Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Learning Curve
It’s been an eventful few days (what, week, week and a half?) and an expensive one too. And I haven’t even cried, which is surprising. Usually when changes take place, or traumatic things happen I cry. Even if things aren’t all that traumatic I can usually be counted upon to cry.
The first thing, that I’m not really going to talk much about, is that the boy and I had “a talk.” Not in the best sense of the term, either. Despite the fact that things are not perfect between us and that time has to be taken to sort through things, I feel good. I’m okay with where we are and how events are playing out. That’s so unlike me. I’m a private analyzer, usually dissecting conversation and subtle nuance for all hidden meaning and emotion. But not this time. Why is that? Is there something that can be read into that? Anyway, this is one of those scenarios where only time will make a difference to our situation, so, in the absence of anything to fret over we’re enjoying each others company (I assume/hope) and getting to know each other better.
I’ve found the job I want. It’s perfect, and not just ‘cause it pays a lot. I’ve already started spending my new salary and planning the house I’m going to buy. Isn’t that ridiculous? The odds of my actually getting this job are not great, but, for a change, not because I’m under qualified but because everyone and their dog will be applying for it, and they’re likely all qualified too. It will be disappointing not to get this, I can’t even do the mature thing and say that it’ll be okay, other great opportunities will come. Who cares? I want THIS one!
Remember how awhile back I was waxing poetic about how cool it was to have a car, and how grateful I was for it? Yeah, well, one one hundred and seven dollar ticket later I’m less grateful. So completely my fault and I am such a total arse. I was speeding, twenty-two above the speed limit, and I knew I was doing it. I do it every day, all the time. It’s not like I was in a hurry, I was on my way to work, for which I am usually about fifteen minutes early. No one is ever here until nine, and no one gives a rat what I do, but I feel the need to get here really early to check my email. Check my email. Which is all I do for the rest of the day. John Law was standing by the side of the road darting out and flagging down speeding cars. I was one of them. Actually, not the best tactic, ‘cause if I’d been any groggier I would have hit him. He was hauling lots of people over, so at least I wasn’t alone for my fiscal humiliation. There was no point crying, firstly because it’s just money and no one was hurt, and secondly because I’d been wondering how I’ve avoided getting a ticket for this long anyway. I’m not a speed demon or anything, but I am typically at least ten above the limit. It was my time.
I’ve been looking for advice on what to do now. The boy thinks I should go to court and fight this to see if I can get them to knock it down fifteen clicks or so. Sometimes this works. A woman I work with thinks I should go through Points. The prevailing opinion is that if I don’t fight it my insurance rates are going to be fucked. My parents got up on the moral high ground and said (I can’t believe we’re related) “speed limits are posted for a reason.” Drugs are sold for a reason too, that doesn’t mean we should buy them. I don’t know if getting the ticket automatically means I get points, or if it automatically means my insurance rates go up. I don’t know anything. Someone needs to give me some advice. If I go with this Points racket then it means I pay two fifty and they do everything. That sounded like a lot of money, but the woman I work with says you have to pay to go to court. Shouldn’t court be free? Help!
In addition to this speeding thing my tire is giving me problems. The left front tire is baggy. What do I know from car problems? I’ll tell you what: nothing. I enlisted the help of the boy who is knowledgeable in all things automotive. The first order of business was to remove the tire. Here’s where it gets embarrassing.
For some time now I’d been thinking about this baggy tire and about how I really should get a jack so that I can replace it should the need arise. I’d been remiss in not attending to these matters and would likely end up stranded by the side of the road during a serial killer convention. Try to imagine my surprise when he took me on a tour of my trunk and showed me where the tools and jack were kept. I was gibbering in my enthusiasm and excitement. “Shut up! They were here? Really? AS IF! I thought you had to BUY these things. How clever and thoughtful of them…” Thankfully he shut me up at that point or I very likely would have expounded on the joys of Toyota for the rest of the night and well into the next day. Some things were done to my tire to try and keep it from deflating so often, but it’s still on trial. We’ll see.
The last thing that happened was that I got called a bitch. Now, this has happened before, often. “Bitch-ass” used to be a favourite insult for awhile among the girls. The difference this time was that I was called a bitch by someone I didn’t know very well, and not to my face. This got me to thinking. Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t have known about this, but I found out because a “friend” decided to tell me. How many other people are out there calling me a bitch that I don’t know about, and why? I’m awesome! I’m a bargain at half the price! I’m cute and friendly and smart and humble…It’s so strange that this should have happened on the same day my mother told me she thinks I’m the nicest person she’s ever met (sorry Val and Matthew, but the truth must be told) and that she doesn’t understand why I haven’t been luckier in love. I don’t get it either. And who’s this “friend” who tells me that some wanker thinks I’m a bitch? I don’t want to know this, especially about someone I rarely if ever see and don’t care a rat about anyway?
The important thing is that I’ve learned plenty over the past week or so, not the least of which is that I’m developing a thicker skin. Things that used to reduce me to pudding are now taken in stride. Either that or I’m becoming a robot.
It’s been an eventful few days (what, week, week and a half?) and an expensive one too. And I haven’t even cried, which is surprising. Usually when changes take place, or traumatic things happen I cry. Even if things aren’t all that traumatic I can usually be counted upon to cry.
The first thing, that I’m not really going to talk much about, is that the boy and I had “a talk.” Not in the best sense of the term, either. Despite the fact that things are not perfect between us and that time has to be taken to sort through things, I feel good. I’m okay with where we are and how events are playing out. That’s so unlike me. I’m a private analyzer, usually dissecting conversation and subtle nuance for all hidden meaning and emotion. But not this time. Why is that? Is there something that can be read into that? Anyway, this is one of those scenarios where only time will make a difference to our situation, so, in the absence of anything to fret over we’re enjoying each others company (I assume/hope) and getting to know each other better.
I’ve found the job I want. It’s perfect, and not just ‘cause it pays a lot. I’ve already started spending my new salary and planning the house I’m going to buy. Isn’t that ridiculous? The odds of my actually getting this job are not great, but, for a change, not because I’m under qualified but because everyone and their dog will be applying for it, and they’re likely all qualified too. It will be disappointing not to get this, I can’t even do the mature thing and say that it’ll be okay, other great opportunities will come. Who cares? I want THIS one!
