Asteroidea Press

Come Visit

2008-05-06T10:41:00.004-04:00

This has been a hard post to write. It is my last post on Asteroidea Press.

I'm moving on, moving over.

My next post will be on my brand new blog - Radial Symmetry.

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.

It will be the only post unique to Asteroidea Press, as well. All the archives have already been shifted over.

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.

I've been really excited about the new website for a couple months now. Working with Steve, 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?

Well, I've been quiet for a few days. I haven't known what to say.

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.

Thank you, and hope to see you over in the new digs.

Getting Serious

2008-05-02T17:37:00.004-04:00

Tonight: I have turned down fun with Shelley, M-C and Mel; also turned down a very different kind of fun with Smokin' Hot Mae.

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.

You might think tonight and tomorrow are unrelated.

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 they're probably also sick of what's on tap.

Alors.

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.

My Granny

2008-04-30T22:08:00.007-04:00

I think that my Gran is dying.

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.

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.

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.

So I'm left with the woo: a general feeling that she has had enough.

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.

She's started giving away more and more of her possessions.

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.

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."

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.

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.

So I hate to see her so much not like herself. Not the self I knew her as.

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.

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.

In My Sorts

2008-04-28T21:49:00.004-04:00

Phew.

My slot at the 160 Workshops 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.

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.

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.

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.

And one of the Yes People is the Smokin' Hot Mae Callen, with whom I managed to steal a snuggle at the end of the day.

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.

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.

I didn't want him to be mad at me. I didn't want to cause trouble.

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.

"'Allo?"
"Mr. [Redacted]?"
"Oui? Megan?"
"Yes, it's Megan. How are you?"
"Oh, very well, thank you. Very well. And yourself?"
"Good, thanks. In fact. Umm. Well. I've bought a house."

My shoulders were up around my ears, and it wasn't until he responded that I realized I'd bitten my lip.

"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!"

And we talked details and everything was fine, and I felt just a little more tension drain out of my back.

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 k,g,r,f, and I'll be sorted out completely.

Beyond the Zone

2008-04-26T16:49:00.003-04:00

All 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.*

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.

Unless you consider saying yes to too many things.

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.

Wow.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Wow. Okay. You know, I just wrote myself into a complete gasping crying trembling panic attack.

If I say no to you in the next few days, my pounding heart is why.

Put that on a cup-sleeve and drink it.

*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.

Bad Spellah

2008-04-25T06:52:00.001-04:00

I 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.

When I saw the facebook note about the Bee, I emailed Don at the Shanghai right quick to get my name on the list.

Who wants to spell? I-D-O.
Who likes The Gay? T-H-A-T-S-M-E.
And China Doll said, let there be space.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

Queer Spelling Bee
Shanghai Restaurant, 9 pm
$5, proceeds to the Village Initiative

*Yes, it was that hot.
**On paper, I rock. Spell check, pfft.

Two Views from The Back House

2008-04-24T11:15:00.003-04:00

All The People

2008-04-20T20:15:00.011-04:00

I will start with the smallest ones first.

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!"

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.

As it turns out, the best way to take a picture of a two year old is to have the following conversation:
"Hey Rubes, do you mind if I take your picture?"
"NO!"
"Okay, I'm going to slow the swing down, and get my camera and be right back."
"KAY."
"Okey doke. Here we go. Who's super cutie?"
Well, the answer to that is pretty obvious, isn't it.

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.

I loooooove how many words they have.

One of the things I bought at the wicked cool zine store in Portland 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!"

Love it.

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.

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.

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?"

Cool, I thought. Long-haired man also nodded his approval. The son mumbled something at his game.

"What was that, sweetie?"
He ducked his head a little lower and mumbled something else.
"Weird? You're weird? At school?" She started stroking the side of his head, obviously distressed.

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.

She said "You're not weird! Of course you're not weird!"

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.

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.

But easy for me, eh? We'll see what my reaction is if either Fiona or Ruby says that to me in 4 years.

Not Quite Out of the Park

2008-04-19T15:30:00.004-04:00

Holy shit. We've bought a house. Holy fucking shit.

My expletives are a little premature. Until we've waived the conditions, we can still walk away.

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.

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 Great Dater. 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.

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).

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."

And it flew back up into my chest and burst into crimson blooms of joy.

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!"

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.

Let This Not Be a Curve Ball

2008-04-18T12:15:00.006-04:00

In 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.

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.

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.

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.

Because that is what this is about for me. Building family.

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.

Especially when I do the math and realize how much money I will be giving the bank over the next 21.1 years.

Especially when buying food is literally throwing money down the toilet.

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.

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.

And, one roof or two, starting to build a life together.

*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.

You Wanna Buy My Tax Software?

2008-04-17T22:52:00.002-04:00

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.

There's one more >$25,000 return left on it, and 18 <$25,000 returns left on it.

Anyone want to buy it for $15?

Email me at my yahoo account (over in the sidebar) and we'll work out the details.

Helpful Hint for Winning Friends

2008-04-16T21:54:00.005-04:00

Don't start kissing someone 20 minutes before your guest's ETA. Because even though your house is really close, you know 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.

And then you will feel like a schmuck for pulling someone really lovely out of their neighbourhood into yours for no good reason, other than the fact that you are, indeed, a schmuck.

Later: 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.

Near Miss

2008-04-15T18:24:00.008-04:00

When 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".

It took a couple more steps for Rodenhizer, the assistant manager at your favourite local sex store, 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.

"Oh, it's you!"

"Yep, not god, you're safe."

"Hell, this is way better."

Though people have called god in my presence, it's the first time I've been called better than god.

"You know, I was worried there for a second. There was a nun in the store yesterday, and she got totally pissed at me."

"Really? In the store? What was she doing?"

Not that I doubt nuns are sexual or anything. It's just an unusual occurrence.

"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."

"She came into the store to sell you a calendar?"

"I know. She asked and I just thought, 'Lady, there are cocks on the wall. You think I want a Jesus calendar?'"

Though, come to think of it, that might make a nice tableau.

Helpful Hint For Wooing

2008-04-14T22:03:00.005-04:00

If 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.

Strike One

2008-04-13T20:57:00.003-04:00

Two-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.

Looking back, I shoulda known it was all over the moment Shelley said “Are those meringues handy?”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

But that house? No, not with the house we started calling “that money pit on [redacted].”

And on with the showings.

All Up

2008-04-10T22:12:00.004-04:00

My 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.

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.

You just think about those two things together for a few moments: cervix, liquid nitrogen, cervix, liquid nitrogen.

Yeah, like a motherfucker. But thank you for asking.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 to 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.

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.

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.

There's resting, and there's resting.

I Hate a Low Ceiling

2008-04-09T17:25:00.005-04:00

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.

"This hat looks totally weird on me. People are staring at me and thinking 'Why is that woman wearing that tweed hat?'"
"Nah, they're looking at me and thinking 'Why isn't that woman wearing a tweed hat?'"

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 before 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.

I forgive you too, clouds.

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.

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."

"What was that?" Shelley asked at the same time as the woman said "Did you hear that?"

"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?"

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.

"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."

"What did the daughter say?"

"Oh! The daughter! Nothing! But mark my words, that apple didn't fall far from the tree. Just as bad."

A pause while she writes up our bill.

"That'll be 36.95! You have a nice day, 'kay?"

Optimists, I tell you.

From the Tea Lounge

2008-04-07T11:50:00.006-04:00

Well, we just ran into our first bit of New York rudeness.

We've been hanging out at the Tea Lounge a lot. It's my kind of cafe (and Greg, you would love 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.

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.

She put it on the table and sat down. "The guy behind me - that guy - he just called me a homemaker!"
"What? A homemaker? Why? What did he say?"
"I called this a smorgasbord - get it? board? funny. i know. - and he said 'Oh. The homemaker speaks.'"
"Well, that's just rude. Rude! Why would he say that?"
"I know. I don't know. Cause he thinks I'm as old as his mom?"
"You don't look old. Can I blog it?"
"Just as long as you make sure to write that I don't look like a homemaker today."

I take a survey - converse, dark skinny jeans, black hoody, black tuque.

"You look more likely to rob a house than make one."
"Yeah! Write that too."

By and large, we've been raving, as we always do, about how nice people are here.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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?"

We laughed. "Sort of. We're from Canada."
"What part?"
"I'm from Ontario. I'm from Nova Scotia."
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.

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.

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.

New Yorkers: Optimists?

2008-04-05T11:17:00.003-04:00

Steph: So this key, this square one, it's for the iron door.

Me: You mean the iron ga- right, the square one.

Because what do I care if she doesn't want to live behind an iron gate?

Though you'll notice she didn't mention the iron windows.

New Yorkers: Pessimists?

2008-04-05T00:00:00.004-04:00

Mike: Oh yeah, that key doesn't work.

Me: No, this is the one that works. The other one didn't turn at all, and I used this one to lock the door; I just couldn't use it to open it again.

Mike: Yeah, I was having some trouble with it earlier. Lemme try again.

[goes outside, locks me in, comes back in on his own]

Me: Oh.

Mike: Enh, it's hit and miss.

Me: Okay, so if I'm in and out tomorrow morning....

Mike: Might as well just leave the inside door open. If anyone gets past that outer door, you're dead meat anyway. I mean, that lock's not going to save anyone, is it.

Not To Count Chickens

2008-04-04T13:29:00.003-04:00

Seems 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.

Stealing words from Steve's last email: Viva la commune!

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.

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.

I am so fucking excited that I get to live with them, and their Little Dog too.

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.

Hausasana

2008-04-03T07:23:00.004-04:00

The past 24 hours have been a very difficult stretch indeed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Thank god for yoga. I kept hearing Jamine's 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?

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.

Why I Love Knowing Other Librarians, Or Maybe Just Chris

2008-04-01T22:15:00.006-04:00

Chris 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'."

And I hoot, say, "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Like who is often inside?"

The same conversation, an hour later...

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.'"

"Good for you," she says. "We've got to fight the good fight."

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."

And she can't speak, she's laughing so hard.

Why Am I So Boring

2008-04-01T20:42:00.004-04:00

Okay, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Things I Would Rather Be Doing Than Working Right Now

2008-03-31T20:34:00.003-04:00

In no particular order:
- writing one of the two pieces I'm wrangling
- knitting and watching The Blue Planet
- working on my website*
- kissing
- watching my fish
- reading The Omnivore's Dilemma or Sugar: A Bittersweet History
- sleeping
- blogging**

*Yes, you read right. Coming soon to an interweb near you.
**What? I'm what? Now wait just a second...

Wise Words

2008-03-30T19:09:00.004-04:00

Before he had either, David Scrimshaw once said that his policy was to never blog anything that might hurt his chances at getting either a job or a date.

Here's an apt equation for you: dating + blogging = funny tricky thing.

Especially the kind of blogging I do, which leans more towards let-it-all-hang-out than circumspection. Not everyone likes that so much.

So I'm not going to dish the details I might have on the music-date with the Smokin Hot Girl or the date-date with the other Smokin Hot Girl, except to say I am lucky. And then mum's the word on dating till further notice.

From What Direction, To Where

2008-03-30T09:35:00.006-04:00

Some springs more than others, it feels like I go through an internal sea change. Sometimes endings, sometimes beginnings, though they often mesh together tightly enough it's hard to feel for the telltale ridge of the the borderline between them.

This year feels like a big one.

I'm feeling like cleaning out. Looking around my apartment and trying to see it stripped: the essentials laid bare, the rest piled by the door, ready for the short trip to the thrift store.

Some years are about expanding. This year is about focus. What kind of life do I want to lead? What kind of person do I want to be? I have a limited amount of energy: where should I spend it?

This renewal is never more than partially successful, of course. I am who I am, which at 33, has a core that will never change, no matter how strong the winds, how high the waves. For me, it is the effort to change, the small changes that come out of wanting to make big changes; these things are what will carry me through the next season's storms and lulls.

The Other Thing I'm Taking Breaks For

2008-03-26T23:19:00.004-04:00

In short order, what you see here became the veg half of Curried Vegetables with Dahl.*

*Oh, except not the scraps in the compost tupperware.

Let Them Run Free!

2008-03-26T21:53:00.005-04:00

Part of the end of year madness is that I've taken on an extra project at work. Yes, that was probably stupid of me. Except that it's paid. And Shelley and I are going to New York soon, hell yeah!, in a week and 2 days, and so the extra money will be nice, and it's a project with a potential source of consistent funding and there's no NGO in the history of the world that isn't going to do a little year end hustle to tap that ass.

So great, right, a little extra work, not so bad. Wrong, and wrong, and wrong. It is so bad. It is so bad. It involves going through a spreadsheet line by line, 367 lines in this particular worksheet, for inclusion in or exclusion from a magical list. 367 lines may not sound like a lot, but it's the last 367 lines. I've already been through over 3000 other lines.

During a meeting today, I told my boss I'd spent Saturday feeling like there were gerbils scrabbling 360 degree circles around and madly around my skull, squeaking desperate squeaky cries for freedom. He, who is currently auditing my Saturday's work, laughed. A short, high-pitched, almost desperate, laugh.

I Hate Year End

2008-03-25T20:43:00.004-04:00

I don't love this time of year. It's about two weeks after the time of year where I'm at work and I pick up the contract with our funder and I say "Oh shit. Oh *shit*. Fuck. Me." And zing off a bazillion emails to my coworkers saying "OH SHIT." Though I don't exhort them to fuck me.

What is two weeks after that time, you ask? What is today? Today is when we're knee deep in the boring work of making the interesting ideas happen.

Which is why, yesterday, all day yesterday, for 11 hours yesterday, starting as soon as I got back from a tasty brunch at Milan's house, I had my laptop and my typewriter out, so I could clickety click away on the computer, moving giant chunks of data around on our painfully slow content management system, and start working on a story in the spurts of time between clicks.

Perhaps not the best way to write, but fuck, using the computer and having scads of continuous time wasn't doing me any good. Switching to the typewriter seems to have broken whatever block I'd put up. I only got about 500 words down, but that's 500 more than I'd had, and more importantly, I could feel those muscles loosening up.

From now until the end of March, the rest of my time is pretty much working and then working, interspersed with episodes of yoga and hanging out with cute girls. One of those episodes, you might be interested to know, is a date. A date date, on a weekend night, with booze, dim lighting, and perhaps a little cleavage.

Having just re-read the last half of the last paragraph, I might have to say that maybe this time of year isn't so bad after all.

Giving Up, Crawling In

2008-03-23T22:59:00.002-04:00

Today was a day I meant to get a lot of shit done. Some shit did get crossed off the list, but not the main shit, which was to get a good start on redoing an older piece of writing.

My aim is to put out another chapbook this year, and I know what pieces I want it to contain. Both of them are written, but the second one I don't like so much any more. It started off as She's So Heavy, right here on this here blog. But I'm not happy with it any more. The tone is off for a chapbook, it doesn't say exactly what I want it to say.

Not that it ever did.

It has been a long time since I've written anything that wasn't for this blog. An embarrassingly long time. And although what I was supposed to be working on today is memoir, containing memory in narrative is a fictionalizing process. The shift from long blog to short story is one I am not comfortable making.

I don't know how to do it and I find that frustrating. I feel like I should be good at this. It's words. Me and words, we're friends, I like to think. So I find myself quibbling over this semi-colon and the order of those two words. Because I know when I stop doing that, there's nothing.

