. I nearly went insane cleaning for the next week, trying to make the place feel like my own.
Remembering another anniversary today too. Might not have been the 21st of May (I think 22nd for some reason, because things ALWAYS happen to me on the 22nd) but it was May 2-4 weekend, 1994 maybe? Whatever year I moved from Toronto to Moncton. I was visiting at my parents for the long weekend. It was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon and we were sitting around the picnic table doing the family bbq thing I think. I had a few beer that afternoon. Sherry and I decided to go for a walk to the store, get some ice cream before supper.
He drove by us a couple of times and then stopped, offered us a ride. He was drunk, had his sons with him, it was his weekend. We said no, we wanted to walk. I don't even know how it happened. We were just talking and joking, hadn't seen me in a long time of course because I had been in Toronto. He was teasing his oldest boy, who was maybe 15 at the time, teasing him about them taking me and Sherry out on a double date, making the boy blush. It was funny. Fun. We were all laughing. And somehow he said something about me and him going out later and I said sure, but I thought we were still joking around. I didn't take it serious. I forgot all about it as soon as they drove away. And we went on to the store and got our ice cream and walked home and continued to sit outside, listening to music and drinking beer and likely vodka and 7. Other people came--uncles, neighbours, friends. It was one of those impromptu backyard sort of parties that used to happen when people would just stop in because they saw you outside.
And along about 6:30 or so the phone rang and it was him, calling to confirm our date, to see when he could come pick me up. I felt terrible. Because I hadn't taken him seriously at all. And here I was, a little drunk on a Sunday evening and so not wanting to do this, but I felt bad for him. I felt sorry for him because his wife had left and he'd been serious when I hadn't and his boys were right there in the room with him when he called . . . so I said sure. I didn't see the harm in spending one evening hanging out with him . . . hah! But what can I say, that's what I thought. My intentions were shallow, but good. One night stand, return to Moncton, hope the cutie patootie band boy from the stock room at work asked me out. And that's how I felt at the end of our first date, all the next week in Moncton, and the following weekend when I arrived again at my parents because Stacy was home from TO for a visit.
But there he was, calling and dropping into my house, and just following me around in general . . . and he'd bought me a gift, a pin he thought I might like . . . and he just wasn't taking no as my final answer.
And the cutie patootie band boy from the stock room never asked me out, but the married boss was taking me on business lunches where no business was discussed and planning to take me on business trips to exotic islands where there would be nothing fitting my job description on the agenda and soliciting my counsel on all matters of business regardless of whether it was my area of expertise or not in an entirely inappropriate manner. And I had this guy, this last guy I'd sort of had an affair with, who was calling me all the time and wanting to come visit and wanting me to meet him in Vegas for a vacation with his family i.e. parents, siblings, in-laws, etc. and behaving very creepily on the phone, to the point where Sherry lied and told him I had taken off and nobody knew where I'd gone. They suspected Halifax, but couldn't be sure. He bought that because he hadn't known me very long and I had just (to his way of thinking) fled Toronto on a whim.
Strange times. Long boring story.
Anyway, before I become totally lost in nostalgia, a funny thing happened. I was reading on someone's blog I think about this movie from 1960 called The Apartment starring Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. This was yesterday morning I read about this movie I had never heard about before and the guy said to rent it and I made a mental note to look for it and add it to my Zip List . . . Then on CBC Late Night what movie are they showing last night? The Apartment with Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. It was odd, like I thought of it and there it was. That's so funny when that happens. So of course, I can't ignore the signs, obviously I'm supposed to watch the thing, there's no other reason for this movie to suddenly turn up on my radar like that. It is a wonderful film. I love Jack Lemmon anyway and Shirley MacLaine too of course, though I've seen so little from when she was young and gorgeous, I tend to forget she wasn't always the character she is now.
She's got some great lines in this one. I think I was supposed to watch this just to hear her say, "Some people take, and some people get took." And on this anniversary weekend especially, that seems important. Cuz that's how it went down. I got took. Just like Shirley MacLaine. But Jack Lemmon's around here someplace . . . I just know he is.
Mood: happy happy baby
Drinking: water, in a clear plastic container with LOVE written on it
Listening To: is that cello? violin? musicians in da house
Hair: my good father, you don't want to know
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Slowing
I am a sleepy girl. Not blogging much lately. Lacking in focus. And energy. Series finale of Will and Grace tonight. Season finale of ER too I think. ER is always so gut wrenching. Don't know if I want to watch, don't know if I can look away. No rain today. Yet. Despite promises of thunder and lightning. The sky goes eery dark one minute and clear blue the next. It happens very quickly. A half dozen times at least I've battened down the hatches for rain, only to have the sun emerge within moments. Odd weather here sometimes. Strangely calm. I walked to post some letters and there was no wind. Rare. Sticky rice and beef stir-fry for dinner. Scooped from the freezer. Forgot to refrigerate last night's nacho topping left-overs. No good today after 12 hours on kitchen counter.
When the boy started playing his drums in the yard earlier I had to wonder whether he really is Jesus from 15 years ago. Need a better look. Need a less awe-inspiring introduction. Need to work less and stalk more. How does one befriend one's neighbours without seeming like the freak he/she really is?
Mood: brain dead
Drinking: light beer and water
Listening To: bongo boy
Hair: wet and stringy
When the boy started playing his drums in the yard earlier I had to wonder whether he really is Jesus from 15 years ago. Need a better look. Need a less awe-inspiring introduction. Need to work less and stalk more. How does one befriend one's neighbours without seeming like the freak he/she really is?
Mood: brain dead
Drinking: light beer and water
Listening To: bongo boy
Hair: wet and stringy
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Anything
The landlord gave me a summer book when he was here, Tom Wolfe's I Am Charlotte Simmons. I've never read him before. Would never have purchased this book on my own. I'm pleasantly surprised actually. Not by the book so much, as my ability to read it. Yes, it's sloppily done. Yes, there are pages and pages that could've (should've) been cut. But it's not getting under my skin. It's not annoying me to the point where I just can't read the book. This is good. There is hope for DaVinci yet, perhaps.
Watched Breakfast on Pluto last night. Cillian Murphy is fantastic as the cross dressing terrorist, Kitten. A friend of mine recommended the Irish author who wrote the novel this film is based upon. Definitely got to look him up. Great stuff!
More new neighbours this afternoon. The wife of the current tenant and their other child . . . and a cutie patootie rock star type boy, complete with instruments. Think he's the brother. Ontario plates on the car. I was so taken I even took it upon myself to journey outside, shake hands and do introductions. His name escapes me, but his handshake is very firm. Think Richie Sambora meets Jesus. Ha! And by Jesus, I mean Alex from days long ago. Tall, thin, long dark hair worn loose not ponytailed, short beard, john lennon glasses, long coat and hat . . . reminds me of Dave, a guy I used to work with at the recording studio. I have the urge to go sit outside and drink beer. But alas, no time for socializing, spying, or outright stalking. Maybe tomorrow.
Last night I dreamed I moved back to Toronto, but Kevin wouldn't let me live in the house with MB so they moved me into a basement warehouse space MB had on Lakeshore. Bad area. No windows. Bathtub in the middle of the room. Only a hot plate for cooking. Bar fridge. Dirty. And Kevin wouldn't help me clean, lift anything, nothing. He just dropped me off, told me to be thankful he'd even let me this far back into his life, and to stay away from MB and his mother. Not a good dream.
Just heard my brother-in-law's union voted for strike. Crazy unions! Stupid people! What the hell?! You wouldn't think you get so many stupid bastards assembled in one place. My brother-in-law did not vote strike. He's a smart cookie. I'm praying the company offers to go back into negotiations, though it doesn't look good. It'll all work out. Somehow.
Mood: disoriented
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: I Want You to Want Me, Cheap Trick
Hair: low riding pony tail
Watched Breakfast on Pluto last night. Cillian Murphy is fantastic as the cross dressing terrorist, Kitten. A friend of mine recommended the Irish author who wrote the novel this film is based upon. Definitely got to look him up. Great stuff!
More new neighbours this afternoon. The wife of the current tenant and their other child . . . and a cutie patootie rock star type boy, complete with instruments. Think he's the brother. Ontario plates on the car. I was so taken I even took it upon myself to journey outside, shake hands and do introductions. His name escapes me, but his handshake is very firm. Think Richie Sambora meets Jesus. Ha! And by Jesus, I mean Alex from days long ago. Tall, thin, long dark hair worn loose not ponytailed, short beard, john lennon glasses, long coat and hat . . . reminds me of Dave, a guy I used to work with at the recording studio. I have the urge to go sit outside and drink beer. But alas, no time for socializing, spying, or outright stalking. Maybe tomorrow.
Last night I dreamed I moved back to Toronto, but Kevin wouldn't let me live in the house with MB so they moved me into a basement warehouse space MB had on Lakeshore. Bad area. No windows. Bathtub in the middle of the room. Only a hot plate for cooking. Bar fridge. Dirty. And Kevin wouldn't help me clean, lift anything, nothing. He just dropped me off, told me to be thankful he'd even let me this far back into his life, and to stay away from MB and his mother. Not a good dream.
Just heard my brother-in-law's union voted for strike. Crazy unions! Stupid people! What the hell?! You wouldn't think you get so many stupid bastards assembled in one place. My brother-in-law did not vote strike. He's a smart cookie. I'm praying the company offers to go back into negotiations, though it doesn't look good. It'll all work out. Somehow.
Mood: disoriented
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: I Want You to Want Me, Cheap Trick
Hair: low riding pony tail
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Because I Can't Write Elsewhere
Named some characters yesterday. I like naming, finding out what names were popular certain years, choosing names with meanings that are somehow significant to the character. All my characters were born in the '60s. My main girl is Tracy. From the Greek meaning summer. From the French meaning path or road. Surname Stevens meaning loyalty and truth. Which is all very pertinent to the story . . . I think. I've still only a vague outline of what the story is, but it's only a matter of time before it develops. I tried to write in Word, tried to write long-hand, but nothing happened. So I thought I'd come here, put on some '80s tunes and see what happens . . . on Grey's Anatomy they went to prom . . .
The woman who was supposed to make my prom dress had some sort of a nervous breakdown. That was the cool thing to do in 1987 at my school, to have your dress made rather than store bought. I remember pouring over magazine pictures, turning down the corners on pages with dresses I liked. The skirt from this one, the neck from that one, and so on. I came to the first measuring and design consultation with a bunch of mismatched photographs and some ideas in my head that I explained and she drew on paper until it looked like I imagined. The seamtress had a history of nervous breakdowns, but she seemed lucid enough at that meeting. By the end of the evening she had drawn my gown, taken all my measurements and sent me away with a list of materials to purchase so she could get started. I felt good about the encounter, excited about my dress. It was going to be everything I had hoped.
Looking back I think she may have been in the manic state before the depressive crash. Because as time passed nothing much seemed to happen with my dress. I'd go for measuring but have nothing to fit. Or so it seemed. A week before prom and I still didn't have a dress, didn't really have anything that I could see or try on. And the woman seemed stressed, sad, difficult to locate by times. I began to panic. Yet she somehow held herself together long enough to finish my dress just in time for prom, then promptly left her husband and checked herself into the hospital.
