My second Family Day was a little, uh, fraught. For some reason it was incredibly difficult to get both boys fed, dressed and ready to leave, even though we had all morning. Mason made a big breakfast, but the boys wanted cereal. No one wanted to focus long enough to get into day clothes. Andy called to find out if the plan had changed, since I had set up a tobogganing party and there was no snow. I began to regret my decision to leave the house at all. And so on.

But we got out, and we made it to Christie Pits in one piece, even though there was indeed no snow. Things were banging at the community centre, where volunteers were handing out pizza and hot chocolate to the masses of skaters. We didn't bring our skates so we improvised (read: we let Blake amuse himself with the other children sliding, pushing and running on the ice-hills formed by rink snow, and kept Sage near the fire.) For a slow start, it went by fast and Blake was sorry to leave when it was time to return Sage to his mom.

Sage returned, we decided to find a place to eat. I have learned the folly of Putting Off a Meal Until We Get Home – while undoubtedly cheaper, we're more likely to end the day talking to one another if we eat before an hour-long car-ride. Both of our new favourite restaurants being east, we headed over to Leslieville to see if either of them were open. Family Day is such a new holiday that no routines have become settled; businesses are sometimes open and sometimes closed. There are, as yet, no Family Day sales.

We were in luck: even though the resto was not yet open, the Ceili Cottage Dinky Rink was in full swing, with the owner Patrick and his son fooling around with a set of junior curling rocks. When Patrick saw Blake, he told us to stay and throw a rock or seven. So we did.

We stayed for the 75 minutes it took the restaurant to open, warmed equally by the fire, the surprise in the faces of passers by, and by the wonderful sounds of curling rocks skidding and clicking. Blake immediately latched onto the son, who was kind to him despite the difference in their ages (and despite the fact that my son is tremendously shrill and bossy. No, I have NO idea where he gets that from.) We roasted marshmallows, knit, and chatted with Patrick and the other people who dropped by to play. (My olympic mitts still smell like woodsmoke, an excellent addition.)

By the time the food was ready, it was apparent that Blake had found his Family Day niche. We were able to pry him away from the rink to order, to eat, and to sample our dessert; the rest of the time he was allowed to mess around on the ice with the kids and adults who were as captivated as we had been. For a few hours, everyone who came by was in our family, which is a holiday miracle as far as I'm concerned.

Labels: blake, family, food

Blake is back home, and the Mommy Clock has resumed. I can't say that I maximized my time, although I did buy a lot of crafting supplies that weren't yarn (and also bought yarn) and I did go to the gym until it made me violently ill. I shall have to complete the remainder of my marking in the dim hours after Blake goes to bed and before I collapse, which – hey! – makes my life exactly the same as it is when I'm working. Except I don't have to wear keys around my neck or pack a lunch, I suppose.

New Year's Eve was low-key, as befits the end of a decade that began in such fear and hope. When I showed up to Stacy's house ahead of the crowd in 1999, I was wearing a green velvet evening dress, a month-old engagement ring and a prominent hickey. When I showed up to Stacy's house ahead of the crowd in 2009, I was wearing a BSS t-shirt and my rings were at home, awaiting refinement to become some more relevant piece of jewelry. I left Mason sick in bed, but there was very little guilt; I was pretty sure that nuclear silos weren't about to malfunction and separate us forever. I limited myself to one beer, so that I could get home to hold hands for the countdown. And I brought knitting.

New Year's Eves in the new normal are a mixed blessing. I always have Blake until Christmas, but lose him on Boxing Day until the next year. I appreciated the chance to "cut loose" or whatever, but I still miss Blake in the midst of it all. Especially when I'm around other parents who have babysitting for the night, and didn't have to wait a full week to see their children.

(I'm not even going to get into how depressing it is to see all of my friends from ten years ago with or expecting a second baby. I can forgive the Boy many things, but I still have trouble forgiving the shuck-n-jive of so many years before he admitted that he never wanted kids in the first place. He's not the only reason why I still have just one kid, but he's a very convenient scapegoat.)

