Fun Times

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.

Another Night, Another Art Show

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.

Life of the Parties

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.

I'm Home, I'm Half in the Bag, I'm Still Blogging

Hello ducks. I just got home from a party at David Scrimshaw's house. If you're ever invited, I highly recommend going to a party at David Scrimshaw's house, where people will call him strange things like "Dave" and you will get to see the very clever TV apparatus he made.

If it is Hallowe'en, you will get to wear some kind of last minute costume that you might call "silver," that everyone will get their same weird eyebrows on about but no one will ever say, I'm sorry, that's not a real costume, because they are very polite people.

I was quite chuffed with myself because I'd managed to work a binder clip into my costume. But one of the first things that David said to me was, "Well, you've been outdone! Look at the woman by the sink!" I did, but could see nary a binder clip.

Then I got closer. Marcie, who is the famous Marcie of the Spanish discotheques, had made her dress by using very prettily coloured binder clips to clip some fabric together. I really wished that I had thought of that first. Really, how much more successful would "silver" be if "silver" were silver fabric clipped by silver binder clips. This is what separates the plebes from the artistes.

I also got to talk to several Elgin Street Irregulars, who always seem to show up at David's parties, and I drove a hard bargain with the 4th Dwarf, demanding two pints of beer as my blog consultancy fees. Like I'm going to have any ideas with just one pint. Ha. Fact is, I'm not sure they need *any* ideas, but I'm selfish, and I'd like to sit in on an emergency meeting.

Also, I have to say, and you know I'm only saying this because I decided to finish off the Jameson's (and I like it neat, thank you*), I think it is safe to say that I adore David Scrimshaw. When Jennifer and I are talking, it is quite rare that David Scrimshaw does not come up. So how pleased was I when he not only started seeing a librarian, but a librarian that I HAD ALREADY MET and already thought was MY KIND of librarian. Manon is lovely. This picture is supposed to be the two of us together, looking like librarians are supposed to look, but this librarian had her eyes closed and looked like a schmuck, which is not how librarians are supposed to look, so instead, I just show you Manon and her fabulous gams. Hotcha, David Scrimshaw, and congratulations.**


*Unless I'm with Eric, and then I like a hot toddy.
**And since I've been asked if David made a special announcement leading up to my congratulations, I will add this note to say no, the congratulations are more general in nature.

The Oog

Eric threw a party last night and I had a really fun time. There were turntables, and the night had been split up into half hour slots with a different DJ for each slot. A couple people cancelled, so Eric filled in a couple spots, but Mark and Jennifer and Aurele and Bill all stepped up to the plate (the decks?) as well.

There was talking and laughing and dancing and eating and drinking.

Too much drinking on my part, cause now I got the oog.

I just got home from Eric's, where he is in bed with the oog. I'm going to finish blogging, do some dishes and make some pancakes, which will hopefully do their job of soaking the oog up.


Fish Watch

The fry that Tracie's kribensis had are almost all gone now. Eric thought they were totally gone, but I spotted three of them last night while I was waiting for the party to start. They look much less like food and much more like fish. Fish that aren't food, I mean.

Girl, Exploded

Jennifer has an expression that I love. When she's about to go out, she talks about hitting herself with the pretty stick. Well, Saturday night, Shelley and I got out the pretty club. It took us more than an hour to get ready for the ACO Poz Party. This from a girl who can go for days without brushing her hair.

We wore make up. We wore corsets. I wore heels and garters and fishnets and my underwear. Shelley wore a wig and pants. When I got home the next day I was stunned by the state of my apartment. There was stuff everywhere. Small filmy bits of stuff. Lacy and sparkly and powdery stuff.*


Shelley was reading the paper in bed. "It looks like a girl exploded in here," I said as I sat down by her feet. "Who lives here?"

What a fucking fun night. I really had one hell of a lot of fun. I danced, I ground myself up against pretty girls and boys, I kissed Eric hard when our friends weren't looking. I got a lot of attention because of, you know, being in my underwear. I soaked it up like instead of being the girlfriend of a very affectionate and attentive boy, I had been by myself on some ice floe for two years. I was pretty excited to get rated on the fabulous scale by some pretty fabulous gay men. What made everything even more fun was that I knew I was going home with Eric, who kept looking at me like he'd swallowed the canary. That look made me pretty happy about getting him home.

The burlesque was terrific too. Nico, one of the organizers, wore gold lamé pants and halloween teeth and glasses and danced to "It's a Man's World," I believe, though I wasn't particularly focussed on the music, I have to say. There were kings with vegetables in their pants and femmes smearing themselves with nutella.**

The audience got into it too, wearing slinky stuff or getting themselves up in drag and costumes. There was much dancing and drinking and having of fun by all.