The dress was everything my heart desired, exactly as I had imagined. I was Scarlett O'Hara come to the ball! The skirt was so full I needed a hoop and two crinolins to fill it out. Sleek dresses were still a few years off. I felt like Cinderella in that get-up. Royal blue silk taffetta trimmed with yards of white lace, white roses edged in blue, big bow at my waist in back, beaded applique at my neck, lace faux gloves to my elbows . . . it was quite the spectacle. My date wore a white tux with bowtie and cumberbund made from the same royal blue material as my dress. Quite the spectacle indeed. Our prom theme was Never Say Goodbye by Bon Jovi. The band was called Cadillac Jack. They learned our theme song in the van ride over from Fredericton, so they only played it once, for the first dance, instead played Nothings Gonna Stop Us Now by Starship a kazillion times. I decided not to drink all evening until the party after prom. I wanted to be conscious, aware, I wanted to remember. It was the only dance I ever went to sober. This was uncomfortable at first, but we had a good time.
My prom date wasn't my boyfriend. He'd been my boyfriend since the 8th grade, but we broke up before graduation. We were supposed to be doing all my grad stuff just as friends because my new boyfriend had been to jail and wasn't supposed to be around the school, but we'd been together so long it was easy and comfortable to slip back in together, friends with benefits. After the first dance the principal found me and told me my boyfriend was in the parking lot, that he'd refused to leave until he saw me and the principal was going to call the police. I told him that wouldn't be necessary, just to give me five minutes outside. I went to the parking lot and told him he needed to leave before he got me in trouble. He just wanted to see me in my dress, wasn't there to cause trouble. Just wanted to take a picture. We had a deal though, he knew he was supposed to stay away for all the graduation stuff, that I had to go to things with my ex. He was actually one of the sweetest boys I ever dated. He had alcohol and drug problems in his teens, got in some trouble with the law, but he had a good heart, he was (still is) a decent person. He was very respectful of me, a real old-fashioned gentleman. That's why I liked him so much . . . that and the fact that my parents forbid me to be anywhere near him, of course.
Anyway, the deal was that I couldn't fully be his girlfriend until after graduation. In the meantime, I needed space. Both boys agreed to the terms. I saw nothing wrong with asking them to do this.
After the prom we went to my place to change out of fancy clothes and into something more comfortable for staying out drinking all night. Then we headed to the prom party at someone's camp or house way back Pineville, someplace where I guess they figured we wouldn't get in too much trouble. All the grads were drinking fuzzy navels-- vodka, oj, peach schapps. I'd never really been a cocktail girl, beer and whiskey were pretty much my staples, still this was a special occasion . . . and the first dozen went down pretty smooth for sure.
It seems like I spent most of the night outside on the deck trying to avoid people--girls I didn't get along with, boys I disliked, the new boyfriend who showed up with his car full of his friends. I worried that he'd get drunk and beat up my ex, despite the deal. I remember going inside and making my way through a crowded basement to the bathroom, seeing him sitting there with that drunk angry look in his eyes and knowing I had to keep them apart. That if he laid eyes on my ex all deals were off, but he'd stay inside and I could stay out. We left just after the sun came up, four couples I think, four separate cars. We were supposed to go someplace else, someplace up Doaktown, a camp or something for the day. I think we were supposed to take the Dungarvon Road and one guy knew the way through the woods, we were all supposed to follow. But everyone was too drunk and tired, we got separated, split off, some went home, some pulled over and slept in their cars.
We pulled over and talked, napped a little, but with the sun getting higher and hotter, sleeping in the car became unbearable so we went home. I don't know if that was the morning Mom and Dad came home from the camp and I begged them to take me with them because I thought I'd die if they left me alone. I don't think it was. I believe the night after prom we all got together again at another camp, more fuzzy navels, and I think this partying continued for many nights (but not grad night, i think we were one of the first grad classes at our school to have a safe grad) until the Saturday morning when I was so hung over and dehydrated and weak that all I could do was lie on the couch with a bucket by my side. Never have I been so sick from drinking, not before, not since. I was so thirsty but I couldn't stand up, couldn't get to the fridge. Mom and Dad came home from the camp and I was so happy to see them, begged them to take me with them, begged Dad to carry me to the car.
But they were having none of that. If I was foolish enough to drink that much then I could stay right there until I smartened up. Plus they didn't want anyone at the camp to see me looking like I'd been on a tare. My hair was greasy and stringy. I stank from booze and cigarettes and puking. My skin was greyish pale and I was visibly trembling, eyes glossy, nose running. Just the kind of mess you'd expect from a week-long drunk with no sustenance other than fuzzy navels.
I was literally crying, begging them to take me with them, I just didn't know what I'd do if I was left alone on the couch for days. And they wouldn't be back for days. I hadn't plans to hook up with anyone later. I wasn't expecting my ex to come looking for me. If I couldn't pull myself together, days or even a week might pass before anyone came to the house again. I didn't think I'd ever be strong enough to get up for food or anything. I couldn't stop puking. Finally Dad, or maybe it was Mom, one of them went against the other and said they'd take me with them but I had to get to the car on my own, nobody was going to baby me. And somehow I did get to the car, and I managed not to throw up on the drive even though I was having terrible car sickness and Dad wouldn't stop smoking even though it was making me gag, and I got myself into the trailer and curled up on the couch where I shivered and shook and was really sick for the rest of that day and most of the next. I suspect alcohol poisoning, or the closest I've ever come to it.
The mother of all hang-overs. It was a good ten years at least before I could look at anything peach or orange flavoured again. And I still could never drink a fuzzy navel, maybe if my life depended on it, but it'd be damn hard to keep down.
Was reminded of all this as I watched the season finale of Grey's Anatomy last night. Prom. I'm glad I stayed sober for the actual event. Too bad I made up for it later.
Mood: wistful
Drinking: water
Listening To: Coming Undone, Korn
Hair: rapidly embracing the idea of a blonde summer
The woman who was supposed to make my prom dress had some sort of a nervous breakdown. That was the cool thing to do in 1987 at my school, to have your dress made rather than store bought. I remember pouring over magazine pictures, turning down the corners on pages with dresses I liked. The skirt from this one, the neck from that one, and so on. I came to the first measuring and design consultation with a bunch of mismatched photographs and some ideas in my head that I explained and she drew on paper until it looked like I imagined. The seamtress had a history of nervous breakdowns, but she seemed lucid enough at that meeting. By the end of the evening she had drawn my gown, taken all my measurements and sent me away with a list of materials to purchase so she could get started. I felt good about the encounter, excited about my dress. It was going to be everything I had hoped.
Looking back I think she may have been in the manic state before the depressive crash. Because as time passed nothing much seemed to happen with my dress. I'd go for measuring but have nothing to fit. Or so it seemed. A week before prom and I still didn't have a dress, didn't really have anything that I could see or try on. And the woman seemed stressed, sad, difficult to locate by times. I began to panic. Yet she somehow held herself together long enough to finish my dress just in time for prom, then promptly left her husband and checked herself into the hospital.
The dress was everything my heart desired, exactly as I had imagined. I was Scarlett O'Hara come to the ball! The skirt was so full I needed a hoop and two crinolins to fill it out. Sleek dresses were still a few years off. I felt like Cinderella in that get-up. Royal blue silk taffetta trimmed with yards of white lace, white roses edged in blue, big bow at my waist in back, beaded applique at my neck, lace faux gloves to my elbows . . . it was quite the spectacle. My date wore a white tux with bowtie and cumberbund made from the same royal blue material as my dress. Quite the spectacle indeed. Our prom theme was Never Say Goodbye by Bon Jovi. The band was called Cadillac Jack. They learned our theme song in the van ride over from Fredericton, so they only played it once, for the first dance, instead played Nothings Gonna Stop Us Now by Starship a kazillion times. I decided not to drink all evening until the party after prom. I wanted to be conscious, aware, I wanted to remember. It was the only dance I ever went to sober. This was uncomfortable at first, but we had a good time.
My prom date wasn't my boyfriend. He'd been my boyfriend since the 8th grade, but we broke up before graduation. We were supposed to be doing all my grad stuff just as friends because my new boyfriend had been to jail and wasn't supposed to be around the school, but we'd been together so long it was easy and comfortable to slip back in together, friends with benefits. After the first dance the principal found me and told me my boyfriend was in the parking lot, that he'd refused to leave until he saw me and the principal was going to call the police. I told him that wouldn't be necessary, just to give me five minutes outside. I went to the parking lot and told him he needed to leave before he got me in trouble. He just wanted to see me in my dress, wasn't there to cause trouble. Just wanted to take a picture. We had a deal though, he knew he was supposed to stay away for all the graduation stuff, that I had to go to things with my ex. He was actually one of the sweetest boys I ever dated. He had alcohol and drug problems in his teens, got in some trouble with the law, but he had a good heart, he was (still is) a decent person. He was very respectful of me, a real old-fashioned gentleman. That's why I liked him so much . . . that and the fact that my parents forbid me to be anywhere near him, of course.
Anyway, the deal was that I couldn't fully be his girlfriend until after graduation. In the meantime, I needed space. Both boys agreed to the terms. I saw nothing wrong with asking them to do this.
After the prom we went to my place to change out of fancy clothes and into something more comfortable for staying out drinking all night. Then we headed to the prom party at someone's camp or house way back Pineville, someplace where I guess they figured we wouldn't get in too much trouble. All the grads were drinking fuzzy navels-- vodka, oj, peach schapps. I'd never really been a cocktail girl, beer and whiskey were pretty much my staples, still this was a special occasion . . . and the first dozen went down pretty smooth for sure.
It seems like I spent most of the night outside on the deck trying to avoid people--girls I didn't get along with, boys I disliked, the new boyfriend who showed up with his car full of his friends. I worried that he'd get drunk and beat up my ex, despite the deal. I remember going inside and making my way through a crowded basement to the bathroom, seeing him sitting there with that drunk angry look in his eyes and knowing I had to keep them apart. That if he laid eyes on my ex all deals were off, but he'd stay inside and I could stay out. We left just after the sun came up, four couples I think, four separate cars. We were supposed to go someplace else, someplace up Doaktown, a camp or something for the day. I think we were supposed to take the Dungarvon Road and one guy knew the way through the woods, we were all supposed to follow. But everyone was too drunk and tired, we got separated, split off, some went home, some pulled over and slept in their cars.
We pulled over and talked, napped a little, but with the sun getting higher and hotter, sleeping in the car became unbearable so we went home. I don't know if that was the morning Mom and Dad came home from the camp and I begged them to take me with them because I thought I'd die if they left me alone. I don't think it was. I believe the night after prom we all got together again at another camp, more fuzzy navels, and I think this partying continued for many nights (but not grad night, i think we were one of the first grad classes at our school to have a safe grad) until the Saturday morning when I was so hung over and dehydrated and weak that all I could do was lie on the couch with a bucket by my side. Never have I been so sick from drinking, not before, not since. I was so thirsty but I couldn't stand up, couldn't get to the fridge. Mom and Dad came home from the camp and I was so happy to see them, begged them to take me with them, begged Dad to carry me to the car.