Remember how awhile back I was waxing poetic about how cool it was to have a car, and how grateful I was for it? Yeah, well, one one hundred and seven dollar ticket later I’m less grateful. So completely my fault and I am such a total arse. I was speeding, twenty-two above the speed limit, and I knew I was doing it. I do it every day, all the time. It’s not like I was in a hurry, I was on my way to work, for which I am usually about fifteen minutes early. No one is ever here until nine, and no one gives a rat what I do, but I feel the need to get here really early to check my email. Check my email. Which is all I do for the rest of the day. John Law was standing by the side of the road darting out and flagging down speeding cars. I was one of them. Actually, not the best tactic, ‘cause if I’d been any groggier I would have hit him. He was hauling lots of people over, so at least I wasn’t alone for my fiscal humiliation. There was no point crying, firstly because it’s just money and no one was hurt, and secondly because I’d been wondering how I’ve avoided getting a ticket for this long anyway. I’m not a speed demon or anything, but I am typically at least ten above the limit. It was my time.
I’ve been looking for advice on what to do now. The boy thinks I should go to court and fight this to see if I can get them to knock it down fifteen clicks or so. Sometimes this works. A woman I work with thinks I should go through Points. The prevailing opinion is that if I don’t fight it my insurance rates are going to be fucked. My parents got up on the moral high ground and said (I can’t believe we’re related) “speed limits are posted for a reason.” Drugs are sold for a reason too, that doesn’t mean we should buy them. I don’t know if getting the ticket automatically means I get points, or if it automatically means my insurance rates go up. I don’t know anything. Someone needs to give me some advice. If I go with this Points racket then it means I pay two fifty and they do everything. That sounded like a lot of money, but the woman I work with says you have to pay to go to court. Shouldn’t court be free? Help!
In addition to this speeding thing my tire is giving me problems. The left front tire is baggy. What do I know from car problems? I’ll tell you what: nothing. I enlisted the help of the boy who is knowledgeable in all things automotive. The first order of business was to remove the tire. Here’s where it gets embarrassing.
For some time now I’d been thinking about this baggy tire and about how I really should get a jack so that I can replace it should the need arise. I’d been remiss in not attending to these matters and would likely end up stranded by the side of the road during a serial killer convention. Try to imagine my surprise when he took me on a tour of my trunk and showed me where the tools and jack were kept. I was gibbering in my enthusiasm and excitement. “Shut up! They were here? Really? AS IF! I thought you had to BUY these things. How clever and thoughtful of them…” Thankfully he shut me up at that point or I very likely would have expounded on the joys of Toyota for the rest of the night and well into the next day. Some things were done to my tire to try and keep it from deflating so often, but it’s still on trial. We’ll see.
The last thing that happened was that I got called a bitch. Now, this has happened before, often. “Bitch-ass” used to be a favourite insult for awhile among the girls. The difference this time was that I was called a bitch by someone I didn’t know very well, and not to my face. This got me to thinking. Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t have known about this, but I found out because a “friend” decided to tell me. How many other people are out there calling me a bitch that I don’t know about, and why? I’m awesome! I’m a bargain at half the price! I’m cute and friendly and smart and humble…It’s so strange that this should have happened on the same day my mother told me she thinks I’m the nicest person she’s ever met (sorry Val and Matthew, but the truth must be told) and that she doesn’t understand why I haven’t been luckier in love. I don’t get it either. And who’s this “friend” who tells me that some wanker thinks I’m a bitch? I don’t want to know this, especially about someone I rarely if ever see and don’t care a rat about anyway?
The important thing is that I’ve learned plenty over the past week or so, not the least of which is that I’m developing a thicker skin. Things that used to reduce me to pudding are now taken in stride. Either that or I’m becoming a robot.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
The Feminine Side
There’ve been a lot of girly activities lately, which have given me the opportunity to get more in touch with my feminine side – without squatting over mirrors or anything. The first was the dreaded baby shower.
Baby showers often have a lot to recommend them: there’s good food (always save room for dessert, parties with women know the value of an exceptional dessert bar), lots of wine, ribald conversation, and tips (not necessarily stock tips but the types of things you’d expect to read about in Chatelaine or Good Housekeeping). But then there are the minuses.
This was a work-related party, so it “allowed me to relax in an informal setting with my coworkers.” Does anyone actually buy that? I was the only single non-mom among them, and they made me pay for that. I made the cardinal mistake of paying more attention to the conversation than to my cocktail when I heard people start talking about the last stages of pregnancy. Despite having been to this sort of event before, and knowing how candid these women are wont to be, I turned to the speaker with polite interest.
And that’s when she started talking about something called a “mucous plug.”
I don’t know what it is, all I know is I had to sleep with the lights on for three days in case one tried to sneak into my room and suffocate me while I slept.
Why, oh why, do women feel the need to relive every terrifyingly gross moment of the birthing experience when they get together? You’d think that since it was a baby shower that that would make sense, but it’s not so, talking about stuff like that is bound to terrify the mom-to-be. These get togethers are by far the most effective form of birth control ever. Now when I look over at Rage and think about how neat it would be if I had a baby the words “mucous plug” flit through my head and my ovaries seize. Jesus, give me boys talking about the size, girth, and consistency of their bowel movements any day.
The next event was a Stag and Doe, but it was really more like a joint wedding shower. When I think Stag and Doe I imagine gambling, drinking, and listening to Platinum Blonde and Def Leopard. What we did was sit politely around the apartment of a girl G and I went to high school with and discuss the plans for various girls’ upcoming weddings. The boys were on the balcony admiring, what the host assured me was, the “million dollar view.”
G and I had been sort of dreading this a little. It was kind of a Bridget Jones sort of deal where two single girls who are in no special hurry to “settle down” are going to an event where everyone more or less has. They ask the questions, about your love life and about your career, that you dread answering ‘cause you’re not exactly where you’d planned to be and you’re certainly not doing what everyone else is. I think that I can speak for G in this instance when I say that we are both, normally, pretty happy with our lives but events like these pierce little holes in our armour and remind us that maybe we haven’t really been working as hard as we should to attain our own modest goals. Should we want a boyfriend to settle down with? Should we want a different higher paying job? Kids? A house? A suit? Are any of the choices we’ve made adult and appropriate?
And then they start with the games. We played the game with the necklaces you wear and have to give up if you say either of two agreed upon words. We left when they started the smelling game. First all the men would line up, the bride-to-be would be blindfolded and she was to identify her fiancée by smell. He would then do the same thing with the girls. We left before I could make any dog related jokes, which is probably just as well.
The last girl-related activity I participated in was last night’s book club. Big M is in a book club in Toronto and I asked if I could join too. My feeling is this, I really only have the one hobby (more or less), so why not incorporate other people into it? Plus, any excuse to spend more time with Big M is one I’ll take.
