tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-120271602024-03-07T15:11:11.516-05:00Asteroidea PressAsteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.comBlogger520125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-89678195767130360752008-05-06T10:41:00.004-04:002008-05-06T10:47:54.585-04:00Come VisitThis has been a hard post to write. It is my last post on Asteroidea Press.<br /><br />I'm moving on, moving over. <br /><br />My next post will be on my brand new blog - <a href="http://meganbutcher.com">Radial Symmetry</a>. <br /><br />Soon enough, this will be the only post left on Asteroidea Press; I will leave it as a marker, a sign post, a grave stone. <br /><br />It will be the only post unique to Asteroidea Press, as well. All the archives have already been shifted over.<br /><br />This space was never actually meant to be a blog. I started it 3 years ago as a cheap way to have a website for my nascent micropress. But then I put up a post. And then another one. And somewhere along the way, I managed to publish only one chapbook, but almost 550 posts. <br /><br />I've been really excited about the new website for a couple months now. Working with <a href="http://irrational.ca">Steve</a>, who is lovely and brilliant and very very helpful, to put it together has been occasionally challenging and very rewarding. But when faced with it, the transition, the last post here and the first post there?<br /><br />Well, I've been quiet for a few days. I haven't known what to say.<br /><br />I'm sad to leave this space. I've felt at home here. I've used it to work through a lot of ebullient chatter and a lot of flat-out grief. You've been patient with me through all of it. That has made my life richer in unexpected ways.<br /><br />Thank you, and hope to see you over in the new digs.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-73377995980747744612008-05-02T17:37:00.004-04:002008-05-02T17:53:02.861-04:00Getting SeriousTonight: I have turned down fun with Shelley, M-C and Mel; also turned down a very different kind of fun with Smokin' Hot Mae.<br /><br />Tomorrow: I am going to do something I have never, ever, done before. Read the first draft of something that I have probably just finished that day. If you've ever seen me cringe when someone's said "I just finished this next piece a couple hours ago, it's maybe kind of bad, but I hope you like it" you'll know that it is out of character and not a little hypocritical to do what I'm about to do.<br /><br />You might think tonight and tomorrow are unrelated. <br /><br />I'm taking some work time to blog, which I rarely do, because as soon as I go home, it's business time. I'm sick of reading all the stuff I have to read. I'm at the point where I would rather read potential shite than the decent stuff on tap. Most people who will be there have probably seen me read a bunch and <span style="font-style:italic;">they're</span> probably also sick of what's on tap. <br /><br />Alors.<br /><br />There's a tofu burger in the fridge and leftover bibimbap waiting to be hotted up. I'm going home, turning on the computer, and writing, whatever the fuck comes out, until I can't keep my eyes open. And then I'm going to get up early and start again, and I am going to read something new, and I hope it won't be kind of bad.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-32138100624772096912008-04-30T22:08:00.007-04:002008-11-19T01:51:51.681-05:00My Granny<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmM9XKHgO2rR__zI5QwSSvIM_9UMWgDKyNJ-7Q10r-Gkyy0RPkLiZeysL4UnZtb8efGhUSJkuJo9qU_NZmjELrV6BP_nc_lPxXuS2dSmg6VQjrkfOas39O-BP9hwg-FSeYPJ0q/s1600-h/granny.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmM9XKHgO2rR__zI5QwSSvIM_9UMWgDKyNJ-7Q10r-Gkyy0RPkLiZeysL4UnZtb8efGhUSJkuJo9qU_NZmjELrV6BP_nc_lPxXuS2dSmg6VQjrkfOas39O-BP9hwg-FSeYPJ0q/s400/granny.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195233669297135010" /></a>I think that my Gran is dying.<br /><br />Not in an "everyone is dying" kind of way, but in a "I don't think I'll make travel plans that don't involve going home" kind of way, because, as Shelley put it, cancelling a fun trip to go to a funeral is not going to make the funeral any easier.<br /><br />I have no real reason to believe she's dying. Yes, she's almost 94; yes, she's in the hospital; yes, she had a serious stroke nearly 5 years ago that we were all surprised she survived. <br /><br />But: she's been living quite well on her own up to now, and lots of people live to be in their late nineties; the infection that put her in the hospital is under control; under her soft exterior, she comes from farm people, who are a tough people.<br /><br />So I'm left with the woo: a general feeling that she has had enough.<br /><br />I've had this feeling for a long time though. Over the past year and a half, I've seen my grandmother turn from an incredibly gentle, soft-spoken, laughing woman, to one prone to fits of irritation and frustration. <br /><br />She's started giving away more and more of her possessions. <br /><br />Everything she owns, she knows who gave it to her. My last trip back, she gave me back the tiny pig sculptures I'd given her for Christmas in 1983. Both Amy and I also got a compact, complete with original cakey powder. She knew the back story for each one - who had given it to her, when, why. I don't know where I've put mine.<br /><br />When I talked to her on the phone two days ago, we talked for just over two minutes. By the end of it, she was frantically tired: she mumbled "I have to go now" through still-broken teeth and exhaustion, hung up as I was saying "Bye, Gran, I love you."<br /><br />I don't know what to think, exactly. I do love my grandmother, very much, though we had a blip about 8 years ago that severed an innocence in our relationship. We never spoke about it face-to-face. <br /><br />She's a generous woman with a warm soul. My mother once said, "If you want to know the truth, you go to your Grandma C. If you want to feel better, you go to your Gran." It was the truth. I have heard about three unkind words out of my Gran's mouth.<br /><br />So I hate to see her so much not like herself. Not the self I knew her as.<br /><br />Maybe I'm wrong about this dying thing. Maybe she's not, or not immediately. Right now, not having seen her, only having heard her wheezy voice over the phone along with the stories of her hallucinations and severe lack of mobility, I feel it in my bones. <br /><br />My bones are preparing me to grieve for a woman who has been the glue in our family for at least as long as I've been around. But maybe that's just the spring damp.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-37582130428191283102008-04-28T21:49:00.004-04:002008-04-28T22:43:35.966-04:00In My SortsPhew.<br /><br />My slot at the <a href="http://160workshops.blogspot.com/">160 Workshops</a> went well. Really well. I can see where I did okay, and where I could have done better, both in terms of planning and presenting. But all in all, I'm satisfied I did a decent job. I didn't make a fool of myself, and no one got hurt.