But they were having none of that. If I was foolish enough to drink that much then I could stay right there until I smartened up. Plus they didn't want anyone at the camp to see me looking like I'd been on a tare. My hair was greasy and stringy. I stank from booze and cigarettes and puking. My skin was greyish pale and I was visibly trembling, eyes glossy, nose running. Just the kind of mess you'd expect from a week-long drunk with no sustenance other than fuzzy navels.
I was literally crying, begging them to take me with them, I just didn't know what I'd do if I was left alone on the couch for days. And they wouldn't be back for days. I hadn't plans to hook up with anyone later. I wasn't expecting my ex to come looking for me. If I couldn't pull myself together, days or even a week might pass before anyone came to the house again. I didn't think I'd ever be strong enough to get up for food or anything. I couldn't stop puking. Finally Dad, or maybe it was Mom, one of them went against the other and said they'd take me with them but I had to get to the car on my own, nobody was going to baby me. And somehow I did get to the car, and I managed not to throw up on the drive even though I was having terrible car sickness and Dad wouldn't stop smoking even though it was making me gag, and I got myself into the trailer and curled up on the couch where I shivered and shook and was really sick for the rest of that day and most of the next. I suspect alcohol poisoning, or the closest I've ever come to it.
The mother of all hang-overs. It was a good ten years at least before I could look at anything peach or orange flavoured again. And I still could never drink a fuzzy navel, maybe if my life depended on it, but it'd be damn hard to keep down.
Was reminded of all this as I watched the season finale of Grey's Anatomy last night. Prom. I'm glad I stayed sober for the actual event. Too bad I made up for it later.
Mood: wistful
Drinking: water
Listening To: Coming Undone, Korn
Hair: rapidly embracing the idea of a blonde summer
Monday, May 15, 2006
According to My Horoscope . . .
my period of quiet reflection is ending (thank you jesus!) and I'm moving into a strong period of action. Finally! I couldn't handle another day of brooding, and the dreams! Oh my God, the dreams! And now I expect to hear from all my fellow Geminis (you know who you are) who I suspect have also been in quiet reflection, given that I haven't heard a peep in weeks. Come out, come out, wherever you are, time for lights, camera, action!
Next Wednesday I head to Miramichi for a week or so, that should throw me off track pretty good. Usually I try to keep visits brief, arrive Wednesday evening and leave on Sunday morning . . . even that can be too long. But this time I have too many committments. I arrive Wednesday evening, Thursday I get my hair cut and give a workshop at the Access Centre, Friday I'll check in with the Mighty Miramichi, Saturday I'm taking an all-day workshop at NBCC-Miramichi, Sunday is Anna's birthday, Monday will have to be girl's nite out at the movies if anything's playing and people are available, Tuesday is Stacy's housewarming (and also my friend Marilyn is reading at the art gallery in Chatham, but sadly I won't be able to attend), Wednesday is Abby's birthday, and Thursday morning I'll return to Sackville. Not much spare time in there.
It's not that I don't like going, it's just that my schedule get's all screwed up and I don't seem like I bounce back very quickly. I return exhausted and to chaos. But not this time! I'm taking advantage of this shift into action to get all my ducks in a row and do everything that needs doing to make this trip as unstressful and productive as possible. And that means much work! Much!
I've got company coming the first weekend in June. Yay! We're gonna have so much fun! Munchies, martinis, milkshakes, maybe even MEN! Yep, I'm talking single girl friend, to do single girl stuff. This is a rare and wonderful treat. I'm certainly looking forward to it. And yet another good reason to haul ass this week in prep for my excursion so I can rest up for her visit when I return and not have to run around like a fool finishing my spring cleaning or other crazy things.
In completely unrelated news, since deciding my blog is fodder for something more, I seem to be reluctant to write anything here. I mean anything reflective, about any of my adventures. Things pop into my head, but I'm not posting them. I don't seem to have the freedom to say whatever I want anymore. Need to work on giving myself permission. Yeah, give myself a good talking to. I'll work on that.
Mood: on the upswing
Drinking: luke warm coffee, the laura secord dark roast special (2 for 10, what a steal!) with real cream
Listening To: birds chirping
Hair: recently clipped a pic, think short shag, razored edges, rock star, yeah!
Next Wednesday I head to Miramichi for a week or so, that should throw me off track pretty good. Usually I try to keep visits brief, arrive Wednesday evening and leave on Sunday morning . . . even that can be too long. But this time I have too many committments. I arrive Wednesday evening, Thursday I get my hair cut and give a workshop at the Access Centre, Friday I'll check in with the Mighty Miramichi, Saturday I'm taking an all-day workshop at NBCC-Miramichi, Sunday is Anna's birthday, Monday will have to be girl's nite out at the movies if anything's playing and people are available, Tuesday is Stacy's housewarming (and also my friend Marilyn is reading at the art gallery in Chatham, but sadly I won't be able to attend), Wednesday is Abby's birthday, and Thursday morning I'll return to Sackville. Not much spare time in there.
It's not that I don't like going, it's just that my schedule get's all screwed up and I don't seem like I bounce back very quickly. I return exhausted and to chaos. But not this time! I'm taking advantage of this shift into action to get all my ducks in a row and do everything that needs doing to make this trip as unstressful and productive as possible. And that means much work! Much!
I've got company coming the first weekend in June. Yay! We're gonna have so much fun! Munchies, martinis, milkshakes, maybe even MEN! Yep, I'm talking single girl friend, to do single girl stuff. This is a rare and wonderful treat. I'm certainly looking forward to it. And yet another good reason to haul ass this week in prep for my excursion so I can rest up for her visit when I return and not have to run around like a fool finishing my spring cleaning or other crazy things.
In completely unrelated news, since deciding my blog is fodder for something more, I seem to be reluctant to write anything here. I mean anything reflective, about any of my adventures. Things pop into my head, but I'm not posting them. I don't seem to have the freedom to say whatever I want anymore. Need to work on giving myself permission. Yeah, give myself a good talking to. I'll work on that.
Mood: on the upswing
Drinking: luke warm coffee, the laura secord dark roast special (2 for 10, what a steal!) with real cream
Listening To: birds chirping
Hair: recently clipped a pic, think short shag, razored edges, rock star, yeah!
Sunday, May 14, 2006
A Meme Just to Post
Part 1: The Birth of You
Were you a planned baby? Not really. I'm a honeymoon baby.
Were you the first? Yes
Who was present at your birth? A doctor, some nurses, and nobody else. My mom would freak to have anybody in delivery with her. Dad didn't even stay at the hospital, dropped Mom off and went home. I don't know that he even saw me until Mom took me home.
Were your parents married when you were born? Yes
What is your birthdate? June 15, 1969 (yep, coming around again soon . . . send money! :-)
Part 2: The Family
How would you describe your family? Close
Are your parents married? Divorced? Seperated? Married still
Siblings or an only child? Two sisters, one brother.
If you have siblings are you oldest, middle, or youngest? Oldest
What are your siblings names and ages? Sherry, Jenn & Lee . . . I have trouble remembering how old I am, let alone anyone else, besides it's not polite to out them on their age
Which parent do you get along with best? Mom
What do you fight about? Not much, nothing important
Do you have step parents? Nope
Part 3: The Friends
Do you have more than one best friend? Not really
What do you like to do when you are together? Eat, drink, spend lots of money, be merry
Do you share the same interests? Sometimes
Which friend can you tell anything to? I don't tell everything to anyone. I'm a private person really, despite what you read here. I may tell eventually, but I don't share much in the present.
Part 4: Your Personality
How high/low is your self esteem? I think my self-esteem is pretty even keel right there now, not too low, though I've had bouts of low self-esteem in the past.
Do you get depressed about things easily? Not really. I try not to let things get me down. I bounce back kinda quickly.
Are you happy? Yes
Part 5: Appearance
Are you comfortable with the way you look? I could lose some weight, but yeah, I'm fine as is, not obsessive about my appearance or anything.
Do you have any piercings besides your ears? No. And I'm surprised my ear piercings haven't grown over. I never wear earrings, only but maybe once a year when a crazy urge strikes.
Describe your hair: Too long and thick. Soon to be chopped and dyed and cute again.
Part 6: The Past
Were you a strange child? I don't think so. I was really shy, read a lot, had a wicked imagination . . . I'm not sure what strange means
What did you used to love that you no longer do? Smoking. Started playing around with it when I was around 12, was a full-blown smoker by age 14, smoked at least 1 and up to 3 packs a day throughout my 20's, quit four years ago.
Do you have the same friends? Not at all
Part 7: The Future
What is your ambition? books, books, books!
Are you scared of growing old? Not much.
Do you want to get married? Umm, NO! Hah! But seriously, I've never wanted to get married because of the committment thing (it's like the ultimate super serious committment). Marriages are so expensive to get out of, and once married the guy would probably want kids, which I am so NOT doing in this lifetime. So the idea of marriage has generally scared the shit out of me. But now that I'm older and not facing 70 years with the same guy, I'm not as opposed to getting married, it doesn't seem to be the big scary deal anymore. In my next life I'm marrying everyone who asks, just for the hell of it, but in this one I can see maybe one marriage when that special guy plops into my life and refuses to be driven off by my numerous attempts at relationship sabotauge.
Part 8: The Outdoors
Do you prefer indoors or outdoors? I like being outside, though I spend most of my time inside. I don't like bugs, bees, spiders, snakes and all kinds of creepy things you find outside. I don't like being eaten by black flies. But I could sit by the Bay of Fundy in Alma and watch the tide change 24-7 and never tire of it. I like camping and hiking and all that fun stuff. I need to make more time to do these things.
What is your favorite season? I like them all for different reasons, but probably Fall least because it makes me sad and Spring most because of all the new birth in nature and great smells.
Weather? The weather here is almost perfect. As is the weather in Alma. I like bright sunshiny days, high temperatures, with a nice breeze. I've come to love the wind. With wind you never get that sweltering humid heat.
Do you like walking in the rain? I do. I get lost in a warm rain walk.
Part 9: Food
Are you a vegetarian? No
What food makes you want to gag? Plain dry potatoe scallop like my mom makes for my dad with no onions, no frills.
What is your favorite dessert? that's tough, gotta love dessert! Probably New York Cheesecake with cherries or berries or some fruit topping
Mood: uninspired
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: kids next door
Hair: ugh!
Were you a planned baby? Not really. I'm a honeymoon baby.
Were you the first? Yes
Who was present at your birth? A doctor, some nurses, and nobody else. My mom would freak to have anybody in delivery with her. Dad didn't even stay at the hospital, dropped Mom off and went home. I don't know that he even saw me until Mom took me home.
Were your parents married when you were born? Yes
What is your birthdate? June 15, 1969 (yep, coming around again soon . . . send money! :-)
Part 2: The Family
How would you describe your family? Close
Are your parents married? Divorced? Seperated? Married still
Siblings or an only child? Two sisters, one brother.
