I didn't get the job. Spent most of last night in a bitter stew of disappointment and self-recrimination for getting my hopes up. Up way too early, so I got dressed and knit instead of trying to sleep. The worst part was going to be this morning, when I had to tell people the news, and share how I felt about it. I did not want to share.

It was better than that, though. There had been not one job offered this week, but two. When I got in, another teacher who had tried for the other job-and failed-looked at me seriously for a moment, and then knuckled up.

"My eyes are puffy," she complained.

"Me too."

"Why didn't you call in sick today?" asked another teacher.

"Oh, that would've looked great," she said as I simultaneously said, "We thought about it."

"Separately," I added.

But with that out of the way, my day got better. Now I'm hiding from my brother's disappointment as a crummy stomach is keeping me from the gym. Seriously, though. Am I supposed to be made of stone? Tonight's for drinking and vaudeville-style performance art, not health.

Labels: angst, bat masterson

Today was my first day of classes for the year. Well, there are several generalizations in that statement. 1. We had two full days of meetings last week, so "first day" is a little unclear. 2. I spent the entire day, less an hour, working a Grade 9 BBQ with Teija, so I smell like propane, meat & sweat instead of anxiety and shampoo and there was precious little "class." (Is there ever?)

There was still an hour in there where I had to shine, even though I was trying to shine through weariness and grease. On the long-ago advice of Lucretia Nightshade, I have begun every class of my career in identical fashion: with an alphabetic seating plan denoted by nametag index cards on desks. The idea is that I would set up the room for them before the bell and stand at the door to greet them. Every student gets a handshake, a smile and direct eye contact as we introduce ourselves. Then they get a slip of paper, directing them to write certain facts on their name card.

Every year I start this way. In the beginning it was hard to smile because I was so nervous. In my first years I would kick out early birds so that we could do the whole thing in one go. Now that I'm into my 8th year, I'm getting so incredibly confident that I don't even do it at the door anymore; I can wander around the class getting people set up while kids trickle in. For a class like my current crop of 11 Faiths, this is crucial as they do not arrive at once.

I have come such an unbelievably long way.

I'm still trying to take care of myself in a manner befitting a girl who spent a summer getting trained in her backyard. Yesterday my whole family went to the beach for my end-of-summer ritual of not-thinking on Labour Day, and by the time I got Blake to bed I was completely fried. I did not want to do anything but sit on the couch and feel sorry for myself. Somehow I managed to keep a training date with Nic. So while I sweat buckets and the mosquitoes bit again and again, I practiced my jabs until all I could think of was my form. It was better than a sleeping pill.

Today was also Blake's first day of Grade 1, and his first day of all-day school in a long while. My parents are more keyed up about it than Blake; they're obsessing about his lunches and if he can handle staying in with his friends. Personally I would rather go through the stress of packing lunches and give him a chance to see his friends in other classes, than break up his day. I suspect that the trial period of lunches in my kitchen are more for my parents' sake than Blake's, but I suppose that everyone needs to get used to the new year, all the way down the line.

On a considerably more frivolous note, I made Blake ice cream for breakfast. As in, the yarn kind of ice cream, with silly smiles. Pictures soon, plus stories of my Sunday with Owen Pallett and the scary guy who harshed my mellow!

Labels: bat masterson, blake, health, teaching

I'm finding it incredibly hard to focus this week. Good thing all of my real work is done, and I only have to worry about cleaning up and throwing away. I blame the light - when the sun doesn't set until after 9, it's hard to go to bed. Blake hasn't been sleeping well either, and we're all cranky in the morning. I can't wait until I can adjust everyone's wakeup time to "whenever the hell".

Blake graduated from kindergarten yesterday. As a professional cynic and misanthrope, I should be suspicious of such celebrations of non-events...but I have to say, it was awesome. The whole class participated, including the kids who would be staying in the class for another year (kids currently in what we used to call Junior Kindergarten). Blake has been practicing his songs all week, in between singing random Apostle of Hustle hooks. I've decided that it doesn't get any better than little kid performance art, especially when your child is cast as the Doctor in "Five Little Monkeys." I had no idea he was in pre-med!

Pictures to come, as soon as my camera/computer stop ignoring each other. I love my cam, but honestly...the little point and shoot was way less aggro than this little prima donna. I've got a slide show to produce! I've got downloads of "Pomp & Circumstance" to employ! Gimme my damn pictures, technology.

- medium large

The other cool thing about yesterday was that I started a new session of ATS with Valizan. It's still a fuck of a long way away for a dance class, but at least I get to drive in the daylight instead of hurling through the cold & snow & utter darkness of downtown Oakville. Also, Keeral and Jessamyn are taking the course, so I'm already having fun. I knew about Jess, but Keeral was a fun surprise. Soon my troupe will, once again, comprise more than half the class. We are herd.

This is the first proper dance class or, really, exercise session I've done since the Troubles this spring (yoga doesn't count). Hopefully this will do something to combat both my incredible lethargy and my passionate love for high quality cheeses and beer. At the very least, I can feel my shimmy coming back. I'd missed it.

