June 25, 2007
common thread

An embarrassment of riches at the library tonight. God knows I love my local library, but their selection is best garnished with a healthy shaving of Inter-Library Loans to suit my niche tastes. Tonight everything I wanted just fell into my hand (Lisey's Story; Ya Yas in Bloom; A Tree Grows In Brooklyn) along with a few I didn't know I wanted (Constantine; Renfield). I was so satisfied (and weighed down) that I didn't bother going to the knitting section. Now I have five new-to-me novels and a whole summer to read them. I am truly, truly blessed.

Of course, I have a lot of moving still to do this summer. While cleaning up and moving my CD's, I came across a special collection that had gone underground for a few years: a collection of goth dancables Stacy made for me when I was in exile (i.e. Nova Gothic). (Speaking of being in Nova, I found myself casting about for something to do last Friday night and decided to bake muffins. Déjà vu! Entertaining a pre-schooler on a weekend is remarkably similar to being 3000 clicks from all of my friends.)

As with any collection, some are more worthy of stadium-treatment than others. When Devo's cover of "Head Like a Hole" came on in all its ridiculousness, it was time for blastin'. Blake wandered in, intrigued by the odd sounds. In moments, he was repeating the chorus. So I managed to teach my son his first Nine Inch Nails song this weekend. I can't imagine that this can backfire – no, a toddler clearly needs to be able to express his angst with overweaning authority.

Which would be me. Weaning and all.

One of the places we sang The Song was at a massive new Asian grocery. Not only was there an impressive selection of every frozen fish you've never heard of (and squiddies!), but there were also a healthy selection of Chinese dry goods. I was utterly seduced by the Hap Land iced biscuits; a centimetre square with a big puff of dried icing on the top, packed in a clear vinyl purse. What's not to love?

My only sadness lay in a comment by the Boy: that my uncle would have loved this place. After 15 years teaching English overseas, there wasn't much he didn't know (or didn't claim to know) about Asian food & culture. I wish that Blake had been able to meet him, instead of being named for him.

Speaking of my relatives, I was powerfully reminded of them this morning at work, when She started talking to me as if nothing had ever happened. I just went with it, but inside I chalked it up as another victory for my little Guardian Demon (or Fuzzy Moloch, as Mason calls him).

"What's up with her?" he (Mason, not Moloch) asked today.

"Nothing. She's just Italian," I replied.

A tsunami of anger that blows itself out and is replaced by a sincere desire to get back to normal? No, never seen that before. Except in the mirror.

The acquisitiveness that started the morning I bought F. Moloch continues apace. Yesterday at the church, I espied a really terrific platter sitting orphaned on a table. "Can I have it?" I asked my mom. She directed me to the UCW's working the room, who told me that it's been hanging around far too long and it was mine if I wanted it. "It" is a groovy green platter meant for displaying devilled eggs, and molded accordingly. Unfortunately (!), I gave it over to Blake's care, and although he was walking neatly down the hall, it was a trifle unwieldy and he managed to knock a chip out of it on the doorframe. We couldn't even leave the room with it in one piece.

And despite my mom's warning that the chipped place will grow bacteria, we took it home anyway. I tell myself that it can be for Playdoh or mud eggs or those plastic Easter eggs that only the overzealous and underage try to eat. In truth, I'm hoping that someone can tell me how to safely re-glaze. Because it is truly the grooviest thing I own.

Well, for a day it was. Then today I bought an accordion.

There's been a battered old campaigner on sale at the Value Village for months. At $250, it was out of our price range, but today was half-price day…so we decided to take the plunge into accordion-ownership. Today, instead of doing the typical run to Tim Hortons favoured by my coworkers, I drove to Value Village with Mason, planning to walk in as soon as they opened. Mission: Accordion. And they ended up giving it to me for $250, minus 30% (previous discount), minus another 50% (current discount). Ninety-nine dollars and seventy five cents later, I magnanimously allowed Mason to carry it to the car.

"You won't let me hold it," he accused me while we waited in line. Once it was purchased, I could admit that I'd harboured an irrational fear that if I let him carry it, he might just buy it himself while my attention was distracted by something sparkly. Besides, I would hate for him to think that I had brought him along as the best muscles money could buy (if you don't have very much money).

I get such a tremendous kick out of this thing, even though we almost certainly lowered the property value as soon as I brought it home. As soon as the Boy got home, he could not be persuaded to PUT DOWN THE DAMN ACCORDION for almost an hour. The ensuing headache almost rubbed out my joy – almost, but not quite. Besides, I've owed him a ukulele for a few years now; I think I deserve an extended accordion solo. Joey deVilla better watch himself; there's a new player in town, and he can already do at least one Jesus And Mary Chain song.

Speaking of new players in town, it's a uniquely depressing experience to visit the local movie theatre these days. The 6-plex of my youth has become a second-run theatre, beaten down by vast, ugly theatres that look like ROM Crystals gone raving. Well, maybe not that bad. But pretty bad. I hate those new theatres; for someone with my attention span (see above, re: something shiny) walking through the busybusybusy lobby is a short sojourn in hell. And I also hate being one of five patrons to a theatre on a Friday night at my old theatre, as I vividly recall nights when we had to pack up 8 in a car just to get a parking space on a Friday.

This, however, was the only depressing part of my Hot Fuzz Experience. Because HOT FUZZ IS THE BEST MOVIE I HAVE EVER SEEN, EVER, AND IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT I WILL PAY FOR YOUR TICKET AS LONG AS YOU TAKE ME. Sorry about the shouting, but the Boy & I haven't calmed down yet and it's been three full days. Just the opening scene was enough to blow my gaskets, what with Simon Pegg getting a firm lecture from Martin Freeman (Arthur Dent!), who was joined by Steve Coogan (Tristram Shandy! Tony Wilson!), who was joined by Bill Nighy (Phillip the Stepdad! Slartibartfast!). It was like they were trying for overload, much like that opening sequence of HHGttG when I saw the words "Stephen Fry" after "Alan Rickman" and knew that this was as good as it got.

The homoerotic undertones! The stupid Andrews! The Point Break homage! The trademark reusing-lines-with-a-new-subtext thing that was so brilliant in Shaun of the Dead! Jim Broadbent!

No, I still can't calm down.

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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*