If you have siblings are you oldest, middle, or youngest? Oldest
What are your siblings names and ages? Sherry, Jenn & Lee . . . I have trouble remembering how old I am, let alone anyone else, besides it's not polite to out them on their age
Which parent do you get along with best? Mom
What do you fight about? Not much, nothing important
Do you have step parents? Nope
Part 3: The Friends
Do you have more than one best friend? Not really
What do you like to do when you are together? Eat, drink, spend lots of money, be merry
Do you share the same interests? Sometimes
Which friend can you tell anything to? I don't tell everything to anyone. I'm a private person really, despite what you read here. I may tell eventually, but I don't share much in the present.
Part 4: Your Personality
How high/low is your self esteem? I think my self-esteem is pretty even keel right there now, not too low, though I've had bouts of low self-esteem in the past.
Do you get depressed about things easily? Not really. I try not to let things get me down. I bounce back kinda quickly.
Are you happy? Yes
Part 5: Appearance
Are you comfortable with the way you look? I could lose some weight, but yeah, I'm fine as is, not obsessive about my appearance or anything.
Do you have any piercings besides your ears? No. And I'm surprised my ear piercings haven't grown over. I never wear earrings, only but maybe once a year when a crazy urge strikes.
Describe your hair: Too long and thick. Soon to be chopped and dyed and cute again.
Part 6: The Past
Were you a strange child? I don't think so. I was really shy, read a lot, had a wicked imagination . . . I'm not sure what strange means
What did you used to love that you no longer do? Smoking. Started playing around with it when I was around 12, was a full-blown smoker by age 14, smoked at least 1 and up to 3 packs a day throughout my 20's, quit four years ago.
Do you have the same friends? Not at all
Part 7: The Future
What is your ambition? books, books, books!
Are you scared of growing old? Not much.
Do you want to get married? Umm, NO! Hah! But seriously, I've never wanted to get married because of the committment thing (it's like the ultimate super serious committment). Marriages are so expensive to get out of, and once married the guy would probably want kids, which I am so NOT doing in this lifetime. So the idea of marriage has generally scared the shit out of me. But now that I'm older and not facing 70 years with the same guy, I'm not as opposed to getting married, it doesn't seem to be the big scary deal anymore. In my next life I'm marrying everyone who asks, just for the hell of it, but in this one I can see maybe one marriage when that special guy plops into my life and refuses to be driven off by my numerous attempts at relationship sabotauge.
Part 8: The Outdoors
Do you prefer indoors or outdoors? I like being outside, though I spend most of my time inside. I don't like bugs, bees, spiders, snakes and all kinds of creepy things you find outside. I don't like being eaten by black flies. But I could sit by the Bay of Fundy in Alma and watch the tide change 24-7 and never tire of it. I like camping and hiking and all that fun stuff. I need to make more time to do these things.
What is your favorite season? I like them all for different reasons, but probably Fall least because it makes me sad and Spring most because of all the new birth in nature and great smells.
Weather? The weather here is almost perfect. As is the weather in Alma. I like bright sunshiny days, high temperatures, with a nice breeze. I've come to love the wind. With wind you never get that sweltering humid heat.
Do you like walking in the rain? I do. I get lost in a warm rain walk.
Part 9: Food
Are you a vegetarian? No
What food makes you want to gag? Plain dry potatoe scallop like my mom makes for my dad with no onions, no frills.
What is your favorite dessert? that's tough, gotta love dessert! Probably New York Cheesecake with cherries or berries or some fruit topping
Mood: uninspired
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: kids next door
Hair: ugh!
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Coming of Age
so i met with the writers' group this week. presented the first set of posts from the blog. the consensus is that the first person works. i seem to have all the fixings for a coming of age novel. yay! god damn first person. you know i hate it. you know it's the most uncomfortable way for me to write. i thought i'd be okay with the first person if they suggested i do memoir . . . thought i could live with that. but nobody really suggested memoir, they all seemed like they thought fiction would work, novel, maybe like bridget jones or sophie kinsella . . . but a novel nonetheless. oy! so this sucks. who the hell could've predicted i'd write my first novel in the first person?! certainly not i.
and yes, before we get into it, i must apologize for blogging under the influence. this is what happens when you lose yourself in your thoughts as you're pouring. i've got a glass of spirits with just a touch of mix. and still, i'm in freaking pain. sometimes i wish for heavy duty painkillers. need to straighten out my medicare still.
but back to my coming of age novel. OY! biographical of course, but it seems like every few years i reinvent myself, come of age again and again. it's hard to know what to focus on. and a novel needs focus. yes. i can't just meander. the thing about a novel is characters arc, change, grow. so that last summer, after graduation before toronto, seems most logical to use for fodder. people seem to fixate on it when i mention it, seem to want to know more. lord knows there's tons of stuff to draw on. but i wonder about the arc, how the character changes during the course of that summer . . . and i know i did . . . but maybe it was just that i got the fear under control, that i actually, despite all the opposition, i actually left small town nb and moved to toronto to live with a strange family. i actually went through with it, followed through, when there was every opportunity and encouragement to change my mind, to go a different way. maybe that's the arc, the resolve the character develops, to face the fear head on in order to give herself every opportunity for a better life. jeeze, thinking of myself as the character already . . . i guess i'm on my way, ready or not.
So anyway, the one thing that shows that character development, from fear and indecision to resolution and determination, is the nightmare. you remember the one. my sisters told it as a ghost story at their girlfriend sleepovers in high school. this nightmare was legend in my circle because nobody had ever had such a heavy duty recurrent dream. i remember it vividly still. who couldn't? i even tried to write a short story that incorporated it, though i'm not sure it works in this capacity . . . i think it will work in a coming of age novel . . . anyway, special treat tonight as i swing open the vault and share said short story based on the recurrent nightmare of that last summer. comments welcome. both on the story, the possibility of coming of age novel, my inherent drunkeness, whatever . . .
The Voice
By Kellie Underhill
Laura sits in back wedged between two friends, while Sue navigates the blue Rabbit through sharp turns and neck-snapping potholes. A warm breeze rushes through the open windows, scenting the air with the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms. Laura's hair whips around her head in a mess of stinging tentacles, striking her eyes and cheeks. The girls giggle at something Sue yells from the front seat. Laura doesn't laugh.
Then she hears the voice.
The dream always changes. The first time, Laura asked if anyone else heard the voice, but they ignored her. When she hears it now, she screams. It begins with the voice. The nightmare stays the same.
A man interrupts normal dreams and lures her into the nightmare. His voice booms. She can't hide from it or escape.
Laura fidgets in the plush chair. Still half-asleep, her co-workers float around the conference room like lost souls, filling coffee mugs and gathering muffins. She can't eat. She feels like a tightrope walker working without a net, her nerves stretched too tight might snap at any moment crashing her into the concrete below. She hopes to muster enough courage to present her idea, but butterflies churn her stomach. The president stands and calls the meeting to order.
Then she hears the voice.
The voice drones on and on, reminding her of singsong chanting during religious services. The man might speak Latin or another foreign tongue, but the rhythm of the words is as familiar and sacred to Laura as the Lord's Prayer.
She never quite hears the words. She tries, but like an old song on the tip of her tongue they elude her. If she could just grasp one syllable, the rest would flood her memory.
Laura's family gathers at her mother's house to celebrate Christmas. She smells the turkey roasting in the oven. Her sisters’ sing carols as they set the table. She feels so safe here.
"Mom, how come we don't do this anymore?" Laura asks, as she selects silverware from a tray. She can't hear her mother's reply.
Then she hears the voice.
Laura only knows the words terrify her. Two sentences. One complete thought. Repeated hypnotically. Never a pause for breath. Never a break in pace. Like a broken record.
It mocks her with its tedious honesty. She fears the words, but the unknown speaker terrifies her. She believes she might die by seeing him.
Laura recognises the nightmare because of the voice, yet she can't wake up. She remains its prisoner until completion.
When she hears the voice, her normal dreams fade. Normal dreams disappear into air, so flimsy. Only the nightmare feels solid and real.
She stands at the end of a long narrow corridor. A hallway in an ancient castle might look like this she imagines, but she never visited a castle before. Dampness from the stone corridor creeps right inside, and her bones stiffen and ache.
Torches light the way; casting slow dancing shadows on the wall, which seem to laugh at her. The voice becomes louder here, in its home.
She observes each mundane detail. She can't stop. She acts out the motions, a powerless puppet trapped in a familiar play.
She never notices the other woman at first, but she always appears. She calls her The Lady in Black when she tells friends about the nightmare. She tells everyone she meets and asks for advice to help end her torment, but nobody seems to understand. They sigh and stare through her in disturbed silence.
She faces Laura, close to six feet tall and willowy, with shiny blue-black hair falling to her waist. Her deep burgundy lips stand out, inviting and ripe, against her flawless porcelain skin. The Lady's exotic almond-shaped eyes, dark emerald flecked with bits of gold, electrify with energy. They demand complete attention like metal drawn to a magnet, and Laura can't look away. She wears a long flowing evening gown of soft ebony chiffon. Yards of the inky wispy material fall to the floor in a train. She stands like a statuette. She doesn't breathe. She doesn't blink. She doesn't smile.
They stare at each other and still the voice echoes throughout the corridor. Laura wishes she understood the words while at the same time dreading comprehension. She senses the importance and fears it.
One moment they face each other and the next The Lady moves away from her. She floats down the corridor without taking a step. No rustle of her dress. Silence. Except for the voice.
Laura can't scream though her terror escalates. She knows what will come. She remembers every detail but to make any sound breaks the rules. The nightmare must reach its conclusion in the same way each time.
The Lady in Black always leads the way. Laura tries to end it here. She wills herself to wake up. She orders her legs to remain still. She demands her voice to scream. But she follows The Lady like a zombie in a trance. They march single-file in a methodical train to the monotonous rhythm of the voice. She can't stop the procession. She no longer owns her body. Only her mind remains her own.
The corridor turns left and still she follows. Around the corner she plods, heart pummelling her chest. The Lady vanishes.
Just a few more steps and she’ll stand before the door. No place to go, only through it. She must decide whether to open it or not. The voice deafens her. The man must stand on the other side. Of course she can’t know this for certain, Laura never opens the door.
Terror washes over her in razor-sharp waves. The monstrous door stretches the width of the corridor and disappears into the ceiling. The ancient wood looms solid and heavy, dwarfing her. Its wrought iron handle freezes the blood in her veins. A shiny copper plaque rests level with her eyes. Laura runs her fingers over the engraved words. Two lines. Two paralysing lines —
Laura Louise Wheeler
1966 - 1991
She can’t absorb any more. Now her screams ring out, real and loud.
She wakes. Her hair and nightgown, soaked with sweat, cling to her trembling body. She turns on every light in the house and still she can’t escape the nightmare.
Too terrified to sleep, she sits alone listening to the house creak. She fiddles with the TV and radio. She paces. She creeps into her mother’s room and sits on the edge of her bed watching her peaceful slumber.
When her exhausted body betrays her, she sleeps. Each time, the voice interrupts her dreams and whisks her away to the corridor, The Lady, and the door. If only she could hear the words and understand perhaps the nightmare would fade.
At last, Laura decides. She will go through the door and confront the man. She fears this more than anything, but she feels determined. She will sleep, enter the nightmare and open the door.