<br /><br />I also attended Heal Thyself, a workshop on herbal remedies, where I met quite a few people interested in foraging. Foraging for food is something I've become a little obsessed with lately, and hopefully I'll get around to posting about why sometime.<br /><br />The energy swirling around the place was just amazing. For those of you not yet lucky enough to know, the 160 Workshops are put on by the Yes People.<br /><br />Who are these mysterious people, you ask? The Yes People are the people who say yes! to sharing their knowledge, who say yes! your knowledge is worth sharing too, who say yes! to opening their home and their kitchen and their warm warm hearts to friends, acquaintances and strangers.<br /><br />And one of the Yes People is the Smokin' Hot <a href="http://maecallen.blogspot.com/">Mae Callen</a>, with whom I managed to steal a snuggle at the end of the day.<br /><br />Before that though, before even my meltdown on Saturday, Andrea and her BH came over to take a gander at my apartment, and decided that they would really like to take it. Not that it's mine to give, of course, but what landlord wants to go looking for someone when a tenant he's really liked for 2.5 years hands him one on a silver platter? Not my landlord, it would seem.<br /><br />That was another thing stressing me out that I didn't realize was stressing me out. I finally got up the nerve and called him to tell him that I'd be breaking my lease and moving out. Even though it's illegal and I knew I could get out of it, my lease runs yearly, ending September 30. I've always really liked my landlord, who is an efficient, kindly, paternal Frenchman with a wife about 20 years younger than he is.<br /><br />I didn't want him to be mad at me. I didn't want to cause trouble.<br /><br />But you can't waver on buying a house because someone you only speak to when there's water in the basement might be upset. And you can't carry a mortgage and rent for that reason either. So I dialed. He answered. Fuck.<br /><br />"'Allo?"<br />"Mr. [Redacted]?"<br />"Oui? Megan?"<br />"Yes, it's Megan. How are you?"<br />"Oh, very well, thank you. Very well. And yourself?"<br />"Good, thanks. In fact. Umm. Well. I've bought a house."<br /><br />My shoulders were up around my ears, and it wasn't until he responded that I realized I'd bitten my lip.<br /><br />"Oh! You have! Oh my! Congratulations! You know, for young people, with a steady income, it is the smart thing to do. Many people, they cannot do it, maybe with their background, or some hardship, you know. But if it is possible, it is really the best idea. Such good news!"<br /><br />And we talked details and everything was fine, and I felt just a little more tension drain out of my back.<br /><br />In other home front news, I've started going through my books and cds to figure out what to sell, made plans to hang out with the Smokin' Hot Girl who's moving to Montreal on Wednesday, have almost finished the book I'm reviewing for the Venus Envy Newsletter, updated my financial spreadsheets and paid my April bills, I've had a good chat with Jennifer, a good long chat with Shelley. Now all I need to do is write a story and get caught up with the <a href="http://kgsheppa.blogspot.com/">k,g,r,f</a>, and I'll be sorted out completely.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-24236232172026220012008-04-26T16:49:00.003-04:002008-04-26T18:07:36.033-04:00Beyond the ZoneAll that fakey-fake middle-class faux-enlightenment inspirational bumf (cf. Oprah, Lululemon, Starbucks) says that you should do one thing every day that scares you.* <br /><br />I am a creature of habit. I rarely do things that scare me. Unless you consider ordering the special omelette at brunch a scary activity.<br /><br />Unless you consider saying yes to too many things. <br /><br />Here in Ottawa, spring has sprung. I haven't had a whole evening at home by myself since last Sunday, and won't until this Wednesday. An evening I will spend holed up writing a book review to send in just under the wire for Shelley. <br /><br />Wow. <br /><br />I just went through the list of things that I need to do, people I want to see, commitments I've made, in the next week and I can actually feel the stress coalescing just under my sternum. My chest is feeling tight, my diaphragm has contracted up. It's like a slowly twirling ball of TV static, throwing sparks off down my nerves.<br /><br />One of the things that is freaking me out is the workshop I signed myself up to give tomorrow. Giving a yoga workshop seemed like a good idea when I offered, but though I know yoga, and I know giving workshops, I've never put the two together and I'm pretty freaked out that it's going to go badly.<br /><br />And did I mention the reading? On May 3rd? For which I don't have anything new written and my time to write is being slowly eaten up by other things I've said yes to and are really important to me to do? Yeah. That.<br /><br />Also, and. That my grandmother is sick in the hospital? Apparently okay, but she broke her teeth when she was hallucinating during a fever on Friday? I'm going home on the 8th to visit.<br /><br />And perhaps I said something about buying a house? Which is a good decision but a big decision and I think it's finally sinking in now that the busy running around schedule shifting part of it is done. <br /><br />And also maybe did I say that I'm dating again even though I still sometimes cry when I think about Eric and how much I loved him and how fucking much it hurt when he told me he felt like he hadn't been a very good boyfriend and intimated that he couldn't do better, not right then, not for me? And that I'd picked the wrong person, again? When I was sure that I hadn't?<br /><br />And one of these things is something that I'm going to fuck up, and something awful is going to happen. I'll look like a fool, someone will get hurt. Possibly badly. I'll drop the ball and that ball will have been made of glass and we'll all get sliced up.<br /><br />Wow. Okay. You know, I just wrote myself into a complete gasping crying trembling panic attack.<br /><br />If I say no to you in the next few days, my pounding heart is why. <br /><br />Put that on a cup-sleeve and drink it.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:75%;">*With apologies to Eleanor Roosevelt who said it first, but didn't think to slap it on a $50 yoga bag or $4 cup of coffee. Sucker. </span>Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-5480350644100226392008-04-25T06:52:00.001-04:002008-04-25T10:17:38.835-04:00Bad SpellahI cannot even describe to you how excited I am about the Queer Spelling Bee tonight. Even though I now know I am a terrible out loud speller.<br /><br />When I saw the facebook note about the Bee, I emailed Don at the Shanghai right quick to get my name on the list.<blockquote><br />Who wants to spell? I-D-O. <br />Who likes The Gay? T-H-A-T-S-M-E.<br />And China Doll said, let there be space. </blockquote><br />Now, I am generally not a competitive person. I hate board games. I hate races. I especially hate team sports. When forced to compete, my response is generally "Okay, you win." Because I guess it's nice to win, but it's not worth the stress of worrying about winning.<br /><br />What is it about spelling? Dunno. 