First attack was to just edit the old piece. But it's too close to what I want. Starting over seemed a better idea. I wrote four paragraphs at Bridgehead, a good start and a strong finish and some garbage in the middle.

I know this is how it goes. When you've taken a break from something for this long, what comes out first is mostly garbage. And you have to let yourself do it. I've just never been very good at letting myself be bad at things.

Well, not things involving words. Sports, yes. Took boxing lessons for nearly a year, until my shins protested too strongly. I was terrible. I knew I was terrible. The coach knew I was terrible, but could see my stalwart effort, and so was kind and gentle with my spirit, though he didn't spare my arms.

Six months in, at the end of a series in the ring with him - one! two! duckduck! oneonetwo! duck! one! uppercut! uppercut! - catching my breath, he said "You know, when you started here, I never thought you'd manage a real punch. But look at you now, eh? Your feet and hands all together." His tone was admiring. Any time I showed up, I was probably the worst boxer there. I was proud.

In a different way from usual. This was hard won. Those punches, weak though they were, weren't the ones I was born with. They came from months of training twice a week, of concentrating really hard, of spending hours doing something I was terrible at, in the hopes of getting just a little less terrible. In the hopes of landing a good punch on the coach's pad, the solid thud of it telling me I'd succeeded at not giving up.

Today though, I give up on being terrible for today. I crawled into bed an hour ago. I'm going to read some Mavis Gallant, try to get inspired. I'm going to try to remember the feeling of winning something hard, the kind of pride you earn.

Uses For Binder Clips: Entertainment

2008-03-22T22:50:00.004-04:00

Because what's more fun for El Penguino than a rousing game of "Let's Put Them Back in the Jar" now, I ask you.

Fun in Three Parts

2008-03-20T10:22:00.009-04:00

For those of you who read Jennifer's blog, I'll try to write this so it's not just a rehash. See, we've been spending a lot of time together, which she has documented, both amusingly and well.

Our time as neighbours is drawing to a close. Not any time soon, but it's out there. Eventually I'll get around to posting about one of the reasons. For now, you just have to trust me that it's no bad reason. But I'm sad about it.

++One

Last night we hopped all around the town. First dinner, Adam and J. and me. After, on our walk over to the Aloha, Jennifer said she'd been trying to come up with a team name for us. "I love that you were trying to do that," Adam said. "Yeah," J. said, "but all I came up with was Team Air Freshener Orphanage." And Adam made the sound of the air freshener that has become the metonymic touchpoint for our whole Osheaga trip. It was hilarious to us, but why it was wouldn't make much sense to anyone else. It was that kind of dinner.

After the Aloha was the RocknRoll Pizza Party, with a great band that gave Jennifer hope for a pop/punk scene in Ottawa. Today I ran into Luke Nuclear, RRPP mastermind, and he said the band had so much fun that their other band, music in the same vein, Statues, might just make us a visit. You will likely find us at that show.

This gave me enough time and bars to consume the appropriate amount of beer for seeing one's fairly recent ex-boyfriend; that is to say, enough to take the edge off the nervous, but not enough to hit weepy. I ran into James while the imbibing was taking place. He looked surprised when I mentioned going to a party at Eric's. "Yeah," I said. "I'm not sure if that's crazy or stupid." "A bit of both, maybe," he responded. True dat, but it felt like the right thing to do.

When people split up, it's easy to lose the other person, and all the friends you made through them, permanently. Sometimes, that's the right thing. I have exes I will never talk to again, sometimes because they treated me so badly they don't deserve it, sometimes because the connection was tenuous to begin with. Eric falls into neither of those categories, and I hope that someday we can be actual friends. Maybe not close friends, but real friends.

There was never any way around the fact that our first actual conversation was going to be hard. I figured a party, with lots of distractions, with lots of people I hadn't seen in a while, with the ability to make that beer a quick one, well, it was probably a pretty good start. I figured right. Almost everyone seemed happy to see me, Mark was pleased as punch with his birthday cookies, and Eric liked the map I gave him as much as I thought he would.

When J. and I got home, I did some late-night wind-down tidying in the kitchen. I could hear her doing the same: the cupboard doors opening and closing, some rattling around. The way I can hear the radio on for Shy Dog, the ghost of the CBC playing on my radio too. Or the way the laughter signals that Lesley or Adam or Michael is over for dinner. From anyone else those noises would be wallpaper at best, an annoyance at worst. Coming from Jennifer, they're insanely comforting.

++Two

Wednesday night's reading at Octopus, the inaugural evening of the Female First Fiction reading series, was fucking great.

For one, Jennifer read from her new novel-in-progress, about a 10 year old girl. If the excerpt is anything to go by, I'm gonna like it even more than Grrrl, which is saying something.

For two, Jessica Westhead read from Pulpy & Midge, a novel about a cowed office worker and his bully boss. It was a good reading and sounds like a good book. Even last night Adam and I were pretending to be Dan the Bully, punching our thighs and saying "Boys night!", trying to get the same combination of triumph and ferocity with which Westhead managed to infuse those words.

Afterwards, there was an impromptu panel during which our JWs talked about the process of getting published. It was adorable. So much nerdy girl excitement! Though I must admit, I was a little jealous. Not in a bad way, an eats-away-at-you way, but in an "I want to be up there talking about that, and I am going to have to reorganize my life and get off my ass and make that happen." kind of way. An inspired by wicked awesome ladies sort of way.

++Three

Tonight we're off to Zaphod's to see Immaculate Machine and Ladyhawk. I love the keyboardy pop of IM, and Ladyhawk is the right kind of dark fuzzy rock and roll. I expect it to be loud, I expect it to be fun.

The Smoking Hot Girl may be joining us in our indie rock adventure. Who knows what will happen after the show, but I will keep a neighbourly thought in mind about the ease with which sound travels from one kitchen to another.

Sayings That Stick #1

2008-03-19T18:55:00.008-04:00

Day to day life, with its irritations petty and grand, is a difficult thing to manage without sayings, those things you repeat to yourself to make a bad situation better, or at least manageable. We all have them. Over the next few days or weeks, I will introduce you to a few of mine.

Not My Problem

I went to therapy the first time because I wasn't coping with my life, and at the encouragement of my partner. Whose menacing, sharp-toothed, stealthy substance abuse problems were the actual things I wasn't coping with. I took care of him, a lot, and in ways entirely damaging to my own sense of self and self-worth.

Of course, this tendency didn't come out of nowhere, and is probably partially what drew us together in the first place. In general, I had a pretty hard time differentiating between problems that required my assistance and problems that were really none of my business. It is much easier to worry ineffectually about the mess of utensils and cookware in someone else's cupboards than to put your own to rights.

My therapist and I developed a filing scheme. There were a few files - all neatly labelled, I assure you - but Not My Problem was my favourite then and has lasted till this day.

It was invaluable. I would think crazy things like "I can't leave him! What is he going to do for pots and pans if I move out?" Open drawer, flick flick flick, chunk: Not My Problem. As soon as I realized that I had started to worry at some issue over which I had no control, thus preventing me from living my own actual life, I would stop, pull the drawer open calmly, confidently flick my way to the Ns and file that fucker away. Some issues, like my ex's crazy drinking binges, needed to be filed away several times before I had the fortitude to get my ass out of there and make them really not my problem.

Currently, Not My Problem is, just let me double-check, yes, a very slim file. What was once very difficult to do eventually became second nature. I don't worry so much anymore about how other people organize their spices. Unless they're asking me to cook, and then still, I try to put them back where I found them.

Know When To Fold Em

2008-03-18T22:06:00.004-04:00

Alright, Tuesday night, you've called my bluff.

Sure, I talked a good game - "Oh yeah, after work and yoga and more work and giving a workshop at venus envy, I'll just dash home, slurp up a bit of soup and head back out to babylon for the Xiu Xiu show. I'll totally have enough energy, even after only getting 5 hours sleep. Totally." - talked it all day.

And I think I had you fooled, at least a while. But you knew, didn't you, you knew as soon as I put my hand on the door to my apartment. The look on my face said it all. You hold the cards: warmth, solitude, a warm bed, the little death.

Under the Influence

2008-03-17T15:05:00.002-04:00

Well, last night is the last time I blog while tired. Such abrupt sentences! So little flow! So many typos and grammatical errors!

I used who's instead of whose. Horrifying.

Truth be told, I'm having a hard time writing lately. There are a few things that I want to get at, but. One, I'm feeling hella busy, it being fiscal year end and having taken on some overtime to boot. The things I want to get at are kind of big things and need a kind of time I don't have right now. Two, I'm trying to rock the fine line between good blog writing and respecting other people's privacy, and that is rough on flow.

Enh. Could be worse. After the 31st, I expect things will die down a little and hopefully I can get my brain and my fingers once more in sync.

Pills, No Thrills

2008-03-16T22:44:00.006-04:00

I stopped taking the Valtrex a long time ago. I've been meaning to write about it for ages, but with one thing and another, just haven't.

The main reason I was taking them is because the cold sores were fucking up my kissing. But then I wasn't kissing. I thought about going off them, and decided that I enjoyed the comfort of not worrying about cold sores too much.

And then Shelley went to the doctor, and though Shelley is on a different kind of antiviral than I was, her doctor reeled off a list of reasons that one shouldn't stay on antivirals unless one has to. And Shelley reeled them off to me.

Liver damage is not something you want to fuck with. I mean, obviously I'll fuck with it if it's getting in the way of my kissing, but I will not fuck with it for general peace of mind. So I stopped.

Seems I missed taking pills that are going to do me low level damage. And got burned for my trouble today.

I've probably mentioned that I have a skin condition called rosacea. It's a vascular thingy. Something will happen - a trigger, in rosacea-speak - and my face will react by getting red. And staying red. And, if the triggers are strong enough or prolonged enough, like, say weeks of crying jags and emotional stress and beer drinking and not eating as much good stuff as is normal, my face will also develop areas of red bumps called pastules that look kind of like zits but aren't.

Those patches feel like the desert, hot and dry and grainy and tight. Well, I don't know if the desert feels tight, but I figure that it must, since we have so much else in common.

By early February, my skin was awful. Awful enough that my co-workers commented on it - though they just said things like "You're looking tired." "You're looking a little flushed." etc. etc. And my face ached all the time. This is a strange feeling.

I turned to the internet, which is full of helpful advice like "don't exercise! take cold showers! don't eat tomatoes or spinach or strawberries or cheese or chocolate! no hot (temperature) food! no hot (spicy) food! don't put anything on your face! but don't go out in the sun without a high SPF sunblock on! take vitamin b! don't take vitamin b! take fish oil! no, take evening primrose oil!" etc. etc. It's incredibly confusing.

Looking for the quick fix, I went to my doctor. Fuck the vitamins, fuck the no cheese, no wheat, no booze no fun delicate flower diet, and fuck $25 cleansers. I wanted laser therapy. Six or so treatments has cleared a lot of people up.

Just not the people who's main problem is pastules. No laser therapy for me. Instead, she suggested tetracycline, an antibiotic that has anti-inflammatory properties at very low doses and has been a successful treatment for rosacea and acne for years. Decades.

I didn't want to take them. Yeast infections, I said. Three months of pills, I said. Then thought of how uncomfortable my face had been, how frustrated I was with not being able to figure out what worked and what didn't. Okay, I said.

It's been about a month now. I've seen a huge difference - my face doesn't burn all the time, and the desert dry patches of pastules are mainly gone - but I think that's more to so with less crying and switching cleansers and switching my topical medication from MetroGel (very drying) to MetroLotion (not so drying).

One of the side effects my doctor told me about that tetracycline can make you photosensitive. When she said this, it was early February. I wasn't entirely convinced the sun was ever again going to shine brightly enough for photosensitivity to be an issue. So I went out and bought 45 SPF sunblock and promptly forgot about using it.

Today I had a lovely jaunt out to Hintonburg. The sky was high, late winter blue, people were chopping runnels in the ice to guide the water to the sewer grates, the sun was shining.

When I got home and felt the familiar burn, I felt let down and frustrated, as I
always do. I went into the bathroom to look at my face and moan, as I always do.

The first thing I noticed when I walked into the bathroom was the sunscreen. Which I had not put on before the 25 minute walk to Holland and back in the early afternoon winter-blaze of a sun. Taking stock of my face once more, I realized I was not feeling the dry burn of rosacea, but the tingly burn of too much light.

I was relieved. One, at least I know they're working on some level. And two, by a much better mechanism than an overgrowth of yeast .

One Phase to Another

2008-03-13T20:57:00.007-04:00

I've been single for just shy of three months. The relentless misery of late December and early January is closer and closer to feeling like someone else's relentless misery. I don't really talk - to my friends, to the internet - about Eric or the breakup any more. But there are scraps of sadness, of resentment, of love, of dashed hope, shards of unmitigated anger, all mixed up in a soupy brew of inedible nostalgia simmering under my day-to-day life.

It will be a long time before I forget how much it hurts to have your heart broken.

The simmer has become comfortable enough that most often I don't notice it's going on, hence the general silence. Occasionally, something will turn the heat up under the pot, and I'll boil over a little, maybe, but the heat is lower and lower each time, the occurrences fewer and further between.

I'm moving into the phase where I'm sad that I'm no longer viscerally sad. Where I wonder a bit about the truthfulness of my heart, my propensity for drama. If three months later I can feel this okay, did I really love him as much as I thought I did? If I had really loved him, wouldn't I still be puffy-faced and pulling my lips and tearing out my hair in despair?

Propensity for drama, right.

Poking around in my brainpan dredges this up: I did love him, as well as I could; when in top form, I am able to love people very much, and that is a gift; I could have loved him more and for longer than I was given the chance.

And this: he loved me, as well as he could; he made the right call; I am sometimes still upset he was right, but more often just distantly sad for us both; my life before dating Eric was a generally happy and satisfying place; my life after dating Eric is the same.

And three months is three months.

Burned

2008-03-10T23:13:00.004-04:00

I was going to write you a big long "Why hellllooooo, I haven't written in three days, you must miss me, so terribly much." But then Jennifer came over and I was making carrot soup and we were chatting and I wasn't paying enough attention when I lifted the lid off the pot of boiling water and managed to angle the stream of steam directly at my wrist, and that was an hour ago, and motherfucker, it hurts.

I've got it resting on ice right now, which Jennifer put into a bag for me because she is also a great neighbour and I am afraid of naked ice.

I'm getting over this fear, which dates back to ripping my tongue off the Red Rocket on the playground, where I had stuck it in January just to see what would happen. Because five years ago there wouldn't have been any ice in my freezer, period, and even two years ago I would rather have stood with my wrist under the tap for 15 minutes rather than face the cracky scrapey sound of ice cubes coming out of the tray and rubbing against each other just a dishtowel's thickness away from my tender skin.

So feeling like I would have iced myself today feels like a bit of an accomplishment. Even if I know it would have involved spoons and much hopping up and down and waggling of hands in the air before the beautiful cool ice got nestled up against my raging wrist.

Making Amends

2008-03-07T22:13:00.005-05:00

Shannon, who works at the Herb, is a really really nice person. She's got a lovely smile and employs it generously. But every time I see her, I feel a twinge of guilt.

See, ages, I mean years and years, ago, I promised her my recipe for pizza dough.

"It's easy!" I said. "Only a few ingredients!" I said. "I can rattle it off right now!" And then proceeded to, but got mucked up over how many cups of flour. Wisely, she said, "Terrific! How 'bout you check and write it down and bring it in sometime?"