“Mom, how come we don’t do this anymore?” Laura asks, as she selects silverware from a tray.
Tears well in her mother’s eyes.
“We miss you Laura,” she whispers.
Then she hears the words.
Mood: painfully intoxicated
Drinking: godiva chocolate liqueur and absolut vodka with a splash of milk
Listening To: the sex and the city friday night marathon on bravo
Hair: i have hair?
and yes, before we get into it, i must apologize for blogging under the influence. this is what happens when you lose yourself in your thoughts as you're pouring. i've got a glass of spirits with just a touch of mix. and still, i'm in freaking pain. sometimes i wish for heavy duty painkillers. need to straighten out my medicare still.
but back to my coming of age novel. OY! biographical of course, but it seems like every few years i reinvent myself, come of age again and again. it's hard to know what to focus on. and a novel needs focus. yes. i can't just meander. the thing about a novel is characters arc, change, grow. so that last summer, after graduation before toronto, seems most logical to use for fodder. people seem to fixate on it when i mention it, seem to want to know more. lord knows there's tons of stuff to draw on. but i wonder about the arc, how the character changes during the course of that summer . . . and i know i did . . . but maybe it was just that i got the fear under control, that i actually, despite all the opposition, i actually left small town nb and moved to toronto to live with a strange family. i actually went through with it, followed through, when there was every opportunity and encouragement to change my mind, to go a different way. maybe that's the arc, the resolve the character develops, to face the fear head on in order to give herself every opportunity for a better life. jeeze, thinking of myself as the character already . . . i guess i'm on my way, ready or not.
So anyway, the one thing that shows that character development, from fear and indecision to resolution and determination, is the nightmare. you remember the one. my sisters told it as a ghost story at their girlfriend sleepovers in high school. this nightmare was legend in my circle because nobody had ever had such a heavy duty recurrent dream. i remember it vividly still. who couldn't? i even tried to write a short story that incorporated it, though i'm not sure it works in this capacity . . . i think it will work in a coming of age novel . . . anyway, special treat tonight as i swing open the vault and share said short story based on the recurrent nightmare of that last summer. comments welcome. both on the story, the possibility of coming of age novel, my inherent drunkeness, whatever . . .
The Voice
By Kellie Underhill
Laura sits in back wedged between two friends, while Sue navigates the blue Rabbit through sharp turns and neck-snapping potholes. A warm breeze rushes through the open windows, scenting the air with the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms. Laura's hair whips around her head in a mess of stinging tentacles, striking her eyes and cheeks. The girls giggle at something Sue yells from the front seat. Laura doesn't laugh.
Then she hears the voice.
The dream always changes. The first time, Laura asked if anyone else heard the voice, but they ignored her. When she hears it now, she screams. It begins with the voice. The nightmare stays the same.
A man interrupts normal dreams and lures her into the nightmare. His voice booms. She can't hide from it or escape.
Laura fidgets in the plush chair. Still half-asleep, her co-workers float around the conference room like lost souls, filling coffee mugs and gathering muffins. She can't eat. She feels like a tightrope walker working without a net, her nerves stretched too tight might snap at any moment crashing her into the concrete below. She hopes to muster enough courage to present her idea, but butterflies churn her stomach. The president stands and calls the meeting to order.
Then she hears the voice.
The voice drones on and on, reminding her of singsong chanting during religious services. The man might speak Latin or another foreign tongue, but the rhythm of the words is as familiar and sacred to Laura as the Lord's Prayer.
She never quite hears the words. She tries, but like an old song on the tip of her tongue they elude her. If she could just grasp one syllable, the rest would flood her memory.
Laura's family gathers at her mother's house to celebrate Christmas. She smells the turkey roasting in the oven. Her sisters’ sing carols as they set the table. She feels so safe here.
"Mom, how come we don't do this anymore?" Laura asks, as she selects silverware from a tray. She can't hear her mother's reply.
Then she hears the voice.
Laura only knows the words terrify her. Two sentences. One complete thought. Repeated hypnotically. Never a pause for breath. Never a break in pace. Like a broken record.
It mocks her with its tedious honesty. She fears the words, but the unknown speaker terrifies her. She believes she might die by seeing him.
Laura recognises the nightmare because of the voice, yet she can't wake up. She remains its prisoner until completion.
When she hears the voice, her normal dreams fade. Normal dreams disappear into air, so flimsy. Only the nightmare feels solid and real.
She stands at the end of a long narrow corridor. A hallway in an ancient castle might look like this she imagines, but she never visited a castle before. Dampness from the stone corridor creeps right inside, and her bones stiffen and ache.
Torches light the way; casting slow dancing shadows on the wall, which seem to laugh at her. The voice becomes louder here, in its home.
She observes each mundane detail. She can't stop. She acts out the motions, a powerless puppet trapped in a familiar play.
She never notices the other woman at first, but she always appears. She calls her The Lady in Black when she tells friends about the nightmare. She tells everyone she meets and asks for advice to help end her torment, but nobody seems to understand. They sigh and stare through her in disturbed silence.
She faces Laura, close to six feet tall and willowy, with shiny blue-black hair falling to her waist. Her deep burgundy lips stand out, inviting and ripe, against her flawless porcelain skin. The Lady's exotic almond-shaped eyes, dark emerald flecked with bits of gold, electrify with energy. They demand complete attention like metal drawn to a magnet, and Laura can't look away. She wears a long flowing evening gown of soft ebony chiffon. Yards of the inky wispy material fall to the floor in a train. She stands like a statuette. She doesn't breathe. She doesn't blink. She doesn't smile.
They stare at each other and still the voice echoes throughout the corridor. Laura wishes she understood the words while at the same time dreading comprehension. She senses the importance and fears it.
One moment they face each other and the next The Lady moves away from her. She floats down the corridor without taking a step. No rustle of her dress. Silence. Except for the voice.
Laura can't scream though her terror escalates. She knows what will come. She remembers every detail but to make any sound breaks the rules. The nightmare must reach its conclusion in the same way each time.
The Lady in Black always leads the way. Laura tries to end it here. She wills herself to wake up. She orders her legs to remain still. She demands her voice to scream. But she follows The Lady like a zombie in a trance. They march single-file in a methodical train to the monotonous rhythm of the voice. She can't stop the procession. She no longer owns her body. Only her mind remains her own.
The corridor turns left and still she follows. Around the corner she plods, heart pummelling her chest. The Lady vanishes.
Just a few more steps and she’ll stand before the door. No place to go, only through it. She must decide whether to open it or not. The voice deafens her. The man must stand on the other side. Of course she can’t know this for certain, Laura never opens the door.
Terror washes over her in razor-sharp waves. The monstrous door stretches the width of the corridor and disappears into the ceiling. The ancient wood looms solid and heavy, dwarfing her. Its wrought iron handle freezes the blood in her veins. A shiny copper plaque rests level with her eyes. Laura runs her fingers over the engraved words. Two lines. Two paralysing lines —
Laura Louise Wheeler
1966 - 1991
She can’t absorb any more. Now her screams ring out, real and loud.
She wakes. Her hair and nightgown, soaked with sweat, cling to her trembling body. She turns on every light in the house and still she can’t escape the nightmare.
Too terrified to sleep, she sits alone listening to the house creak. She fiddles with the TV and radio. She paces. She creeps into her mother’s room and sits on the edge of her bed watching her peaceful slumber.
When her exhausted body betrays her, she sleeps. Each time, the voice interrupts her dreams and whisks her away to the corridor, The Lady, and the door. If only she could hear the words and understand perhaps the nightmare would fade.
At last, Laura decides. She will go through the door and confront the man. She fears this more than anything, but she feels determined. She will sleep, enter the nightmare and open the door.
“Mom, how come we don’t do this anymore?” Laura asks, as she selects silverware from a tray.
Tears well in her mother’s eyes.
“We miss you Laura,” she whispers.
Then she hears the words.
Mood: painfully intoxicated
Drinking: godiva chocolate liqueur and absolut vodka with a splash of milk
Listening To: the sex and the city friday night marathon on bravo
Hair: i have hair?
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
5, 4, 3, 2, 1
Five days since my last post. Nope, am not sick.
Four years ago today I quit smoking.
Cigarettes NOT smoked: 36521
Lifetime Saved: 9 months, 8 days, 23 hours
Money Saved: $14,610.00
WHO'S BETTER THAN YOU TODAY?
You've made it! A whole 48 months without a cigarette! In that time, you've successfully navigated the physical chaos of withdrawal, the emotional highs and lows of early quit, and the pitfalls of relapse!
WHO'S BETTER THAN YOU TODAY?
Countless times you've refused the offered cigs. More times than that you've craved nicotine, but opted for health, instead. You've endured teasing, lack of support, and feeling uncomfortable and out of place among smokers. You may have had issues with weight, anger, tension or sadness, but still you stayed SMOKE-FREE!
WHO'S BETTER THAN YOU TODAY?
You're adjusting to a whole new lifestyle. You're already thinking different thoughts. You've changed habits and routines. You've made new friends and, perhaps, let go of some old ones. You're starting to realize the benefits of living a SMOKE-FREE life. More and more, you see yourself as a non-smoker. We hope you're as proud of you as we are.
WHO'S BETTER THAN YOU TODAY?
And while you've been doing all this for yourself, you've been helping everyone here at the Q: your membership in our community, whether active or passive, has demonstrated an ongoing support of the efforts of all of us. We hope you stay with us as you continue your SMOKE-FREE journey to a fuller, richer, healthier life.
Three days ago the Sturgeons came for a visit. Kids made art at Owen's Family Sunday. I slow-cooked roast pork. Birds were fed from palms and seen aplenty on Waterfowl hike. Laughs with crazy Irish dudes. Good times.
Two nights past J&J saw INXS. Called me during Pretty Vegas but phone reception sucked, song was indecipherable through static.
One moment please.
Mood: purple hazed
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: rain & wind
Hair: countdown begins
Four years ago today I quit smoking.
Cigarettes NOT smoked: 36521
Lifetime Saved: 9 months, 8 days, 23 hours
Money Saved: $14,610.00
WHO'S BETTER THAN YOU TODAY?
You've made it! A whole 48 months without a cigarette! In that time, you've successfully navigated the physical chaos of withdrawal, the emotional highs and lows of early quit, and the pitfalls of relapse!
WHO'S BETTER THAN YOU TODAY?
Countless times you've refused the offered cigs. More times than that you've craved nicotine, but opted for health, instead. You've endured teasing, lack of support, and feeling uncomfortable and out of place among smokers. You may have had issues with weight, anger, tension or sadness, but still you stayed SMOKE-FREE!
WHO'S BETTER THAN YOU TODAY?
You're adjusting to a whole new lifestyle. You're already thinking different thoughts. You've changed habits and routines. You've made new friends and, perhaps, let go of some old ones. You're starting to realize the benefits of living a SMOKE-FREE life. More and more, you see yourself as a non-smoker. We hope you're as proud of you as we are.
WHO'S BETTER THAN YOU TODAY?
And while you've been doing all this for yourself, you've been helping everyone here at the Q: your membership in our community, whether active or passive, has demonstrated an ongoing support of the efforts of all of us. We hope you stay with us as you continue your SMOKE-FREE journey to a fuller, richer, healthier life.