Labels: bat masterson, blake

Another sick day. This has been quite the year for staying at home, wrapping myself in sweaters and seeing how long I can go without combing my hair. I've been feeling crummy since Sunday, but I'd decided to attribute it to allergies. I wasn't sure how that worked exactly, since I wasn't exposed to anything that I know is a trigger, but I'm starting to suspect that I've developed some undiagnosed greenery sensitivities that kick in around spring, so it was easy to ignore. I mean, I was on a heavy schedule of cake-eating and party-hat wearing; I fully expected to feel turned inside out by the end of it. (Taking 3 tabs of 24-hour Claritin probably didn't help, either.)

On Monday, when I couldn't think straight, I was willing to admit that I had a cold. Yesterday, when I couldn't think straight and I had a weak little cough and walking any distance exhausted me and made my head pound, I was willing to admit that I couldn't work through it.

Plus, I promised Teija, the other staff sponsor, that I wouldn't abandon her tomorrow. We have a barbecue, the first school dance in four years and the first ever student election tomorrow. Clearly, I need to be there.

So here I am, snuggled in my new shrug, with lips that could finish woodwork.

Labels: bat masterson, health

In solidarity with the Harlot, I appear to have lost a week. Possible culprits include coming to the end of my last antidepressant prescription, a constant stomach ache that has sapped my energy and robbed me of sleep and simply returning to work after a week of Do As I Please (Sort Of). I remember ditching a dancing outing to go to knit night on Wednesday, and how good that sweet potato burrito went down (although I didn't knit a thing and went home after a mere hour and a half). I remember Parents' Night on Thursday, and how I started a tonne of marking right before (embarrassingly, breaking the seal on my marking procrastination that has been in effect since the start of the semester). That was the night that my stomach pain was at its worst, and I barely slept at all, spending Friday in a state of glassy-eyed exhaustion. I remember waves of deep despair washing over me, sapping my desire to do even the most rudimentary cleaning up after Blake and myself. I remember grimly fighting against those waves, trying to tell myself that they were just the rebound effect of 15 months on a powerful drug that kept me together when I needed it the most. I remember the stomach pain that underlay every moment of hunger, satiety and sleep, a twinge of nausea that kept me away from greasy comfort foods and tight jeans. I remember reading story after story to Blake, and how relieved I was every time his bedtime rolled around as it is the one thing he never fights. I remember Mason's own insomnia, and how hard it was to keep trying to convince him that it was worthwhile getting out of bed in the morning.

I'm pretty sure I wore clothes most, if not all of the time. I know that Blake ate meals on a regular schedule. Other than that, no details are certain.

Today I slept until near noon, then took Blake (who played on his own all morning) for a diner breakfast. This afternoon we have been outdoors, and I have spent a good deal of time on the couch. I can't believe that after 16 hours of sleep, I still feel dizzy when I walk.

Labels: bat masterson, blake, health

I started my marking backlog today. Ugh. I can believe that I used to have the patience to do this stuff for more than 10 hours straight. It took me hours just to mark on set of tests. Of course, I used to be able to spend all day with a novel, and those days aren't coming back any time soon. My laser-like focus is refracted these days.

Blake continues to be the terror of tiny town. He feels the need to fight every transition, no matter how much warning I give. And the need to run off immediately is getting pretty old too. The kid weighs over 40 pounds. I can't haul him over my shoulder like a sack of grain.

It's not a happy thing when our best moments consist of the immediate aftermath of fighting. I don't want to start getting rid of his stuff, but nothing makes him listen faster than the prospect of bidding his toys goodbye forever. Of course, this just fuels his desire to be in the Lego-rich Casa Nova. And where did he get these sets? His daddy made a chart, and gave him set after set when he returned weeks of positive reports (despite his teacher writing that the only thing he cared about was the report, and he has been known to haul off and sock a kid as soon as a positive report is entered in his log. Charming).

Yes, I've tried talking to the Boy about the stunning lack of success we're having with reward-centred behaviour modification. He doesn't seem to listen, or just thinks that ignoring my parenting concerns is another benefit of moving out. I feel like I'm struggling against a rip tide of Blake's misbehaviour, like I can't go a single day without a huge knock-down tantrum over something as simple as getting out of bed in the morning or going into the bath. This is wearing me out, and it's hard not to let grey despair overwhelm me when my co-parent is orbiting the moons of Saturn and my patience is held together with rags and staples. Mason is helping as much as he can, but I still feel like it's my responsibility to deal with this little beast myself. I just hope he grows out of this before I leave him to the squirrels in the back yard.

Labels: bat masterson, blake

My vaague stomach cramps have gone away. Having a wussy illness sucks: you're not well enough to do anything but not sick enough to get any sympathy. I spent a day sleeping and keeping Blake away from my belly (he knows it bugs me, the devil) and a day gingerly trying food. At least we can exorcise the spectre of pregnancy, which would be awkwardly timed at best.

My health has cleared up just in time for my first knitting-free staff meeting. Having just finished Clarissa Dickson Wright's autobiography with all the AA content, I'm starting to wonder if She Who Must Be Obeyed woulf like me to admit that my knitting is out of control and I need to give myself to a higher power. One that isn't Elizabeth Zimmerman, one assumes.

