Times, They Are A Changing

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

The Tiff

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

That's all I said.

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

I didn't say ANY of that stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Best of 2005

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

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

Taking Stock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The things I will do in 2006 are:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year!

Just Another Day

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

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

Barnbonia

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

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

On Time

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

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

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

Ghost Town

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

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

Six Years

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday, Paulina!

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

Hurt

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

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

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

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

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

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

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

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

Beer Not Kids

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

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

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

Sleepless In Sackville

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

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

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

Orphans & Misfits

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Moonlight Madness

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

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

White Out

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

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

Golden Globes

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

Full Moon?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Year In Review

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Second Helping of Madness

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

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

Spontaneous Road Trip

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

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

child weeping
hugs another
weeping child

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

Madness . . .

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

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

NYE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Expired

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

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

Another Mad Weekend On the Rise

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

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

Mi Vida Loca

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

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

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

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

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

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

At last!

Your Weekly Horoscope (Dec 5-11)

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

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

Kinda True . . .

You Have a Phlegmatic Temperament

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

What Temperment Are You?

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

Routines

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Creativity Afoot

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

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

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

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

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

The Last Day of Masthead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Words to Live By

February 17, 1993

To Kellie,

Our Motto:

Don't you ever make
my cousin cry again!

Love,
Stace

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

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

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

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

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

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

Told Ya So!

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

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

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

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

You Are An Invisible Ex

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

What Type of Ex Are You?