I've been trying to think of a good way of fitting in this picture of Shelley, but fuck it, I'm just putting it here because she's hot. Why should I need a reason other than that?












*Those who are astute will notice two things that are not generally described by terms such as those: 1 CD by the dulcet-voiced banjo maniac Andrea Simms-Karp, to which I am listening right now and is giving me goosebumps what with the voice and the bass and the organ, which sure is not sparkly, but does have a somewhat lacy motif on the cover; also, one binder clip, which was out because it was going to be instrumental in one of the possible outfits, which was definitely sparkly.
**Did I enjoy writing the words "femmes" "smearing" and "nutella" in the same sentence? Oh yes. Yes I did.

The Bloggiest

David Scrimshaw has been having Canada Day brunches for many many years. Most of the people there yesterday had gone to one before, and so knew that when David emailed "10 am for brunch," it was like saying "show starts at 9 pm" to a bunch of indie rockers. Most people showed up at 11:30, perfect indie rock timing. Eric and I, having never gone to one before, and being pretty punctual people in general, showed up at 10 sharp. I'd even been worried about being late and holding up the proceedings, picturing people sitting around a table surreptitiously checking their watches at 10:05.

I knocked on the door a couple of times, but no one answered. I'd seen bodies moving about and had double-checked the address, so I was sure we were in the right place. I got shy and shifted from foot-to-foot until Eric took the reins and gave the door a jaunty but very firm series of knocks. Someone who was very definitely not David Scrimshaw opened the door. We all introduced ourselves, she looked at me oddly and introduced herself, saying "You're the first here." I realized that we were very definitely not holding up the proceedings, and had, in fact, made the opposite faux pas of turning up on time when "on time = early" and had interrupted the time-honoured tradition of friends doing last minute things while the host cleaned himself up.

But really, good on us. The woman who answered the door quickly revealed herself to be Agatha, both Elgin Street Irregular and Muse! Although David Scrimshaw is a very nice man in his own right, I really was hoping that I would also get to meet some of the Irregulars, since I know he hangs out with them from time to time.

We chatted a little nervously, at least on my side, feeling a bit awkward about the e-to-face shift. We all went into the kitchen, and met the fruit-peeling man I'd seen through the window. Eric and I helped peel oranges for the fruit salad and Eric kindly offered to keep the last cup of coffee black so we could share it.

Fruit salad made, the fruit-peeling man wiped his hands off. "Now that I'm cleaned off, I'd like to shake a paw." The Coyote! This was turning out to be a very exciting morning.

None of the other Irregulars revealed themselves to me, though I did put two and two together about the Chair, and someone pointed out the Independent Observer and Harmony.

Another blogger also made an appearance. I recognized her as soon as she walked in, and tugged on Eric's sleeve.

"That's Zoom!" I whispered.
"What? Sue?"
"No, no, Zoom! From Knitnutdotnet!" Only I was so excited I think I said knitnetdotcom. Either way, Eric smiled at me like he thought I was being very cute.

It was great to be shown around David's house a little. Agatha showed me some arresting mobiles he'd made out of typewriters and slide projectors, and coming down the stairs from looking at the platen mobile I noticed the faceboard. Very exciting indeed.

I went home with my belly full of delicious food and my brain full of new faces. And full of bloggy goodness.

Into the Weekend

Although I always appreciate salacious comments and looks from my friends, I must rush to assure you, Steve and Charles, that hot yoga is not sexy. Cause I'm sure what some people were picturing was a light sheen, with maybe a small rivulet of sweat down the runnel of my spine. Nuh-uh. My clothes - running shorts and a sports bra - were soaked.

In fact, when I did the Standing Separate Leg Head to Knee pose, which involves putting your forehead on your knee, with your eyes open, I noticed that my shins were sweating. Profusely. When I wasn't busy trying to figure out how to follow the instructions or whether I was about to pass out from the heat, I was pretty grossed out by myself.

And I think that I grossed someone else out. This woman came in and put her mat beside mine. I was doing some warm ups and stretches. I raised my arms above my heads and interlaced my fingers. I noticed her noticing my hairy pits. She moved. Good lord, I thought, that's some delicate sensibilities.

There is a big gender difference in terms of what's acceptable to show. For all my "hot yoga girls wear thongs" yesterday, there were a lot of women there wearing pants. It was 32 fucking degrees in that room before we started. PANTS?! Let the sweat go free, my friends.