'Cause I got my name on the list and thought "I am going to fucking clean this up. Oh, I'm being cocky. I am going KICK SOME WORDY ASS! Oh, the hubris. Victory! Before the fall, Butcher. It's mine! Oh dear."<br /><br />So when I took my sex word thesauri over to the Smokin Hot Girl's house for her to help me bone up on my words,* I was shocked and dismayed when I got most of them wrong. <br /><br />Not just a couple. Most. Like 90% of them. If I tried to rush the spelling, I'd inevitably forget something important. If I tried to go slow, the syllables would get all loopy in my head and I'd get bogged down, stuck in the middle of whatever dirty word I kept asking her to repeat.<br /><br />It was a good lesson, and though I wasn't pleased that I was a bad out-loud speller,** I was mighty glad my bubble got burst in front of a lovely young lady and not a crowd of people expecting the librarian to rock the Queer Bee house. <br /><br />Even though I am not likely to clean up tonight, I don't care, because I'm going to be in a room full of people who are either spelling or cheering on the people who are spelling. That's a lot of word love and that's alright by me.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Queer Spelling Bee</span><br />Shanghai Restaurant, 9 pm<br />$5, proceeds to the Village Initiative<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:75%;"><br />*Yes, it was that hot.<br />**On paper, I rock. Spell check, pfft.</span>Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-76478065586243071452008-04-24T11:15:00.003-04:002008-11-19T01:51:52.159-05:00Two Views from The Back House<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhattYmgY5pG-2NSJ6aWcrAReZiq6UVaxejq9HrTgB-KB073gw4Zi-rMePC9e7v64WJwOcSFPno0PoQFn4itJlON6pYGSvlxWbaUVWsKQvqua0_7TSAB1iFUg5qTkblgsMN48fH/s1600-h/spring+swans.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhattYmgY5pG-2NSJ6aWcrAReZiq6UVaxejq9HrTgB-KB073gw4Zi-rMePC9e7v64WJwOcSFPno0PoQFn4itJlON6pYGSvlxWbaUVWsKQvqua0_7TSAB1iFUg5qTkblgsMN48fH/s400/spring+swans.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192872249033153922" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3_LayxVORD_n-aW3ofhCyLzuqvqY4mewF78bQCqmFG-8dFaF35vKWMJeibBS6RJTy0KC2S6plyHRBxrVQPW_7NSWhbgI1WiRHrMNVEjFZhOdFFxIzViGNGIvPXP2AKUlIT13/s1600-h/global.preview.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3_LayxVORD_n-aW3ofhCyLzuqvqY4mewF78bQCqmFG-8dFaF35vKWMJeibBS6RJTy0KC2S6plyHRBxrVQPW_7NSWhbgI1WiRHrMNVEjFZhOdFFxIzViGNGIvPXP2AKUlIT13/s400/global.preview.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192872266213023122" /></a>Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-83075795040173428062008-04-20T20:15:00.011-04:002008-11-19T01:51:52.583-05:00All The People<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaf_y-zQBGou7axDNWJmVZtZHQVDtqELRfGRLsUJWP3939PYO_wXo53mjmOpdmLDrqLdY22yfHR0nyE_lfU2hvmspHwPOBTdo5e6qTsFkYbFBgucaP4cTcP3mXdPZtSkTa8mDU/s1600-h/cookie!.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaf_y-zQBGou7axDNWJmVZtZHQVDtqELRfGRLsUJWP3939PYO_wXo53mjmOpdmLDrqLdY22yfHR0nyE_lfU2hvmspHwPOBTdo5e6qTsFkYbFBgucaP4cTcP3mXdPZtSkTa8mDU/s200/cookie!.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191485858031560482" /></a>I will start with the smallest ones first.<br /><br />Around 1:30 this afternoon (1:35 to be more precise, though it turned to 1:36 while I was leaving the message) I called Jennifer to say, "I'm going to the bridgehead to write. I'll be leaving around 2:30, so if you're up for it, meet me there!"<br /><br />Around 2:30 (at 2:24 to be precise, though it turned to 2:26 while we were making plans) Greg called to say, "We're going to the park, and the girls asked if you wanted to come." I'm sick, so I said "I'll wash my hands and make sure I don't really touch them." Which is impossible around 2 year olds as adorable as these two year olds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp28vNL6uKa7wyhrfc62-xVo7En0T4qK0jdMny-7LEQZ6p-M2ekmXlTcUHjrBYkMa5mjGk8eNP6Zj0anZYKvckmCiwpeiljMMF3-HUal6huNE17xZ-M8s8W8qsirEJrNefl6Ou/s1600-h/ruby+at+dundonald.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp28vNL6uKa7wyhrfc62-xVo7En0T4qK0jdMny-7LEQZ6p-M2ekmXlTcUHjrBYkMa5mjGk8eNP6Zj0anZYKvckmCiwpeiljMMF3-HUal6huNE17xZ-M8s8W8qsirEJrNefl6Ou/s200/ruby+at+dundonald.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191487266780833586" /></a>As it turns out, the best way to take a picture of a two year old is to have the following conversation:<br />"Hey Rubes, do you mind if I take your picture?"<br />"NO!"<br />"Okay, I'm going to slow the swing down, and get my camera and be right back."<br />"KAY."<br />"Okey doke. Here we go. Who's super cutie?"<br />Well, the answer to that is pretty obvious, isn't it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAXwM8wu8Dq5ToMlrjUpD5txeKsw6WzeWPHGepT8nx5dbz_au_pFh6cXHxNnAjGB9sZ1LTohVkjlltHuSZZgexwV5LssFHKPRCBj-08QpDVv1bR164FG5ot3gpNpQJg8reboPy/s1600-h/fiona+at+dundonald.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAXwM8wu8Dq5ToMlrjUpD5txeKsw6WzeWPHGepT8nx5dbz_au_pFh6cXHxNnAjGB9sZ1LTohVkjlltHuSZZgexwV5LssFHKPRCBj-08QpDVv1bR164FG5ot3gpNpQJg8reboPy/s200/fiona+at+dundonald.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191498274782013250" /></a>For most of our park time, Fiona and I hung out by the swings. By which I mean I listened to Fiona's incredibly entertaining running commentary "higher higher good swinging papa ruby hi ruby hi papa mama slow down fix hat higher megan nice swinging time frances birdies wire higher good swinging ronica burfday paul eamon john john john fun burfday" while I pushed her till my arm ached. She was killing me, she was so adorable. <br /><br />I loooooove how many words they have.<br /><br />One of the things I bought at the <a href="http://www.readingfrenzy.com/">wicked cool zine store in Portland</a> was a book involving a small girl and a hootenanny. So on the way through the park after playing, Greg tipped up the stroller and said "Hey girls!" To which they replied "Hootenanny!" <br /><br />Love it.<br /><br />Further along, on the way to Bridgehead, we walked by the Oak, where a traditional Irish band was playing. We looked sideways at each other and kind of rolled our eyes. Then I got excited. "But but but! It's a HOOTENANNY!" Greg got excited too. He tipped back the stroller "Hey girls! What is it?" Perhaps is was a bit of post-park sleepiness or pre-cookie anticipation or a glaze of wonder in the face of a real live hootenanny, because they said a measured "Hootenanny," and looked away. <br /><br />Off we trotted then, to Bridgehead, where there was not room for Greg and the girls, but was for me and my laptop. I snuggled myself in with a coffee, and tried not to be distracted by a woman who kept, in a annoyingly nasal and terribly loud voice, telling her son, who was playing some video game that he kept calling stupid, to be quiet. <br /><br />Though her voice did allow me to overhear parts of an infuriating conversation. The woman, long-haired hippie aesthetic, her son astride her knee, nestling his back into her chest, was chatting with her also long-haired hippie friend, who had an adorably quiet young girl in his lap. Long-haired Woman said "Oh, and we were going to do his toes, purple I think - wasn't it, sweetie?"