Oh, oh of course. I would love to.

I actually mentioned my guilt to her about a year ago. We ended up in the same crowd of people drinking beer, and I sheepishly admitted I'd been feeling badly about dropping the baton on the recipe. Surprisingly, she had not been pining away, secretly hating me for not giving her the golden key to Doughville. She, in fact, had forgotten, but would still be happy to have it.

"I'll write it down! I'll bring it in! For real this time! I promise!"

If I ever promise to write something down and bring it to you, or mail it to you, look me right in the eye and say "Thanks sweetie, but you're a liar." Because I will not do it. I will want to do it. I will think about doing it many many times for the next several years. I will feel bad that I seem incapable of doing it. None of this will prod me into actually doing it.

Tonight, doing my weekend shopping early, me and every fucking other body in the city, because of the Weather,* I ended up in Shannon's line. We chatted, pleasant small talk, nice smiles.

"So have you been writing much lately?"
"Well, blogging, mostly. Not much else, honestly."
"Really, a blog. What do you write about?
That rather stumped me. Brownies and g-spots? Eating giant fungus? Cute people?
"Enh, whatever happens."

++

Simple Pizza Dough

2.5 cups your favourite flour
1 tsp sugar
1 pkg active dry yeast
.5 tsp salt
1 c minus 2 tbsp hot tap water

In a medium bowl, combine flour, sugar, yeast and salt with a wooden spoon. Stir to mix, then add hot tap water (not too hot or it will kill the yeast!) and stir well. Use your hands when dough gets too stiff to stir with the spoon. Fold and flatten dough repeatedly, adding flour if mixture gets sticky. When dough is smooth, form it into a ball and place it in the bowl. Lightly oil it with a pastry brush to prevent sticking and cracking. Set the bowl in a sink containing 2 inches of hottest tap water. It can stay there as little as 10 mins and for up to 1 hour.

- reprinted, with commentary, from Vegetarian Express Lane Cookbook

*Okay. Motherfucker. Number Two bus, fuck you. Cabbies who waved back as you drove by, fuck you. And sorry to you, guy, who mistakenly but honestly tried to shark the cab that finally stopped after I'd given up on cabs, waited for 20 minutes for said Bus 2 with 15 other people and our 20 bags of big bulky groceries, and then gone back to trying to find a cab, to you, guy, my apologies for more firmly and often than was necessary saying "No, this is my cab. No, this is MY cab. No, this is MY CAB."

Getting Away From Me

2008-03-06T22:37:00.006-05:00

If, in the world of blogging, one day equals 5 years, my trip to Portland now happened nearly a quarter century ago, and therefore is possibly the most boring thing I could write about.

So, I will- ah fuck it. Okay, just one story.

Before I go to the show I've found out about from the wicked cool girl in the wicked cool zine store beside the amazingly wicked cool cafe, the show which is, I find out, when I get there in my flashy glasses, tight jeans, tight shirt, neckerchief and lipstick combo, a scrappy punk show at a scrappy cafe full of scrappy punk kids and I look, not old, but certainly way out of my way - before the show I decide to go for dinner at a nice vegetarian restaurant called Farm Cafe.

Let me tell you something about Portland. There are queers everywhere.

I walk in, and there's a waiting list an hour long for a table. No worries, I brought a book, and there'll be a seat coming up at the bar in a few minutes, if that will suit. And because I'm in a part of town that's far away from my hotel and is just empty enough to put the edge of a scare into me, and because if I don't eat here, I'm fucked to know where I'm going to eat any time real soon, and because I've got two and some hours to kill before what is going to be a great show but an unsettling experience, it will suit, and well, thank you.

The people occupying my place are two girls, office-butch and your regular femme type, the butch running her hand up the femme's thigh, bare under a light skirt. The three men beside them are Gay gay, plaid-wearing tattooed indie rockers, which is odd for someone who comes from a town where the two categories rarely meet in one person. The two women on the other side of them aren't on a date, but look like dyke to me. Cra-zy. You just don't walk into a random restaurant in Ottawa and find it stacked to the rafters with queer.

But a mixed crowd, the bar be damned. The people who came in after me, for example, were not queer. They were, however, on a date. A blind date. Set up by Rachel. Rachel who must have been good friends with the guy. Because only a good friend would have thought this guy "should get out there." If the Russian - with her hot body, her lovely accent, and her Masters in Economics - ever speaks to either Rachel or the guy who didn't stop talking about how horrible his ex-girlfriend and her children were for the forty minutes they stood behind me, both Rachel and Mr. Bitter will be lucky people indeed.

I feel this guy's pain. We've all been there. It's shitty. Your tendrils are all torn and broken, bleeding sap, but you've got these phantom tendrils that still feel, and what they feel like is still wound all up in this other person. Then there's this other person in front of you, who doesn't even really remind you of your ex, but they're taking up the space that your real tendrils had grown into, so the sensation travels strong up your phantoms, into your brain, and what comes out is a litany of heartbreak disguised as complaints. It feels bad from every fucking side.

But jesus, I mean, come on. You gotta know that might happen going in, and do your best to guard against it. At one point, while eating my Giant Hedgehog Fungus, alternating between picking the unmentioned breading off, loving the taste, and being slightly nauseated by the texture, which was close to animal, but a little too squeaky, and so uncannily like animal, more like something that does, but shouldn't actually, exist, in between these moments I tried to make eye contact with her. Our gaze did meet, briefly, and although I was desperately telegraphing her the message "Go to the bathroom and I will point out, very politely, that you did not, in fact, sign up to go on a date with his ex-girlfriend," either my signals were not strong enough or her receptors were on the fritz. But the gay gay guys and the two bartenders caught the edge of it, and a shared glance bounced around between us.

Eventually, The Economist and Mr. Bitter got a table, and I ignored my categorical queasiness and concentrated on the delightful woodsy taste of the fungus, and daydreamed about finding some cute something or other at the show where I would be thrilled to find my people in Portland and they would be just as thrilled that I'd shown up.

Yes, about that. At least I didn't talk about my ex for forty minutes at the show. I'm just saying.

Done In

2008-03-03T22:40:00.006-05:00

So tonight was the night I was going to tell you about Portland. But I'm too fucking tired. No reason to be, since my body thinks it's 7:40, which is not my usual bedtime. But my body also thought it was 4:30 when I pushed it out of bed this morning, so there you go.

Remind me to tell you the one about the bad first date while I was eating a giant fungus, or the one about how the people I think are my people are not the people who think I'm their people. And the one about being invisible, and the one about the human iditarod. And for sure the one about the great cafes, none of which were named Virginia, but all of which were open.

Second Impressions

2008-02-29T00:34:00.004-05:00

I love it here. Love. It. Ottawegians, I don't suggest you google "portland weather." It will break your hearts.

It would be rude to tell you how few layers I'm wearing, but what I will tell you is that I pulled my tuque out of my knapsack today, looked at it in bewilderment for a moment, and then thought "Faugh, bullshit!" before tossing it carelessly over my shoulder. Fuck tuques.

Right now, I'm sitting in Powell's bookstore, which is so damn big you need a map for navigation. It's independently owned. Today, after I skipped out on the very boring afternoon symposia, I wandered over to a neighbourhood called The Pearl - full to the brim of amazingingly cute girls and boys. Wherever you go! Everywhere you look!

After doing a bit of grocery shopping at Whole Foods, I wandered along Oak St and marvelled at the independent cafes and bookstores, and again with all cute people, sitting around outside, unjacketed, having coffee and looking relaxed. Outside. In February. The place I ended up sitting was called Stumptown Coffee, and though at first I totally loved it, it started to irritate me after I'd sat for a while. Something too slick about it, too much studied indifference. The art was heavily ironic. Still, they made a fucking good soy latte.

And I got to *pick* it. It wasn't the only option. It was the one I chose to go to, out of all the independent cafes I passed on a 10 block walk of very short blocks.

It is going to be very hard to come home to Ottawa with its cold and cafeless streets, its long grey blocks, and its strangers with no smiles. Though I've been so fucking happy to be here, it may be that people are just smiling back.

Feels a bit anticlimactic to be writing so much after saying I was not going to be blogging cause I'd be all busy, you know, what with the work and the g-spot hunting. But the thing that I forgot about work conferences is that they're fucking tiring. By the end of the day, I don't actually want to talk to other people. I want to drink mint tea in the whitewash buzz of cafe noise and tap tap tap you out a missive.

The only problem with this bookstore is that the cafe bit is in the Gold Room, and the toilet bit is in the Purple Room, which does not seem to be very near the Gold Room at all.

Time for me to pack it in, take a piss, and head on back to bed.

First Impressions

2008-02-27T21:26:00.003-05:00

- that's a big mountain

- right, this is what 12 degrees and no windchill feels like

- people here look you in the eye and smile

Off I Go

2008-02-26T22:37:00.004-05:00

If I were a reasonable sort of person, I would be asleep right now, seeing as how my alarm clock is going to go off at 6 am. At which point I will burst out of my nice warm cozy bed, perform my morning ablutions, finish the last bits of packing, swipe on some deodorant, make a smoothie, and race out of the house no less than one half-hour later.

I'm not entirely sure when I became the sort of person who needed to pack a full regular-sized suitcase for a 5-day trip. Probably when I became the sort of person who felt she couldn't manage five days without a run and/or yoga class. Or the sort of person who felt she needed three extra pairs of glasses, various pills and potions to keep her skin under control, an outfit requiring both spectator pumps and back-seam stockings, and last, but not least, enough rye thins, non-sulphured dried apricots, and cashews to see her through 3 days of a conference, functions notorious for only ever serving things she doesn't eat.

Fuck me. What that paragraph makes me want to do is throw one pair of pants, two t-shirts, a few pairs of underpants and socks and my toothbrush into a backpack and take off on another reading tour. Just to prove I can still do it, DIY style.*

The other creature in this house who got all packed up to leave was Freya. The 4th Dwarf swung by in his spaceship, stayed for a cup of tea, said many interesting things, laughed in all the right places, made good friends with my cat, and then squired her away to his abode. He's started cat-blogging her already, and I look forward to reading about her exploits for the rest of the week.

When I race out of the house tomorrow morning, I will be racing towards Portland, Oregon. It's not a city I know a lot about, except there's a vegan mini-mall there, Ian says to have a burrito should the chance arise, and apparently it's home to a vibrant dyke scene.

So, though my main purpose there is to attend a conference, 4D's assessment of my motives may turn out to be true, and I may spend at least some of my time looking for g-spots.

Hopefully, I'll be too busy to blog.

*Jennifer and Lesley? Thoughts?

Memo: The G-Spot

2008-02-24T07:12:00.002-05:00

From the Desk of Megan Butcher

Dear Scientists and Journalists,

It has come to my attention that certain of you believe the urethral sponge (also known as the G-, or Graefenberg, Spot) is a matter still up for debate.

Rest assured, it is not.

To intimate otherwise is to sensationalize a topic that requires no such treatment. It is also to create controversy where none exists, for the only debate on said spot exists in news articles asserting there is a debate.

Most other reasonable creatures agree that the urethral sponge exists. Debates do ensue over how it works, where exactly it is located, if it is indeed a separate anatomical entity, why it may exist, and, if every woman does have it, whether all enjoy its stimulation to the same degree. But only spurious and uncited "experts" disagree that it exists at all.

Thus, Journalists, you are hereby politely requested to frame your articles along these lines, and relay information on the former debate regarding said spot in the past tense. To this end, I provide you with a sample sentence: "The mid- to late-twentieth century was a veritable vaginal dark age, with many otherwise intelligent people debating the anatomical reality of the g-spot."

Also, women don't "say" or "claim" they have vaginal orgasms; quite simply, they have them. This is not a fact that needs to be verified in a court of law before you can state it as such. Therefore, you may simply write "Jannini studied nine women who have vaginal orgasms and 11 women who do not..."

Lastly, I impolitely demand that you hereby and immediately desist describing this "debate" with cleverly punning words such as "climax" and "nails." G-spot orgasms are not your snide joke.

And now, Scientists, a word to you. Do not do a study of 20 women and feel that you have a definitive understanding how a certain part of their sexuality works. Rather, keep your hubris in check, and do not assert that "women without any visible evidence of a G spot cannot have a vaginal orgasm." Perhaps that is true of all 11 women in your study, but perhaps is not true of the other few billion women alive today.

Most importantly, you must call an immediate halt to the use of the word "normal." Your lab coat and clipboard do not give you the automatic moral authority to decide where this label should be placed. Clitoral orgasms are not the normal orgasm. They are simply the most usual. Women whose orgasms are, in the main, from non-clitoral stimulation are not abnormal, just unusual.

With this advice in mind, Everyone, please do continue your work. Your dedicated effort to increasing knowledge about this oft-misunderstood area is much applauded, and will be further celebrated once these issues have been resolved.

Yours truly,
M. Butcher

- Scientists' row over G spot nears a climax
- Ultrasound nails location of the elusive G spot
- Measurement of the Thickness of the Urethrovaginal Space in Women with or without Vaginal Orgasm

Something Big, Coming Up

2008-02-23T19:41:00.004-05:00

In the middle part of my weekly food rounds (Bridgehead for soup/coffee/larfs with Michael and Adam, if I'm lucky enough to catch them; Herb & Spice for bulk, greens, eggs; Hartman's for the rest) I ran into Stephanie.

"So, what are you doing tonight?" she asked.
"Enh, staying home. I have a Pixies documentary to watch."

I felt slightly sheepish, because even though I think this is an entirely fine thing to accomplish with a Saturday night, it's not really, well, exciting. Unless you like the Pixies and don't feel like leaving your house. So I was pretty excited about it, but could see that from the outside, it might make me look, well, kind of boring. Like the kind of person who doesn't *do* things.

But seems her two band boy roommates are out of town touring a lot these days, and when they're gone, she, you know, finds herself at home alone, not going out. She seemed a bit sheepish, too, so we got to be a bit sheepish and also relieved to be sheepish together.

It's hibernating season, bright sun today be damned. I'm feeling slow in my words, in my body, my thoughts. I can only hope that after all this staying in and still there's something quick coming along.

Now Tell Me Yours

2008-02-21T07:40:00.001-05:00

One of my other favourite compliments was when Nile told me I had nice gums.

What are some of your best compliments?

Best Compliment, Like Ever

2008-02-20T21:58:00.004-05:00

So she says to me, right, that cute young thing behind the counter, like 23, right, with some kind of double piercing I never seen before and have no clue for what to name name it, right there, under her left eye - dot, dot - she says to me

"Hey I really like your septum. I've never seen a septum look classy before."

And me, I'm all flustered, yknow, because she's, what, 10 years younger than me, young enough to be pulling off a necker, and that's a piece of clothing I can't really explain, but you would know it if you saw a cute young dyke, not to mention a growed out fauxhawk, ditto, and she's flirting with me, me who just got called - that old - and me, me who never gets clocked for dyke. So I says,

"Well, my septum has never been called classy before."

And I just smiles me a smile.

Today: Pro and Con

2008-02-19T21:27:00.005-05:00

Con

insomnia

tired

cavity

forgetting to bring my yoga pants to yoga

leaving the yoga studio unyogaed

headache

Pro

taking a half-day sick to come home and nap

discovering that someone divine has invented a way of treating cavities without freezing*

having the dentist and assistant talk about me as if I were a good student - "Well, she's been doing her homework. Ha ha ha." - including indulgent and approving smiles.

delicious dinner with Shelley

finalized plans for coffee with a smokin' hot girl

*Bless their hearts. I hate it enough that I have had small cavities filled with a drill but without freezing and I consider that the pain was better than a needle in my mouth.