The three men in the class were wearing shorts - one man was nearly wearing a thong - and were shirtless. Technically, I suppose I could go shirtless too, but that seems unlikely to happen.

Anyway, I really liked it, as it turns out. It didn't flare my rosacea up. Quite the opposite, in fact. My skin feels super soft today. I'm a little sore, but not too bad. It left me really tired. At 11 pm, I was really ready for the sleep portion of the day. Fuck me, at 9 pm, I was really ready for the sleep portion of the day. But there was soup to be et and pants to remove.

Eric showed up at my house freshly shaven. What I like to do is kiss a freshly shaven face.

The weekend is shaping up to be a busy one. Off to Algonquin today for a lab for my computer course, and I'm going to bike out and back, and skip the running this weekend.

Tomorrow is Canada Day. I don't really like Canada Day. I don't like the wooting that goes on all over the place. I don't like face painting. I do like a moderate amount of public drunkenness. It's pretty entertaining to see the city loosen up a bit. I don't like puke on the sidewalks.

I'm starting tomorrow with brunch at the lovely David Scrimshaw's house. I am only going because David invited Eric. Ooooh, I was miffed.

"Did you get your invitation to David Scrimshaw's brunch?"
"What? No! When did he send it?"
"Earlier today."
"What? I checked my email not very long ago. Wait a sec. Let me check again. Nope. He probably used my yahoo account. Maybe my yahoo account isn't working. Can you send me an email there?"
"You have a yahoo account as well as a hotmail and a gmail?"
"Yeah, my asteroidea one."
"Oh, right." Tappity tap tap tappity. "Okay, sent it."
"Huh. There it is. It's working. What is he doing inviting you and not me! Does he like you better than me? Where's my invitation!"

Apparently, my invitation emails (I got two, to two different accounts) got lost in the ether. Lucky for me I have a charming paramour whose coattails I can ride.

Mmmm. Riding.

Then there are three other parties/barbeques we've been invited to that all start mid-afternoon and go late. I think that might count as overwhelming for me, which means that I will not be able to decide where to go at all and so might just sit on my porch and drink beer and call back to the wooters when they call their wild call.

Or, if we decide to go to all three, you better hope that your party isn't the last party we show up at. Woot.

Phew

Our dance party was a smash success last night. We made enough to cover more than one of the bursaries, and everyone seemed to have a great time. Technically, almost everything went smoothly, though there was some feedback during the beginning of Les Allumettes that I felt uselessly awful about. It's actually a really good room to have bands in.

The mix of people was great, there were a variety of ages and while it was a queer space, there were a lot of people there who wouldn't normally show up at queer events. I liked it.

The Great Dater was there as well, looking handsome as ever. We had a nice chat and made plans to have lunch on Monday. He's a very lovely man. And so not into me. I was wearing nothing but tattoos under a see through shirt and I don't think he noticed. Now that we're not dating, it's actually pretty endearing.

Today, I have homework to do. Grocery shopping to do. I've applied to write custom erotica for a website and have a story due on tuesday that I haven't started writing yet. So I have writing to do. I'm meeting with Sam of the pretty green eyes to discuss details of a party we're throwing on the 9th. So I have planning to do. I'm gonna go for a run. So I have exercising to do.

****

I get a call from my doctor's office, and since it's been a few weeks since the last pap, I figure it's because the results are in. I call back and the secretary - the Mini-Goob - tells me that the blood test results are back from my annual and that my iron is low and that I should take this supplement, blah blah blah.

I'm a little surprised. Not so much that my iron is low, because it's been low for a couple years.* But that she's about to end our conversation without mentioning the test results for the pap. I am much more concerned about my cervix than my iron stores.

Mini-Goob is ready to end the conversation when I interrupt her goodbye to say "I was in for a test regarding atypical cells two weeks ago and I was wondering if the results were back?" She pauses. I can hear the pages flipping.

"Oh yes. [The Goob] has called to make an appointment with a specialist for you. She'll call you when there's an appointment." Shaken, I revert to politeness and thank her before getting off the phone.

Off the phone, I fucking pissed. The cells came back atypical again, and my doctor didn't fucking call me? Just got me on the waiting list with a specialist.

I ranted to my friends for a day or two, and then decided that since 2007 is the Year I Take Charge of Shit, I will call The Goob and demand more information.

So I called when I knew the office would be closed and left a sternly worded message.

The Mini-Goob called me back the next day. To let me know it was all a misunderstanding and that the cells had come back normal and would I like to make an appointment for six months from now to re-test.

Why, yes I would. With a different fucking doctor.



*To cut this off at the pass, I'm not a vegetarian.