I wouldn't have left the house at all if it weren't Stacy's birthday the day before NYE, and if I hadn't spent the better part of two days working on her present. A last-minute inspiration really elevated this; who wants a regular elder god when they can have Cthulhu Bride? Behold!!

(We went to my grandfather's for lunch yesterday, and I was sewing on limbs as we visited. Everyone but Mason was puzzled by the project but I decided not to explain; what is it? is a better question than why would you bother? Stacy understands, I'm sure.)

The feature no one was asking for: a decade in review! Let's begin.

2009 was all about getting healthy. Lots of exercise with my brother, taking vitamins and oil of oregano (which for us was a game-changer). Lots of dancing in the fall, our troupe moving on from one-performance wonders. Lots of good food and cutting back on all the great beer. Greatest teachers: Valizan & Nic.

2008 was being single, really single. A single mom with a mortgage and a full-time job. Turns out I liked it a lot. Started bellydancing in January, discovered ATS, met Juuki, fell into her troupe. Started dating Mason in May; the summer was a whirlwind of late-nights, early mornings, new music, incredible food, and kissing. Visiting his condo was like taking a vacation from my suburban life. I fell in love with a current band, then all the associated bands. Lots of concerts, taking advantage of new custody agreements. A dance performance that didn't suck. New, local friends with common interests. Greatest teachers: Mason & Juuki.

2007 was splitting up with the Boy and fighting it with every particle of my being. Therapy, self-help, biting my tongue, lowering the bar, going to bed right after dinner, starting depression meds again. Bought a new house and had two months to enjoy being out of the fucking basement before everything else fell apart. Helping with Poppy's twins, trying to get pregnant to forestall the separation. Lots of crying. Greatest teacher: the Boy, who made me find myself again.

2006 was a new job in the best school I'd ever been in. Feeling like a good teacher again, being in love with my department and my job, meeting people who were more than colleagues and became friends. Camping with Blake & the Boy at StanFest. Social knitting for the first time, and getting hooked on monthly get-togethers. Greatest teachers: all the other knitters I met, celebrity and otherwise.

2005 was my first year as a working mum. Redefining work and home time, learning how to parent a person and not an inarticulate doorstop. And tonnes of knitting, once I learned how. Oh my god, the knitting. Greatest teacher: Debbie Stoller, via her books.

2004 was one word: mother. Making and losing friendships with Toronto mothers, trying hard to connect despite my new basement address. Trying out local mothering groups and feeling lost. Seeing old friends and being the first with a baby. Lots of frustrations, lots of love, very little sleep. Greatest teacher, again: Blake.

In 2003 I was adrift. I was recovering slowly from the previous year, but not losing weight or feeling happier. Got pregnant and went to Holland, in that order. Got off the depression meds and then spent the rest of the year reading up on parenting and getting used to the idea of living with my parents while my husband finished his undergrad degree. Greatest teacher: Blake.

2002 was the worst year of my life. Starting in November 2001, my teaching degree started to shake as my host teacher and evaluator treated me like an idiot for completely opposite reasons. Help appeared from every direction, but I barely squeaked through to the spring with my sanity intact. My new job in Ontario seemed heaven–sent, but after our exhausting August move cross-country, the Hosgboro administration in my new job made my host teacher look like Glenda, the good witch of the North. The camel's back being broken, I tried therapy and finally lots of drugs to get through the day. The new drug took away some of the depression and gave me twenty extra pounds in return. Started exercising, stopped eating meat and tried to turn it around. At the same time was trying to fit ourselves back into the social scene by clubbing with the young kids who now surrounded the Boy in university. But also there was Convergence 8, the last great dress-up, travel, punk rock bender of my youth. Greatest teacher: Theresa, who made me feel normal.

2001 was all about church. Fell in love with Wolfvegas and built a social life around the local United Church. Halifax visits for fun and sushi. Returning home, we were showered with love and glory for days. Discovered that the train was truly the best way to travel after 9/11 cancelled the planes. Slowly becoming a wife. Greatest teacher: Rev Robyn.