Three days ago the Sturgeons came for a visit. Kids made art at Owen's Family Sunday. I slow-cooked roast pork. Birds were fed from palms and seen aplenty on Waterfowl hike. Laughs with crazy Irish dudes. Good times.
Two nights past J&J saw INXS. Called me during Pretty Vegas but phone reception sucked, song was indecipherable through static.
One moment please.
Mood: purple hazed
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: rain & wind
Hair: countdown begins
Friday, May 05, 2006
If I Had a Cat . . .
would it eat or kill or at least chase away all the spiders in my house? Would it? Does anyone know? Tis the season and I'm infested. Huge freaking beasts. Victorian aged. They think they've got every right to be here. More than me. But I will show them what's what soon as I can haul my ass to Home Hardware and get me a big old can of Raid. Damn things.
Tonight, getting ready to go meet a new writer friend for coffee, naked in my bedroom, I pull my blue shirt from the closet . . . notice something black on an inside seam . . . think it is a tag . . . notice the white tag on the other seam as I go to slip an arm in . . . think I must have a stain . . . examine the black spot . . . jeezless big assed spider!! INSIDE MY SHIRT! Scream. Jump on the bed. Throw the shirt on the floor. Spider runs for it. And so do I. One giant leap over the spider from the bed into the living room, snatch the handy dandy yellow fly swat, pivot and face him head on. Can't see him. He's freaking disappeared. I'm running late because Sherry called, I don't have time to mess around with this fat bastard. Think he must've gone into hiding in the shirt. Pick it up and give it a good shaking out. Nothing happens. I don't see him. Dammit! Where'd he go? Drop the shirt. Look around. Under the dresser. In the closet. Shake out a dirty pair of jeans lying on the floor. Nothing.
Back to the shirt. He's in there somewhere. I can't leave the house until he's found. Fold back the shirt with the tip of the flyswat . . . slowly . . . nothing. He's either on the other side or in a sleeve. Start beating the crap out of the shirt with the flyswat. Whack! Whack! Whack! Into the floor with all my force. I imagined the headlines -- Brain Aneurysm Slays Ugly Naked Lady, Foiling Shirt Murder. I whacked it good then whacked it some more. Surely the beast would have to be at least a little stunned. I get a little braver at the thought, pulling the sleeves wrong side out . . . and there he is! Little bastard makes a run for it but I'm ready for him. The first blow knocks him off his feet but he's a big one, not to be fazed by a single crack from a flimsy flyswat. He keeps running and I strike again. And again. And again. Until he's a soggy blot on my shirt. (I hope the stains come out.) My anger carries me to Tim Horton's in record time. I'm too hot to even have coffee when I get there.
I can't help but have this spider phobia. I know I shouldn't kill them. I usually catch the little ones and take them outside. I tell the big ones I don't mind co-habitation as long as I don't see them. Out of sight is fine. It's when they make themselves known to me that I freak out, lose it. I just can't stand them . . . and here's why -- when I was a wee lass I didn't like spiders. My father thought this a foolish fear because I was bigger than them, they were more afraid of me than I should be of them. But this reasoning with a six-year-old had no effect, when I saw spiders in the house I would ask my father to remove them for me. He thought I needed to get over this irrational fear, that if he could just show me how harmless the beasties were, I would be forever cured . . . so one day I saw a spider on the wall behind the garbage can in the kitchen. Our garbage can lived in a cubby hole in our counter that was left open for the addition of a dishwasher someday when my parents could afford one. That day was a long time coming, so growing up that was always where our garbage can stood.
I saw the spider behind the garbage can and begged my father to remove it, but instead he seized the moment to teach me a lesson, shoving me into the cubby hole with the spider and blocking my way out with the garbage can. He didn't physically hold me in there, he just told me to stay. But I was raised on fear for discipline, so when my father told me to stay, even though I was hysterical, I stayed. For I don't know how long. Me and the spider in the cubby hole. His lesson failed of course, backfired miserably. My fear quadrupled beyond irrationality . . . and when I got older I seized every opportunity to defy my father. Maybe I would have been the same difficult teenager regardless, but I don't know, it seems logical that all the hours of wishing for the day when I would be old enough to knock his block off might have factored into the equation.
But I'm off track. The question is, will a cat help the spider situation any? Or do you know of any deterent? You know, like leaving Bounce sheets laying around or something. I mean, I know it's the season for them and this is an old house . . . but there must be something I can do to at least diminish their numbers, or keep them in hiding or . . . something. Anything? Anyone?
Mood: tortured
Drinking: beer. yes, really, i'm not even making it up
Listening To: shots fired (tis also the season i guess)
Hair: oh blah!
Tonight, getting ready to go meet a new writer friend for coffee, naked in my bedroom, I pull my blue shirt from the closet . . . notice something black on an inside seam . . . think it is a tag . . . notice the white tag on the other seam as I go to slip an arm in . . . think I must have a stain . . . examine the black spot . . . jeezless big assed spider!! INSIDE MY SHIRT! Scream. Jump on the bed. Throw the shirt on the floor. Spider runs for it. And so do I. One giant leap over the spider from the bed into the living room, snatch the handy dandy yellow fly swat, pivot and face him head on. Can't see him. He's freaking disappeared. I'm running late because Sherry called, I don't have time to mess around with this fat bastard. Think he must've gone into hiding in the shirt. Pick it up and give it a good shaking out. Nothing happens. I don't see him. Dammit! Where'd he go? Drop the shirt. Look around. Under the dresser. In the closet. Shake out a dirty pair of jeans lying on the floor. Nothing.
Back to the shirt. He's in there somewhere. I can't leave the house until he's found. Fold back the shirt with the tip of the flyswat . . . slowly . . . nothing. He's either on the other side or in a sleeve. Start beating the crap out of the shirt with the flyswat. Whack! Whack! Whack! Into the floor with all my force. I imagined the headlines -- Brain Aneurysm Slays Ugly Naked Lady, Foiling Shirt Murder. I whacked it good then whacked it some more. Surely the beast would have to be at least a little stunned. I get a little braver at the thought, pulling the sleeves wrong side out . . . and there he is! Little bastard makes a run for it but I'm ready for him. The first blow knocks him off his feet but he's a big one, not to be fazed by a single crack from a flimsy flyswat. He keeps running and I strike again. And again. And again. Until he's a soggy blot on my shirt. (I hope the stains come out.) My anger carries me to Tim Horton's in record time. I'm too hot to even have coffee when I get there.
I can't help but have this spider phobia. I know I shouldn't kill them. I usually catch the little ones and take them outside. I tell the big ones I don't mind co-habitation as long as I don't see them. Out of sight is fine. It's when they make themselves known to me that I freak out, lose it. I just can't stand them . . . and here's why -- when I was a wee lass I didn't like spiders. My father thought this a foolish fear because I was bigger than them, they were more afraid of me than I should be of them. But this reasoning with a six-year-old had no effect, when I saw spiders in the house I would ask my father to remove them for me. He thought I needed to get over this irrational fear, that if he could just show me how harmless the beasties were, I would be forever cured . . . so one day I saw a spider on the wall behind the garbage can in the kitchen. Our garbage can lived in a cubby hole in our counter that was left open for the addition of a dishwasher someday when my parents could afford one. That day was a long time coming, so growing up that was always where our garbage can stood.
I saw the spider behind the garbage can and begged my father to remove it, but instead he seized the moment to teach me a lesson, shoving me into the cubby hole with the spider and blocking my way out with the garbage can. He didn't physically hold me in there, he just told me to stay. But I was raised on fear for discipline, so when my father told me to stay, even though I was hysterical, I stayed. For I don't know how long. Me and the spider in the cubby hole. His lesson failed of course, backfired miserably. My fear quadrupled beyond irrationality . . . and when I got older I seized every opportunity to defy my father. Maybe I would have been the same difficult teenager regardless, but I don't know, it seems logical that all the hours of wishing for the day when I would be old enough to knock his block off might have factored into the equation.
But I'm off track. The question is, will a cat help the spider situation any? Or do you know of any deterent? You know, like leaving Bounce sheets laying around or something. I mean, I know it's the season for them and this is an old house . . . but there must be something I can do to at least diminish their numbers, or keep them in hiding or . . . something. Anything? Anyone?
Mood: tortured
Drinking: beer. yes, really, i'm not even making it up
Listening To: shots fired (tis also the season i guess)
Hair: oh blah!
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Dream Interpretation Anyone?
Lots of fire and kids in my dreams last night. But what does it all mean?
I dreamed Stacy and I were studying in Toronto, having to go downtown everyday for classes. The campus looked more like U of T than Rye High. Because we lived way the hell out in almost Mississauga we had a two-seater plane. Everyday we'd fly to classes in no time. No need to land at the Island Airport and commute, there was a landing strip right on campus.
I was studying Thoreau with my Rye High American Literature Professor in a quiet secluded Victorian-like study/library. Stacy was doing some sort of chef-type course in a huge open noisy cafeteria type restaurant. I could hear the clock ticking and my heart beating in my study space. She needed to scream to be heard in hers. We loved it!
My class ended first so I went to her shimmering stainless steel cafeteria to have coffee and relax before the brief flight home. I was trying to read but the place was so noisy I couldn't focus so I was just sort of vegging, people watching, when a news story flashed onto a television screen suspended from the ceiling above me. It showed a two-seater plane flying through a storm, lightning zinging all around, the plane being tossed about in strong winds. You could almost see the strained faces of the pilot and passenger through the rain washed windshield, that's how close the cameras were, more like a special effects film than a news report. I shuddered but couldn't take my eyes off the plane.
I gasped when a bolt of lightning hit the passenger-side wing sending a shower of sparks into the smoky clouds. The plane bounced but the pilot managed to hang on. I prayed for the miraculous ending, the one where the pilot somehow guides the plane to safety despite everything. I hoped for the amazing soundclip, the pilot's voice slicing through telephone static, "A voice in my head said it was going to be alright and I calmed right down. I knew we'd be okay. I knew I'd get us down . . ." I mouthed the words and prayed as another lightning bolt struck the pilot's side wing scattering pieces like confetti. Flames shooting out of the cockpit but I couldn't look away as the situation turned hopeless. Now there would be grieving family soundclips, praise from co-workers, "Stan was the best pilot I knew, if he couldn't land, nobody could . . ." Tears burned my eyes as the plane suddenly exploded into a ball of white light. Oh my God! But wait. I noticed something else. A speck really. A dark form falling away from the flames.
Cut to a young reporter standing in pouring rain outside a hospital Emergency Room. Pilot and passenger ejected seconds before the explosion. Stable but critical condition. My tense body sags with relief as Stacy sidles into the chair next to me, her day finished, ready to fly home. I'm not paying attention to her chit-chat as I look out the window at the threatening sky and wonder how soon before the storm strikes here, if we have parachutes onboard. Then her voice breaks in, "Are you listening to me? I'm pregnant. Don't tell anyone yet, okay?"