We were supposed to meet at six forty-five last night, but we were both fifteen minutes late. I’m all stressed because this is my first meeting, and I didn’t have time to pick up some wine to give to the hostess. I was hoping we’d pass something on the way, but we didn’t. It’s while we’re making our way down to the street the meeting’s on that she says to me,
“Did you bring the directions?”
“No, I thought about that on the subway, but I wasn’t too worried, ‘cause I was sure you would.”
“I didn’t!”
“Oh. Shit. Well, it was either 307 or 595. I know the name of the street!”
“307 or 595?”
“I think.”
Silence.
Sigh. “Okay, well let’s just head down there. I’ve been there before, but it was awhile ago. I think it was close to a church.”
It was a little like trying to find a body with a psychic. “Yes, yes, this is familiar. I remember seeing that potted plant. Yes, that’s the church. We’re close, I can feel it!”
Fortunately another girl came up behind us going to the same place, and she’d had the foresight to bring the directions with her. The address was 495. We were the first three to arrive at a charming home in downtown Toronto. It was a beautiful, clean home, owned and lived in by the most perfect family. Dad was hot, mom was beautiful, and the two little girls were sweet and funny and blonde and perfect. I wanted to hate them, but they were so sweet. I want her life!
Predictably, you only ever end up talking about the book for about a third of the time you’re there, the rest of the time is spent catching up, telling stories, drinking wine, and eating. There were a couple of truly hilarious things said. I had mentioned I’d lived in Edmonton so our hostess’ husband (or, our host) asked me if I’d seen any Oilers’ games, which I had. While we were talking about hockey one of the women said, “Oh. Who’s that one player? The big dumb one?” As one our mouths dropped. I think his name is Joe, and he’s from Canada. As it turned out, she was thinking of Eric Lindros.
The book we were discussing was Emma, so clearly this lead to discussions of Clueless and the various versions of Emma that exist. This of course led to discussions of how yummy Colin Firth is. The following conversation ensued:
“Did you hear about that movie he was in? They had to cut the nude scene because his penis is so huge that it was distracting everyone.”
Every girl in the room, whipping streaked hair around and shouting, “What?!”
“It’s true; I can’t remember the name of the movie though…”
“Oh, I know the one you’re talking about, but that wasn’t Colin Firth, it’s Colin Farrell.”
Collectively in tones of deepest disappointment, “Oh.”
“I liked the story better when it was Colin Firth.”
Everyone, “Me too.”
“Oh, did you guys see that movie Seabisquit? That was so good, I was crying after about five minutes.”
“Really, why?”
“You know, ‘cause of the Depression.”
“Yours or the historical event?”
“It was sad! The parents had to give up their son; he must have been so scared.”
“Why was Toby Maguire’s name Seabisquit, anyway? What kind of a name is that?”
Silence.
“That was the horse’s name.”
“Oh.”
There’ve been a lot of girly activities lately, which have given me the opportunity to get more in touch with my feminine side – without squatting over mirrors or anything. The first was the dreaded baby shower.
Baby showers often have a lot to recommend them: there’s good food (always save room for dessert, parties with women know the value of an exceptional dessert bar), lots of wine, ribald conversation, and tips (not necessarily stock tips but the types of things you’d expect to read about in Chatelaine or Good Housekeeping). But then there are the minuses.
This was a work-related party, so it “allowed me to relax in an informal setting with my coworkers.” Does anyone actually buy that? I was the only single non-mom among them, and they made me pay for that. I made the cardinal mistake of paying more attention to the conversation than to my cocktail when I heard people start talking about the last stages of pregnancy. Despite having been to this sort of event before, and knowing how candid these women are wont to be, I turned to the speaker with polite interest.
And that’s when she started talking about something called a “mucous plug.”
I don’t know what it is, all I know is I had to sleep with the lights on for three days in case one tried to sneak into my room and suffocate me while I slept.
Why, oh why, do women feel the need to relive every terrifyingly gross moment of the birthing experience when they get together? You’d think that since it was a baby shower that that would make sense, but it’s not so, talking about stuff like that is bound to terrify the mom-to-be. These get togethers are by far the most effective form of birth control ever. Now when I look over at Rage and think about how neat it would be if I had a baby the words “mucous plug” flit through my head and my ovaries seize. Jesus, give me boys talking about the size, girth, and consistency of their bowel movements any day.
The next event was a Stag and Doe, but it was really more like a joint wedding shower. When I think Stag and Doe I imagine gambling, drinking, and listening to Platinum Blonde and Def Leopard. What we did was sit politely around the apartment of a girl G and I went to high school with and discuss the plans for various girls’ upcoming weddings. The boys were on the balcony admiring, what the host assured me was, the “million dollar view.”
G and I had been sort of dreading this a little. It was kind of a Bridget Jones sort of deal where two single girls who are in no special hurry to “settle down” are going to an event where everyone more or less has. They ask the questions, about your love life and about your career, that you dread answering ‘cause you’re not exactly where you’d planned to be and you’re certainly not doing what everyone else is. I think that I can speak for G in this instance when I say that we are both, normally, pretty happy with our lives but events like these pierce little holes in our armour and remind us that maybe we haven’t really been working as hard as we should to attain our own modest goals. Should we want a boyfriend to settle down with? Should we want a different higher paying job? Kids? A house? A suit? Are any of the choices we’ve made adult and appropriate?
And then they start with the games. We played the game with the necklaces you wear and have to give up if you say either of two agreed upon words. We left when they started the smelling game. First all the men would line up, the bride-to-be would be blindfolded and she was to identify her fiancée by smell. He would then do the same thing with the girls. We left before I could make any dog related jokes, which is probably just as well.
The last girl-related activity I participated in was last night’s book club. Big M is in a book club in Toronto and I asked if I could join too. My feeling is this, I really only have the one hobby (more or less), so why not incorporate other people into it? Plus, any excuse to spend more time with Big M is one I’ll take.
We were supposed to meet at six forty-five last night, but we were both fifteen minutes late. I’m all stressed because this is my first meeting, and I didn’t have time to pick up some wine to give to the hostess. I was hoping we’d pass something on the way, but we didn’t. It’s while we’re making our way down to the street the meeting’s on that she says to me,
“Did you bring the directions?”
“No, I thought about that on the subway, but I wasn’t too worried, ‘cause I was sure you would.”
“I didn’t!”
“Oh. Shit. Well, it was either 307 or 595. I know the name of the street!”
“307 or 595?”
“I think.”
Silence.
Sigh. “Okay, well let’s just head down there. I’ve been there before, but it was awhile ago. I think it was close to a church.”
It was a little like trying to find a body with a psychic. “Yes, yes, this is familiar. I remember seeing that potted plant. Yes, that’s the church. We’re close, I can feel it!”