Labels: bat masterson, books, drunken knitters

Since we're off-site today, I've decided to knit. And, of course, as soon as I decide to buck the system, I run out of knitting. That's the problem with a scarf that's been on the go forever: you stop believing that you'll finish it. Starting to wonder if I have time to go home and get more.

Labels: bat masterson, knit

Took the night off and devoted it to pizza, beer and the second half of My Own Private Idaho. In bed by 8. Still exhausted; sapped by the February blahs.

Today is my first PD day without knitting. It makes it harder that one of the facilitators saw me knitting at Hogsboro and today immediately asked me what I was working on [but much more awkward two weeks from then when the facilitator was the Boy's mother and asked me the same question – far-seeing ed.] Waaah.

I feel a bit like a recovering addict, in that I suddenly need to reframe my entire professional life. Trying to remember how this used to work, this whole not-filling-my-hands-with-yarn. How I used to work. My uncle had to give up coffee to give up smoking for real. Maybe I just need to give up teaching.

I've wondered why I'm bothering to comply. Surely the punk rock part of my personality will kick in at any minute, and I'll be using my dpns to flip the bird.

Part of it may be just a mild Stockholm Syndrome, a desire for my new overlords to praise me (or at least not punish me anymore). But I think it's more likely that my masochistic streak has been uncovered by their drilling. I tend to think of myself as soft, decadent, luxury-loving and generally corrupted by bourgeois comforts. This self-contempt makes me take risks: hike Cape Split, take a bellydance class, join strangers in a downtown bar for a knitting circle, carrying my baby and my groceries home slung about my person, and so forth. Part of me is curious to plumb the depths of my fixation on knitting. I want to find the limits of my desire, if they can be found. Much like a voluntary fast, I'm hoping that the suffering will be instructive.

But I'll still keep a close eye on the job postings. I may know myself to be a bottom, but I also know that eventually I'll need a safe word and my new overlords are unlikely to heed it.

Also, She Who Must Be Obeyed may think that continual writing is less rude than knitting, but I have to assume that when I'm writing during a conversation that clearly doesn't call for note-taking, that I'm giving the impression writing down what people are saying. Yeah. That's not weird or impolite at all.

Labels: angst, bat masterson, knit

Day one of life After Knitting. I'm getting nervous and restless. I'm frustrated more easily. I'm hungry (which could be due to a delayed schedule that's kicked back my lunch forty-five minutes). I'm chewing my nails and fingers. But I'm trying. I need to give this a decent try. Maybe I've never gotten over being an apologist for the regime, and even though la reine est mort, vive la reigne.

Last night Blake asked me, "are you allowed to knit at home?" When I told him I was, he asked if "she could find out." God, I hope not. Because I'm going to need to catch up sometime.

Labels: angst, bat masterson

In the ranking of the schools where I have worked (all two of them) Bat Masterson has officially left the Shangri-la category. Today I was called down to the office after class. As I walked down the steps, I readied my opening line. Look, I don't know what that student told you, but it was consensual.

Heh. No, I kid. Opening with an inappropriate joke about pederasty in a school office is about as inflammatory as joshing about bombs to airport security. It may be funny in my head, but I'm still going to get tackled. So there was no opener, just a look of polite interest.

The problem: me, knitting. The (new world) order: no more knitting in meetings or (gulp) the classroom. Even Goneril, my previous principal, never thought to prohibit knitting in the classroom. And, unless I want another after-school meeting (and I don't), I suppose I should assume that I'm not to knit on my supervisions anymore.

Caf duty with no knitting. Can my irritability be contained? I think someone's gonna get suspended.

The bright side is that I've been told to substitute with writing. This may increase my journaling frequency, but at the cost of all y'all having to read a lot of ill-tempered rants and sniveling pleas for just one more row. That, or I'm going to be hiding in the bathroom with a secret stash more often than I'm seen in public.

Fabulous class last night. Valizan worked us until my arms screamed for mercy, and I had a maniacal grin on my face the whole time. This is the first exercise class in my entire life in which the ending came as a surprise. I'm a classic clock-watcher, and the order to turn in our tassel belts came through as noise at first. What? Aren't we going to dance some more?

I love this. I LOVE this. I LOVE this.

Too bad I can't knit and dance.

Labels: bat masterson, dancing, knit

Today was a pretty rotten day. We started the new semester on Friday, and I can't seem to shake the anxious, horribly unprepared feeling I've had for weeks. Even though report cards are done, even though my semester started with relatively few problems, I can't seem to get over the cornered, trapped feeling. So I've been trying to spend the weekend resting as much as possible, but it's been hard to do. On Friday we all went to my department head's retirement dinner, which was very emotional for me, and another source of heartbreak is that I won't be teaching with him anymore. (More about this later.)

Early Saturday morning, Mason went off to pick up Sage for the weekend, and I tried with little success to root myself out of bed while Blake made repeated sallies into the bedroom to help me get up. I think I'm coming down with something, which means that I haven't really been well for weeks. By the time I got out of bed, I had an hour to shower and clean the house for the troupe. I also have no internet this week, so I had no idea how many people would be arriving come the noon hour, or if I was on the hook to pick up Juuki. I had to resort to that most antiquated of communication devices, the telephone.