The scene shifts. I'm in a loft-like apartment, very bright and modern. A wall of windows opening onto a gorgeous sunshiny day, gleaming white walls, plush cream coloured sofa and chairs. Very not me, yet this appears to be where I live. My hair is cropped short and I'm wearing a grey fedora. It's a great hat. I'm making tea for my mother and Grammie Underhill who have stopped in unexpectedly to visit. I'm very conscious of the fact that I have a secret (Stacy's pregnancy) that I'm not allowed to tell. I'm very uncomfortable and worried that I might slip up. The scene keeps panning from Mom and Grammie sitting on the couch to me in the kitchen, back and forth like a tennis match, and everytime I'm shown I'm wearing a different hat. A black tophat, white Panama, red Stetson, navy Homburg and more. The fedora is my favourite.
The scene shifts again. Stacy and I are in a huge garage, perhaps an airplane hangar. The front is completely open to the outside. There are a lot of people milling about, it seems like an open house or trade show or something is happening here. I walk up to her as she's speaking to a burly man I don't know. She's trying to get clearance to fly us home, casually mentions her good news that she's pregnant. I can't believe it! After I nearly bit my tongue off to not say anything to Mom and Grammie, and here she is blurting it out to anyone who'll listen. I don't want to get into it here, so I turn and walk away. Go stand in the huge open doorway. Grey clouds boiling in the sky. Sherry and Anna come up to me. Sherry is a younger version of herself, early 20's, with that long big hair, super skinny in painted on jeans. Anna is herself, nearly three, toddling around, talking non-stop, but it almost seems like she's my child, like Sherry's only been watching her for me. Sherry is too young and wild to be the responsible mother, while I seem weighted by responsibility and worry.
We're standing half in/ half out of this huge hangar-like warehouse-type building, chatting about nothing important. I still don't know whether I can tell her that Stacy's pregnant or if that will get me in trouble, so I don't mention it. Cars drive past us, entering the building and circling like the people on foot. One car comes through very fast. It's like the Starsky and Hutch car, orange with a white stripe. I know the guy driving. It's Alden. I used to date his brother. I think to myself that I can get him to drive us home and then we won't have to fly in lightning. But when he races past us I get a good look at him and he looks drunk and crazy, wild-eyed . . . and there's fire in the backseat, smoke billowing out behind him. His car is on fire and he doesn't seem to know. I scoop Anna up and bury her face in my neck. I've got a bad feeling about this. I want to protect her. People scatter to get out of his way and he zooms to the end of the warehouse, screeches into a doughnut and races back toward us. About 20 feet from us the car explodes and he crashes into the wall. I'm horrified, screaming, "Somebody call 911! Somebody call 911!" over and over. I can't stop screaming it. It's all I can say and nobody else seems to have noticed anything. I'm rooted to the spot, clutching Anna, helpless, when he stumbles out of the wreckage covered in flames. I scream for 911 even more frantically. I can't watch him be burned alive. I turn away. Then I can't NOT watch so I look back and he's on the ground, rolling to put himself out.
He manages to put the flames out and gets to his feet just as I see an ambulance pull up and paramedics rushing a gurney toward us. He's super skinny, eyes hollowed out, cheekbones jutting. He's completely bald, scalp blistered from the fire. His jeans and shirt are tattered like a shipwreck victim and blackened from the flames. His left arm is in a sling. He stumbles toward me and I see it's not Alden after all. It's Marty. "Hello Luv," he says.
And then I wake up. Anyone up for an interpretation of this beast?
Mood: dreamy
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: the boy in the house, perhaps doing kitchen chores (I should steal a page from his book.)
Hair: depressed it isn't short and cute with a closet full of fantastic hats
I dreamed Stacy and I were studying in Toronto, having to go downtown everyday for classes. The campus looked more like U of T than Rye High. Because we lived way the hell out in almost Mississauga we had a two-seater plane. Everyday we'd fly to classes in no time. No need to land at the Island Airport and commute, there was a landing strip right on campus.
I was studying Thoreau with my Rye High American Literature Professor in a quiet secluded Victorian-like study/library. Stacy was doing some sort of chef-type course in a huge open noisy cafeteria type restaurant. I could hear the clock ticking and my heart beating in my study space. She needed to scream to be heard in hers. We loved it!
My class ended first so I went to her shimmering stainless steel cafeteria to have coffee and relax before the brief flight home. I was trying to read but the place was so noisy I couldn't focus so I was just sort of vegging, people watching, when a news story flashed onto a television screen suspended from the ceiling above me. It showed a two-seater plane flying through a storm, lightning zinging all around, the plane being tossed about in strong winds. You could almost see the strained faces of the pilot and passenger through the rain washed windshield, that's how close the cameras were, more like a special effects film than a news report. I shuddered but couldn't take my eyes off the plane.
I gasped when a bolt of lightning hit the passenger-side wing sending a shower of sparks into the smoky clouds. The plane bounced but the pilot managed to hang on. I prayed for the miraculous ending, the one where the pilot somehow guides the plane to safety despite everything. I hoped for the amazing soundclip, the pilot's voice slicing through telephone static, "A voice in my head said it was going to be alright and I calmed right down. I knew we'd be okay. I knew I'd get us down . . ." I mouthed the words and prayed as another lightning bolt struck the pilot's side wing scattering pieces like confetti. Flames shooting out of the cockpit but I couldn't look away as the situation turned hopeless. Now there would be grieving family soundclips, praise from co-workers, "Stan was the best pilot I knew, if he couldn't land, nobody could . . ." Tears burned my eyes as the plane suddenly exploded into a ball of white light. Oh my God! But wait. I noticed something else. A speck really. A dark form falling away from the flames.
Cut to a young reporter standing in pouring rain outside a hospital Emergency Room. Pilot and passenger ejected seconds before the explosion. Stable but critical condition. My tense body sags with relief as Stacy sidles into the chair next to me, her day finished, ready to fly home. I'm not paying attention to her chit-chat as I look out the window at the threatening sky and wonder how soon before the storm strikes here, if we have parachutes onboard. Then her voice breaks in, "Are you listening to me? I'm pregnant. Don't tell anyone yet, okay?"
The scene shifts. I'm in a loft-like apartment, very bright and modern. A wall of windows opening onto a gorgeous sunshiny day, gleaming white walls, plush cream coloured sofa and chairs. Very not me, yet this appears to be where I live. My hair is cropped short and I'm wearing a grey fedora. It's a great hat. I'm making tea for my mother and Grammie Underhill who have stopped in unexpectedly to visit. I'm very conscious of the fact that I have a secret (Stacy's pregnancy) that I'm not allowed to tell. I'm very uncomfortable and worried that I might slip up. The scene keeps panning from Mom and Grammie sitting on the couch to me in the kitchen, back and forth like a tennis match, and everytime I'm shown I'm wearing a different hat. A black tophat, white Panama, red Stetson, navy Homburg and more. The fedora is my favourite.
The scene shifts again. Stacy and I are in a huge garage, perhaps an airplane hangar. The front is completely open to the outside. There are a lot of people milling about, it seems like an open house or trade show or something is happening here. I walk up to her as she's speaking to a burly man I don't know. She's trying to get clearance to fly us home, casually mentions her good news that she's pregnant. I can't believe it! After I nearly bit my tongue off to not say anything to Mom and Grammie, and here she is blurting it out to anyone who'll listen. I don't want to get into it here, so I turn and walk away. Go stand in the huge open doorway. Grey clouds boiling in the sky. Sherry and Anna come up to me. Sherry is a younger version of herself, early 20's, with that long big hair, super skinny in painted on jeans. Anna is herself, nearly three, toddling around, talking non-stop, but it almost seems like she's my child, like Sherry's only been watching her for me. Sherry is too young and wild to be the responsible mother, while I seem weighted by responsibility and worry.
We're standing half in/ half out of this huge hangar-like warehouse-type building, chatting about nothing important. I still don't know whether I can tell her that Stacy's pregnant or if that will get me in trouble, so I don't mention it. Cars drive past us, entering the building and circling like the people on foot. One car comes through very fast. It's like the Starsky and Hutch car, orange with a white stripe. I know the guy driving. It's Alden. I used to date his brother. I think to myself that I can get him to drive us home and then we won't have to fly in lightning. But when he races past us I get a good look at him and he looks drunk and crazy, wild-eyed . . . and there's fire in the backseat, smoke billowing out behind him. His car is on fire and he doesn't seem to know. I scoop Anna up and bury her face in my neck. I've got a bad feeling about this. I want to protect her. People scatter to get out of his way and he zooms to the end of the warehouse, screeches into a doughnut and races back toward us. About 20 feet from us the car explodes and he crashes into the wall. I'm horrified, screaming, "Somebody call 911! Somebody call 911!" over and over. I can't stop screaming it. It's all I can say and nobody else seems to have noticed anything. I'm rooted to the spot, clutching Anna, helpless, when he stumbles out of the wreckage covered in flames. I scream for 911 even more frantically. I can't watch him be burned alive. I turn away. Then I can't NOT watch so I look back and he's on the ground, rolling to put himself out.
He manages to put the flames out and gets to his feet just as I see an ambulance pull up and paramedics rushing a gurney toward us. He's super skinny, eyes hollowed out, cheekbones jutting. He's completely bald, scalp blistered from the fire. His jeans and shirt are tattered like a shipwreck victim and blackened from the flames. His left arm is in a sling. He stumbles toward me and I see it's not Alden after all. It's Marty. "Hello Luv," he says.
And then I wake up. Anyone up for an interpretation of this beast?
Mood: dreamy
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: the boy in the house, perhaps doing kitchen chores (I should steal a page from his book.)
Hair: depressed it isn't short and cute with a closet full of fantastic hats
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Can You Freeze Cake?
FINALLY! I was starting to get a little concerned, thought I might be on my way back to unhealthy 400 pound marshmellow status. But it ain't so! Whew! What a relief! You see I don't believe in diets. Yes, low-carb works. Yes, Weightwatchers and Jenny Craig and all that works. But diets in general don't work for me in the long-term--great results short-term, but not so cool long-term. So this past year (in which I've dropped a couple of sizes and feel better than I have in years) I haven't dieted, not even a little. Yet pounds have been shed. No counting calories. No measuring. No points. No time constraints. My philosophy is really simple . . . and so far highly successful . . . I just eat whatever I want, whenever I want it.
Who knew losing weight and getting healthy could be so simple?!
Well maybe it's not that simple, I mean if all I want is cake at 2am . . . then we'd have a problem. But when I adopted this philosophy (which coincided with my move and becoming the sole person responsible for stocking the larder), what I found was that I didn't want cake, or cookies, or chips, or french fries or any of that stuff. I wanted black olives and hummus and pita and carrot sticks and tossed salad and hot peppers and brown rice and cherries and fresh pineapple. In the past year I've never even purchased salt or sugar. How crazy is that?!
After leaving my daddy's kitchen, cooking became a joy. It used to be that I only ate because it was necessary, I didn't really stop to appreciate meals. What I've discovered this past year is that I love food! I love pairing wines with food! I love experimenting and trying new flavours. Every day at dinner time, everything stops at my house while I worship the latest creation. I'm eating slower, savouring every morsel. Dinner can easily take an hour and a half to consume. Which means ultimately I'm ingesting less and digesting more efficiently.