<br /><br />Cool, I thought. Long-haired man also nodded his approval. The son mumbled something at his game.<br /><br />"What was that, sweetie?"<br />He ducked his head a little lower and mumbled something else.<br />"Weird? You're weird? At school?" She started stroking the side of his head, obviously distressed. <br /><br />And you know, they had me up to this point. -Fuck people! I thought. -Ah, kid, it'll get better, I thought. I'm a sucker for that. Going to school with a bunch of people who think you're weird is shitty. Knowing that they're right is even shittier.<br /><br />She said "You're not weird! Of course you're not weird!"<br /><br />And she lost me. I mean, I don't know what school that kid goes to, but I do know Ottawa, and chances are he doesn't go to a school where a significant proportion of the boys are contented pink-shirt-wearing vegan jews with purple-painted toenails. Just a guess.<br /><br />So telling him that he doesn't know what he's experiencing on top of being the weird kid? Not exactly going to help give him the self-confidence he going to need to be a triumphant weird kid.<br /><br />But easy for me, eh? We'll see what my reaction is if either Fiona or Ruby says that to me in 4 years.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-41324330775430601042008-04-19T15:30:00.004-04:002008-04-19T16:52:08.947-04:00Not Quite Out of the ParkHoly shit. We've bought a house. Holy fucking shit.<br /><br />My expletives are a little premature. Until we've waived the conditions, we can still walk away. <br /><br />But in my opinion, the inspection was a home run. Our inspector, a different inspector from last time, was impressed with the house. I was impressed with the house. The real test will be Steve going over the inspector's report and having a look at the back unit where he and Shelley and the Little Dog will live.<br /><br />Based on my extremely rigorous sample of two, I say that building inspectors are kind, efficient and thorough men. This one reminded me quite a bit of the <a href="http://asteroideapress.blogspot.com/search/label/great%20dater">Great Dater</a>. I didn't get it quite at first, since he's a generation older, with a head of close-cropped grey hair and a neatly trimmed brush mustache. I had just a vague feeling of familiarity. Again, it was the hands - one particular gesture that riffled quick through my memories and came back with a warm feeling.<br /><br />Of course, there are some things wrong with the houses. The century old foundation of the front house is going to leak. The water pressure's low. The front house attic needs to be vented properly. The water pipe from the house to the street is lead (ditto on the street water pipe). <br /><br />Whenever something like those last two came up, I say "Okay, ballpark, how much is it going to cost to fix?" And he'd say something like "Well, if the city's already done the street pipe, then you're looking at, oh, fifteen" and here my heart fell into my shoes "hundred."<br /><br />And it flew back up into my chest and burst into crimson blooms of joy.<br /><br />I was so fucking happy that I almost said "Fifteen hundred?! That's nothing! Everything that was wrong with the other place was one more zero more expensive than that!" <br /><br />However, I did not. My agent was standing right there, and though she knows that there was a possible other deal, we have silently agreed to pretend there never was.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-15945604404227985712008-04-18T12:15:00.006-04:002008-04-18T13:10:24.752-04:00Let This Not Be a Curve BallIn just over one hour, I will be going to another house inspection. I have everyone I know crossing their fingers for us. We really really want to own this house - these houses, rather, since it's two separate houses on one property. They're built against each other, but are entirely separate.<br /><br />When we first started looking that would have been ideal. Their space, my space, very very separate space. To start, we really wanted a side-by-side duplex. Both sides with access to the backyard, lots of space inside, maybe my side would be divided into apartments and we could rent one out. But the only SxS's that came up were fucking dodgy and even more fucking expensive. <br /><br />So almost everything we looked at was up-down, and we didn't think that was ideal. Little Dog really doesn't like stairs, and in almost all of the up-downs we looked at, the Ess's would have been in the upper unit(s). Not perfect. There was also the fact that in most of the units, the main floor unit (mine) was gorgeous and well kept and the upper unit was, well, generally not. Not perfect, but it's what was out there.<br /><br />And then the more I envisioned how those spaces would work, saw us all living in the same house, the more I really wanted that. The more it came to seem like family all under one roof. <br /><br />Because that is what this is about for me. Building family.<br /><br />Mostly. Of course, finances play into it. I can't afford a home in Centretown by myself, and I won't leave my neighbourhood - my community - for the sake of owning. I love my current apartment, and I don't think that paying someone rent is throwing money down the toilet any more than I think buying food is throwing money down the toilet. <br /><br />Especially when I do the math and realize how much money I will be giving the bank over the next 21.1 years. <br /><br />Especially when buying food is literally throwing money down the toilet.<br /><br />Buying a house is one of the most stressful things you can do. It completely disrupts your life in a way that moving apartments and looking for a job (the former top two activities on the list of things that stress me out) don't. Part of it is situational, I'm sure, with one of us here and two of us in Halifax. Shelley has thanked me a number of times for taking this on, and I brush it off. Not because it hasn't been stressful and disruptive, because it has, but because it's been equally stressful and disruptive for them. Just differently.<br /><br />But we're in it, and we're dealing each in our own way,* and it looks like the deciding is almost done. The agreements have been signed, the financing has been firmed, and if it doesn't fail on inspection, and please please please let this be an easy pitch, we will be waiving our conditions in the near future. <br /><br />And, one roof or two, starting to build a life together.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:75%;"><br />*For example, Steve's facebook status often seems to be "Steve is stressed and going out to hit people with sticks." In martial arts class.</span>Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-48830766498119652922008-04-17T22:52:00.002-04:002008-04-17T22:56:13.138-04:00You Wanna Buy My Tax Software?Okay, this is probably way too late, because you all, you're all together and shit. But I just did my taxes tonight, using one of those handy software packages. <br /><br />There's one more >$25,000 return left on it, and 18 <$25,000 returns left on it.