After practice, Blake & I drove to my parents, got in their car, and drove to my grandparents' house for dinner with my uncles and their partners. It was a roast beef dinner, and very good as these things go, but it was a melancholy night all the same. I kept turning around, wondering when my grandmother would emerge from some hidden recess to greet us and fuss over Blake. The roast beef as overseen by my uncle's husband, was lovely and rare, though she would have roasted the crap out of it. There were small, neat stacks of papers and things in the corners of rooms, mess she wouldn't have tolerated. I looked at the photo frame I gave her for Christmas, filled with pictures from my summer vacation, that she'd never had a chance to put up. My grandfather complained about the Stephen King book I'd lent him two weeks ago, giving it back with all possible speed. Blake ate too many treats and had to be put in time out twice. I ran out of knitting 20 minutes after dinner. It was not one of our best visits.

Today Blake misbehaved in church, the little toddler I was watching in the Nursery became inconsolable 15 minutes before the end of church, and then my mother called me into another room to tell me some horrible secrets from her childhood that shed some albeit irrational light on why she is so suspicious of Mason. By the time I got downstairs, Blake was bragging about eating four sugary treats although I'd told him that we'd have to go straight home to help take care of Sage. When we finally got home, Sage was in a wretched mood, refusing to sleep and bursting into inconsolable and messy tears at frequent intervals. I started to cry. Then I went to my room, took off my church clothes, and huddled under the covers until I'd cried myself out.

I feel so far from recovered that it's a joke. I feel pounded down, mistreated, smooshed up and reconstituted at half my original dilution. I can't wait to see my new students tomorrow.

Thoughts on the retirement of my department head:

When I left Hogsboro and started at Bat Masterson, everything took a sharp turn for the better. It took me months to realize that my new department head wasn't simply part of the package, but a powerful reason why my days were a dance of joy.

I could go into his office in the morning with any crazy story of my weekend, and he would smile appreciatively and make some comment – wry or kind, depending on the circumstance – and I would always go away feeling better. Information on new book talk on the CBC was greeted as warmly as a rambling anecdote of a weeknight concert where the balloons dropped from the ceiling after midnight. He loved good food, good theatre, good alcohol, good books, and good cities. He went to sophisticated art galleries with his artist wife and he could be counted on to dance wildly to "Lust for Life" if you were lucky enough to get the DJ to play it.

One of the people who spoke at the retirement gathering said that my department head lived the golden rule, treating others as he wanted to be treated. I disagree. He never worked by this kind of justice, meting out kindness as a social contract. He was wildly generous with his time and attention. His enthusiasm was lavished on us all. He treated others as a happy baby might, delighted by novelty and easily comforted by familiarity. He was loyal to a fault, and we all went to him with our problems, no matter how minor or embarrassing. He always had our backs with students, parents and administration. He was a father figure, a wise professor, an epicure and a crazy hockey punk all at once.

I don't feel that I will ever get over the thought of not having him in his classroom, ready to bail me out, prop me up or let me stretch. It hasn't even been a day, and I'm already crushed.

Labels: angst, bat masterson, blake, friends

Waiting for my Flickr photos to upload. My internets have been spotty this week, so while I've been mostly homebound I've been thrown abruptly on my own resources in order to amuse myself. I barely remember what life was like in my home before hot & cold running webpages. It's...much less filled with trivia, for one thing.

Besides living it up like it was 1995, I've been recovering from a mercifully mild cold, babysitting Sage at irregular intervals, finishing up my report cards and generally trying to get on top of the backlog that formed during my grandmother's mourning. I haven't been able to make any troupe practices lately, although my Monday ATS class with Valizan, despite being in Oakville, has been 58 kinds of awesome. Not the least of why is because I'm carpooling with Jessamyn & Juuki, so there's a lot more time for gossip and tea than is usual at troupe practice.

Anyway. Despite the fact that report cards are one long haul away from completion and despite the fact that I lost a job opportunity and an elder on the same day, and despite the fact that exam season always makes me anxious, miserable, unhealthy, feral and desperate to run away to somewhere far from my perpetually snowed-in driveway, I'm cautiously optimistic for the end of the week. I'm not 100% sure what I'm basing that optimism on, but it's there. Maybe I'm just ready for the spring term, with its attendant rocketslide to June. Maybe I'm just glad that I can wear black out of choice, not social necessity.

I'm not going to do a blow-by-blow of the funeral. I was too out of it for much in the way of recording, anyway. I did a eulogy at the funeral, which seemed to be well-received, but it's like a 8-year-old's piano recital. You never know. Who's going to go up to you and say, "hey, that eulogy really blew. Sorry we asked you." I found myself much more comfortable with my grandmother's corpse than I was with her post-stroke state in the hospital, or maybe I just had three weeks of practice without her answering back and that made it easier. Blake has been handling it well, occasionally asking "when is GG coming back?" My glib answer ("when Jesus does, and that's not for a long time") feels shallow.