2000: Prepping for the big day, living in my parents and taking extra courses so I could go to teacher's college. Going to the city on weekends, living in the Boy's increasingly-shitty apartment. Married two weeks after my birthday and moved to Nova Scotia two weeks after that. Intense loneliness and even more intense bonding with the Boy. Slowly discovering the local community, and how supportive it could be of outsiders. First student-poverty, then the Boy's new job, and his days away on the back roads of New Brunswick. Missing pizza, clubbing and all of our friends. Greatest teacher: the Boy.

Labels: angst, blake, family, friends, nostalgia, the boy, triumph

Who would have thought that it would be harder to find writing time during summer vacation than when I was immersed in my job? It's a curious fact about teachers that we save up our tasks for what others consider our abundant leisure, storing jobs to last us through the slack time. Truth is, I've been busier in the last two weeks than I ever am at work. I work all day now, from the time I get up until I drop, exhausted & sore, into bed. I don't take my evenings off like I used with school on. The only difference is that if I want to spend the day in my cut offs, or if I want to spend a scant few minutes on knitting, I can. I'm happier.

I'm also much more sore. I've been struggling with my weight this year, and it got a lot worse this spring. I investigated the summer boot camp classes, figuring I could use the time off to reinvent myself (c. Burn After Reading), but they're all booked. I suppose I'm not the first teacher to have this idea. During our Canada Day bbq of the last entry, I looked at my brother, newly returned from tree planting in BC.

"Hey Nic. You're a personal trainer. Want to do a boot camp with me next week?"

"Sure. Fifty bones an hour."

Eep. There was some bargaining, some mention of the truck I rented on his behalf Easter Monday and the rental fee owed. The family card was played. I got him down to a hundred bucks for the week, and forgiveness of the U-Haul debt. Sweet. I wasn't sure that it would work, and there's something creepy about employing my brother as my trainer, but it's the cheapest option going while I'm between gyms.

I flaked out on Monday's session, as a visit to Palaver in the hospital entailed a 45 minute wait before we could bust him off the floor. (It was a wait both boring and funny: Schereazade, Mason & I played six games of Connect Four, we experimented with a Battleship game that was missing an astounding number of pieces, and we were in the middle of an inept dominoes tourney when Palaver was given permission to leave. Also, Scherezade & I were hit on by another patient. Good times.) Tuesday was my first session at O Brother, Where Art Thou Boot Camp.

It. Hurt.

It hurt to do, and it hurt to recover. My brother believes in old school Russian style exercises that use free weights to purge the decadence. The two things working in my favour are I enjoy spending time in my backyard, and I've been cleaning my house for three days in preparation for tonight* and thus I haven't had time to sit down and seize up. Yesterday hurt less, but it was more extreme and I sweat more. Today I got a reprieve when Nic called in sick. I sort of miss the endorphins.

Blake has been spending the week at the Humber Arboretum, a nature camp both my brother and I attended when we were the age for day camp. It's a pretty fantastic place to go, learn about Nature, sing songs, water fight and get incredibly, spectacularly dirty. Blake is already giving me the guilt trip about not having him in for longer than a week. I'm pretty sure that he likes camp better than school, and I can't say I blame him. It looks so fun from the outside that I'm wondering if I should exploit my Dorian Grey-like appearance of youth and sign up to be a teenaged camp counselor. I'm pretty sure that my cynicism will lead to my unmasking, but it will be a good ride while it lasts.

My brother also has positive memories of the place. We took him with us yesterday to pick up Blake, and the two of them ended up jogging through the woods like a couple of size-mismatched dogs while Mason & I picked our way gingerly through the paths, cursing our impractical/disintegrating footware. Those two dogs have a ridiculous amount of fun together.

And Blake has never been so happy, so tired, or returned to me so filthy, in his life. Yesterday his shirt, a casualty of raspberry snacks, looked eerily like the t-shirt his Uncle Nic wore to the GWAR show in the early nineties. Gross and triumphant, all at the same time.