Verklempt

2008-02-17T21:12:00.009-05:00

Let's blame it on February. Every one I know has winter ants in their pants. We're sleepy. We bake muffins* like fiends. We fling our socks in a rage from our 4 am hot feet. We are sick of snow, tired of shoulders tight from hunching against the wind. We hate our skin and winter insulation. We have cabin fever and we are sorry for our sorry selves.

It's been a weird few days for me.

See, the fact of a pretty clean breakup coupled with a couple months of some some hard-on misery did not, as it turns out, do me too much harm. In fact, just lately, I have been experiencing an odd feeling. Took me a while to place it, but then today, trudging up bank street to yoga, the freezing rain already soaked through my puffy, my back sore from shovelling, I felt it again, this time, this time with a word on its surface: contentment. It's lasted since then.

A corner behind me. I'm not saying I'm better or that I'm not still sad. But I am deeply contented with my life as it is and as it will unfold, however that looks. It's actually even a little exciting to think about who I might get to know, who I might next kiss, where I can take my life. And that's alright.

Here's where it gets weirder: you mix one part grand irritation with two parts sighing contentment with one other part re-emerging father issues and what you get is someone who can barely restrain her sobs at the Nina Nastasia show last night and definitely can't control the tears.

Some people cry during movies, I cry during songs.

Jennifer and I were both just exhausted, mid-winter not-enough-booze late-show tired. I was loving NN's show, but with the tired and the worry over poor Freya (who I'd forgotten to feed before leaving the house, fuck. me.), I knew I didn't have a whole show in me. Six or so songs in, I figured she wasn't going to play the one song I was kind of desperate to hear before I got my guilty and did I mention tired ass on a bus home. I leaned over to J. and said, "One more song?" She nodded.

And then the opening chords of "In The Evening". I leaned over again, grabbed J's arm tight, just above the elbow.

"This is the song I wanted to hear. I am going to cry now."

Truth is, I'd already been crying. Two songs earlier, the lines

I always dreamt of the day I would bury you/ I never thought on the day I'd stop hating you. // On an altar, you look smaller

made my eyes ache and blink, blink and ache.

So when my favourite of her lines came up - the words I moved into this house alone/ My jacket like an awning/ Oh, and it was hailing melancholy soaring over the optimistic driving chords and beat - my breath hitched up and I pulled my shoulder blades in like tight armour to keep from curling up on the floor and sobbing. In relief, possibly, though I'm not sure.

Aie, snow, rain, cold, dark. A visceral sense of well-being. Breakups, my lost father.** February.

*I'm going to lose big useability marks on this, because that link does not take you to a post that talks about muffins. But Andrea likes muffins, and may write about them again sometime soon. In fact she might, like Jennifer, have a muffin-hole.
**Right, in the euphemistic sense. It's not like he took the wrong turn at Albuquerque or I put him on a shelf and promptly forgot that fact when I shut the cupboard door. I still even have his address and phone number. Though I haven't talked to him since Christmas, so it is possible he's moved.

An Accidental, but Apt, Tableau Describing My Current Concerns

2008-02-16T08:09:00.004-05:00

Ah, The Love

2008-02-15T20:14:00.006-05:00

I realized, half-way through yesterday afternoon, that the last time I was single on valentines was in the year 2000. Not that I was coupled for 7 years running. Just in 7 consecutive Februaries.

For all those years, if there was VD acknowledgment, it was very low key. A-okay by me, since many of those years were my venus envy years. My guess is that people in flower stores don't much celebrate valentines either.

Now, say what you will about valentines being manufactured bullshit. Yes. And after agreeing with you, I will counter by re-quoting the immortal Rita Celli, and say that valentines takes as much effort to ignore as to acknowledge. And though my heart is mending, stitch by hard-fucking-won stitch, I think that last night without friends would have been a bit hard to take.

It was much fun. I was a little worried about getting seats. But the lovely Manx staff, who I cannot praise highly enough, worked it all out so that we got seated, and all together.

Andrea, her BH and Heather were there. Evey came. Milan too. Michael entertained us thoroughly for quite a while. Caitlyn and Ariel dropped by before taking off to romance each other in less crowded pastures. Jennifer and the MoS dropped in later for a quick drink before heading off for their A'romatic dinner.

The conversations were quirky, woven in and over each other, and flowed easy.

I think my favourite part was when Michael started to play devil's advocate.

"Okay, why blog? So you put whatever you want up there, but really, who cares?"

I think he really wanted to know. We all hemmed and hawed, came up with a few different answers. And then I said,

"Well, you start posting and you think that no one will. But then it's weeks, or months, or years later, and you find out people just do."

And they really do. Makes me feel like a pretty lucky girl.

Hair of the Dog

2008-02-14T07:55:00.006-05:00

So turns out the cure for being traumatized when you run into the person who doesn't want you for the first time in two months is to run into him again three days later.

The second time, you tear up but you don't cry.

I'm almost looking forward to the next time. Perhaps I'll crack a joke.

Fotos von Foxification

2008-02-13T19:17:00.006-05:00

Of course I was always going to post them! Don't you worry, I am vain enough for that.

Charles sent me his top five, and while I think he made me look good in all of them, there were two that were my particular favourites. So those are the ones you get to see.

Oh what the fuck, I'll throw in the one that wasn't my particular favourite, so you can see both my other new glasses, my new lipstick, a new thrifted shirt and, most importantly, my zine wall.

+++

Reminder! Dinner tomorrow, the Manx: at 6:30 pm sharp the world romancing will begin.

Strange Little Hair Machine*

2008-02-11T19:26:00.004-05:00

I am terrible at getting my picture taken. There's no relaxing, there's no looking natural. There were about 5 or 6 years in my twenties when I didn't let people take my photo. "I don't like having my photo taken," I'd say. And they'd say "Oh heck, nobody likes having their photo taken." And I would say "Don't take my picture."

But it's 10 years later and there's digital cameras and the internet. And nice people with a good eye and fancy equipment who are willing to come to your house and take very many After Foxification pictures for the low low fee of one chocolate chip banana loaf. They will do it and be kind even if you can't relax while the camera is on because although you no longer hate having your picture taken, you are still trying to like it.

Before Charles and Amanda came over to snap and entertain me respectively, I went over to Jennifer's to do my hair.

Let me back up here. I am a putz when it comes to this kind of girly stuff. The 80s were not a kind decade to girls with bone straight hair. They were a decade of curling iron burns and hair sizzled from cheap, crappy crimpers. And then the 90s were a decade of grunge and coming out. I can't remember the last time I owned a hair dryer, but I do remember that I got it for Christmas when I was still living at my parent's house, which was, suffice it to say, a long long time ago. I hadn't worn make up more than once a year for nigh on a decade. Until 4 months ago, my black eyeliner was the same vintage as the lost hair dryer.

This year, that's changed. I seem to have turned back into the kind of person who needs Product. Which leads me to standing in Jennifer's bathroom while she patiently instructed me.

"It heats up fast, so it's probably ready now."
"Okay."

I stood there, watching the flat iron getting stealthily hotter. I hadn't realized how nervous I would be about putting something that hot near my face for the first time since 1989. But the heat pads were well protected, and I was not curling my bangs into a thick roll.

"Here, I'll show you on me. You spray the stuff on like this, and then with the iron, start here, like this."

She handed it over. I bucked up, sprayed on the stuff, ironed my hair. And it really was pretty amazing. I mean, I always thought of my hair as straight. I've got a cowlick over my right eye, and a bit of a curl on the back left side. Turns out I didn't know from straight.

"Look at that! It's straight! Really straight! It took 3 mintues! It's like a miracle!"
"It's a strange little hair machine, alright."

It was lovely to have a visit with Charles and Amanda. Charles posed me and tried to get me to relax, Amanda told me interesting stories about writers. We drank tea and ate loaf. A fine night of helpful friends.

*Should this not be the title of a Pixies song?

Give Me the Cure

2008-02-10T18:52:00.000-05:00

You know, if you've been brokenhearted, but have started to feel more like yourself, have actually managed to have a couple belly laughs in the past few days, and have started to feel the glimmer of a future time, some crazy time, in which someone might actually want you again, might actually want to love you again, well the way to cure that is to run into the person who doesn't want you.

It's an instant tonic, let me tell you, and now I need a cure for my cure.

On the Make

2008-02-09T21:07:00.000-05:00

I had my first post-breakup sex dream last night, which involved an acquaintance of mine and an embarrassing amount of saliva.

Apparently, I am uptight to my core, since I asked said acquaintance if their girlfriend would mind. After finding out things were copacetic on the partner front, I proceeded to have an internal dialogue about whether I was being safe enough. Eventually, I decided to throw dream caution to the wind and go on down, lack of barrier be damned.

So while I wouldn't necessarily say my sex drive was back, it is at least revving a rusty purr. And actively engaging the parts of my brain needed for navigation.

Odd that, since a couple weeks ago, the thought of kissing someone made me feel a little nauseous. Now it's just the thought of dating that does that.

Feels like a mixed blessing, this revival. It's as it should be. As of valentines day, it'll be a couple months since I've had sex. My body is telling me that's getting close to long enough.

I'm not sure my brain is buying it though, and I'm not sure to whom I should listen.

Because my brain is telling me this is somewhat of a betrayal. Of my ex as a real person, certainly, but also the abject sense-memories of my love for him. Of my grief, too. Like my brain thinks the best thing to do is keep the mourning pure, and keep it on, a suffocating hairshirt.

I know, I know, that if I heard my ex were sleeping with someone who was not me, if I found out he was on the make, I would feel bitter, replaced, and so so hurt. Not that anyone ever gets actually replaced. Not that people can't be fucking one person and missing another. Still, some part of me wants to protect him from a projected hurt by not being intimate with someone else. Like that will protect me.

But what can you do. People move on. They have to. Some people maybe do it before they should, some people maybe wait too long. But bodies will call bodies.

So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish

2008-02-07T21:14:00.000-05:00

When Shelley was here a couple weeks ago, we were in the living room. I remembered I forgot to feed the fish. I'm not obsessed with them anymore, so I don't spend every spare second watching them. And if you forget a feeding here and there, it's actually kind of good for them. Mimics nature, like. Which is about the only thing that mimics nature in that tank.

I opened up the shrimp pellets and was concentrating on breaking them up into smaller pieces while Shelley watched the fish schooling and jostling excitedly in front of me.

"How do you feel about them now?" she asked. "You know, now that Eric..."

That was the gamble, right? I got into fish keeping because of him, at least partially. With some of his encouragement and a lot of his help. I did spend a while thinking about it before jumping in, so I was pretty sure that I was doing it because I wanted to and not to have something in common with my boy. But hearts and minds are funny things, and you just never know.

"Ohhhh. They make me so happy."

I don't spend as much time with them as I would like, but when I do, they fill me with a sense of deep contentment. They just are, you know? They swim, they push each other around, they shit, they beg for food, they eat. It's pretty basic stuff. But there's always something going on in there. The plants change all the time, the fish switch up their favourite spots or who gets to chase who.

What's in there right now (sort of in pecking order):
- 2 Red-Bellied Flags (Dwarf Cichlids), Laetacara thayeri
- 1 Firemouth (Cichlid), Thorichthys meeki
- 2 Kribesnsis (Dwarf Cichlids), Pelvicachromis pulcher
- 2 Bolivian Rams (Dwarf Cichlids), Microgeophagus altispinosa

By rights, the Firemouth should be boss, since in its peer group it's the only non-dwarf. But it's the same size as the dwarf fish, and has been for months. Shows no size of growing. It was absolutely terrorized by the formerly bastard Firemouth now in ex-ile at Eric's. I think that by the time it realized it was no longer being stalked to within an inch of its life, it's position had already been cemented. So it's second fiddle to the Flags, but I have also seen the bigger Krib chase the Firemouth away from a particularly deletable looking bloodworm.

The Rams puzzle me. They are undoubtedly the most pecked. Their fins usually have a tear or two, they never get the shrimp pellets first, and if one of them is chasing another fish, it's another Ram. But they are the most adventurous and playful. They're the only ones brave enough to try to eat my fingers when I put the food in, they playfight kiss, they get themselves right up into the suction tube I use to change the water. They will go where other fish fear to tread. But once everything's back to normal, they're getting nipped again. They are the high school nerds, figuring shit out on their own only to get beat down once they get back to school.

Outside the cichlid group, I have
- 9 cardinal tetras
- 3 khuli loaches
- 1 bristlenose pleco

It is here I have suffered the most losses. I started with 9 khulis, but they don't have scales, so they took the hardest hit in the time of ich. A harlequin tetra snuck in when I bought the cardinals. They tolerated it, but it was always an outsider. Until it was gone. I felt sort of relieved when I realized that. A schooling fish without its own kind is a morose fish.

There are plans, too, you better believe. A few more loaches, a few more cardinal tetras, and a siamese algae eater. And one of these days I'm going to figure out how to make a CO2 diffuser and get my plants all happy too.

I guess I figured right.

Yeah? Compared to What?

2008-02-04T21:13:00.000-05:00

Since its inception, The Blue Menu from President's Choice has sorta upset me, but my unease has been amorphous. Until today and the two bite brownies.

I always knew that the Blue Menu from President's Choice had to be at least a little bullshit. They talk a good game, right. More of: fibre, more omega-3. Lower: calories, sodium, fat. I'm not going to argue that.*

The website sets out their mandate: "Our great tasting PC Blue Menu products offer healthier options without sacrificing the flavours you love. The big blue menu on the front of each package shouts out why the product is a better choice so that making better choices is simple!"

Yeah, if your choice is other Two-Bite Brownies, for sure. The Blue Menu version is really pretty low in fat, considering - 54 calories from fat, which is less than 10% of recommended daily fat for a 2000 cal/day diet.

This is, of course, assuming you eat one serving as defined by PC: two small brownies. They don't come in a package of two. They come in a package of about 12. Perhaps people who work for President's Choice are better at controlling themselves than I am.

What really gets me is that these fuckers are nearly 37% sugar - 14 g of a 38 g serving. That's a fuck of a lot of sugar. The USDA recommends no more than 32 g of sugar per day for a 2000 cal diet.** So if you're only going to eat just over 4 of those brownies per day, you'll be fine. If you only eat two and read the labels on every thing else you eat to watch for hidden sugar, you'll be fine. If you don't drink pop or alcohol on the same day as you eat that one serving of brownies, you'll be fine.

So fine, whatever, there's lots of sugar in brownies. That's hardly a surprise. And Loblaws isn't lying. These brownies are healthier than other brownies. But come on. Their marketing team must know how easily humans slide from "the healthier choice" to "the healthy choice" to just grabbing the blue package from the baked goods shelf, and eating treble the serving amount because Hey, lookit, they're low in fat, it's a miracle what they can do with food these days.

What pisses me off is this: the bastards must know that people will be total suckers for junk food they can eat and feel less guilty about. Chips will always turn a faster buck than tinned tomatoes. There is a lot of potentially healthy stuff in the Blue Menu - canned vegetables with less salt, steel cut oats, etc. etc. - but if they're honestly serious about healthier choices, why does the Blue Menu even have "Cookies and Crackers" or "Frozen Desserts"?

