January 23, 2010
saturday morning slack

It's Saturday morning, 9:20, and I've been up for almost an hour, which is irritating because I don't have any little guys to wake me up. I've been tired for a few weeks, and my adolescent brain tells me that I just need to crash for a hundred years or so. But when I get the opportunity, I can't sleep for worrying about wasting a morning to myself, or why that sweater's schematic seems so off which probably means that I'll need to lengthen the shoulders. And then, to top it off, the even more irritating part of my brain that TCB's tells me that I should have gone to the gym last night instead of knitting through the Canada for Haiti simulcast. Which, yes, I probably should have but I didn't and why is it that my much healthier lifestyle this year is rewarded with less sleep than my late-night, fried food eating past?

Okay. I'm done. I really don't get to complain much on a morning when I get to sit at the computer for hours in my pj's, kicking it like it's 1997. No matter how grouchy I feel.

So yes, I watched C4H last night on my little cable-free tv, and then some of the American program. I'm not one to indulge in the traditional Canadian activity of Yank bashing for the sake of Yank bashing, but I have to say with all honesty: the Canadian program was far superior. There was a sense of urgency and energy to the crowded room, where Geddy Lee was standing next to Donovan Bailey and Rock Mercer got to make zipper jokes after a message from the PM. With the sole exception of Nelly Furtado (who I usually like), the music was good all the way down (and I thought Emily was really trying on "Help I'm Alive", which made me happy). Plus, we got to hear from NGO's like Keilburger, which lent the night a gravity that I felt was missing from the American broadcast. God knows that I love Bruce Springsteen (who really looked like he was ready to start punching until we all overcame), but that's not enough innate dignity to balance Shakira.*

The only improvements I would have made were as follows:

  1. Hard Core Logo reunion. The best band Canada never produced singing "Someone's Gonna Die Tonight." Hugh Dillon was already there, people.
  2. Trailer Park Boys sent to Haiti to update us on the situation there. A few of Ricky's malapropisms and Bubbles' cats to take the edge off the brain damage and almost total lack of anesthesia.
  3. Why wasn't Social Scene performing? Half the indie rock community is in the band; that's just an efficient use of space and time.
  4. Rick Mercer making the joke I know he wanted to, about how much fun it's going to be to make Stephen Harper pick up half the bill for a good cause. Much more effective than protesting prorogation, hit him in the wallet.

I tried out for a job this week, but I'm almost certain I didn't get it. The resulting funk (or perhaps a pre-existing crud) kept me away from spin class that night, and I self-medicated with too many cupcakes the following day at a baby shower.

This is the worst thing about trying: the prospect and realization of failure. (Not to mention the over-cupcaking of defeat.)

Yesterday the Boy asked me if I would sign off for a March Break trip to Florida, which of course I would. I cannot afford a trip to Florida so I tried to console myself with what I have already purchased lately: pretty dresses, banging concerts and a car with a moustache. It's not working yet, but I'm sure it will eventually.

This is the worst thing about carrying on: it demands that you rise above the petty sea of annoyances and act as if you're so together that it doesn't bother you when your ex jaunts off to the south with your baby.

But my term work is marked, freeing me up for a weekend of sock-buying and computer-related time wastage. And Blake won a tiny trophy at Beavers this week, which he carries around everywhere he goes, to set up near him. How can you stay grumpy at the end of a week when it looks like he's a prize-winning breakfast eater?

* no offense to a fellow belly dancer.


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