Speaking of ridiculous amounts of fun, I started my Sock Museum contribution yesterday after picking up the pattern and yarn from Lettuce Knit. Ususally 2x2 ribbing rots my nuts after awhile, but this yarn (Socks that Rock, Treehugger) is so beautiful that I'm kept happy by the colour changes. That, and I don't get a lot of time to sit down with it, so it's always fresh to me. Can I finish two socks in two weeks? Maybe. I choose not to do the math to find out what I have to accomplish each day. Instead, I'm just giving'r. Zimmerman would be proud.

* Tonight I will be billeting high school students from Texas, who are coming to my church to perform Godspell. I figure that with my spare bed and working familiarity with today's modern teenager, I would have been a cad not to volunteer. This is why I've been cleaning the house for days, doing the deep down scrubbing that I've been avoiding since the change of the year. My house is/was messy. And now it's less so.

Labels: blake, church, family, health, house rich, knit

Today was the first Canada Day since my grandmother died. Her birthday was July 1, so my mom always threw a Canada Day barbeque/birthday/pool party. It made my grandmother happy. Some years were good; others boring. I enjoyed being at concerts (as a teen) and StanFest (as a young married) instead of going. One more afternoon of small talk and potato salad, with a sheet cake at the end of it. Usually by the time that everybody was ready for fireworks, I was more than ready for some alone time.

This year I went to the party without my husband, without my boyfriend, without the birthday girl. It was pretty good, but every once in awhile I would look at the maple leaves and hit a pocket of sadness. The worst part was the birthday cake, which my grandfather brought. After we sang and all blew it out, I looked up to see him crying.

This spring has been a hard one for my garden. Flowers are late in appearing, seeds are hesitant to germinate. I have two rose bushes in my front garden that my grandmother planted, one on either side of the path going to my door. I've been cheering on the yellow bush, as it was choked in morning glories last year and never bloomed, and it's been doing well. Last week I noticed that my other bush seemed to be blooming in two colours. Mason figured out that it was two bushes, and it was only this week that I realized that my grandmother planted a modern bush next to an old bush, and the old bush has just now come back.

It's funny. I didn't think it was going to hit me hard. I thought her influence on me was minimal. I think I'm coping well. And then I see a rose, and I know by colour and shape that it isn't one my grandmother would buy. I look at a cheap Canada Day flag and get a knot in my chest. I wish for cabbage rolls in the dead of winter. I miss her, and I never thought I would.

Labels: death, family

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

Um.

My grandmother died on Wednesday. Mason's one-year-old son Sage is staying with us this weekend. I have about three days of marking to do, and I'm losing one tomorrow to child care. I'm sort of sick and have spent the day in my pjs.

Um. Yeah. Here's a eulogy.

I'm J's granddaughter. I teach highschool English, and one of the things I made my students practice is how to write a eulogy. Finding the right words to help us through bad moments is hard. But it's important. Eulogy means "praise," and so the words we're looking for are good words, words of praise to help us remember my grandmother. I wanted to share some of the words I'm going to use.

The first word I will use to remember my grandmother is glamour. Glamour is a really old word that was first used to describe the spells witches cast on their victims, and later became used to describe the magic power of beautiful, dressed-up women. Throughout my life, I always had two pictures of my grandmother: the ordinary, aging woman I saw frequently and the pint-sized beauty queen of the wartime era. My mother and I, heirs to her legacy, have not shown much of an interest in it. Neither of us even regularly wear make up, although we both know how to wield the business end of a mascara wand. But there was a direct effect on me at least, and this is the love of effect. In my twenties, when I started to go to goth clubs, I was inevitably asked two friendly questions. The first was where did you get your retro fishnets and the second was where did you get that colour of lipstick? You can probably guess the answer to both of those questions. I got them from my grandmother, the former beauty queen, who even in her later years knew exactly what would catch attention on a girl. And although she may not have enjoyed being there with me on those nights, I know that she would recognize the spirit that got me painted and dressed with all the glamour I could beg, borrow or own.