I didn't cry. I think most of the shock and guilt and panic all went out of me when I read that letter to her a few weeks ago. I started trembling half-way through the eulogy, but it wasn't a sentimental speech – I had to pause part way for the laughter to subside – and it didn't carry me into spasms of weeping. I still hear her voice in my head, and it makes me smile. It made me smile to see my family together, cracking jokes before the visitation. It made me smile to know exactly where we should have dinner before the visitation, because we'd gone there with her 4 years ago before another funeral. It made me smile to re-use my wedding program inserts, and force "And did these feet" on another unsuspecting group of people. I think it was a good funeral. I think she would have approved.

Labels: bat masterson, blake, dancing, death, family

I have just taken my once-yearly tour of all things Blogger and I am very excited about the idea that I can consolodate my knitting blog into this one. What's that? You've never seen my knitting blog? Well...I don't really care. It's not a good blog as these things go. It's a project journal more than anything else, and my last entry is from March Break. Now that Ravelry has come into my life, all of the detailed scrapbooking I felt compelled to do fits neatly into their searchable database. I may even move my projects over, as I'm doing with this. Or, not. So, you won't notice anything much on this end, unless you're seriously into my archives or you're a knitting person who's come here out of desperation and wants to know where the other blog went.

The other thing I want to do is add a Twitter feed, which is a new thing I started to do because of Ravelry (of course). I can be a sheep, but it usually takes me a year or two to pull my head up and figure out where the rest of the herd has wandered off to. And in this case, the sheep wants to tweet.

Heading into my last full week of the first semester. This year has gone the fastest I can remember. St. Stephen used to say something about how time goes faster the older we get because of its relation to our total age. All I know is that it's never been this easy to get through a season. I think that being busy every night of the week helps. Tonight is the first American Tribal Style class - it's expensive and far, but I'm doing it with Jessamyn & Juuki and we're pumped. I expect to be bewildered, sore and exhausted when I get home tonight. Here's hoping.

Also, knitting like mad. I haven't really slowed down since Christmas deadline, and since I'm gearing up for my yearly finish-athon, I'm not trying to slow down. I don't get to start anything in February until I clear out my old projects, so I might as well rip through as many hats as possible in the meantime.

Labels: bat masterson, dancing, knit, on-line diaries

So, I've been putting off marking ever since I returned to work, as I binged on marking in the days leading up to my return. The problem with my self-voted vacation is that I had even more marking to finish that was sidelined by a combination of procrastination and my grandmother's stroke. My classes want mark updates and I have none to give. Today I decided that I had to apply the Pavlovian screws, and deny myself social knitting tonight if I couldn't mark at least one set of essays. Earnestly, I opened my folder. Frustratedly I realized that I had no marking sheets. The relevant file is at home. I can't mark. Darn.

I'm stuck with rifling through Ravelry for a carrier bag for my new SIGG bottle and a suitable present for Hestia's upcoming birthday. I'm thinking that 4 should be the year of GIR.

Speaking of goth geekiness, I suppose I must at some point face the last night of Savage Garden. For some prosaic reason, Pale is closing the club. (I choose to believe that they're trying to hush up a new virulent social disease that somehow mutated in the toilets, or that Pale has to return to England to apprentice to the last Master Cooper before he dies.) I tried to make it out to the last retro night, as I'm not keen on the industrial vs. really industrial playlist in Revolution vs. Machine on Saturday nights. (Or as Zub put it, the really industrial room sucks but in a more pretentious way - a cybersuck.) Unfortunately, that weekend the heavens dumped a tonne of snow between me and Retro Night, and I was forced to curse my luck loudly and often. Stacy, who made it out that night, tells me that Pale finally achieved his dream of the post-apocalyptic nightclub, as the Garden was the only thing open and thus the only thing packed with people in the still, snowy streets.

I met up with Zub & Stacy at their house and had a lovely late dinner before we began primping. I was in my Classic Gothgirl Clothes i.e. the Dress I bought when I turned 21, the Fishnets my grandmother gave me when I was 20 and going to the Rocky Horror for the first time, and the Fluevog 8-holes Mason gave me last Mother's Day. Stacy, in her rush to get out, forgot the first rule of dressing: boots, then corset. Zub worried that he had a spiked pompadour, but I assured him that he just looked like his DNA had been crossed with a pufferfish. Very cyber. As Stacy made herself beautiful, I knit and Zub distracted me with an audio tour of his cracking joints. This pretty much set the tone for the evening.