Fortunately another girl came up behind us going to the same place, and she’d had the foresight to bring the directions with her. The address was 495. We were the first three to arrive at a charming home in downtown Toronto. It was a beautiful, clean home, owned and lived in by the most perfect family. Dad was hot, mom was beautiful, and the two little girls were sweet and funny and blonde and perfect. I wanted to hate them, but they were so sweet. I want her life!
Predictably, you only ever end up talking about the book for about a third of the time you’re there, the rest of the time is spent catching up, telling stories, drinking wine, and eating. There were a couple of truly hilarious things said. I had mentioned I’d lived in Edmonton so our hostess’ husband (or, our host) asked me if I’d seen any Oilers’ games, which I had. While we were talking about hockey one of the women said, “Oh. Who’s that one player? The big dumb one?” As one our mouths dropped. I think his name is Joe, and he’s from Canada. As it turned out, she was thinking of Eric Lindros.
The book we were discussing was Emma, so clearly this lead to discussions of Clueless and the various versions of Emma that exist. This of course led to discussions of how yummy Colin Firth is. The following conversation ensued:
“Did you hear about that movie he was in? They had to cut the nude scene because his penis is so huge that it was distracting everyone.”
Every girl in the room, whipping streaked hair around and shouting, “What?!”
“It’s true; I can’t remember the name of the movie though…”
“Oh, I know the one you’re talking about, but that wasn’t Colin Firth, it’s Colin Farrell.”
Collectively in tones of deepest disappointment, “Oh.”
“I liked the story better when it was Colin Firth.”
Everyone, “Me too.”
“Oh, did you guys see that movie Seabisquit? That was so good, I was crying after about five minutes.”
“Really, why?”
“You know, ‘cause of the Depression.”
“Yours or the historical event?”
“It was sad! The parents had to give up their son; he must have been so scared.”
“Why was Toby Maguire’s name Seabisquit, anyway? What kind of a name is that?”
Silence.
“That was the horse’s name.”
“Oh.”
Blood, Sweat, and Beers
Before I get onto today’s topic (which is really the topic of a few months ago) I thought I’d recap and offer a few random thoughts at the same time.
- Val turned thirty. To celebrate he has gone to the wilds of New Brunswick. We all hope he comes back without camping related angst.
- No one has emailed me from the link I painstakingly set up on this page.
- I played Twister for the first time in fifteen years on Saturday. It’s now Wednesday, my ass still hurts.
- Nicki and Sarah will very likely stay on CSI. Nicki slept in by accident (which is why he missed some big meeting or something) but really wants to stay on the show, I don’t know what her deal is, but who cares about her?
- I think I need a new tire.
- G hasn’t heard from the panty. She has moved on decidedly. Only girl I know who picked up heterosexually at a gay bar. Sure he was a grease ball, but still. Go G!
- I’ve yet to lose thirty pounds
- I will probably never lose thirty pounds unless my legs are amputated
This post has been a long time coming. I vowed to write a blog to capture the events of my graduation celebration, and have sorely neglected “my fans” by not putting fingers to keys.
Since I couldn’t afford a trip or anything to commemorate the completion of my master’s degree I decided to revisit a tradition I had been neglecting: drinking a lot in Guelph. I invited a select cadre of friends, namely the crew I lived with during my undergrad: Big M, Squishy, and Jenn (Frizzé is in Scotland, so she couldn’t come). G was invited, and so was Val (in addition to being one of the coolest kids ever, he also lives there).
We ended up with a last minute addition. She’s an old friend of mine and Val’s with a bit of a troubled past. To say that this girl is a bad drunk would be beyond generous. She managed to alienate everyone by the end of the evening. But we’ll get to that in a minute.
“The Girls,” a group comprised of me, Big M, Jenn, Squishy, and Frizzé started having pub crawls in our second year of university. We organized it a little for efficiency: participants got to pick a bar, the beer we were drinking, and they got to make the first toast. We would always invite some of our friends to come along on the crawl, so invariably there were a few extras in our cast.
Shockingly, the events of these earlier crawls have melded together in my mind so that I can no longer remember exactly who was at which crawl, or which events belong to which one. So here are some of my favourite stories in no particular order.
- Squishy yelling to one of our departing crawlers (who had to get up early for her new job working with autistic triplets the next day) “Good luck with the autistics!”
- Big M falling out of her chair at the Albion
- The sketchbag with the Kentucky waterfall who bought Big M a Kokanee at Wally’s Blues Tavern and then tried to pick her up with the following line, “I don’t see no weddin’ ring on yer finger.” She replied that she had a “serious boyfriend.” I remember the boyfriend, he was pretty easygoing, actually.
- Squishy volunteering me to sing the Partridge Family’s “I Think I Love You” to a bar full of people when it wasn’t Karaoke night. I killed, man. We then stunned them with an abbreviated version of “American Pie.”
- Picking tunes on the jukebox at the Albion Hotel. Singing my heart out with Jenn to anything by the Beatles and to Janis Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee.”
- Stealing our Resident Assistant’s brother from outside of Jimmy Jazz and forcing him to come and drink with us.
This pub crawl didn’t disappoint at all. The most exciting thing that happened was that the girl I was referring to earlier (who shall go alias-less) punched me in the nose. She made me bleed my own blood. It really hurt; I’d never been decked before. One minute we’re just messing about, and the next I’m crying, laughing, and bleeding. It was just so ridiculous. It didn’t help that I was sick at the time, so every time I had to blow my nose I said “Ow,” and bled a bit. This went on for about a week. She had the good grace to feel badly about it and apologize profusely, but still, who hits in the nose? This is why shots shouldn’t be done on pub crawls; it throws off the whole dynamic. It also causes G to start randomly falling asleep on patios in the downtown Guelph core.
Big M got married last year and part of her ensemble included a tiara. It’s really very pretty, and oh-so-sad that she only got to wear it once. Or, it would be oh-so-sad if she didn’t find a way to incorporate it into every possible occasion. She brought it on the pub crawl and we all got to take turns wearing it. There are photos. There is also a photo of Squishy playing the drums, which I had no idea she even knew how to do. Then of course there’s our Jenn, who appreciates both the value of a dollar and a good beer. She took a mostly full pint in her handbag from one bar to another.