The second word that I will use to remember my grandmother is love. If you read obituaries, it seems like every person who dies was an incredibly loving family member, a good spouse, etc. I've been to shopping malls, so I doubt that we're all that good. But my grandmother knew love. She really did. She was the least sentimental person I've ever met – and I tend to make friends with unsentimental types – and she knew the difference between sentiment and love. Sentiment is fake greeting card poems and phony praise and pretend interest. Love is cans of food every visit. Love is warm sweaters every Christmas, in my favourite colour (black). Love is making sure that my son Blake had enough to drink at a restaurant, even if it meant emptying out the monkey dish and feeding him tiny creamers, one after another. Her love wasn't unconditional or even uncritical, but it was powerful. For someone who seemed to have her sense of sentiment surgically removed at birth, she was always full of the real stuff. I was reminded of this in the last few weeks, when I brought Blake to visit her in the hospital. Weakened by a massive stroke, she still found the will to follow his voice, to squeeze his hand, to watch him as he tried to steal her applesauce. I'm sure that all of us who were her children, her grandchildren, her nieces and her nephews were once the target of that strong love, even if we've forgotten what it was like.

The third word I will use to remember my grandmother is action. My grandmother, from her earliest days, was a woman of action. We were lucky to spend this past Christmas together at my house, and although we could tell that she wasn't feeling her best, she still came into the kitchen to peel Brussels sprouts with a butter knife until I insisted on getting a stool and reaching down the paring knife. Despite her advancing age, my grandmother has been right into my garden from the time we bought the house almost two years ago. I had little to no interest in gardening, but she and my mother knew that to waste this plot would be a crime, so they rolled up their sleeves and hoped for the best. This summer I finally figured out why anyone would want to spend so much time scrabbling in the dirt, and I have them to thank for it. There are bracelets that try to remind some of us WWJD? (What Would Jesus Do?). I don't really need one to remind me What J Would Do because it would be practical, energetic and to the point. I've even had moments when I had that conscious thought, such as when I was at a co-worker's house for a staff party. After driving back and forth for the better part of 15 minutes and using language unbecoming to myself and to Blake in the back seat, I finally found her driveway. But as soon as I parked, I started to worry about other people arriving after me. So I thought, What Would my Grandmother Do? Five minutes later I was blowing up balloons and tying them to a streetpost in front of the drive. I barely had to think about it because I knew what I should do right away. In the past few days, my mother and my uncles have said the same thing about her death: that as soon as they started to talk about nursing homes, she decided to get out while she could. It would be exactly like her if she did take action.

It's been a hard month for me. I know that's an understatement for many of us, but it has. One of the worst parts of this month has been the feeling that I wasted so many opportunities to be patient, to be sweet, to be funny when I was in the room with my grandmother. She had her stroke a week after everyone was at my house for Christmas dinner, so soon that I hadn't even cleaned up all of the gifts scattered around my livingroom. (No, I'm not the housekeeper she was, either.) Because I've known my grandmother all of my life, it was easy to believe she would always be there while I was alive. Because this was so sudden, it's easy to regret the good words not spoken. So that's why we're here. To share the good words.

Labels: death, family

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've been telling people about your stroke, and they all tell me the same thing: don't feel guilty; it's not your fault. But I do feel guilty - not responsible, I'm not deluded - but guilty for the way I felt before the stroke. How I resented your visits because I was afraid of what you would say or what you would ignore. Or who you would favour. I lost the trick of your approval, and I always wanted to figure out how to get it back. I wanted you to like me. I'm trying to be ok with you not liking me. I'm trying to just love you now, while you're here, and not be angry because I didn't make you happy. My friend Clarke, the priest who married me, once said: "Aleta, you can't like everybody and everybody can't like you." I used that to get me through teaching. Now I'm using it to get me through this week.