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I think Loblaws shouldn't sell Cookies or Crackers or Desserts. And I don't think people have to go on no sugar, no fat, no fun diets to eat well and stay healthy. I just think it's wrong when companies work to fool people into thinking that an item patently unhealthy for you might just be the opposite if it's got a blue label slapped over its sweet sweet face.

*This is because I'm leaving Soy Protein off the list. I don't get why it, in and of itself, is on the same level as, say, more fibre and lower sodium. Especially considering some of the recent brouhaha about soy products. But that is not the axe for grinding gripped tight in my hands right now.
**It's a bit more complicated than that, which is why I included the link. Check p. 36.

Taking Care

2008-02-03T22:48:00.000-05:00

The advantage of having major depressive episodes scattered through your teens and twenties is that by your thirties you have a reasonable idea of how to take care of yourself.

Last night would have been my first anniversary with Eric. I knew I would be sad.

I'd been invited to a party - a costume/weight lifting party, no less - which was obviously going to be crazy silly fun. I clicked "attending" figuring I would want the distraction.

But yesterday afternoon rolled around, and I decided I didn't want distracting. The logical step further, then, was to decide that I didn't actually want to talk to anyone. In person, by phone, or email. Not to mope, but, as Ariel so succinctly puts it, to feel my feelings. And to love myself up a little.

Which I did with dinner.

I had a leisurely wander through the Herb and the Hartman's, letting the shopping build anticipation. Made moroccan spiced salmon, steamed kale, and brown rice. Bought myself some fancy sparkly water and some limes to slice. I set the table nice. Put the fish in the oven, took things the logical step further. Got myself glammed up: heels, fishnets, a swingy green dress with a deep vee. I looked good. Good enough that I felt like fucking myself for about 30 seconds until I remembered that my sex drive is hibernating.

My premonition was correct. I was sad. But it wasn't a wasn't a hollow desperate sad. It wasn't even a crying sad. It was melancholy, but satisfying. It was a good way to acknowledge that I can be sad and loving at the same time; that I can be very much alone and not lonely; that I am entirely capable of taking care.

Romancing the World

2008-02-01T15:47:00.000-05:00

When I first heard the term quirkyalone a few years ago, of course it rang true for me. I have been called quirky more than a few times. I spent a good chunk of my 20s pretty single. I'm always more comfortable single than coupled. So I expected to love the book. I didn't, though I wish I had.

The main tenets of quirkyalone are all right up my alley: strong friendships are imperative; don't give up your individuality if you're coupled; the way that coupledom is culturally mandated is not the way it's gotta be; being single is preferable to being in the wrong relationship. Check check check check.

And the section on romantic obsession? Nail and head. Once, okay maybe twice, I might have sent myself an email from one account to another to ensure everything was working. Just to check, you know, that *technology* wasn't the problem.

I wanted to love the book. But something about it grated. It was a bit rah rah - like I was supposed to hear the term and be "Oh! Quirkyalone! It's a choice! Thank god there's nothing wrong with me," when I never thought there was in the first place and am perhaps just lucky to live around people who think the same way.

There was a self-congratulatory edge to it as well. Like people who are quirkyalone (or quirkytogether for those coupled quirkyalones) are somehow better people than people who do things in a more traditional manner. Like we are superior for having higher standards than the rest of those uncritical yobs, who obviously just settled for whoever came along first.

Maybe that's true, I dunno. My general feeling is that high standards didn't play a huge part in the demise of my few relationships. I don't see low standards in my friends who are happily coupled, though I'm not sure any of them would be considered traditional according to this book.

Mostly, I don't love the us and them teeter-totter dynamic. I would prefer that people just be able to do whatever makes them happy. You want to cohabitate, get married, have babies, move to a house with a white picket fence in the suburbs? As long as I can live downstairs from my partner in the city and no one gives me flak for it, I don't much care.* Why does living one way often bring about flak for the other? I am all for being critical of culturally dominant notions, don't get me wrong, but I'm looking for something a little sharper than "Those people are fooling themselves and clearly not as discerning."

Maybe the first step towards taking the fulcrum out from under the plank, however, is being strongly reactionary to the culturally dominant notion, and maybe I should just ease up. After all, the subtitle of the book used the word manifesto.

And still, yes, it's nice to have a name to put on the fact that I am happier single than coupled. Or rather, that I have been unable to do coupledom in a way that allows me to thrive. It's nice to know that I have sistren and brethren trying things a little differently than you see pretty much anywhere in pop culture.

That will not lead me to download the Throw an International Quirkyalone Day Party! kit. For fuck's sake. That sounds like the worst time in the world.

However, IQAD is on Valentine's Day, and I don't reckon that will be a fun evening to spend alone, 8 weeks post-breakup. I have decided, to gank a QA slogan, that I will romance the world instead of one being.

Thus, I invite you all to have dinner with me.

On February 14th, 2008, I will be at the Manx at 6:30. Please come join me, keeping three important things in mind:

My intention is to romance the world, not organize it. All the people there with me at 6:30 will be seated together (assuming seat availability). If you're late, you takes your chances.

There will be no couple/romance/valentine's day bashing. Being mad at people who are happy is bad for the soul.

You don't have to be single to show up. Hell, you don't have to be quirky, either. Just interesting.

Simple, eh? No kit, no get-to-know-you party games. No rah. Just good food and a self-selected group of interesting people.

*Not until we start talking the environmental toll of suburbs, but that's a different story.

Crabbity

2008-01-30T22:29:00.001-05:00

I don't really have any good reason to be crabby, but there it is, I am. A few things maybe, but only stupid things.

1) I was hoping to take my compost for a walk tonight. Right now, I have more things garbage than edible in my fridge. Not composting is awful. When I'm composting, I put a not-even-full grocery bag of garbage out per week. When I am not composting, it doubles my output. No good. But what is also no good is a fridge full of kitchen scraps because it's too damn cold/you're too damn lazy to walk the 5 minutes to the organic community garden that runs a proper compost pile. Maybe by tomorrow evening it won't feel like the wind is trying to give me a facelift.

2) My glasses weren't ready today. I won't have time to pick them up until Saturday. Unless I skip yoga. And since yoga is also a part of the Foxification Project*, I am not skipping yoga.

3) My new hairdo doesn't really work with turtlenecks. I love turtlenecks. I love my new hairdo. It's a conundrum.

4) I got a good night's sleep last night, but not enough to make up for the lousy sleeps the couple nights before.

5) The sad is a low level ache. Considering it's only been six weeks, I think I'm actually doing okay. I did have a complete meltdown at dinner on Sunday, though it wasn't entirely breakup related. Shelley and I were talking and eating, normal as can be, when I had that feeling where I thought I was either going to throw up or bawl. Instead I froze, said "I am so, so sad" and sat, staring, my fork and knife hovering over the plate, until Shelley picked me up out of my chair and hugged me tight while I tried not to bawl. I am glad that I am not feeling that sad right now, but I am also tired of the fine sandpaper sad that seems to rub me the wrong way no matter how I move or where I land.

*That would be the FP in its broader "if you take care of yourself you're less likely to feel like shit" context. Kale, lemon juice, root vegetables, garlic and tofu are also integral to this part of the FP. Yoga and balanced meals are good for both your outsides and insides, just different types of insides.

After All That

2008-01-29T21:26:00.000-05:00

I didn't get these glasses. Don't worry.

But it is my favourite picture out of those Steve took while I dragged him around the city to watch me try to foxify.

One of the places I went to was very very fancy. The staff was almost alarmingly attentive, and they had very very fancy frames and very very fancy prices. I said "I'm looking for something kind of quirky, but not too out there. I like your frames." And the very nice woman went a little bananas. Until she realized that her definition of quirky was way more out there than my definition of quirky. This is where most of the pictures were taken, but I didn't end up loving any of the glasses.

Though I am tempted to post a series of the photos side by side so you can see how freakishly long and thin my neck is. I mean, I knew that my neck is on the longer and thinner side of neck, but by jesus. Good thing my head is on the smaller side of head, otherwise I would have some sort of drooping disaster on my hands. Possibly in my hands.

After the fancy place, we went to the place that had my favourites. But when I pulled out the camera, the woman looked concerned.

"I'm sorry, you cannot take photos."
"Oh. Well, he can take them so that it's just me in the shot."
"No. We don't do that here."
"You don't let people take photos."
"No."
"That's a little strange."
"No, it is not. It is just the way it is here."

Steve interjected at this point.

"Well, it can still be strange, nevertheless."

That just confused her.

In the end, there was no glasses love. I did, however, keep putting this pair back on. There's something about them that I do kind of love. But they are heavily ironic, and as Steve pointed out, irony is very heavy.

Yesterday, Shelley took pity on me and a coffee break. We went over to Jack Winter on Elgin Street. I love it in there. It smells like the first place I got glasses. He has a small selection, but it's quality. In 15 minutes, I had two pairs picked out. I couldn't decide which, so I ended up taking both. For less than the cost of the heavy irony above, no less.

Charles Earl has offered to take photographic evidence of the progress of the foxification project. My glasses should be in tomorrow, and then a trip to the Village de Valeur on Saturday to see if I can thrift something hot. Sometime after that, I will put it all together, Charles will snap the shutter and you can judge for yourself if the Project was successful.

Fun Times

2008-01-28T17:42:00.000-05:00

This past weekend, venus envy turned 7, and we celebrated with a big ol' house party. The denizens of Queer Nation,* those brave souls, opened their house up to us, and there was much mirth. And drinking. And dancing. With very cute people in the room, and with one very cute girl in particular.

Lately, it seems like the parties I've been to have been full of dancing. I heartily approve of this. Who needs to go to a bar? You add a good mix of people with extensive playlists to a hardwood dining room floor and the answer is nobody. More rocking, less talking.

In keeping with my current Foxification goals, I got myself tarted up. I like to think I had an influence on Jennifer, who was, from initial reports, going to wear jeans and a tshirt, but instead showed up wearing a hot shirred dress and fancy legs. You can see the hotness and tartiness if you follow the link above.

It's crazy to me that venus envy ottawa is 7 years old. How did that happen? I moved here to run that store when it was just a baby. And now it's moved on and growed up to three times its baby size. It's a going concern, not a struggling one.

Though retail didn't end up being the right environment for this introvert, I loved working there. I met so many great people and felt like I was doing really good, really important work. And I got to meet Shelley, which to me is the best thing of all.

*Not to forget Christine and Adam, who don't, I think, have websites.

Foxification Project

2008-01-25T22:57:00.000-05:00

First, the haircut. It fucking rocks. It's super asymmetrical, and my tiny head, which tends to look cartoonishly round, now looks much closer to elegantly oval.

Next, the face. I've had my current glasses for 5 or so years now, and I like them still, but I don't think there's any harm in updating my look. Steve is going to accompany me on a glasses shopping expedition tomorrow. I'll get him to take photos, and if we can't decide between the two of us, I'll post the photos. I find glasses shopping as overwhelming as shopping for sheets. I mean, it's an important decision. It's the first thing people will see about me, whether they notice them or not. I will wear them more than anything else I own for the next half-decade. God. I am filled with dread. I am convinced I will make the wrong decision.

Also, weirdly, I bought make up. I can't even explain that. I went to MAC, where I ended up standing in front of the foundation like a deer in the headlights hoping simultaneously that someone would finally rescue me and hoping that no one would notice me. Someone did rescue me, someone with very purple eyelids, and when I said "UmIdon'treallywearmakeupexceptforsometimesandthenuh." she took a deep breath and peppered me with flummoxing questions like "What do you want your mascara to do?" and "Would you prefer the regular powder or the mineralized powder?" I stood awkwardly around while she swept and painted me, and then I said yes and pulled out my credit card.

Fuck you, heartbreak. Yeah.

Props from the Academy

2008-01-24T16:51:00.000-05:00

Wow, you mean I really do exist? Aw, goldurn. That's *great*.

For women, bisexuality may not be just a phase

Though seriously, I do think it says something that we're finally worthy of research dollars. I'm not quite sure what, but I'll listen no matter.

Single State

2008-01-22T22:36:00.000-05:00

I love being single. This may not be readily apparent from the streams of break up sadness I've been letting flow here, but it's true nonetheless. It's a state that, quite frankly, suits me much more than being part of a couple.

Though of course, if I ever let someone love me like that again, I will swear up and down I never wrote that.

I do love being part of a couple. I like the meshing of habits; of bodies; of humour and language. The inside jokes and being absolutely special to someone. I like having all those kinds of connections with one person. I like the warmth.

But I also love being by myself. One heck of a whole lot. I love puttering and organizing and deciding how my week is going to look without having to worry about someone else's schedule or desires. I like the simple routines that keep me anchored safely in my life and my body. If you're by yourself, you're never waiting.

It was a hard day today, a lot of small spurts of tears. But no matter, it's ending well. I washed my sheets, and am stretched out now between them, my big wool socks just starting to warm my feet. I have a huge stack of books on my bedside table. I just called Freya, who is now nosing the computer and purring louder than jesus. I have a good life, myself at the centre.

By Sunday Night

2008-01-20T14:53:00.000-05:00

I am so fucking bored of myself. I'm bored with the tattered reels of stories looped in my head. I'm bored of being sad. I am sick to fucking death of crying in savasana.

How am I going to handle it if something *actually* bad happens to me. So one person that I knew for less than a year doesn't love me. In the grand scheme of things - fuck me, even in the grand scheme of love - this is not the most horrible thing that has happened to a person. That has happened to me, even. There was no betrayal, not even any real unkindness. Just, not love.

If I went for the rest of my entire fucking life without going into another fugue of wordless grief in the grocery store, I'd be one happy fucking duck.

Enough already. That's. Enough.

Ventilatin

2008-01-18T23:22:00.000-05:00

My dad, for years, responded to the question "How are you?" with the phrase "Enh, getting by with a shove." He switched it up this year, and said "Oh, yknow, upright and ventilatin."

Well, two days ago at work, our HR consultant came in. Someone asked him how he was doing. "Oh, you know, vertical and ventilating. Har har har." He's of approximately the same vintage as my dad.

When do you get too old to believe that your Daddy is the cleverest man on earth and then get disappointed when you find out he didn't make everything up his own self? I mean, I ask you. I mean, I think 33 might be too old.

Anyway, that is how I am feeling. I am indeed upright, and I am indeed ventilating.

Ventilating with a vengeance, in fact. I'm going to yoga four times a week and tomorrow, I start jogging again. If I'm going to cry, from here on in, I'm going to cry while I'm doing something useful that makes me remember to breathe.

I realized a few days ago that I have been forgetting to do that. Sounds impossible, right, cause it's autonomic, right, and your body is pretty good at autonomically doing shit that will keep it alive. But nonetheless, I would start feeling slightly lightheaded, think "I must be dying! And I've got that weird tiny lump on my ribcage! That's it! I've got a tumour!", and then realize that I was holding my breath. Sadly, it took me quite a while to figure out that I was doing it with some regularity.

My friends are lovely. I spent last night over at the Grs, visiting with them, their absolutely delightful children (Oh. My. God. If those children don't make my uterus ache, I think we can be pretty sure my uterus is not hip to the baby jive.) and Duff. He is, I'm certain, the politest person I know, in general, and also because he remained dutifully and kindly oblivious as Fiona accidentally punched me in the boob a couple of times and repeatedly lifted my shirt to trace my ouroboros tattoo and stick her finger in my belly button.