Later that night, when we finally made it home (there was some difficulty getting a cab, which I’m not going to address, ‘cause there were a few words exchanged on that subject too. Oh, except for this, ‘cause it was brilliant. Big M and I had split off from the rest of the crowd and we saw a cab coming and went to get it. Two other groups were heading for the same one, and one group had already gotten into the cab when Big M decided she’d had enough rudeness for the evening. She’s five three and about a buck soaking wet, so not all that imposing a physical presence. She grabbed the door and informed the occupants that this was our cab; that we’d called for it. They said they’d called for one too, and that they were there first. She disagreed and continued to assert her case while holding the door open with her foot and hanging onto the roof of the cab. The girl whose door it was tried to pull it shut, but M was too mighty for her! Finally the girl pleaded with Big M to shut the door ‘cause it would break. M, realizing that possession was nine tenths of the law, conceded the point. Where was I during this exchange? Like any good friend, I was standing back on the sidewalk looking incredulous). Anyway, it was late and we went straight to bed. Sadly, sleep was next to impossible because of that damn girl’s maddening snoring.
Big M stepped up to the plate again. She went to where “the Slugger” was sleeping and stood over her yelling, “____ Shut up! Stop snoring! Stop it!” She was eventually roused and stopped snoring long enough for the rest of us to fall asleep.
All in all it was a thoroughly successful night, and definitely one for the annals. At a recent dinner party Big M slyly asked when the next beer festival was. That was another one of our yearly traditions. Various local breweries in the KW area set up in the local arena and you can buy tickets to “sample” the brews for fifty cents. I’m looking into it.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Adventures on the Road
“What are you doing for the long weekend?”
“Nothing, I’m here, I don’t have any plans.”
“Really? I’m here too. We should do something with that.”
“We should.”
“What can we do that’s fun?”
“We could go see your parents, but I’ve never met them before, so that might be weird.”
“Yeah, you’d want a little pre-exposure before committing to a full three days with them.”
“Well….the car club I’m with is doing their annual ‘cruise’ this weekend. We could do that if you’re interested. It’s all through the Niagara wine region.”
“That sounds good, I’d do that.”
“All right, well let’s play it by ear and see how it goes.”
So, I hear cruise and automatically think of lounging on deck in the sun with some sort of cool beverage (maybe some wine, since that’s where we’ll be), just slipping along watching the waves and the other boats. I should have thought this out a little more carefully. Why would a bunch of guys who like to talk about the type of race car they have in common want to take a boat cruise together? Wine isn’t grown on water. It’s grown at a higher elevation, and it likes dryer, well-drained land. “Cruise,” as it turns out, refers to them whipping around the countryside like their lives depend on it for about four hours.
I tend not to drive all that fast, not on purpose anyway (I seem to keep ending up doing one forty on the 407 though), and I am not at all aggressive. On occasion I’ve been known to apply the imaginary brakes, but I try to keep that knowledge to myself. Therefore, for the more timid of drivers, this was mildly terrifying, but after about an hour I stopped praying and bargaining with God.
We all met up at McDonalds and then got our instructions for the route. I was going to be navigator. Since I was still labouring under the assumption that there was a boat in my future I was a little confused about being given a task. I don’t like navigating, too much potential for screwing up. Fortunately, we were in an area I knew fairly well, so I wasn’t too worried, I’d lived around there for eleven years, after all. Despite my superior knowledge of the area the race started off this way.
Me: Okay, you want to turn right out of the parking lot, and then you have to take the very first left onto that highway.
Him: Are you sure?
Me: Positive.
Him: Okay.
Him: Are you sure we weren’t supposed to go right? A lot of people went right, and we’re in the lead.
Me: Yes, I’m sure. Not only did it say to go left on the directions, I know where we’re going, and it’s not right, it’s left.
Him: We’re in the lead.
Me: Oh.
Him: (moving into the right lane and unrolling the window to talk to two people in the car next to us) Were we supposed to go right? Where’s everyone else?
They reply that we’re going the right way and that they don’t know where everyone else is.
Me: I’m going to hit you so hard in about five seconds.
Him: What?
After we established that I was the directional goddess things went much more smoothly, until I sent us astray, but it wasn’t really my fault. How could it have been?
The boy’s a really good driver, and he really enjoys it, unless he’s on the highway and people are being stupid at him. My knowledge of his skills didn’t keep me from white-knuckling my way around the escarpment. I was so sure I was going to die. However, you can only maintain that level of terror for so long, so I was gradually able to relax and enjoy the scenery.
There were some highly impressive houses scattered throughout the wine region. I think a lot of them were in the Grimsby area, it’s a little hard to remember correctly as we were whipping by at quite a clip: “Heytakealookatthatplaceoverthere!WOW!” The boy probably missed the bulk of them because of having to, you know, watch the road and all. A fact for which I am very grateful.
When the day was over we were exhausted and sweaty. I looked like a rung out dishtowel. The car (a sexy sorta ride) is black, has black leather seats and his air conditioning is out for the moment. Most of the summer has been lame and damp, but on this particular Saturday it was balmy and sunny. We ate with the crew and tried to decide how to spend the evening. We were in Niagara Falls and there are tons of touristy options. The most appealing thing I could see to do was push around a bulldog puppy who was sitting in a baby’s stroller, ooh, or get my picture taken with a giant alien. We weren’t turned on by wax museums or gambling, so we decided to go to New York State.
That was nice. I don’t really know where we were exactly, but we walked down the gorge next to the river fed by the falls (Niagara River? That’d make sense.). Then we went shopping, which would have been better if I weren’t so po. Aside from trying to find a hotel most of our time was spent in a grocery store. I love grocery stores in the States. The boy took me around and pointed out all the stuff he liked and I reminisced about the family trips we used to take to New Hampshire when I was a kid. The States have the best cereals. I was always so jealous of that. When I was growing up you could never get Apple Jacks unless you were in the US, or Frankenberry or anything fun like that. We bought some Slice for me, some Kettle Corn for him, and some more water and decided to head back to Canada, since we couldn’t find a hotel for less than 79 US,(and we were willing to stay in some pretty sketchy places).
Now, I realize it was the long weekend and all, but honestly, how is it possible that we were unable to find any sort of accommodation between the States and the Hammer? We started our hotel mission in good spirits, hopeful, happy, excited about showering in new locals and being allowed to toss the towels on the floor, we ended it sore, exhausted, and bereft of speech. He had an epiphany while we were driving through the “worst area ever” of Hamilton. It was sketchbag central. We were on Barton Street, and – I’m sorry to those who live there and think it’s lovely – but maybe something happens when the sun goes down. There were men in grimy wife-beaters staggering down the street, weaving from side-to-side, one of whom actually stopped to throw his head back and start yowling at the moon. I didn’t know what to do with myself, there were so many things to comment on and mock. It was sensory overload, and the boy was trying to drive responsibly so that we wouldn’t end up stuck there because, duhn duhn duhhhhhn, we were running out of gas!