The other side of the coin is that if I want to go to Wendy's and a get a Classic Double with cheese, I do, guilt-free. If I want ice cream, I go get some. If I want chips or cake or cookies or chocolate or anything unhealthy and junky, I go for it. I order anything I feel like off restaurant menus. Nothing is forbidden. Nothing causes guilt. I just don't worry about it . . . until this week. This spring I've begun to notice an alarming rise in the desire for junkfood, in particular frozen yogurt, chocolate, cake, and chips. My tastebuds haven't been demanding the greens they used to. I would buy some salad or fruit "just because' but then maybe end up tossing most of it out. I was starting to get just a tad concerned, especially a couple of days ago when I went to the grocery store and bought nothing but junk, including sugar cones and a big ass cake! CAKE! For godsake!
Then finally today a breakthrough in this two-month long junkfood saga, I awoke craving Greek olives, vegetable hummus, roasted red pepper dip, whole wheat pita, tossed salad drizzled with raspberry vinegrette, fresh strawberries and pineapple and so much more. And in keeping with my philosophy, I went straight to the store and got some. Yummy! Exactly what my body wanted . . . but seriously, can you freeze cake?
Mood: blissful
Drinking: Malbec
Listening To: Pump It, Black Eyed Peas (not really, i'm just singing it)
Hair: searching for the perfect do
Who knew losing weight and getting healthy could be so simple?!
Well maybe it's not that simple, I mean if all I want is cake at 2am . . . then we'd have a problem. But when I adopted this philosophy (which coincided with my move and becoming the sole person responsible for stocking the larder), what I found was that I didn't want cake, or cookies, or chips, or french fries or any of that stuff. I wanted black olives and hummus and pita and carrot sticks and tossed salad and hot peppers and brown rice and cherries and fresh pineapple. In the past year I've never even purchased salt or sugar. How crazy is that?!
After leaving my daddy's kitchen, cooking became a joy. It used to be that I only ate because it was necessary, I didn't really stop to appreciate meals. What I've discovered this past year is that I love food! I love pairing wines with food! I love experimenting and trying new flavours. Every day at dinner time, everything stops at my house while I worship the latest creation. I'm eating slower, savouring every morsel. Dinner can easily take an hour and a half to consume. Which means ultimately I'm ingesting less and digesting more efficiently.
The other side of the coin is that if I want to go to Wendy's and a get a Classic Double with cheese, I do, guilt-free. If I want ice cream, I go get some. If I want chips or cake or cookies or chocolate or anything unhealthy and junky, I go for it. I order anything I feel like off restaurant menus. Nothing is forbidden. Nothing causes guilt. I just don't worry about it . . . until this week. This spring I've begun to notice an alarming rise in the desire for junkfood, in particular frozen yogurt, chocolate, cake, and chips. My tastebuds haven't been demanding the greens they used to. I would buy some salad or fruit "just because' but then maybe end up tossing most of it out. I was starting to get just a tad concerned, especially a couple of days ago when I went to the grocery store and bought nothing but junk, including sugar cones and a big ass cake! CAKE! For godsake!
Then finally today a breakthrough in this two-month long junkfood saga, I awoke craving Greek olives, vegetable hummus, roasted red pepper dip, whole wheat pita, tossed salad drizzled with raspberry vinegrette, fresh strawberries and pineapple and so much more. And in keeping with my philosophy, I went straight to the store and got some. Yummy! Exactly what my body wanted . . . but seriously, can you freeze cake?
Mood: blissful
Drinking: Malbec
Listening To: Pump It, Black Eyed Peas (not really, i'm just singing it)
Hair: searching for the perfect do
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Highlights Since Last We Met
I awoke early Friday to greet a gorgeous day after only three hours sleep. Leaped into BnM, laundry, other house chores. I was supposed to go to Moncton and take the Austin Clarke fiction workshop, but as the morning stretched on the last thing I wanted to do was get on a bus to go spend a couple of hours in a windowless room at the library, plus I had such a great momentum going on I didn't want to break it. So I sent off a quick apology to the workshop co-ordinator and bowed out. I really wanted to take the workshop but the timing just felt off on Friday. I emailed Stacy to let her know I wasn't going into Moncton after all so she could come straight through to Sackville and she was relieved, had been feeling uncomfortable about Moncton on Friday anyway. So there you go.
I got tons of work done, met with the landlord to renew the lease, and then went out shopping (thrift store and flying A). Stacy arrived around 8pm and we went to Patterson's for supper where I tried the fish 'n chips (not Burke's but very good). We went to the video store after and bought dvds. Returned to my place and watched Brokeback Mountain. I need to watch it again . . . because I think I missed something. Why all the acclaim and awards nominations? Maybe we just weren't in the right mood or something, but both of us thought Walk the Line was a stronger love story. And Brokeback didn't even seem anywhere near the same rank as the likes of Crash. Maybe it needed to be seen on the big screen. I dunno. I'll watch again though to see if it was just my mood of the moment or not.
Saturday we went to the giant flea market and I bought some Oshishi sauce and Lee's Christmas gift. Then back to Patterson's (because they do an all-day breakfast but we were into lunchtime) where I tried the clubhouse (yummy!) and Stacy did the bacon and eggs. We hit the road for Moncton and went to the Wellness Expo at Moncton High School. It was really good. I bought some cultured vegetables. Stacy won a huge book doorprize. We took a seminar on Dr. Emoto's Water Crystal Research that was very cool. (Will you just watch What the Bleep . . . ? already?! Please. It's very cool stuff.) Then we went shopping at Champlain. I bought a mood ring, two ankle wishing bracelets (one for love, one for money, legend says when they break off I'll get my wishes), an Asian food set with chopsticks, little dishes, and bamboo placemats for two. I want to learn how to use chopsticks, have been practicing, it's REALLY difficult. We also bought some birdseed so we could go to the bird sanctuary on Sunday and feed the chickadees.
We opted not to eat in Moncton and instead returned to Sackville where we checked out the Pizza Delight. I had never been to this one, but it's nice. I had a BBQ chicken thin crust pizza and a skillet buttertart for dessert. We got dessert because it was Make a Wish day where all the proceeds from desserts go to the Make a Wish foundation. Sugar overload!
When we got back to the apartment there was a bag attached to my door with my name on it. And inside . . . OLIVES! Mammoth. Green. And spicy! Tres yummy! But from who? Whoever left them for me neglected to sign the note . . . But I don't know that many people, so I have a pretty good idea who brought them. Thanks! They are lovely. I also noticed somebody leveled my step . . . am thinking this was a different somebody than the bearer of olives, maybe the landscape crew that was here early Friday morning. Maybe.
Saturday night we watched Clerks 10th Anniversary edition dvd. Because Clerks II comes out this summer. And you know I love Kevin Smith. We stayed up super late talking and slept pretty late Sunday. Set up the printer Terry sent me and got it working. Yay! I can print again! Thank you, Terry. Then opened Stacy's mind to Wendy's and headed to Nova Scotia without any honey bees to feed the chickadees. Turns out we bought the wrong seed, but still . . .
Stacy took the pictures while the squirrels were aggressively chasing me, demanding seed, freaking me out. We even saw a chipmunk. It was a great way to spend an afternoon.
We went to a natural food store and bakery before coming back to Sackville and getting ice cream at the fudge factory. And then Stacy hit the road for Miramichi and I pretty much collapsed in front of the tv and went to bed early, played out. It was a great visit though. Had a lot of fun.
Next weekend is the Rotary Wine Tasting and I've invited the Sturgeons to come for a night or two on Saturday so the kids can do Family art Sunday at Owen's. I hope they come.
Mood: fantastic
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Green Eyes, Coldplay
Hair: the thickest of the thick
I got tons of work done, met with the landlord to renew the lease, and then went out shopping (thrift store and flying A). Stacy arrived around 8pm and we went to Patterson's for supper where I tried the fish 'n chips (not Burke's but very good). We went to the video store after and bought dvds. Returned to my place and watched Brokeback Mountain. I need to watch it again . . . because I think I missed something. Why all the acclaim and awards nominations? Maybe we just weren't in the right mood or something, but both of us thought Walk the Line was a stronger love story. And Brokeback didn't even seem anywhere near the same rank as the likes of Crash. Maybe it needed to be seen on the big screen. I dunno. I'll watch again though to see if it was just my mood of the moment or not.
Saturday we went to the giant flea market and I bought some Oshishi sauce and Lee's Christmas gift. Then back to Patterson's (because they do an all-day breakfast but we were into lunchtime) where I tried the clubhouse (yummy!) and Stacy did the bacon and eggs. We hit the road for Moncton and went to the Wellness Expo at Moncton High School. It was really good. I bought some cultured vegetables. Stacy won a huge book doorprize. We took a seminar on Dr. Emoto's Water Crystal Research that was very cool. (Will you just watch What the Bleep . . . ? already?! Please. It's very cool stuff.) Then we went shopping at Champlain. I bought a mood ring, two ankle wishing bracelets (one for love, one for money, legend says when they break off I'll get my wishes), an Asian food set with chopsticks, little dishes, and bamboo placemats for two. I want to learn how to use chopsticks, have been practicing, it's REALLY difficult. We also bought some birdseed so we could go to the bird sanctuary on Sunday and feed the chickadees.
We opted not to eat in Moncton and instead returned to Sackville where we checked out the Pizza Delight. I had never been to this one, but it's nice. I had a BBQ chicken thin crust pizza and a skillet buttertart for dessert. We got dessert because it was Make a Wish day where all the proceeds from desserts go to the Make a Wish foundation. Sugar overload!
When we got back to the apartment there was a bag attached to my door with my name on it. And inside . . . OLIVES! Mammoth. Green. And spicy! Tres yummy! But from who? Whoever left them for me neglected to sign the note . . . But I don't know that many people, so I have a pretty good idea who brought them. Thanks! They are lovely. I also noticed somebody leveled my step . . . am thinking this was a different somebody than the bearer of olives, maybe the landscape crew that was here early Friday morning. Maybe.
Saturday night we watched Clerks 10th Anniversary edition dvd. Because Clerks II comes out this summer. And you know I love Kevin Smith. We stayed up super late talking and slept pretty late Sunday. Set up the printer Terry sent me and got it working. Yay! I can print again! Thank you, Terry. Then opened Stacy's mind to Wendy's and headed to Nova Scotia without any honey bees to feed the chickadees. Turns out we bought the wrong seed, but still . . .
Stacy took the pictures while the squirrels were aggressively chasing me, demanding seed, freaking me out. We even saw a chipmunk. It was a great way to spend an afternoon.
We went to a natural food store and bakery before coming back to Sackville and getting ice cream at the fudge factory. And then Stacy hit the road for Miramichi and I pretty much collapsed in front of the tv and went to bed early, played out. It was a great visit though. Had a lot of fun.
Next weekend is the Rotary Wine Tasting and I've invited the Sturgeons to come for a night or two on Saturday so the kids can do Family art Sunday at Owen's. I hope they come.
Mood: fantastic
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Green Eyes, Coldplay
Hair: the thickest of the thick
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