Indeed, I have become the hipster aunt. Ruby, particularly, is fascinated by my accoutrements: glasses! nosering! earring! more earrings! She touches each in turn, mesmerized. It is quite nice to have someone mesmerized by me again, I must say. Even if I have to sit on the floor for that to happen.

I had thought for a while that I would just not let them touch the nosering, because I gotta say, the likelihood of it getting yanked on seems higher than I'm comfortable with, and the thought of having it yanked on is an unpleasant thought. I am less strong than a thousand pound bull. But the girls are so good with Gentle, and Careful, and One finger touching, please. I came home last night with tiny ice cream fingerprints all over my specs and my nose not aching a bit.

Tonight, Jennifer came over to eat pizza and watch a movie and knit and scheme our next project. We had a veritable brainstorm. Brought on by the tofu pizza, no doubt. Our conversation involved the phrase "Buy pants!" more often than one might think. She did not put her finger in my belly button once.

I have good, clever, funny, creative, smart, entertaining friends - who, as a bonus, live close to me, since I don't much feel like going out. I have blog readers who send me all kinds of kind notes and comments. I have not cried, not really, in two days.

Taking Stock

2008-01-16T18:59:00.000-05:00

Before digging my fingers into the stringy pulp of my grief, I thought it might be a good idea to first poke around its splattered environs. It's messy in here, so bear with me.

I am also too fucking exhausted to edit. There's no throughline, no neat story. Just mess.

+++

First, I just want to make it clear that I have no good reason, other than the words of my insistent and currently paranoid pessimism, to believe that Eric is back in the game.

This is the trouble with making your life public. My life involves other people's lives. I try to be kind, and I try to write so it's clear that I am only writing my own perspective on my own experience. But clarity is not always possible.

What I am not trying to do is judge Eric. Part of breaking up with someone is pulling all the thin wormy fibres of them that grew into you out of you. This process hurts like a motherfucker and that pain, a pain you can't locate to pour peroxide into, makes you crazy. Some people handle the crazy well, other people don't. I don't have the information to know if Eric is handling it well or not; to mitigate my own version of crazy, I need to reach the point where I understand that neither do I have the impetus.

My real aim with these posts about the breakup and my grief is to do the impossible, to nail feelings down by their toes, to keep them alive but captive for examination. I am trying to use myself as a case study.

What I am feeling is what everyone has felt.

I also think we, as a society, don't have enough examples of feelings. The feelings we generally get in movies, tv, music, ads - they're all so *clean*. People are happy. They are sad. They are angry. They are jealous. If it's a complicated whatever, you might get someone who is angry and jealous. And then it wraps up so quickly. It's rare to find honest emotions.

I am striving towards that. Occasionally, I succeed.

And even more occasionally, I write something that is both true and beautiful, and I would do almost anything for the feeling that gives me. That includes feeling this shitty.

I recognize that I'm a hypocrite in person. If you and I met on the street, I would probably not cry on you. It's quite likely that if you sympathetically said "How are you?" I would get falsely bright-eyed, shrinking and bruised inside, and say "Oh, good!", though I have not touched the hem of actually good for a few weeks. Comparatively good, yes, I'll give you that. But a far cry from actually good.

We have, so many of us, in ways big and small, been taken advantage of in our vulnerable moments.

It is why we don't talk about our feelings openly. It's why we're ashamed to cry on the bus, why I look around me on the street before I start quietly moaning, as a safety valve for the pressure of inside tears. It's why I worry that some of the people reading this will think I am being ridiculous, melodramatic, histrionic.

I worry that in a year, I will read this and feel the same.

But it's more than that, though, my worry. It has to do with that shrinking feeling. These breakup, and then grief, posts have been difficult to write. I finish them feeling raw, scared, worn out and satisfied. I am scared that once people know my mess they will think less of me. I think of some people reading them and feel that same shrinking, worried that in some grand teetertotter of power, I've suddenly dipped down for being weak.

For not handling my shit better.

Because my shit is not being well handled. I am falling apart.

Scratch that.

I am in the eye, between having fallen apart and being able to put it back together.* It is a little horrifying for me to have people know that, but also strangely important to have you along for the ride.

*It's coming, I know.

Nocturns

2008-01-14T22:48:00.000-05:00

I haven't been sleeping all that well since I got home. The first night I kept waking up with the feeling that someone was trying to get in my apartment. Or already in. It was unsettling, to say the least.

Since then it's been one thing or another. I've been having temperature issues: one night my feet were so cold I only dozed for three hours, finally waking up enough at 2 am to change from the merino socks to a fresh pair of socks. This morning, I woke up after 5 fitful hours of sleep (I'm too hot, maybe if I stick my foot out. Now my foot's too cold. If I stick my arm out. Maybe also my shoul-) to argue with myself over whether it mattered if Eric were back in the game again.

I'm sure he's dating again.
You don't know that.
I'm sure of it.
You don't know.
I'm sure!
It doesn't matter. It's his life. It's not your business.
It is! It hurts! He was supposed to love me! ME!
It's not your business.

A hard-won battle, but at least it ended in another somnambulent hour before the alarm.

It's 11 pm now, and I'm not long off the phone with Shelley, who talked me down out of a crying jag.

"I'm going to feel like this forEVER."
"No, sweetie, it'll pass."
"This feels worse than last time."
"Oh, oh no. You were a disaster last time. You're doing better than that. Give it another few weeks and the edge'll be off. You'll start to feel a little better soon."
"Really? You promise?"
"Yeah. I promise."

Walking is really hard. When I'm home or at work or with friends, I am generally well distracted. When I'm walking, there's just me and my stupid brain. I get into these endless loops of whatifs and whys. And then I find myself crying on the street and repeating "Please let it be a month already, please let" like an incantation. Like a month will be an accomplishment. If I can survive the first month, I can survive.

I'm trying to find a balance between distraction and feeling. On my walk home from work today, during which I cried beside the playground on Nepean, I reminded myself that it is a privilege to feel sad. I have been in situations before where the only way I could survive was by not feeling anything. I am thankful this is not that.

Over the next few days I think I will try poking around in that sadness and try to explain it to you.

Right now, I'm exhausted and only typing because I'm afraid to go to bed and fight an endless fight with myself. But I will go, reminding myself to breathe until I'm under.

ESI Emergency Meeting, Butcher Style

2008-01-12T22:17:00.000-05:00

What a treat, to be fed and watered by a good portion of the ESI crew at the Usual Spot last night. I've been reading their blog for quite some time now, and have met many of them a few times each, but to sit down with the group of them, and have them all there and talking, well, not exactly at the same time, but not in discrete bits of a few hundred words either? Quite a treat. They are as entertaining in person as in blog.

For those who are slightly confused about the whole ESI phenomenon, they started as a blog about another blog - The Fifth Muse. It's a long story, but she stopped blogging, and now they're not quite sure what to do. I found them after the Muse was gone, and I have to admit, it did take me a while to pick up on the thread of the ESI blog. Once I did, though, I was totally hooked.

They are all solid writers with interesting things to say. They have heart. Like they're writing splinter factions of whatever beings they may or may not be offline. What they write has a core of real, no matter what fantastical or ironically distanced wrappings surround that core.

This is my complaint with the new group blog, the Bank Street Irrelevants. I don't get the same feeling of heart when I read it. Maybe that'll change. It can take a while to figure out where a blog is going. But they do seem to be enjoying themselves, and really what else is a blog for.

I certainly don't think Ottawa is too small for two group blogs. Not at all, and if the ESIs are looking for a little somethin somethin to spice up their personal slice of the blogosphere, a little Sharks vs the Jets snap-happy tension might do the trick. As long as I get to be there for the dance off.

The highlight for the 4th Dwarf, I think, was getting checked by another blogger. We were all chatting away, when the young man next to us leaned over and said "Are you the Elgin Street Irregulars?" Seems we'd gotten a little rowdy and he'd overheard our names.

"And I recognize her," he said, pointing at me.

"Eee, maybe it was a mistake to invite me," I said quietly. "I blew your cover."

"Ha! No!" 4D said, conspiratorially. "I feel like a celebrity."

It was lovely to feel free to chat almost exclusively about blogging. The pros and cons of being anonymous vs. open, updates on the bloggers they've followed over the years, when we started, why. They had many complimentary things to say about my blog and my writing. They were so nice they made me blush, deep red, from my collarbones over my scalp.

Surprising thing? There are a lot of them. 4D, The Chair, Coyote, Pandora, Agatha, Woodsy were there the whole time. Conch Shell was just leaving as I showed up, and the Independent Observer couldn't make it. Nor Audrey, who was on her way to the Italian consulate. But only a few of them post regularly. I can tell you that they're all interesting enough to post regularly, should they so choose.

I won't go into the details, because I'm sure that 4D will do a bang up job in the real minutes. My summary?

Q: What should the ESIs do?
A: What they're already doing, just more often and by more of them.

Well Prepared

2008-01-11T22:54:00.000-05:00

One of the many advantages of having a close friend live next door is that the before-the-show-drinks-at-the-first-bar can very easily turn into "Let's have a beer while you're getting foxy to go out and I am dreaming of crawling into bed even though it is only 9 in the pm" drinks.

As you can see, I know how to pack for a good time.

I was not so well prepared for my job as Blog Consultant to the Elgin Street Irregulars. But more on that tomorrow.

I did tell them I would come home, clean my fish tank and blog my own emergency meeting minutes. But I forgot that the fish are asleep by 8 pm. So instead, I checked Facebook and cried in the bath. Not quite as productive.

So tomorrow, tomorrow!, I will take a good chunk of time and write something witty and clever and highly entertaining about my attendance at one of the notorious and fabled ESI Emergency Meetings.

If There Were a Song About Ottawa

2008-01-09T21:48:00.000-05:00

The morning did not start well. When you've rolled out of bed around 10 am for 4 of the past 5 days, 6:30 is way fucking early. I didn't recognize myself when I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, due to, 6 of one/half dozen the other, either my disarray or my inability to focus my eyeballs.

But I finished my bits of packing, including getting all of my christmas presents into my two wee bags. Shelley and Steve gave me all sorts of lovely and delicious things made in Halifax, including a top which is a brighter colour than I normally wear, but makes my tits look almost shockingly large. And then these slippers, which I fucking love. Maybe I'll wear them with the merino socks my uncle gave me. Apparently, word on the cold feet has gotten out.

My cab was supposed to come at 7:20 or 7:25. I booked it yesterday, talking to a slow-talking and kinda confused sounding man. It worried me. My choice for the Share-A-Cab was to get there for 7 am - 1 hour early - or 8 am - 10 minutes late. I generally don't like to cut it too close, but the difference between 7 and 8 feels like more than an hour.

At 7:24 my nerves had nerved up and I thought "Okay, they've got till 7:40 and then I'm calling." At 7:37, I thought fuck it and dialed them. The slow-talking man came on the line.

"Hi, I'm Megan Butcher. I booked a cab to show up at Number Number This Street at 7:20 this morning."

"Oh. Huh. What's your name?"

"Megan. Butcher."

He's flipping madly through what sound like scraps of paper.

"Oh. Huh. When did you make the reservation?"

"Yesterday. With you." I was not my nicest self.

"Well. Well! It's just gone! I don't have your name anywhere. Huh!"

Silence.

I break.

"Oooohkay. My flight is at 8:50. Can you get me a cab?"

"Oh. Huh. Well. Unh, I can maaaaybe get someone to you by 8:20 or 8:30."

It takes around a half hour to get to the airport.

"No. Thank you. I will call someone else."

The first cab company I picked at random from the yellow pages had someone already in the North End and at the house in 5 minutes. I got to the airport with time to spare, but paid more than twice the price for the privilege. On the way there, I was thankful that I am now in a financial situation where that is an inconvenience and not an impossibility.

While I was waiting for the first cab, I flipped through the cookbook I gave Shelley: a copy of my go-to cookbook, The Vegetarian Express Lane Cookbook. It is getting damn hard to come by these days, and that is a damn shame for lazy cooks everywhere. 10 items or less! A limited but tasty palette of herbs and spices! Crazy that's it's out of print. After she opened it, I used bingo dabbers to mark the recipes I particularly liked. Last night, I made the White Beans and Sage, and we ate it at the beautiful table that Steve made, with a nice Pinot Grigio and candlelight. Like a date without the incipient heartbreak.

Steve's present wasn't necessarily the most thoughtful gift I've ever given him, insofar as it was originally a present for someone else. But these mittens are the most beautiful things I have ever knit, so I hope that fact and warm fingers makes up for the lack of thoughtfulness. I also gave him a scarf to match, though it came with the needles still in. The bazillion episodes we watched of The I.T. Crowd ("Hello? Hel-LO! Hel-lo, Computor!") helped me get through nearly another ball-unit of yarn. There's gonna have to be a lot more TV before the S's get here in a couple of weeks if'n I'm gonna get it finished.

If I'd been smart, I wouldn't have written much over the past few days, cause now I got these pictures, but I'm all storied out. Enh, it's late, so no story, just two of my favourite creatures on a spit of land at Cow Bay.

Still in Halifax

2008-01-07T22:33:00.000-05:00

And generally, happily so.

My flight was fogged out this afternoon. On the Ottawa side apparently, though when I looked out Shelley's window, I couldn't see the bridge just a few kilometres away.

It was lucky that Jennifer was going to pick me up. I never check my flights, just assuming that things will run smoothly. But Jennifer was going to pick me up, and the timing needed to be reasonably precise and so I checked the flight online. When I saw it was cancelled, I was flabbergasted. It's never happened to me before. I had no frame of reference.

I did what any sensible person would do in such a situation, and asked Steve for advice. His advice? "Call them." Brilliant!

Easier said than done, however. The machine hung up on me twice while trying to transfer me to a person. When I did get transferred to a person, they really had to work at being helpful. Like it hurt, or something.

"Is that flight to Montreal tomorrow at 9:55 am?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied.
"Great, I can bus home from there."
Tappity tappity. Tap.
"Okay, your flight will arrive at 10:40 pm..."

Now, I have not flown between Halifax and Montreal ever before, but I'm willing to bet that it doesn't take more than 12 hours. The direct flights to Ottawa only started Wednesday morning at 6 am. I took a more reasonable 8:50 am flight.

Luckily, I'm all set up to work from home. And by home, I mean "my computer." So I won't take another holiday day, but will probably ensconce myself on the red couch, drink tea, answer email and call into the 1:30 meeting, all while wearing Shelley's housecoat.

I do miss my cat and my fish and my stuff. My regular routine is pretty important to my overall well being. But that's all there waiting for me yet, and I am lucky to have friends kind enough to take care of my animals for two extra days on a moment's notice.

Being here is lovely. Not so much Halifax, which is a great town, don't get me wrong, but I'm pretty much Ottwegian through and through at this stage. What I mean is here at home with Shelley and Steve. It's easy and fun. We split a couple beers, we made dinner. We talked about bathroom renos. We watched a few episodes of my new favourite TV show (The I.T. Crowd). We laughed a lot. We drank port and ate chocolate. Milo sat beside me on the couch with his nose on my thigh. I knit.

I definitely don't mind the cancellation.

Bonus Question: Did anyone get the late-80s music reference in the title?

Up the Valley

2008-01-05T18:37:00.000-05:00

Eventually, I am going to stop writing about breaking up, the number of times I've cried in any given day (just once), and how far up the ass of sorrow I currently have my head.