Anyway, the long and short of it is that he got the inspired idea to try a local college, as they often use their residences as hotels during the summer months when students aren’t there. We approached the place and I said I’d go in and check if they had space, and they did! The girl behind the counter was a little….scattered.
“Okay, you’ve paid, and you have your room keys, you’re all set to go.”
“Yeah, great. Would you mind telling me where we can park? Oh, and the room we’re in.”
“Oh. I should tell you something. During the summer we do a lot of international programs and there are a bunch of ESL kids right now. I’ve tried to put you away from them, and they’re all supposed to be in bed, but if they’re making noise just let us know.”
This is one of those forbidding statements you would expect to be accompanied by some sort of music. I collected the boy and we took our stuff up. We arrived at our floor and walked past about four hundred thousand Spanish kids eating pizza and having “the loud contest.”
Our room turned out to be apartment style. There were two rooms with double beds (and a pile of sheets in the middle of each of them), one bathroom and a central kitchen space with a microwave, sink, and fridge. He said, “I don’t think they cleaned this place,” just as I opened the fridge. There was a half-eaten plate of white macaroni and cheese and a partially consumed, and open, carton of chocolate milk. Maybe it was a perk? I would have preferred a mini bar.
I didn’t pay too much attention to the bathroom, partly to protect myself but mostly because of fatigue. The boy assured me it was vile, but, God love ‘im, he did his level best to clean it up. We were way too tired to try and get another room, and even too tired to complain about the one we had. From all of the standard driving he’d done that day the boy would be lucky if he were able to walk the next day.
It was time to sleep. We were as clean as that shower and those sheets would allow, and cool, and hydrated, and finally not moving. It was time to just slip away….RING, RING, RING, RING, RING, RIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG. Being the man and all it was his job to lurch out of bed and investigate all foreign sounds. What if it hadn’t been a phone? What if it had been a giant hairy spider pretending to be a ringing phone? He missed the call and came back to bed. I was now in a heightened state of exhausted alertness. I could hear sounds in the hallway, and I was tense imagining what was going to happen next. I was just drifting off again when the phone started up for the second time. I rolled out of bed so quickly that I almost fell over. I strode to the phone and lifted it to my ear.
Me: Hello?
Random Female Voice: Bueno?
Me: What? No, not ‘bueno,’ you have the wrong room.
She then proceeded to say something else, and I actually tried to listen for a minute before I remembered “screw this!” and slammed the phone down. In an inspired move, I unplugged the damn thing.
It was after this that the loudest conversation ever needed to take place directly outside our door. The boy had a pillow over his head, and two doors separated us from them, but if we’d spoken Spanish we would have been able to follow along. He crashed around a bit and slammed a door to convey his discontent, but they kept at it. I phoned downstairs to enlist some aid and was told it would all be over soon since they were checking out at four. Even after the noise stopped I couldn’t fall back asleep because of the tenseness. It was a very long night.
Anyway, the plus side of all of this is, I really did have a lot of fun with the boy. It was a great trip full of lots of laughs. It was certainly a bonding experience. Plus, after our adventures in the “hotel” I was called and given a full refund on the room. How about that? Apparently there was a mix up and we were put in a room we had no business being in. So, no one who reads this has to worry about staying in residences during the summer, ‘cause on a normal day it would have been business as usual.
“What are you doing for the long weekend?”
“Nothing, I’m here, I don’t have any plans.”
“Really? I’m here too. We should do something with that.”
“We should.”
“What can we do that’s fun?”
“We could go see your parents, but I’ve never met them before, so that might be weird.”
“Yeah, you’d want a little pre-exposure before committing to a full three days with them.”
“Well….the car club I’m with is doing their annual ‘cruise’ this weekend. We could do that if you’re interested. It’s all through the Niagara wine region.”
“That sounds good, I’d do that.”
“All right, well let’s play it by ear and see how it goes.”
So, I hear cruise and automatically think of lounging on deck in the sun with some sort of cool beverage (maybe some wine, since that’s where we’ll be), just slipping along watching the waves and the other boats. I should have thought this out a little more carefully. Why would a bunch of guys who like to talk about the type of race car they have in common want to take a boat cruise together? Wine isn’t grown on water. It’s grown at a higher elevation, and it likes dryer, well-drained land. “Cruise,” as it turns out, refers to them whipping around the countryside like their lives depend on it for about four hours.
I tend not to drive all that fast, not on purpose anyway (I seem to keep ending up doing one forty on the 407 though), and I am not at all aggressive. On occasion I’ve been known to apply the imaginary brakes, but I try to keep that knowledge to myself. Therefore, for the more timid of drivers, this was mildly terrifying, but after about an hour I stopped praying and bargaining with God.
We all met up at McDonalds and then got our instructions for the route. I was going to be navigator. Since I was still labouring under the assumption that there was a boat in my future I was a little confused about being given a task. I don’t like navigating, too much potential for screwing up. Fortunately, we were in an area I knew fairly well, so I wasn’t too worried, I’d lived around there for eleven years, after all. Despite my superior knowledge of the area the race started off this way.
Me: Okay, you want to turn right out of the parking lot, and then you have to take the very first left onto that highway.
Him: Are you sure?
Me: Positive.
Him: Okay.
Him: Are you sure we weren’t supposed to go right? A lot of people went right, and we’re in the lead.
Me: Yes, I’m sure. Not only did it say to go left on the directions, I know where we’re going, and it’s not right, it’s left.
Him: We’re in the lead.
Me: Oh.
Him: (moving into the right lane and unrolling the window to talk to two people in the car next to us) Were we supposed to go right? Where’s everyone else?
They reply that we’re going the right way and that they don’t know where everyone else is.
Me: I’m going to hit you so hard in about five seconds.
Him: What?
After we established that I was the directional goddess things went much more smoothly, until I sent us astray, but it wasn’t really my fault. How could it have been?
The boy’s a really good driver, and he really enjoys it, unless he’s on the highway and people are being stupid at him. My knowledge of his skills didn’t keep me from white-knuckling my way around the escarpment. I was so sure I was going to die. However, you can only maintain that level of terror for so long, so I was gradually able to relax and enjoy the scenery.
There were some highly impressive houses scattered throughout the wine region. I think a lot of them were in the Grimsby area, it’s a little hard to remember correctly as we were whipping by at quite a clip: “Heytakealookatthatplaceoverthere!WOW!” The boy probably missed the bulk of them because of having to, you know, watch the road and all. A fact for which I am very grateful.