<br /><br />Anyone want to buy it for $15?<br /><br />Email me at my yahoo account (over in the sidebar) and we'll work out the details.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-54071907884008577432008-04-16T21:54:00.005-04:002008-04-17T22:26:38.566-04:00Helpful Hint for Winning FriendsDon't start kissing someone 20 minutes before your guest's ETA. Because even though your house is really close, you <span style="font-style:italic;">know</span> your house is really close and so your make-out brain will whisper "there is lots of time" so as to prolong the kissing and put off the leaving.<br /><br />And then you will feel like a schmuck for pulling <a href="http://nomoredecorators.blogspot.com">someone really lovely</a> out of their neighbourhood into yours for no good reason, other than the fact that you are, indeed, a schmuck.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Later:</span> Just so no one worries, we just missed each other. So the hint here is to reconfirm time and address before having tea with someone who's never been to your house before. Though I will almost always recommend starting the kissing sooner, no matter the situation.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-88505905428889511712008-04-15T18:24:00.008-04:002008-04-15T18:48:17.948-04:00Near MissWhen I walked out of the Herb and saw her, for some reason I felt compelled to lower my voice and scratch out a slow gravelly "rodenhizer".<br /><br />It took a couple more steps for Rodenhizer, the assistant manager at <a href="http://venusenvy.ca">your favourite local sex store</a>, to clock that her name had been called: then her shoulders tightened, a hiccough in her stride. She looked up, a little scared and a lot confused. I stepped forward. She looked back. The worried look broke into a grin.<br /><br />"Oh, it's you!"<br /><br />"Yep, not god, you're safe."<br /><br />"Hell, this is way better."<br /><br />Though people have called god in my presence, it's the first time I've been called better than god.<br /><br />"You know, I was worried there for a second. There was a nun in the store yesterday, and she got totally pissed at me."<br /><br />"Really? In the store? What was she doing?"<br /><br />Not that I doubt nuns are sexual or anything. It's just an unusual occurrence.<br /><br />"She wanted me to buy a calendar. And when I said no, she gave me a one hundred per cent scowl. So I thought I was maybe in trouble with god."<br /><br />"She came into the store to sell you a calendar?"<br /><br />"I <span style="font-style:italic;">know</span>. She asked and I just thought, 'Lady, there are cocks on the wall. You think I want a Jesus calendar?'"<br /><br />Though, come to think of it, that might make a nice tableau.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-40201113299995888692008-04-14T22:03:00.005-04:002008-04-14T22:47:48.728-04:00Helpful Hint For WooingIf you are quite aware that a Smokin Hot Girl is going to show up at your house between 5:30 and 5:45, you should refrain for those few minutes from nibbling at the edges of the vegetables you have been thinly slicing, because as soon as you put a piece in your mouth, the knock will knock on the door, and instead of the smoothly torrid greeting you had planned, you will open the door slightly sheepishly, with your hand held in front of your mouth, chewing fast, and hoping to christ that she likes the taste of fennel.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-62997642234952895262008-04-13T20:57:00.003-04:002008-04-13T21:04:30.622-04:00Strike OneTwo-thirds of the way through the inspection, Shelley and I started eating the meringues. I’d cadged them from one of her co-workers to give to my co-workers, but the growing list of major problems with what we'd been calling "our house" made the sweetness call louder and louder. I’d given them a thought or two starting with the electrical panel, but then I’d adjust to each new wrong thing and the thought would pass. <br /><br />Looking back, I shoulda known it was all over the moment Shelley said “Are those meringues handy?”<br /><br />I liked our home inspector right off; he reminded me of my brother. Not in looks – Mark is dark-haired and -eyed while Dave shares the genes that give me sandy hair and hazel eyes. Mark is barrel chested and stocky where Dave is thin and wiry. But in spirit? Yes. Both in the trades, intelligent, hard workers. Warm people, nice smiles. Guy guys, very masculine, but with a generous softness. The occasional flamboyant flick of a wrist. <br /><br />He explained the bit of the house and what he was doing in simple terms but not like he was talking to simpletons. He muttered under his breath a bit. When he started railing at the nincompoops who’d built the third floor in a shoddy manner, he stopped himself. “Well, they’re not here to defend themselves. It’s too bad.” <br /><br />I think he meant about the shifting third floor, not that he wanted to get into a debate about the relative merits of reinforcing rafters before creating rooms out of dormers.<br /><br />So we’re not communal home owners, not yet, not that house. It was disappointing, and it took more out of me than I was expecting it would. I wanted the search to be over. I was ready to stop trolling the net and settle down, not with the perfect house, but with the good enough house. <br /><br />But that house? No, not with the house we started calling “that money pit on [redacted].”<br /><br />And on with the showings.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-26310104681445441922008-04-10T22:12:00.004-04:002008-04-10T22:55:21.421-04:00All UpMy doctor, who is not Renée Zellweger, but could certainly play her on TV, is much nicer than my old doctor, the Goob. The Goob sucked. <br /><br />I liked the Goob less than the doctor who applied liquid nitrogen to my cervix, not once, which was required, but twice, because he missed a bit of the infection the first time. <br /><br />You just think about those two things together for a few moments: cervix, liquid nitrogen, cervix, liquid nitrogen. <br /><br />Yeah, like a motherfucker. But thank you for asking. <br /><br />But he was a nice man, and I can see how it might be easy to miss a spot when you're burning someone's cervix. It's a pretty cramped space, and better to miss a spot than throwing that shit around in there. <br /><br />So while the Goob never burned my cervix twice, she was just not nice and her bedside manner made her an incompetent doctor. She put the fear of physicals into me, I'll tell you that. So I've left this one a little long - almost a year and a half after my last physical, just over a year since my last pap. I've never gone for longer than a year between physicals. My mother pounded into my head that that's what you do as soon as you become sexually active.<br /><br />Though for years I had no idea why, just that you had to. I never even thought about why, it was just like breathing, or like using my right foot to take the first step. What one does.