We got to the club shortly after 10 and were confronted by the First and Last Line Up to the Garden I Have Ever and Will Ever Stand In. Twenty minutes of sub-zero temperatures, speculating on the luck of those who intended to "drop by" later and watching the cyber bikini bints was enough to dampen our spirits, and we slithered up the stairs subdued (if you can call such a motley assemblage of elders "subdued"). Lotwyr, Monstre & Dav were already there, which was good because we saw very few familiar faces until we'd cleared the door. Once inside, I felt like I was in the middle of an old-fashioned anatomy textbook with layers of clear overlays to show the blood, the musculature, the bones. Instead of tissues, I saw all the modifications of the past 11 years jostling uneasily with the doomed reality. The DJ platform was the raised place where Dav, Anne, Sheila & I had eaten candy for hours. And farther back toward the bathrooms was where we'd sat the night Dirk wore his 3-piece seersucker. The cage was tiny, half the size of the place where a variety of amateurs would try their luck in spooky cage dancing. The paintings on the walls were different from the concentration camp silhouettes that seemed to move when it was late and you'd been dancing in the strobes for hours without a break. The front section, in its majestic cybersuckage, was just wrong. No pool tables with players to annoy the hell out of everyone not playing. The autopsy table that replaced our own personal coatcheck in 2001 was the dj booth. The booths where I'd met so many people were full of strangers and off-limits. The view from the front window burned down last summer. Most of my friends have moved on or couldn't get in. The place was too full to navigate and I didn't know enough of the bodies I rubbed against.

It was something less than tragic, something more than portentous. It made me cranky. Dav, too.

And I was weighted with the unacknowledged guilt of my grandmother's stroke, compelled to share, quick to deny feeling and yet anxious about something I couldn't get a grip on. I cried in frustration. I became disconsolate and tried to find a hug. My claustrophobia kicked in (or as I think of it, agoraphobia because agora means market and this was panic in the midst of a meat market). Loftwyr and Josh found me a wall to lean against, and that helped. Josh also helped by starting a conversation about Mason, and if that weren't enough, helped me to jump the girls' bathroom line by using his bouncer skills to wave me into the men's when it was clear. I hadn't realized that a men's bathroom could be that bad without being attached to a gas station. In any case, I was glad for the help, as I always love to feel like I'm part of some secret elite.

Which is, I suppose, what we were all mourning in our imperfect ways that night: we were saying goodbye to membership in a tiny, hidden circle of those in the know. Those who knew how to get Pale to play a request and not laugh in one's face (and those who can take the second in good humour.) Those who know how much to tip the bartenders, and how to get out of Doug's way without being obvious. Those with the manners to greet Pale & Brenda on every visit, if only with a wave, because that's what you do when you visit someone's place.

And despite the lows I felt that night, I'm still happy that they let us come over so many times, for so many years.

Labels: angst, bat masterson, dancing, friends, outfits, outings

I've been reaping the benefits of friendship this week. On the Saturday between Christmas and New Year (a.k.a. during The Good Week of my Holidays) Zub & Stacy held a Media Purge party. Stacy has always been extraordinarily generous with her stuff, and purges her collections regularly for her overall sanity. This time, they held a party with an open invitation to add stuff to the pile and to compete with peers for hot items. I brought Mason and had a brilliant time - I must admit, I enjoyed the competition more than the items - and I scored a tonne of stuff for my classroom.

When I got my first job at Hogsboro High, I would take anything people gave me: travel photography, dusty compendiums of Irish mythology, "Orlando Futuroso." Having seen how well those books connect to my students, I have thrown a lot of ballast overboard in the change from one school to another. Now when I browse the perpetual church booksale, I look for books that someone may actually want to read. This means that I sometimes walk in with "The Fountainhead" and "Shopaholic Takes Manhatten," but both of those books move.

I've been bringing in the Purged books this week, as many as I can comfortably carry at a time. Every day I announce the new arrivals to excited faces. No, really, there are at least two classes who are excited. Yesterday was "The Scarlet Letter" and "Song of Solomon," and the students getting irate about the way Hester was treated. Today is three Sandman collections, two dictionaries, "Sense and Sensibility," two YA fantasy novels and an uncorrected proof of "Castle Waiting." It was a sweet day.

What has fallen by the wayside? The Lawyer's baby, definitely, my grandmother's stroke and the Last Night at Savage Garden. Baby first.

On Friday we went downtown for a doctor's appointment, meaning that I got to kill time in Lettuce Knit with Blake. (Oh, the hardship!!) There's a new bakery in Kensington Market, and they sell brie sandwiches. This is a big deal for me; I haven't had a good brie sandwich since the Netherlands. So I ate and chatted with Alexis and tried to convince Blake to come in from outside (he was waiting for Mason, who had promised to bring him a smoothie). And I bought expensive yarn and buttons, because with a car in the shop I certainly have extra cash for expensive alpaca. (Needs head examined.) Made a nice hat for Blake, though.

We were almost an hour late to see the new baby, which didn't prove to be a problem. They're in a new family holding pattern, which means a lot of sitting on the couch. Leo (the baby) is smaller than Blake ever was, and I wanted to keep him. I fell hard. There's not much else to say, except that the Lawyer's appreciation for the cardigan I knit Leo more than made up for my dad's churlishness on Christmas. And also, that I'm so happy for all three of them. They're a gorgeous family.

After baby bliss, Mason dropped Blake & I at my grandparents' house so that my dad could drive us to see my Grandmother. In brief: she is/was a heavy smoker who wasn't taking her blood pressure medication. She appears to have had two strokes in short order. She's reasonably responsive and mobile on both sides of her face. She's speaking very rarely. She yawns a lot, and looks a lot like a newborn herself. When I'm there, I help my mom change her diaper which is kind of awful but I'm always glad that I helped when it's done. For the first few days I was subject to guilt-induced panic attacks that included psychosomatic diaper smells (see yesterday's entry), but they seem to have passed. Most of the guilt seems to be over, now that I did the speech. That was one of the hardest things I've ever done. And it didn't get any easier as it went; it got harder. But I'm glad to be facing up to my feelings instead of wallpapering over them.