When the day was over we were exhausted and sweaty. I looked like a rung out dishtowel. The car (a sexy sorta ride) is black, has black leather seats and his air conditioning is out for the moment. Most of the summer has been lame and damp, but on this particular Saturday it was balmy and sunny. We ate with the crew and tried to decide how to spend the evening. We were in Niagara Falls and there are tons of touristy options. The most appealing thing I could see to do was push around a bulldog puppy who was sitting in a baby’s stroller, ooh, or get my picture taken with a giant alien. We weren’t turned on by wax museums or gambling, so we decided to go to New York State.
That was nice. I don’t really know where we were exactly, but we walked down the gorge next to the river fed by the falls (Niagara River? That’d make sense.). Then we went shopping, which would have been better if I weren’t so po. Aside from trying to find a hotel most of our time was spent in a grocery store. I love grocery stores in the States. The boy took me around and pointed out all the stuff he liked and I reminisced about the family trips we used to take to New Hampshire when I was a kid. The States have the best cereals. I was always so jealous of that. When I was growing up you could never get Apple Jacks unless you were in the US, or Frankenberry or anything fun like that. We bought some Slice for me, some Kettle Corn for him, and some more water and decided to head back to Canada, since we couldn’t find a hotel for less than 79 US,(and we were willing to stay in some pretty sketchy places).
Now, I realize it was the long weekend and all, but honestly, how is it possible that we were unable to find any sort of accommodation between the States and the Hammer? We started our hotel mission in good spirits, hopeful, happy, excited about showering in new locals and being allowed to toss the towels on the floor, we ended it sore, exhausted, and bereft of speech. He had an epiphany while we were driving through the “worst area ever” of Hamilton. It was sketchbag central. We were on Barton Street, and – I’m sorry to those who live there and think it’s lovely – but maybe something happens when the sun goes down. There were men in grimy wife-beaters staggering down the street, weaving from side-to-side, one of whom actually stopped to throw his head back and start yowling at the moon. I didn’t know what to do with myself, there were so many things to comment on and mock. It was sensory overload, and the boy was trying to drive responsibly so that we wouldn’t end up stuck there because, duhn duhn duhhhhhn, we were running out of gas!
Anyway, the long and short of it is that he got the inspired idea to try a local college, as they often use their residences as hotels during the summer months when students aren’t there. We approached the place and I said I’d go in and check if they had space, and they did! The girl behind the counter was a little….scattered.
“Okay, you’ve paid, and you have your room keys, you’re all set to go.”
“Yeah, great. Would you mind telling me where we can park? Oh, and the room we’re in.”
“Oh. I should tell you something. During the summer we do a lot of international programs and there are a bunch of ESL kids right now. I’ve tried to put you away from them, and they’re all supposed to be in bed, but if they’re making noise just let us know.”
This is one of those forbidding statements you would expect to be accompanied by some sort of music. I collected the boy and we took our stuff up. We arrived at our floor and walked past about four hundred thousand Spanish kids eating pizza and having “the loud contest.”
Our room turned out to be apartment style. There were two rooms with double beds (and a pile of sheets in the middle of each of them), one bathroom and a central kitchen space with a microwave, sink, and fridge. He said, “I don’t think they cleaned this place,” just as I opened the fridge. There was a half-eaten plate of white macaroni and cheese and a partially consumed, and open, carton of chocolate milk. Maybe it was a perk? I would have preferred a mini bar.
I didn’t pay too much attention to the bathroom, partly to protect myself but mostly because of fatigue. The boy assured me it was vile, but, God love ‘im, he did his level best to clean it up. We were way too tired to try and get another room, and even too tired to complain about the one we had. From all of the standard driving he’d done that day the boy would be lucky if he were able to walk the next day.
It was time to sleep. We were as clean as that shower and those sheets would allow, and cool, and hydrated, and finally not moving. It was time to just slip away….RING, RING, RING, RING, RING, RIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG. Being the man and all it was his job to lurch out of bed and investigate all foreign sounds. What if it hadn’t been a phone? What if it had been a giant hairy spider pretending to be a ringing phone? He missed the call and came back to bed. I was now in a heightened state of exhausted alertness. I could hear sounds in the hallway, and I was tense imagining what was going to happen next. I was just drifting off again when the phone started up for the second time. I rolled out of bed so quickly that I almost fell over. I strode to the phone and lifted it to my ear.
Me: Hello?
Random Female Voice: Bueno?
Me: What? No, not ‘bueno,’ you have the wrong room.
She then proceeded to say something else, and I actually tried to listen for a minute before I remembered “screw this!” and slammed the phone down. In an inspired move, I unplugged the damn thing.
It was after this that the loudest conversation ever needed to take place directly outside our door. The boy had a pillow over his head, and two doors separated us from them, but if we’d spoken Spanish we would have been able to follow along. He crashed around a bit and slammed a door to convey his discontent, but they kept at it. I phoned downstairs to enlist some aid and was told it would all be over soon since they were checking out at four. Even after the noise stopped I couldn’t fall back asleep because of the tenseness. It was a very long night.
Anyway, the plus side of all of this is, I really did have a lot of fun with the boy. It was a great trip full of lots of laughs. It was certainly a bonding experience. Plus, after our adventures in the “hotel” I was called and given a full refund on the room. How about that? Apparently there was a mix up and we were put in a room we had no business being in. So, no one who reads this has to worry about staying in residences during the summer, ‘cause on a normal day it would have been business as usual.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Weekends
So, Thursday is sort of a stupid time to be writing about last weekend, but it’s been a busy time. As a result of this monotonous project I’ve been doing for work I’ve now convinced myself that I have bipolar disorder. However, also because of the project I now know which drug would be best to take for that problem. Don’t bother asking, there are confidentiality agreements involved.
My family recently came to spend the weekend and celebrate B’s (my sister-in-law’s) birthday. It was a great weekend and I didn’t spend a cent. We sit around telling old stories, accusing each other of being angry, and watching the baby walk three steps and topple.
Maybe it’s because the stories are about us, and that my parents tell them together and laugh, or maybe it’s just all of us in the same room at the same time, which doesn’t happen as often as one would like anymore, but I eat these stories up. It feels like being a little kid before bed, I want to hear the same stories over and over again and I’m still as delighted by them as I once was. My mother spins a good yarn and she has a good memory for the finer details. The character names are always outrageous. Here are some examples of my father’s old girlfriends: Shirley Brimsicle, and Felicity Pickup.