I know that you love my son, love him without reservation. You still look right at him as soon as he speaks, no matter where he is in the room. One of my friends told me that when your head comes round to watch him, that you might be mistaking him for one of your own sons or grandsons. That you may be traveling in time. I don't think so. I think that you love him still, that you know who he is, and that your love is stronger than this stroke that's pinned you to the bed.

I think you hate your daughter brushing your teeth and changing your diaper. I think it's hard for you to need these things done for you. I think you saw yourself as immortal. God knows, I did. This is why I can't stop feeling guilty. Mom knew your time was limited. She would make excuses for you left, right and centre. I had this immature conviction that you would never grow frail or sick or on the edge of death. I was so sure that the strength of your will would keep your body and soul together. I was so sure that you'd be chain smoking over my burial plot. I was so childish.

When I told people about you in the first few days after your stroke and they immediately told me they were sorry, I rushed to reassure them. It's okay, I would say, we're not close. I kept saying that. And I couldn't figure out why I would go into a mild panic attack when I tidied up and found the ornaments you'd brought for the tree still sitting in their bag a week after Christmas. I couldn't understand why just looking at the envelope where you'd placed 4 crisp five dollar bills for Blake's Christmas money made me want to cry. I would think back to Christmas Day and how weak you were then, and tell myself that I should have known something was up. It's taken me days, whole days, to realize how important you are to me. I didn't want you to be. I wanted to brush off the crisis. My mom did, too. But she didn't because she found a deep, uncomplicated love. I'm trying to find that love. It's hard, because in a lot of ways I try to be as tough as you. I try to pretend I don't feel anything. The two of us are such liars.

I'm sorry you had these strokes. I'm sorry that you're in this bed when you should be up and about and telling the nurses all about your sister and your greatgrandson. I'm sorry that I couldn't relax when you tried to give Blake everything he could possibly want in the Mandarin. I'm sorry I disappointed you. I'm not sorry that I can help my mom care for you. I'm not sorry to have this chance to tell you that I love you. And that I get the chance to tell you that I'm sorry.

Labels: death, family, threshold experiences

I had a pretty spectacular New Year's Eve, when it comes right down to it. Mason & I started out at Souzan's board game New Year's, a tradition they invented when they had their daughter 3 years ago. Potluck, card games, a little bit of knitting, a lot of cranky infant holding and a LOT of horsing around with K82 was our early evening. We headed out to Züb Haüs for a quick visit with the Birthday Girl Plus One Day (Stacy), as we'd missed her on Monday at the Dance Cave (yes, I still go there. It's fun. I don't get picked up anymore, which makes it more fun.)

And then we got into the car and went to the Phoenix Concert Theatre for "Broken Social Scene Presents: 2009 ('Cause It's a Dance Party)." DJ sets by K Drew, Brendan & Jimmy Shaw, plus a champagne toast. We were in the coat check line when I saw K Drew five feet away, wearing the horrid cardigan from the "Churches Under the Stairs" video and talking animatedly to George Stroumboulopoulos.

And yes, we did bother him. There was gushing. There was the Showing of the Bracelet. And there were fan photos, for which K Drew put on his 'photo face'.

usually he was smiling, not looking so rock n' roll. also: this is a bad picture of me. see how much i care.

On the wall next to the coat check, someone had scrawled "WHAT WILL WE DO NOW?" After meeting K Drew before we properly entered the party, I had the same question. "Hope you're going to dance tonight," he said. Indeed. I believe we shall.

We bopped around the main floor for awhile, drinking domestic beer and nodding our heads to the truly excellent funk set put on by Brendan. I walked over to George and introduced myself, after which I had a Mayor Quimby moment.

"You once sat next to my brother [Nic] on a flight from Winnipeg to Hamilton."

"I've never been on that flight."

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been on that flight."

"Well, I won't argue; clearly you know your own life."

"Only parts of it."

'No, it says here Larry White.' 'I know my own name.' 'We'll see about that.'

He's an incredibly charismatic person. I can see why so many people deign to be interviewed on his show.