<br /><br />But it's only been a year since my last pap, and considering that it was fine, but the one before that was not fine, really, it's a bit remiss. <br /><br />The other thing about the Goob, and about all the doctors I've had before her in all my time of having paps and bimanual exams, the Goob was not attractive. I mean, she wasn't unattractive. She was a nice lookin' lady, to someone, I'm sure.<br /><br />My doctor now is nice and I like her. She's sympathetic, she seems to know what she's talking about and she has diagnosed me properly and reasonably a few times now. She's also attractive. Pseudo-movie star attractive. Not that I'm attracted <span style="font-style:italic;">to</span> her, since pseudo-movie stars are not my type, insofar as I have a type where the ladies are concerned. But when she said "This'll be a little cold." and pushed her fingers up my cunt, well. I couldn't look at her, and it was the closest to feeling fucked I've ever had on the Table. <br /><br />I'm not sure she's entirely comfortable with other women's bodies. Or: maybe she's not comfortable with her own body either? maybe she stares at the ceiling when she gives herself a breast exam? maybe she pays more attention to what she's feeling if she stares fixedly at the wall? I don't know. <br /><br />What I do know, however, is that my weight is up by 10 lbs. And that's good, though of course, I'm having ridiculous internal dialogues about it. My resting heart rate is also up, to 60 bpm. Which is also good, but not as good as the 44 I registered back in the fall. Of course, this time I had just popped off the exam table rather than blearily lifting a wrist after several hours of lying completely still in a giant whirring machine. <br /><br />There's resting, and there's resting.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-74829544238166069902008-04-09T17:25:00.005-04:002008-11-19T01:51:53.420-05:00I Hate a Low Ceiling<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw37Hp6NlYG0N_PWrNbdH2bkPdFKVZ1dYsi8iGxS2xhd_0z4u3ImYSe6aZRQLDa-yV0b8KYx0kEi_DNKcbXUQnXSvbC2RH8ogqCk0s-1Hgg7KO37d8k3N06n8VjlNwbiI84O_I/s1600-h/shelley+in+prospect+park.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw37Hp6NlYG0N_PWrNbdH2bkPdFKVZ1dYsi8iGxS2xhd_0z4u3ImYSe6aZRQLDa-yV0b8KYx0kEi_DNKcbXUQnXSvbC2RH8ogqCk0s-1Hgg7KO37d8k3N06n8VjlNwbiI84O_I/s200/shelley+in+prospect+park.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187363719272729922" /></a>New York City, how I love you. Your friendly denizens, your crazy crumbling public transport, your lovely parks; that last even when they're sluiced by a biting lazy wind and we have to take turns with our one hat.<br /><br />"This hat looks totally weird on me. People are staring at me and thinking 'Why is that woman wearing that tweed hat?'"<br />"Nah, they're looking at me and thinking 'Why isn't that woman wearing a tweed hat?'"<br /><br />Air Canada, I do not love you. I do not love your cancelling of my various flights and rebooking me for later flights that are themselves late and on decrepit planes that need their navigation systems replaced on the runway. Though I thank you for replacing said system <span style="font-style:italic;">before</span> take off, and I have to forgive you for getting Shelley to me a day late, since that was the low ceiling and not your incompetence and aging planes. <br /><br />I forgive you too, clouds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfeW4tZFsuLzUWX0h97jXK7UIIAZcMNXY8W7BYdzO4fzzFq9R2yKeJWXqJdI13VM5lrjhcsDr8_DcxW6o9KJLJJ90mkp5supBiHrQUhUhzGNjqJ3rMXadFEssmRcSjTHkb576R/s1600-h/16th+street.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfeW4tZFsuLzUWX0h97jXK7UIIAZcMNXY8W7BYdzO4fzzFq9R2yKeJWXqJdI13VM5lrjhcsDr8_DcxW6o9KJLJJ90mkp5supBiHrQUhUhzGNjqJ3rMXadFEssmRcSjTHkb576R/s200/16th+street.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187364883208867154" /></a>We had big plans for thrifting, or at least, I had big plans for us thrifting, and Shelley was happy to go along with me. Maybe it was the thought of a mortgage, I don't know, but I was pretty happy not to spend much money. Some gifts here or there, a nice shirt that will make its debut on my date this Saturday night, a bracelet that fits, which is an odd thing on my stick-like wrists.<br /><br />We only found one decent thrift store, around the corner from us and by accident. It was staffed by the owner who had another perfect accent, this one entirely Brooklyn. When Shelley and I went up to pay for our finds, the mother/daughter team looking for some kind of fancy dress was just wrapping up their transaction, and asking for directions to other thrift stores. I stopped listening, poking through the stuff on the corner, though I did catch a shocked look on the face of the owner. And caught the response, "No, thanks, I have a physiotherapist."<br /><br />"What was that?" Shelley asked at the same time as the woman said "Did you hear that?"<br /><br />"She started out by telling me I had such skinny arms, and that put me at risk for osteoporosis. So okay, but I tell her, 'You know, my family just has skinny arms. I could put on a hundred pounds and I would still have skinny arms. Like my father, my brother. We just have skinny arms, you know?"<br /><br />She's a tiny slip of a thing. I have skinny arms. Her arms, I could snap like a dry twig. But sure, they're a wiry people.<br /><br />"But that's not good enough, so then she says, after I tell her all those places to go, she reaches over to me and says 'But your arms, they're so skinny. You might get bone cancer.' Bone cancer! I'm going to get bone cancer! What's she thinking? Bone cancer."<br /><br />"What did the daughter say?"<br /><br />"Oh! The daughter! Nothing! But mark my words, that apple didn't fall far from the tree. Just as bad." <br /><br />A pause while she writes up our bill.<br /><br />"That'll be 36.95! You have a nice day, 'kay?"<br /><br />Optimists, I tell you.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-27396565273548552412008-04-07T11:50:00.006-04:002008-11-19T01:51:53.594-05:00From the Tea LoungeWell, we just ran into our first bit of New York rudeness. <br /><br />We've been hanging out at the <a href="http://tealoungeny.com/">Tea Lounge</a> a lot. It's my kind of cafe (and Greg, you would <span style="font-style:italic;">love</span> it here) with once overstuffed couches sprouting white tufts, long low coffee tables with peeling veneer, and shadegrownfairtradeorganic coffee made by cute hipster boys and girls.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvMzzk_KBfI6ydaAN_ygv_9jH-FZFVSTV1zNBeRkCPlBWPCHS480w3paS_f-MZIjSokcTWKYAZ-K6KQKBLD6JdMkECmtYK5sShkKoLSRv7rob_J2V4wHu324SzAQFSSCA94lb/s1600-h/tea+lounge+chai.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvMzzk_KBfI6ydaAN_ygv_9jH-FZFVSTV1zNBeRkCPlBWPCHS480w3paS_f-MZIjSokcTWKYAZ-K6KQKBLD6JdMkECmtYK5sShkKoLSRv7rob_J2V4wHu324SzAQFSSCA94lb/s320/tea+lounge+chai.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186577724430082354" /></a>Shelley just came back to our seat. Her fancy tea put my fancy coffee to shame, since my fancy coffee did not come on its own board. <br /><br />She put it on the table and sat down. "The guy behind me - that guy - he just called me a homemaker!"<br />"What? A homemaker? Why? What did he say?"<br />"I called this a smorgasbord - get it? board? funny. i know. - and he said 'Oh. The homemaker speaks.'"