Labels: bat masterson, books, family, friends, knit, outings

I figured out a way to watch Futurama in class. We're reading "Flowers for Algernon" and I found the episode in which the Professor engineers a superintelligent monkey named Gunther, who finds his increased IQ a social burden. The Bender/Animal House subplot is a bonus.

I finally went with the zombie librarian costume, to the delight of many and to the dismay of Blake, who refused to hug or kiss me when I dropped him off this morning. He kept insisting that should be a vampire, which I find confusing. I refused on the basis of "been there, done that" but I don't get what's less scary about a vampire. Maybe the lad is simply showing an early interest in capes and bats, proving that I was right to take him to the Garden when he was yet unborn.

But the point is, I'm a zombie librarian today, carrying around my new/old copy of "Dame Curtsey's' Book of Novel Entertainments." It's been great fun - I'm getting a tonne of comments, appreciative looks, smiles, and screams of shock. Reprimanding students in the hallway is the most fun it's ever been: they hear a voice, they turn with a sneer, the arrogant look turns to shock, they make some comment. It's wholly awesome. The only thing I don't like about it is the itchiness as the fake blood dries and the even itchier feeling that if they knew how awesome the zombies were on the walk, they wouldn't think twice about my late attempt to be like the cool dead kids.

Mason has decided on ex-con, wearing his "I learned to knit in prison shirt" and sporting a variety of fake tattoos drawn by one of my most intense and furiously artistic students. (Me, seeing this student wandering the hall first period: "Do you want to go downstairs and draw tattoos on Mr. Mintz?" Him: "Do I?!?!" If it were in his vocabulary, he would have been squealing and giggling all the way down.)

As for little Cranberry Juice, he was very unhappy last night when we figured out that the Boy still had Blake's favourite Spiderman costume (Blake has two.) He pitched a fit, clearly feeling that it was my fault that he couldn't be Spiderman in class tomorrow (yes, I did propose wearing the lesser of the two suits, and was tearfully rejected). He has decided to wear his Buzz Lightyear costume, despite the fact that it is too small and sort of dirty from all the times he's worn it around the house. He actually thought it was hilarious when I called him a dirty spaceman, and was happy to clump off in his flood spacepants. (Won't I look foolish when the seasonal rains soak his shoes but his pants stay relatively dry.) He even had a wholesome pumpkin muffin for his snack, which will probably travel to school and back without molestation. That's okay. I love them muffins, and nobody's giving me candy anyway.

Travelling into the past, on Monday I gathered up Dirk and Mason to join Henry Rollins on his Recountdown Tour. I love hearing that man speak. He's one of the few people I know that's getting more interesting (and interested) as they age. I was glad to hear that his friendship with William Shatner is continuing well. Plus, I now know not to hug him if I ever chance across him in an airport, as the temptation to snap necks is apparently quite strong.

I was very pleased to be able to see Dirk that night. Dirk has more or less lost the last two years of his life to depression, and nine times out of ten, we make plans only to break them at the last minute. He had asked me to buy him a ticket for this tour, but that doesn't mean he'll make it, it just means that I might have a third ticket to get rid of. But he came, resplendent in his viking beard and craving his customary half orange juice, half cranberry juice. No, not that Cranberry Juice.

Tonight I'm handing out candy to neighbourhood tots and trying to finish all of my projects in time for tomorrow's wedding. I have a gift to finish and a shawl to crochet (I keep yelling, "be a shawl!" at it, but that isn't helping.) I have warned my students not to go out collecting if they're not willing to dress up; my crusty attitude will probably result in a good egging. We shall see.

Labels: bat masterson, blake, outfits

Still trying to scrounge some space to write. I really should be marking right now, but I have a lot of practice making that particular nagging voice shut up. Last night I stayed home from knit night because Mason was sick and it gave me an excellent reason to hang out in my house for a change. Still didn't get my laundry folded, but what's another day to the scuttly things that burrow into the layers of clean sheets heaped haphazardly in my basement? I could probably hang the sheets outside my house for a cheap Hallowe'en decoration, considering all the leggy little bugs that like to call my basement home and which are probably enjoying my laundry as we speak.

We have a few decorations up, a product of Blake's sporadic desire to "do crafts." He lost interest in the last session when I refused to draw and cut out a skeleton for him, and made him participate by drawing a face on a minimalist skull. There's also a tissue paper ghost hanging from my light that got a lot spookier when it rained and his inky eyes ran down his face. Oooh! Damp.

I'm still trying to figure out what to be tomorrow. I was going to cheese out and be a "witch" or a "vampire" (in other words, I was going to put on my Garden clothes and pretend I put some effort into it), but I'm thinking about being a zombie librarian. I have a houndstooth skirt, glasses and blouses to wear, and I can do the makeup fairly easily as smearing it around plays to my strengths. This time I'm getting some blood, though. I won't have the option of mashing my face up against a bistro window, rubbing some other zombie's bloody handprint into my cheeks. Well, I might have the option, but I sure as hell can't count on it.