They told the story of Matthew and the ice skates again. There was going to be a skating trip at Matthew’s elementary school and the teacher was asking if everyone had ice skates. Matthew, lacking any sort of shame, said that he did not have ice skates because our family couldn’t afford them. That night my mother received a phone call from the mother of one of Matthew’s classmates. She felt badly that we were so poor and wanted to help out. This may be the only time my mother regretted telling us we were poor so often. Her stock response to us whenever we asked for anything in stores was that we couldn’t have it because we were too poor. This wasn’t a complete lie, we didn’t have a lot of money, but the actual reasons were likely a little more complex. Matthew, for all his gifts, was never a natural athlete, nor did he show a great deal of interest in participating in sports. As such buying him a new pair of skates when he was growing like a weed made about as much sense as…um…something that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Low-carb beer? Decaf coffee? They don't make sense to me, but other people might understand them.
She decided to buy him a pair of used skates and he went on the trip. At this time we lived in a town house complex with many colourful characters. On set were Burf and Ernie (I’m serious), who were a couple, and openly so (so, clearly the most colourful). They made a skating rink in the courtyard for the tots every winter, and this winter Matthew had new (to him) skates. He went out with some of the other kids, but skating is hard, and he wasn’t good at it, so he lay down on the ice and the kids dragged him around by his feet. My mother was watching from the window and reports having felt a strong and poignant shame at Matthew’s behaviour. Finally Matthew was ready to come back in, but he couldn’t make it to the door because he couldn’t skate. Our dear mother said, and I believe that this is an exact quote, “Tough.” If he wanted to get back home he’d either have to be dragged back, or he’d have to walk over on his skates.
Aside from the stories and the teasing our time together is now largely occupied by watching Matthew and B’s son, Rage (who just turned one), wander around the room with arms sticking straight out in front of him like Frankenstein. Rage can’t speak yet, instead he has a wide variety of “busy noises” they go a little something like this: ducka ducka ducka or dooda dooooodaaaa dooda. He is very funny and keeps us all in stitches. He has this great fake laugh he produces when everyone else is laughing or speaking to him and he wants to be in on the joke. It’s kind of like how dogs will politely wag their tails when you are speaking to them.
Recently Rage has taken an exceptional liking to Goodnight Moon, which – while a classic – is one of the creepiest kids’ books ever. “Good-night no one.” AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH. Plus, the old lady rabbit sitting in the rocker, I don’t know…It just seems like the narrator is fixing everything in his/her mind and saying good byes because this is the last night he/she will ever see. The whole family is of the same mind about the book, so every time Rage lurches over with it we play “can’t see the baby.” Which is a new variation of a former favourite game I developed when I worked in a food court during high school, “can’t see the customer.”
This is a total cop out, but I’m finished work now, I want to go home, and I can’t think of a good way to tie all of this in but I want to post because it’s been so long. So, sorry about the lack of finesse, but it’s my blog and I’ll half-ass it if I want to.
So, Thursday is sort of a stupid time to be writing about last weekend, but it’s been a busy time. As a result of this monotonous project I’ve been doing for work I’ve now convinced myself that I have bipolar disorder. However, also because of the project I now know which drug would be best to take for that problem. Don’t bother asking, there are confidentiality agreements involved.
My family recently came to spend the weekend and celebrate B’s (my sister-in-law’s) birthday. It was a great weekend and I didn’t spend a cent. We sit around telling old stories, accusing each other of being angry, and watching the baby walk three steps and topple.
Maybe it’s because the stories are about us, and that my parents tell them together and laugh, or maybe it’s just all of us in the same room at the same time, which doesn’t happen as often as one would like anymore, but I eat these stories up. It feels like being a little kid before bed, I want to hear the same stories over and over again and I’m still as delighted by them as I once was. My mother spins a good yarn and she has a good memory for the finer details. The character names are always outrageous. Here are some examples of my father’s old girlfriends: Shirley Brimsicle, and Felicity Pickup.
They told the story of Matthew and the ice skates again. There was going to be a skating trip at Matthew’s elementary school and the teacher was asking if everyone had ice skates. Matthew, lacking any sort of shame, said that he did not have ice skates because our family couldn’t afford them. That night my mother received a phone call from the mother of one of Matthew’s classmates. She felt badly that we were so poor and wanted to help out. This may be the only time my mother regretted telling us we were poor so often. Her stock response to us whenever we asked for anything in stores was that we couldn’t have it because we were too poor. This wasn’t a complete lie, we didn’t have a lot of money, but the actual reasons were likely a little more complex. Matthew, for all his gifts, was never a natural athlete, nor did he show a great deal of interest in participating in sports. As such buying him a new pair of skates when he was growing like a weed made about as much sense as…um…something that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Low-carb beer? Decaf coffee? They don't make sense to me, but other people might understand them.
She decided to buy him a pair of used skates and he went on the trip. At this time we lived in a town house complex with many colourful characters. On set were Burf and Ernie (I’m serious), who were a couple, and openly so (so, clearly the most colourful). They made a skating rink in the courtyard for the tots every winter, and this winter Matthew had new (to him) skates. He went out with some of the other kids, but skating is hard, and he wasn’t good at it, so he lay down on the ice and the kids dragged him around by his feet. My mother was watching from the window and reports having felt a strong and poignant shame at Matthew’s behaviour. Finally Matthew was ready to come back in, but he couldn’t make it to the door because he couldn’t skate. Our dear mother said, and I believe that this is an exact quote, “Tough.” If he wanted to get back home he’d either have to be dragged back, or he’d have to walk over on his skates.
Aside from the stories and the teasing our time together is now largely occupied by watching Matthew and B’s son, Rage (who just turned one), wander around the room with arms sticking straight out in front of him like Frankenstein. Rage can’t speak yet, instead he has a wide variety of “busy noises” they go a little something like this: ducka ducka ducka or dooda dooooodaaaa dooda. He is very funny and keeps us all in stitches. He has this great fake laugh he produces when everyone else is laughing or speaking to him and he wants to be in on the joke. It’s kind of like how dogs will politely wag their tails when you are speaking to them.
Recently Rage has taken an exceptional liking to Goodnight Moon, which – while a classic – is one of the creepiest kids’ books ever. “Good-night no one.” AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH. Plus, the old lady rabbit sitting in the rocker, I don’t know…It just seems like the narrator is fixing everything in his/her mind and saying good byes because this is the last night he/she will ever see. The whole family is of the same mind about the book, so every time Rage lurches over with it we play “can’t see the baby.” Which is a new variation of a former favourite game I developed when I worked in a food court during high school, “can’t see the customer.”
This is a total cop out, but I’m finished work now, I want to go home, and I can’t think of a good way to tie all of this in but I want to post because it’s been so long. So, sorry about the lack of finesse, but it’s my blog and I’ll half-ass it if I want to.