<br />"Well, that's just rude. Rude! Why would he say that?"<br />"I know. I don't know. Cause he thinks I'm as old as his mom?"<br />"You don't look old. Can I blog it?"<br />"Just as long as you make sure to write that I don't <span style="font-style:italic;">look</span> like a homemaker today."<br /><br />I take a survey - converse, dark skinny jeans, black hoody, black tuque. <br /><br />"You look more likely to rob a house than make one."<br />"Yeah! Write that too."<br /><br />By and large, we've been raving, as we always do, about how nice people are here.<br /><br />Saturday night we ventured over to Manhattan for our traditional Feast of Delicious at Da Andrea. Our two trips before, we've been staying just a quick walk around the corner. This time, it was us and the crazy subway system. <br /><br />Theoretically, this should have been easy. We're a block and a half away from the F line on the Brooklyn side, Da Andrea is 5 blocks away from the F line on the Manhattan side. We got to the station, figured out the ticket machine, navigated the gates, went down the stairs. The platform was mostly empty, just two nattily dressed guys and us. And a bunch of posters all over the place that we hadn't bothered to read.<br /><br />One of the guys turned to us. "You know what's going on here?" He gestured at the sign. It said something about Coney Island, getting to local Brooklyn stops, and, fuck, disruptions to F line service. For three days, the three days we'd be taking the train.<br /><br />We all gathered round, offered up myriad interpretations. Most of it didn't make sense if you didn't already know the system. We helped them, they helped us, together we parsed out a way for them to get to their local stop in Brooklyn, us to make it to our fancy dinner. They were from Guatemala, but one of them had lived in Montreal for a while. We sat across the way from each other on the mostly empty subway car, chatting a bit back and forth.<br /><br />When we got off the train, Shelley and I, I assumed that our sweet Guatemalan friends were behind us. They weren't. We didn't get a chance to say goodbye.<br /><br />Coming back was going to be a breeze though, right?, because it was just the opposite of what we'd done. Not so. After our delicious dinner, we had a drink and didn't make it to the station until nearly midnight. When the service all changed around and the D train wasn't running to where we thought it was going to run, and there were loud announcements that we couldn't decipher and still didn't make any sense if you didn't already know the system. <br /><br />Because this is what you do in New York, we turned away from each other and just asked "So, how do we get back to Brooklyn?" into the air around us. Two people answered. The woman, coarse wavy black hair down to her shoulders in a triangle, wiry gray through it, round horn rimmed glasses, perfect Bronx accent, "Oh, you wanna take the R train." at the same time that the man, neat grey flannel pants, navy windbreaker, close cropped hair with a curl of white at the front, broad face, forehead thinner than jowls, a softly lilting deep voice with no corners or edges, a warm voice you could just lean into and rest on, said "I'm going that way. Just stick with me." <br /><br />We stuck with him. Sitting on the train, a questioning look in his direction as the next stop was announced, a slight shake of the head for 3 stops, then the nod. We waited for the shuttle with him. "I'm hearing an accent," he said to us. "Maybe European?"<br /><br />We laughed. "Sort of. We're from Canada."<br />"What part?"<br />"I'm from Ontario. I'm from Nova Scotia."<br />This satisfies most New Yorkers. If they ask further, it usually has to do with Toronto. It's rare that I describe Ottawa as being close to Toronto, but I have here, a couple times.<br /><br />He was a calypso player, had toured Canada, knew Toronto, Montreal, had played Jazzfest in Ottawa. Was a limo driver for 18 years, would never go back to the long boring waits for people. Loved taking transit.<br /><br />The wind was chill, all of us hunched in. A bus came, not the shuttle, and we got in a dither over whether we should take it. He thought we should. We ran over, too rushed for a proper goodbye. By the time the bus passed the corner where we'd all been standing, our calypso player was gone, crossed the street, and we didn't get a chance to wave goodbye.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-41743608186201112782008-04-05T11:17:00.003-04:002008-11-19T01:51:53.730-05:00New Yorkers: Optimists?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg83gr0oPCF6rp4UAeXb6sIcsGblAkwILdVu9yea99PtKSLq3ivox6Q9Q50tadLOLFIpT6jAtMhDe6rArMv6mPr4nbcOiPFB4ikUuOpVRyCvrRPNDfZW_C1Z-AO7OP7lSQcQ1D2/s1600-h/iron+door.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg83gr0oPCF6rp4UAeXb6sIcsGblAkwILdVu9yea99PtKSLq3ivox6Q9Q50tadLOLFIpT6jAtMhDe6rArMv6mPr4nbcOiPFB4ikUuOpVRyCvrRPNDfZW_C1Z-AO7OP7lSQcQ1D2/s400/iron+door.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185781746731049250" /></a><br />Steph: So this key, this square one, it's for the iron door. <br /><br />Me: You mean the iron ga- right, the square one.<br /><br /><br /><br />Because what do I care if she doesn't want to live behind an iron gate? <br /><br />Though you'll notice she didn't mention the iron windows.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-53149938505178575982008-04-05T00:00:00.004-04:002008-04-05T00:08:05.481-04:00New Yorkers: Pessimists?Mike: Oh yeah, that key doesn't work.<br /><br />Me: No, this is the one that works. The other one didn't turn at all, and I used this one to <span style="font-style:italic;">lock</span> the door; I just couldn't use it to open it again.<br /><br />Mike: Yeah, I was having some trouble with it earlier. Lemme try again.<br /><br />[goes outside, locks me in, comes back in on his own]<br /><br />Me: Oh.<br /><br />Mike: Enh, it's hit and miss.<br /><br />Me: Okay, so if I'm in and out tomorrow morning....<br /><br />Mike: Might as well just leave the inside door open. If anyone gets past that outer door, you're dead meat anyway. I mean, <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> lock's not going to save anyone, is it.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-9526367862172430952008-04-04T13:29:00.003-04:002008-04-04T13:40:50.829-04:00Not To Count ChickensSeems like in the next few weeks, Shelley and Steve and I will be homeowners. There's many a slip, yadda yadda, but it's likely.<br /><br />Stealing words from Steve's last email: Viva la commune!<br /><br />This is what the stress has been for. I knew that even as I was feeling like my head might pop off, but now that we've a few days calm, I'm feeling it. <br /><br />In fact, I'm about to snap the laptop shut and head out to the airport to meet Shelley in NYC. I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait. I am going to see her and grab her and give her a big long squeeze of excitement. And probably get a little teary. <br /><br />I am so fucking excited that I get to live with them, and their Little Dog too.