But not yet, because honestly, I don't have much else to say. It's what I think about most often. That will change, I'm not worried about that, but I do hope you'll bear with me through this.

Let me tell you, it is a fucking relief to get out of Ottawa. The disadvantage of living two blocks away from your boyfriend is suddenly living two blocks away from your ex-boyfriend. And that's not so much fun. Every time I see a green parka I feel simultaneous jolts of nausea and excitement. They're not so far from each other, as it turns out.

Today, Shelley and I drove out to Wolfville. We hit a Frenchy's, where I bought a couple nice things and a couple odd things. The flouncy see-through top isn't so odd, I guess, but I'm not entirely sure what possessed me to try the periwinkle velour jacket on, never mind buy it. I came out of the change room and Shelley said "Huh. Ironic." Not to worry, she greeted the sheer flounces with the vociferous approbration they deserved.

After that, we hit the Just Us flagship cafe, with a nice little museum that made me want to email Eric, then the Grand Pre Winery just up the road where I bought a nice red to go with our Market dinner tomorrow night. Then a nice tea in the cafe of the cooperative cinema with the handsome and cold-med-groggy M-C. We stayed chatting too late, and missed the sunset sky heading home.

Right now, again, we're tucked into bed. I'm trying not to get motion sick as Milo, who is one of the two dogs I love (Hi Shy Dog!), is scratching his face and shaking not only the bed, but my legs that are on top of the bed, and the laptop that is on top of my legs.

Tonight, we're going to Jane's, a twenty minute walk away on a balmy night. What is halfway between that restaurant and this bed is a bar called Gus's that serves up both beer and Haligonian indie rock. Hard to go wrong with that.

Nights and Days

2008-01-04T22:50:00.001-05:00

Ah, the lap of luxury. Here I am, in Halifax, tucked into bed. Just come up from drinking tea in front of the fire, watching TV and knitting, while Steve laughed his big laugh and Shelley dozed. This after a very delicious seafood risotto and, rolling back, an afternoon tucked into this very same bed, but with Shelley and her laptop, scheming and browsing the internet till the laptop lost its charge. This after a yummy bento box lunch, after being picked up at the airport.

Two nights ago, I had a therapy appointment. It was a strange one, since there wasn't much to talk about except the breakup. And though I'm taking that harder than I thought I would, I don't need to be therapized about it. Time and the regular application of stout will work just as well, I think. I won't stop going to therapy altogether, since I've still got the same shit to work through, but it's impossible to deal with underlying emotional faultlines during a mudslide. The appointment ended up being not very useful, but nice. She made good suggestions and said the right things. She also checked that I was keeping myself duly occupied during the evenings. Which are my saddest times.

I assured her I was going to be well taken care of.

Last night was fun. I picked Jennifer up at her house and we met Liz at the Aloha. The music kicked my ass in the very best way, I got one more thing out of my house by giving Liz back her museum registration textbook (long story), and it was great to laugh and spend time with two women who also kick my ass in the very best way. Especially so at the Aloha, which can feel like a bit of a boys' club.

I may have to start watching it on the regular application of stout, however, because when I got home, I didn't do a few things that I promised myself I would get done, thinking "Feh, I'll have lots of time to do that in the morning. What time to I need to get up? Oh, 7:30 will be lots of time." To have a shower, eat breakfast, write Freya's minders a note, put out the cat food, finish packing and tidy a few things up? Not hardly enough time, never mind lots.

The plane ride was a study in contrasts. The packing I finally finished was into a small green 70s-era suitcase. That and my laptop bag were what I brought, both small enough for carry on. Getting onto the plane, the flight attendant checked my boarding pass, looked me over, smiled, and said, in a lovely, lilting Italian accent, "Beautiful suitcase." Compliment me, I'll wave my hand at you dismissively. Compliment my luggage, I'll blush to the tips of my toes in delight.

I found my seat, put said suitcase in the overhead compartment, taking up all the room left over from the in-flight magazines, and started sorting myself out, waiting for the person sitting in the window seat beside me to show up. He did, his strides down the aisle purposeful, a large bag in each hand. He stopped short, looked crankily at the overhead compartment above our row.

"Uh. What's that?" An acid pause before spitting out that.

What I did say? “That is my carry on.” Pointing. “That is not mine.”

What I should have said? “That, jackass, is my beautiful suitcase.”

First Day

2008-01-01T21:47:00.000-05:00

Today was a pretty good first day of 2008.

I spent a lot of it knitting and watching the second season of the L Word. That was pretty funny, not because it's a particularly funny (or even good) show, but because I've been stealing it from the internet, and the only version I could find was on a Chinese website. That is also not very funny. What is funnier is that it's subtitled in Chinese for the first couple episodes, and then subtitled in both Chinese and English for the next few. Even funnier is that the English doesn't always match what they're saying. Funniest is that I've caught myself a few times reading the English instead of listening.

My resolution making was entirely successful. This morning, my apartment was clean, clean enough. And last night I was not a depressing pain in the ass, at least not for the most part. I did cry as people were hugging and kissing at midnight, but the people I went to the party with were very kind. Mitch lent me her hanky and outright gave me a big hug, Karen commiserated, Nico made me laugh really hard. And then scooped several spoonfuls of alcoholic jello off a cookie tray and shovelled them into my mouth. "Jello sheeters!" he said. "Have more!" Uh, okay.

Kareoke at the Shanghai was a bit of a blur.

At the pre-party, we had a bit of a conversational lull. Unto the breach, someone said "Everyone should tell their resolutions!" I was thankful when that was met with a groan. Mine would have been pretty awkward to announce. "Okay, okay. Then we'll go around the room and make them up for everyone." More warmly received, but again, I was a bit trepidatious. Did I really want to know what people thought I should be doing better in the coming year? Ennnnh, hrm. I'll go with no on that one. "Fine. Fine. How about everyone writes a resolution, we'll put them in a hat, and then we each pick one." Aha. Golden.

My given resolution for 2008: gain some weight. Apropos, since I've lost a few pounds over the past few weeks and have put a watch on that.* It did make me feel a little self-conscious and exposed. Like, was I supposed to get that one? Do they think I'm too skinny? But I shook that off quick,** a fact pleasing in and of itself.

Tonight, after dinner, Jennifer came over and we knit and watched When Harry Met Sally. I think between us we have nearly the whole damn thing memorized. That is a great fucking movie. We drank chocolatey stout and laughed a whole helluva lot.

*No real worries, I'm still eating okay, I just need to eat fattier foods and more of them, or my tits will disappear completely.
**By channelling Steve, who often says "Are you calling me fat?" to great effect.

Making Way

2007-12-31T16:51:00.000-05:00

Generally, I love New Year’s Eve. It’s one of those things I don’t really understand about myself. NYE is hokey and over-hyped. Why should this one night matter more than any other? But then it rolls around and I get all excited planning out what I’m going to wear, what I’m going to do, the excitement of a new year with myriad possibilities.

Resolutions are not usually part of the mix. I’m almost always trying to be a better person anyway. Kinder, more generous, more thoughtful, more likely to say yes than no; the kind of person who manages to eat well, get enough sleep and still accomplishes interesting creative things. I don't feel the need to add to that pile.

This year, of course, I’m not so excited. I knew I wouldn’t be. Of course. But I’m finding it more upsetting than I thought I would.

I cried in the beer store. “We’re out of Guinness,” and I welled up. I wasn’t sure I could manage the beginning of the new year without a bottle of dark beer. Or two. The guy behind the counter kindly suggested the Oatmeal Stout. An offer I hastened to accept. He is probably used to people in the Somerset Beer Store being passionate about their beer.

Come to think of it, I do have two resolutions.

First, I resolved to spend tonight with people. I may not actually believe that how you spend New Year’s determines the tone for the rest of your coming year, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to cry myself to sleep at 12:01. Mitch kindly invited me to go party hopping with her and her crew. I don’t resolve to have actual fun - too much pressure - but I do resolve to not be a depressing pain in the ass. I’ll let you know tomorrow whether I broke my resolution.

Second, I resolved to start next year with a clean apartment. I put away the laundry that had been on the drying racks since before Christmas. I scaled half of dish mountain, which had been accreting at an alarming pace since the moment I returned from Stouffville. I picked up the tufts of cat hair in the hallway. Cleaned the bathroom. Washed my sheets and took them to the laundromat to dry them. Turned all the stuff lying randomly around my house into stuff piled in orderly piles. Including two for relationship stuff.

Before, of course, I went to the beer store. Indeed.

One pile to store away: the giant squid poster that had been hanging in the hall; the cards and the notes; the lid from the cupcakes we shared last valentine’s; the tickets from our first few dates; the dirty promise written on a vinyl glove.

One pile to return: sex toys, books, and fish stuff. A relationship could end in worse ways, I suppose.

I’ve got a few more hours to finish the dishes, get the sheets on the bed, do a little dusting, wonk in some contacts and slap on some lipstick before I go out and fake the fun until I make the fun.

If you see me around, wish me happy Happy and a good beer. That way, you know I'll be able to manage at least one of those things.

The Winter of Film and Needles

2007-12-29T16:58:00.000-05:00

The last time I got out of a serious relationship, I wanted to fuck.

It had been a long time dying, that one, and we'd beat the proverbial horse with the biggest stick we could find. The sex had gone to hell, as it does in most relationships brought back from the dead so often the flesh was off the bones. The best sex we'd had in months - hell, the only sex we'd had in weeks - was two days after we broke up. Though I don't regret doing it, the horse was past resuscitation.

So I tore into that Summer of Sex with gusto. A little unsure my wiles would still work, but hungry enough to make up for it. I wanted other people's hands on me and in me. And then some.

This time, the thought of kissing someone makes my lungs shrink. When people look at me on the street, I avert my eyes. Hell, I've only jerked off once after we broke up: my breath hadn't even slowed before I started bawling harder than I'd come.

So this time, it's a quiet time. I don't feel bad about that. It's the right thing to do, to let myself rest. I've had three break ups in less than two years. My heart, she is tired and worn thin. And I know whose hands I want on me; I also know it will not happen.

I can live with that, with all of it.

Luck of the draw, I like spending time by myself, nearly always have. I'm pretty good company. I have enough knitting projects lined up to last me till late spring, and a long list of movies I haven't yet seen.

Etc.

2007-12-27T16:02:00.000-05:00

I am mostly glad to be home. I love my apartment, my city, my stuff, my routine. Not sleeping on an air mattress last night was lovely. Being by myself is lovely.

Break up wise, it's harder to be here than in another town and so overwhelmed by contact with other people that I was kind of numb. Went for a walk late this morning and it felt like every corner either had a memory to tell or his ghost walking towards me.

I'm still flipping between being righteously angry, bloody confused, and sad.

I miss him. No fancy words for it. Just this bruise I can't stop pressing. I would say it's on my heart but it actually feels like it's at the base of my throat, just above my right collarbone.

I was going to write that I wish it were two weeks ago, but I don't even. I knew this was coming two weeks ago. I wish it were a week before the time things started to go awry, not that I could pinpoint that moment, but I want someone to find it and hit rewind, our legs jerking backwards, mouths moving out of sync; freeze frame; splice; forward, a little to the left, the right way down the right path, limbs and minds working smoothly together, smiles and entwined fingers.

Sucking It Up

2007-12-25T09:07:00.000-05:00

There are very few people that I actually hate in this world. To whom I cautiously but truthfully apply that word. In fact, now that I'm wracking my brain, I can only think of one. Today, merry merry, I will be spending the afternoon with her.

She feels the same way about me, so far as I can tell. So at least we're even.

Someone gave me the advice to "just ignore her." Impossible. I think she and I tried to have a couple of conversations in the early days of her being part of my extended family, but quickly settled into mutual dislike and avoidance. On a micro level, we're already very good at ignorning each other.

Part of the reason I hate her is that I've never been at a function where she hasn't had a tantrum of some sort. She seems incapable of getting through an event without picking some invisible nit and getting on her high horse, all injured and hard done by, focussing all the energy in the room on her, where, of course, she feels it belongs. Why she started the scene in the first place.

Normally I grumble a lot beforehand and suck it up while she's around. This year, I'm already feeling fractious and upset, and my reserve of patience for self-aggrandizing bullshit is pretty damn low.

And so, I am taking my knitting and I will hope the yarn wicks my under-breath curses into silence. Otherwise I might end up being the one who causes the scene.

Lucky Girl

2007-12-23T18:45:00.000-05:00

And now is the post where I count my blessings.

I love blogging. So many people have sent me kind and supportive words about break ups in general and my writing in particular. It's been heartening. I hope I managed to get back to you all, though I have a bad feeling I missed one or two.

I also love my friends. I love my friends who will run me through their family trivia about the movie White Christmas, ply me with sprinkle-topped soy hot chocolate and sing Sisters with me. I love my friends who make me Calm tea and let their toddlers loose on me for much needed cuddling and sweetness. I love my friends who will go to a mediocre Brit funereal comedy with me and then ply me with Guinness.

I love Guinness.

Loved just as much are the friends available by email and/or phone whenever I need them, and who send such strong hugs through the wires I can actually feel them.

Did I mention that Shelley is flying me to Halifax two weekends from now? She has promised a fire in the fireplace, port, a dog in my lap and good conversation. Jesus, am I ever lucky.

And not necessarily love, but some major appreciation out to Mark, Shelley's roommate, who answered the call I placed to her house seconds after Eric left Tuesday night, and listened confusedly but patiently to my wordless sobbing until Shelley picked up the extension and figured that the crying was me.

Less important ways that I feel lucky: I found a $20 in my pocket Tuesday morning; it rained but did not freeze on the drive to Stouffville this afternoon; I am in my mother's house but have a laptop that feels a little like home; I'm off work until the 2nd, back for two days, then on holidays for 4 again; there is no fifth thing; I'm sleeping and eating better than I thought I would.

Life could be much much worse. Though we'll see if I feel the same way tomorrow, when I have to start saying "No, we broke up. Yeah. Tuesday. Never a good time of year, I guess." over and over again.

Alright, Breathe, Survive

2007-12-22T13:00:00.000-05:00

The past day or so haven't been so bad. I've cried, but not those wracking sobs that pile up into your diaphragm, a train wreck of crumpled cars off the track, each new one shoving the first one in harder. No, it's been the slow-leak variety of crying, where I think hey, I'm not doing too bad, and then I feel that pressure behind my eyes and there's suddenly a shiny slug trail down my cheeks.

Doesn't matter where I am, there's no stopping it. It's embarrassing, but then I'm also mad to be embarrassed. It is crazy to live in a society where it's an embarrassment to feel shitty. Why the fuck shouldn't I cry on the bus? Really, it's like a gift: you people should be grateful you're not this fucking sad.

Merry Christmas. I know, I know, I really shouldn't have.

You might be able to judge from this post that I am bouncing around in my stages of grief: despondency to anger. My lizard brain has identified Eric as the source of the pain and has developed a pre-historic hate-on for him. The rest of my brain is thanking the reptile for doing its best, shaking hate by the hand and then showing it the door. So I am not going to unleash the few choice words my lizard brain is whispering; they are my pain reflex; I do not mean them.

I loved him well, I love him still, and he is well worth loving. The truth of that makes me want to poke his eyes out for not getting it, any of it, all of it.

Alright. That'll pass. Okay? Yes. Breathe.