I was also thinking about being an ex-con, but Mason might be using those props instead. I'm trying to convince him to be a drone bee, an unshaven male kicked out of the hive as soon as winter comes as he's fulfilled his life's purpose. He thinks that might be a little "high concept." He may be right...but it would definitely be funny. And I have a thing about making everyone dress up as a bee.

Work has been hard lately, as a student began bullying me after I returned some tests. It took me days to fully accept that this wasn't a straightforward case of intimidation or ordinary antisocial behaviour. She isolates me, she refuses to consider logical solutions, she refuses to deal with anyone other than me, she uses anger to intimidate. I hate being in this position, but I'm very glad that I happen to work in a field that makes an active study of bullying and pays at lease lip-service to the idea that it can be dealt with in a way that doesn't re-victimize the target. We'll see.

Labels: bat masterson, blake, house rich, outfits

I knew in advance that this week would be hard. I’ve had tickets for Nick Cave since late summer, and Commencement came unusually early this year, as in the day after. In a 24-hour period I’ve thrashed around to “Dig Lazarus Dig!!!” and walked in procession to “Pomp & Circumstance.” I’m paying the price for two consecutive late nights with a sore throat and a general feeling imminent doom, but I remain proud of myself. It’s like I had to live at least two or three lives this week simultaneously, and the stress of overlap hasn’t killed me. I also feel like it’s been the weekend for three days already, and though you wouldn’t know it from my hours you would know it from my jeans. (And they shall know us by our pants.)

I brought Mason to see the Bad Seeds purely on the hope that he would inevitably enjoy himself. We had an argument going in, a fact only notable because it encouraged us to make up throughout the opening act. The Guvernment is a terrible venue, but I can report with honesty that it’s enormously improved by an extended make-out session.

And from the first moment that Nick stormed out, a balding mustachio’d skeleton in a black suit whanging on a tambourine for all it was worth, to the moment we left mid song because we simply couldn’t stand any longer, it was a glorious night. I knew that as soon as the tambourine went spinning up and then to the stage while he ignored its trajectory and grabbed the mike. I knew that when he made an audience member named Jennifer the keeper of his towel, calling for it between songs. And I knew it when he played two consecutive requests: the Ship Song and the Mercy Seed. I miss the comforting bereted bulk of Blixa Bargeld, but the rest of the Bad Seeds are holding up well.

The next morning wasn’t pretty, but I got through it without crawling under my desk for a nap. By the time Mason & I got to the restaurant for some pre-ceremony dinner, our light-headedness was making everything rather wonderful. The two+ hours positively flew by, thanks to a heady combination of extreme fatigue, drinks with dinner and the proximity of my favourite Art teacher (who made up trivia questions to pass the time, like “which Phys.Ed. award to I find the most amusingly-named?” How could you not enjoy that?) A number of reproving glances were thrown our way by the department heads in our neighbourhood, but I couldn’t stop laughing much of the time. I was even glad to see the returning students, which can be emotionally draining. Best podium party experience ever.

"Love you!!" - Essence, one of my grads

Today also sucked, but today I can at least hope for shepherd's pie and a long long time in bed.

Labels: bat masterson, music

Second day in. Classes are working well. At some point I should remember to check out all the material kindly prepared for my lessons, so I can know WTF I’m doing Monday. Actually, I know exactly what I’ll be doing Monday: flipping burgers at an outdoor ed centre for a bunch of sniffly Grade 9’s. Student Council supervision is suspiciously like the Mafia: I thought I’d done my time at Hogsboro, but they keep sucking me back in.

I don’t actually mind. It’s a very well-run club, and I’m not the go-to staff advisor anyway. I’m very much the beta-puppy in the room, and the alpha dog is someone I like very much. In fact, Oonaugh is my second-favourite staff member this year. She’s cute and little and blonde, she’s got an unusual name, she has a puppy and a squeaky voice and a big diamond ring, she’s calm and funny and organized to all hell. She’s the perfect mix of cuddly and competence, and yes, I am a bit smitten with her. I thought I’d made that obvious.

Blake’s first day of kindergarten seems to have gone well. He’s being close-mouthed about the whole affair, preferring to state only that he had a good day and did everything the teacher said. (“What kind of things did you do?” I prod. He thinks for a second. “Everything the teacher told me,” he replies, taciturn as a captured soldier.) Of course, it took 8 months of JK last year for him to begin volunteering anything at all about his day, even if that consisted primarily of snitching on a wide variety of playground infractions and punishments.

My mom seems vastly more comfortable with this year’s school than last year. I think she’s comforted by the familiarity of the public system; she never really got into the Montessori ways as practiced by Blake’s JK. She seems particularly enamored of the free backpack (provided by Costco) and the more relaxed attitude toward police checks for volunteers. She’s readying for her role of SuperGrandmother, even talking about volunteering for the breakfast program. It’s good to see her so satisfied.

Labels: bat masterson, blake