<br /><br />The plan was to write more about the nature of family and friendship and the owning of things big and little, but all those last minute going-on-vacation house jobs kept extruding from unexpected corners, and here it is 1:38. I need to put on my boots and head out for slightly warmer pastures.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-82418394149906530372008-04-03T07:23:00.004-04:002008-04-03T08:08:27.738-04:00HausasanaThe past 24 hours have been a very difficult stretch indeed.<br /><br />I had resigned myself to never owning a house. I won't live outside of a very small area in Ottawa, bounded by the Queensway on the south, Laurier to the north, Bank to the east and Preston to the west. And though I make a good salary, I can't afford to buy a place in that square by myself.<br /><br />Though it was never only the money. I don't want to take care of a house by myself. I don't like yardwork. I like the idea of gardening, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't follow up on it. I don't want roommates and a partner, well, I'm not a big fan of waiting around for someone else to do something.<br /><br />I put the house-owning idea out of mind. I love my apartment anyway, my street is great, my landlord is great, I love my neighbour. So I figured I had it pretty damn good. <br /><br />Then I poked around in why I felt the need to own. There's the financial argument, but really that wasn't it. It was sentimental, why I wanted to own. It was part of the "that's what you're supposed to do" stuff of growing up middle-class. I have resisted that indoctrination in many other areas of my life. I damn well wasn't going to put myself into 20 years of debt just for that.<br /><br />And then Shelley and Steve decided to move back to Ottawa. I was ecstatic about just that fact. And then Shelley suggested we all look for a duplex together. I was ecstatic over the moon.<br /><br />I'm still really excited, don't get me wrong. But the reality of owning, and the worry of buying a house on behalf of two people who won't see it until after they've plonked down their hundreds of thousands of dollars? That has tempered the unbounded joy I was feeling at being able to live with Shelley and Steve.<br /><br />Looking for a house is like internet dating. Seeing the pictures, they're beautiful, great bones, brilliant descriptions - everything fits! we're perfect for each other! I'd get all a-twitter that this might be the one, that we could maybe stop looking, that I could stop reminding myself to breathe deeply and stretch into this space that would soon be mine.<br /><br />And then the disappointment, over and over and over again, my heart a little less stretchy each time. The photos were white lies, too much work for too much money. Not enough space for too much money. A bad fit, each time. After all that, nothing, no houses - the lull before the spring realty storm.<br /><br />Hit it did. Yesterday was the most stressful day I have had since the day at work I had to go lie on my back in Confederation Park for 20 minutes watching the clouds move.<br /><br />Thank god for yoga. I kept hearing <a href="http://www.capitalyoga.com/">Jamine's</a> voice in my head. She talks a lot, and importantly, about yoga off the mat. All very well to be able to grab your toes, but how useful is that kind of stretch, what good is knowing how to breathe into tension if you can't do it, as she says, at the dinner table?<br /><br />So I did the hausasana. Every time I thought my head my pop off like a mutilated Barbie's, I would hear Jamine's voice and I would take a deep breath, using it to search out the stress, using it loosen the tension and breathe a least a few of those molecules back out.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-16370397078902783352008-04-01T22:15:00.006-04:002008-04-01T22:42:51.048-04:00Why I Love Knowing Other Librarians, Or Maybe Just ChrisChris says "Okay. They're applying metadata to these photos they're digitizing, right? Except it's students creating the metadata. So I look at this one photo, of the legislative buildings, and the student has applied the subject 'government'."<br /><br />And I hoot, say, "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Like who is often inside?"<br /><br />The same conversation, an hour later...<br /><br />I say, "So I have to send out this cranky email today saying 'Hi everyone, Just a reminder that on the shared drive our capitalization convention is not ALL CAPS.'"<br /><br />"Good for you," she says. "We've got to fight the good fight."<br /><br />And I say, "I know, and thank you. But guess what was all caps. In amongst all the folders I set up for the major bits of our work, like "website" and "catalogue" and "networking" and "admin," there's a new folder called TRACKING MESSENGER. I'm curious, so I open it, and what's inside? One file. Called TRACKING MESSENGER."<br /><br />And she can't speak, she's laughing so hard.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-35367553743257850902008-04-01T20:42:00.004-04:002008-04-01T20:53:31.331-04:00Why Am I So BoringOkay, you know what? This is my third attempt at a post. Apparently, my writing bits are broken, because the others are dull dull dull. Let's hope this turns out to be at worst only one dull.<br /><br />Maybe it was the massage last night? ("What's been going on?" "Huh. I dunno. Oh, I fell last night and twisted my back a bit." "Oh." Pause of several minutes. "Anything else?" "Hm. The past couple weeks have been a little stressful at work." "Ah yes, that's what your back is saying: year end.") I've been a little headachy today.<br /><br />Maybe it was the therapy? ("Do you think you could try having that conversation with your father?" "Uh." Tears.) I've been a little worn out since.<br /><br />Maybe it's trying to buy a house? ("There's only an inch of water in the basement because it's spring. Oh, and there's a crack in the foundation of the addition." "Oh, that's okay, it's a beautiful house." It's a beautiful house.) I've been a little on tenterhooks since seeing the place this afternoon.<br /><br />This last thing, this is a thing I'm genuinely excited about. Though pretty stressed about as well. And there is a boring, poorly written, no-flow half post waiting to get re-written into something glorious when I've recovered from the first two things that are not exciting at all.Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12027160.post-46218103212030446772008-03-31T20:34:00.003-04:002008-03-31T21:54:44.384-04:00Things I Would Rather Be Doing Than Working Right NowIn no particular order:<br />- writing one of the two pieces I'm wrangling<br />- knitting and watching The Blue Planet<br />- working on my website*<br />- kissing<br />- watching my fish<br />- reading <span style="font-style:italic;">The Omnivore's Dilemma</span> or <span style="font-style:italic;">Sugar: A Bittersweet History</span> <br />- sleeping<br />- blogging**<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:75%;">*Yes, you read right. Coming soon to an interweb near you.<br />**What? I'm what? Now wait just a second...</span>Asteroidea Presshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260523018938986888noreply@blogger.com1