Bridgehead Run In

2007-12-20T14:35:00.000-05:00

You know what is even more awkward than seeing your ex-boyfriend of two days in a coffee shop? A coffee shop in which you know he hangs out but where you figured you'd probably be pretty safe because it is early in the afternoon, and really what are the chances, and anyway you are right out of coffee beans and the thought of not having a coffee tomorrow morning is unbearable?

I will tell you.

What is more awkward is sucking it up, going over to his table, realizing from the quick twist of shock and pain across his face that he had not seen you walk in, and then saying

"Hey. How are you?"

How are you? How are you?! Fuck me. I could see how he was. He looked as hollow as I felt. I had the grace to feel a bit bad to be grateful for that.

He smiled, lifted and dropped one shoulder, a wall coming straight down. Said "You know."
"Yeah. 'Bout the same over here."

What is also more awkward is staring blankly at the mesclun mix in Hartman's, tongs in hand, immobile, crying, and whispering Why are you such an idiot*? How could you let me get away like that? Why couldn't you love me?

It is awkward for me even though I can't help it, it is awkward for the produce guy four feet down the aisle with his hands in the lettuce. It does not seem to be awkward for the old woman squeezing green peppers beside me, who has probably been alive long enough to become inured to overly dramatic shows of emotion in grocery stores.

*I hasten to add that I don't actually think Eric is an idiot. He is actually lovely, smart, clever, and funny. Which I am generally trying not to think about right now.

Breaking Up in the 21st Century

2007-12-19T07:05:00.000-05:00

When Eric and I first started dating, I was really happy that he was gung ho to be my virtual boyfriend as well as my real life boyfriend.

Last night, I asked to be in charge of breaking us up online. I don't know why, but I would rather be the one to click "Cancel Relationship."

I've had the "Edit Relationships" page opened and closed I don't know how many times. I keep looking at that ominous phrase and thinking, "Just do it, Butcher. It's over."

It's like wanting him not to leave last night. I don't want to cancel the relationship.

Lesson learned: do not post your relationship status on Facebook.

Part of it, too, is that I dread that little message being sent around all over Facebook to our mutual friends and acquaintances. Funny, because I'm blogging it, and theoretically, more people could read this than see that one line message. But it's so so cold.

Here, at least, you can understand the context, know that neither of us wanted it to turn out like this, know that when we parted ways last night we both figured on crying a lot. That we both recognize it is better to break up with someone when you still like each other than to wait for resentment to bury the good you once loved.

It's gotta be done, and I'm gonna have to do it. But it may take me a few days to get my finger to stop hovering and actually depress the button that forces the click that severs another layer of me and Eric.

Update:
I managed to do it. I fixed my privacy rules and waited till Eric was online so he could delete the story quickly if he so chose. He so chose. Thankfully. And now, according to facebook, my relationship status doesn't exist.

I feel bereft. I miss him, so much.

Single Again

2007-12-18T21:44:00.001-05:00

Every time I think I'm finished crying, I start breathing. The breath catches somewhere between my tongue and my lungs and turns into a sob. And then that's it for a while.

Eric and I broke up tonight.

If there is a silver lining: it was one of the best break ups I've had. There was no drama or acrimony or resentment; I might have said one or two foolish things, but neither of us said anything particularly regrettable.

Though right now I really do want to shake him till his ears ring. I want to make him figure out why I wasn't good enough to stay in love with, and tell me, goddamit. I want to make him understand what he is giving up in me.

He already does, and he already did. A while ago, truthfully.

After he had said it, after it was out, after it was decided, I wanted him to leave as soon as possible and also to never get his ass up off the couch. Because as long as he was there with me, there was still a possibility that he wouldn't disappear when he walked out the door.

But once you've decided you can't be together, how much really is there to say?

We did find a few things, though it was mostly me just blathering to stretch the time. Eventually, he got up and left. We had one last hug. I told him I loved him. He didn't answer. He's not a liar, never was.

Back on the Bean

2007-12-17T20:15:00.000-05:00

That nutritionist I've been seeing? I'm going to stop that foolishness.

I started because my rosacea seemed to have gotten noticeably worse over late summer and early fall, and it's just no fun to look in the mirror and think, blotch blotch blotch.

He's a really nice guy, but fucking pill happy. I ended up saying yes to a few things I should have said a resounding no to, one of which was getting myself hooked up with this fancy pill company. The supplements seem very high quality, but I'm taking a bazillion of them a day. And by a bazillion, I mean a number so high I am actually embarrassed to tell you and I refuse to take them in front of other people.

He's also the one who told me to quit coffee, which was a dumbass suggestion.

I don't smoke. I don't do drugs. I eat well. I exercise regularly. I try to be conscious of my posture. I get tipsy reasonably often, but off a couple glasses of wine or a couple of beers. Shelley teasingly called me her pure friend the other day. On a day to day basis, I treat my body pretty well.

And I fucking love coffee. Love it. I love the smell, I love the taste, I love the momentary high. Fuck decaf. It doesn't smell as good, it doesn't taste as good and of course, no high.

Q: Why, why, why, when I am not feeling so great mood-wise, should I give up a simple thing that causes me little harm and brings one helluva lot of brightness to these dreary days?

A: Shut the fuck up and hand me that bodum.

Last Friday was my first cup of caffeinated coffee after something like two and a half weeks, and my god. Smartest decision I've made in ages.

How I Roll

2007-12-15T21:26:00.000-05:00

Jennifer: Did you knit this afghan?

Me: Yep.

J: How old were you?

Me: Oh, I dunno, in my teens.

J: How did you get it so long? That's crazy!

Me: Circular needle. The stitches all bunch up in the middle. I had no idea how many stitches there were - that was supposed to be the short end. Took forever.

J: How long?

Me: Jesus. Huh. Five years? I started when I was like, 13.

J: So not really in your teens, but when you were a teenager.

Me: Yes. Precisely.

I Got Picked!

2007-12-14T07:15:00.000-05:00

Bluestockings is slide 6 - click on "see review" for my photo, which is of the inside of the store.

Funny, I took that photo in case Shelley wanted to steal the display ideas for venus envy.

The Right Way to Toast Nuts

2007-12-13T07:22:00.000-05:00

Shelley is an excellent cook. She doesn't usually make fancy stuff, but she knows how to combine flavour and texture, can cook a sweet potato until it's done just perfectly, and is killer on presentation. And her stuff is all usually done at the same time. If you are ever so lucky as to receive an invite to one of her dinner parties, I suggest you say yes and eat light that day.

So colour me surprised when she told me that she always burns nuts too. Or rather, burned. Because she learned this trick, and that has saved her from throwing many expensive pecans in the garbage.

Heat oven to 325 degrees.
Put nuts in oven.
Turn oven off.
Forget about nuts.

Although you do have to remember them before you turn the oven back on.

Dropped Stitch

2007-12-12T21:51:00.000-05:00

Time is running out for the crafting of presents, and somehow I went from 19 stitches to 18 and had to rip out a couple hours work. How the bookmark unravels, I suppose.

As I've mentioned, this week and next are all about the making and baking. I'm not going to divulge all of what I have my hands on and in* because some of the people who are getting that stuff are also reading these words.

I'm really enjoying it, I have to say, though there is some stress involved. Mostly deadline related. I'm not sure I'm going to be ready for Espig Xmas this weekend. It may involve a very late night on Saturday or a very early Sunday morning.

In other news, I concur with Jennifer and cannot wait for my holidays. I've got 10 or 11 days off and it cannot come fast enough.

It's no secret I've had a difficult fall. Problem is, it just seems to be getting worse. I talked to Shelley tonight and she said "Sweetie, you just sound beat down." At least my outside matches my inside, I suppose.

I always think of my ups and downs in terms of light, which is stupidly hokey to write, but feels true. When I'm happy and everything is going well, it feels like I emit streaks of bright light, somewhere on the yellow spectrum. When I'm normal, there's a little glow around me. Right now, I would say that there's a candle in there somewhere, sheltered under a perforated box.

People respond in kind, interestingly. When I'm at my brightest, people smile at me on the street. Probably because I'm smiling at then. When I'm at about where I am now, it's like I'm invisible. People bump into me more, notice me less.

I've read the women's rag self-help blah blah, and know that I should just paste a smile on my face and then my currently fragile ego will be boosted by the goodness that comes back.

But you know, there's not much creepier than a death's head smile backlit by a dull flicker.

Around the Corner

2007-12-10T19:35:00.000-05:00

Last weekend, I took care of business. I got winter boots, and bought most of my Christmas presents. I hit the Market and Hintonburg. I didn't have a diagram like Jennifer, but I did have a list of stores with the people I was looking for at each store.

I have not shopped on Etsy. People seem to love that site, and my sister even facebooked me to tell me about it (sorry I never replied, Aim!). I went on it once and it was like the worst shopping nightmare. Too many choices all compartmentalized by seller. Great for the seller, not so great for me if I want to find a scarf for my gran.

Maybe I got freaked out and frustrated before I could find that function though. And Andrea told me that the thing to do is find a seller or two you like, and keep watching them.

All in all, I'd rather just haul my ass to Workshop or Collected Works and wander around the store, knowing that soandso likes this kind of stuff, and waiting for the right thing to pop out at me.

Then I hit the Herb and Spice, and now I bake. Or I try to. Why can I not toast nuts?* I put the pecans in the oven and thought, "I always burn them, I need to pay close attention." and then forgot about them until I smelled them burning. No more nut toasting for me.

These next couple of weeks are going to be a frenzy of baking and making. More food, that will hopefully not get burned. Gift bags, I hope, if I can make it to Value Village for some fabric to make them. Eric's present, which I'm pretty sure will be done for Christmas, but not if I don't go and knit right now.

*Ha.

Stats and Sex

2007-12-09T20:48:00.000-05:00

At the beginning of NaBloPoMo, I got myself registered with their site, and my stats went up quite a bit, from around 60 or 70 unique visitors a day to around 100 unique visitors a day. After a couple weeks, I guess the shine wore off NaBloPoMo, and the numbers went down some, hovering around the mid-70s pretty reliably.

Except for Saturday. Saturday is the day when the fewest people read blogs.

Just recently, they've shot back up again. Coincidentally, this happened the same day that google crawled my site, which they have not done in a while. At least not since I posted pictures of my tits.

If you want your stats to rise, I highly suggest posting a picture called "braless."

It's what people, people from all over the world, are searching for. Or it's the photo title that most closely matches what people are looking for. It's the one they find most often, at any rate.

I tried doing a google image search, and I can tell you that my boobs do not appear in the top 10, though Barbra Streisand's mashed beauties did. I got bored before I found myself. But then, all I have to do is look down, so there's not much incentive.

Eric and I went out for a drink last Wednesday after the art show, and I was telling him about this new, um, rise in interest.

"Does it feel weird?" he asked.

"Nah," I said. "Well, maybe a little. I mean if you're going to put your tits on the internet, you can't get your knickers in a twist about people looking at them."

"No."

"But I never imagined that people would really *want* to look at them. I mean, people are probably jerking off over those photos."

"Yes." He laughed.

"But it's just me in a tshirt. It's no big deal. So it seems strange."

I feel dissociated from the images themselves. They're me, of course, but it was really me using my body to prove a point, so that's the context in which I think of them. But I have to admit, the thought of random people out there maybe getting turned on by them kinds of rebounds and turns me on, and then I feel odd about both those facts at the same time. I mean, who doesn't like feeling desirable? But there's something a little shame-faced, a little embarrassed, about admitting it.

It's an odd shift from putting my sex writing out there. That stuff, I put that out on purpose, and turning people on is one of the main thrusts of writing it. The boob pictures, though I wasn't so naive to think that people wouldn't like looking at them, weren't there for that.

I think it's that I feel I have less control over the photos. And while they're a part of me, they're not me in the same way that my writing is.

I'm not sure why I feel like my writing is more me than a part of my body, but there you go.

Another Night, Another Art Show

2007-12-07T19:28:00.000-05:00

Andrew Farrell was my upstairs neighbour for almost a year and a half. He is a genuine, warm, nice, funny, sweet guy. And a kick ass artist.

I've only been to one of his other shows: Still My Eyesore. It was mainly large oil paintings of the City Centre building, an ugly decrepit building near where we used to live. I've always loved it. And so has Andy, though I didn't know till I walked in that night; we had never discussed it.

I was overwhelmed when I saw the paintings. They were infused with the exact feeling I have for the City Centre. Protective pity. A steeliness and fuck you running through it. I cried.

His current show is called Massive Nights. The vernissage has already started as I write this, but is going till 10:30. If you get the chance, go tonight. If you don't get the chance, then you've got till January 15th to get your tuchis to ArtGuise.

I stole this jpg from the Facebook event. I hope that's okay. If someone doesn't like it, just let me know and I'll take it down.

Montréal Massacre, 1989

2007-12-06T15:35:00.000-05:00

Geneviève Bergeron

Hélène Colgan

Nathalie Croteau

Barbara Daigneault

Anne-Marie Edward

Maud Haviernick

Maryse Laganière

Maryse Leclair

Anne-Marie Lemay

Sonia Pelletier

Michèle Richard

Annie St-Arneault

Annie Turcotte

Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz

Life of the Parties

2007-12-05T07:37:00.000-05:00

The thing that unified the two party-type things I have been to in the past two days is a discussion of bodily functions, both while pregnant and while not pregnant. It wouldn't be so strange, really, except that the only two people overlapping the two parties were Jennifer and I, who did not start either of the conversations that involved stories of explosive diarrhea.

I guess it's in the air.

Monday night, Shelley hosted a shindig at my house, involving much food and laughter and wine and chocolate paté. It ended up being a small group, because of The Weather, but a lovely lively group, start to finish. I drank wine and ate a lot.

Last night Jennifer had a Christmas Prep party. The intent of it was to bring the stuff you were making for Christmas and work on it in the company of fun women. The crafting was sporadic; the conversation was not. I drank beer and ate a lot.

Tonight, I'm going to another party, but a more public one - Julian Garner, who did my squid and whale tattoo, is having an art show at Oz Kafé on Elgin. It should be good, judging from my ribs.

Today is not going to be a party at all. This afternoon is the culmination of the High Middle Secret Project. Though word is out and so I think it's maybe been demoted just to Middle Secret Project. Either way, it is likely to be stressful, and unlikely that I will drink anything or eat much.

You Know It

2007-12-03T15:01:00.000-05:00

Maybe it's the lack of caffeine, but reading this sentence (in an abstract for an article from a science journal) gave me a giggle fit. Which made me feel more awake, come to think of it.

"The interaction of opiate, cholinergic, glutarnatergic and (possibly) dopaminergic inputs in the ventral tegmental area (VTA) influencing a learned behavior is certainly a topic of great interest."

Certainly, of course. But then, only if the dopaminergic inputs are definitely an influence. Otherwise, it's boring as fuck.

Uses for Binder Clips: Wine

2007-12-02T22:07:00.000-05:00

After a very nice time in Montreal, with lots of satisfying chats with Shelley, good frip shopping, a great visit with Amy and lots of drinking and dancing till the wee hours at Meow Mix, I got home and found this novel device.

I'd left Eric a bottle of wine as a thank you for taking care of Freya. He drank some of it, but not all of it. What is a boy to do in a house ill-prepared for a half-drunk bottle of wine? As it turns out, a little bit of plastic wrap, a binder slip and some ingenuity will give you the answer to that question.

P.S. Sorry the picture is so small and blurry. A binder clip on a wine bottle is a very hard thing to take a good picture of.