A surprising number of people were completely stymied by Mason's "i <3 bss" armband. Even when he explained, he was met with many blank stares. We quickly got the impression that most of the crowd was there to be at the Phoenix, not because it was hosted by BSS. Silly people.

Early in the evening, a kid walked up to Mason and offered to be his wingman. "Thanks, but I already have a girlfriend." Later I asked this kid his age. Nineteen – young enough to be one of my Grade 7 students in Wolfvegas. Gah. And that was the crowd right there.

We made a number of bids to talk to the various members of BSS floating around the club. Most successful was Sam Goldberg, who was a complete sport about wearing the bracelet for pictures and talking to me about fan culture in general and Trekkies in particular. Least successful was Brendan Canning, who greeted me in the dj booth with a surprised, "how did you get up here?" and brushed off my request as quickly as humanly possible. How did I get there? I showed the bouncer that I'd finished drinking my beer, and he took a split second out of his cell phone call to wave me upstairs. It's a dj booth, not the Sanctum Sanctorum. I'm more sad than frustrated; I'm two and oh on making meaningful conversation with Brendan.

But the jewel in our night was none of these things. It was the half hour when we were shaking our money makers with K Drew, James Shaw, Sam, photographer Norman Wong and their various lady friends. Dudes: we were having a dance party with Broken Social Scene. I was glad then that none of these kids knew who was in the house. There were no prettier girls jockeying for attention. There were no slicker boys to jostle Mason out of the way. There were just us, two drunken fans, dancing with Broken Social Scene. Later it was just me, trying to figure out if K Drew had water in the big bottle he clutched, and then the reproachful look he gave me as he hugged it protectively to his chest and didn't say anything. So I stole some unattended bottles instead.

Mason made one last try near the end of the night to get Brendan to wear the bracelet, but despite James' reassurances, the only thing he got was the chance to give K Drew a panic attack in the booth. Again, the "how did you get up here?" question. The bouncer thinks I'm going to request a song, that's how.

The rest of the night was some rather low drama involving the cracked out McDonald's at Bathurst & King, and the long drive to our warm bed. But when I closed my eyes for at least a day afterwards, I could see the faces of Broken Social Scene silhouetted against the gloom of a dance club, moving to the beat. All of us together. It was beautiful.

Still in store: the next day, with the story of my Grandmother's stroke. Not to mention the story of today, visiting with the Lawyer's tiny perfect baby before going to the hospital to help my mom with her mother's care. It's been a busy week – and I still have a pantload of marking to do.

Labels: family, friends, mason, music, outings

Hey, all y'all. Bet you thought I wasn't coming back till 2009. I hope we've all set up our RSS readers, 'cause I don't think I'm going to be posting any less erratically in the new year. (Or any more erotically. You can get that elsewhere on the Internet, or so I've heard.)

Dudes, I actually have to look up what was happened when last I wrote…

Oh yeah. Blake's birthday.

My whole strategy this December has been to focus only on the next goal. First it was Blake's birthday, which, despite the lack of party, was kind of a big hoohaw. After that, I was spending the week making my costume for my (major) student recital debut. And when I say "making," I'm talking about hemming the places where I turned a sleeveless velour turtleneck into a v-neck choli (almost like turning a sandwich into a banquet), stitching up my troupe armband by hand in the midst of a wildcat sewing machine strike, knotting lengths of novelty yarn onto an elastic waistband, and assembling all the makeup I've accumulated in my life. Also: I painted my nails for the first time in about 7 years, and tried to convince Blake that I was turning into a cyborg. He remained suspicious. "It's just paint, Mommy." Jessamyn painted henna on my arm, a design that's lasted till now in certain parts. I was ready.

The big day was…well, perfect. We were the only group to collectively choreograph our own dance – the rest were teacher-led classes and improv performances. We all looked AMAZING, and I even stopped minding The World seeing the belly I've been hiding since I came out of my mother's. We developed a new catchphrase ("It's okay, we're belly dancers") and spontaneously flashed our gang signal at each other before the dance started. We even had a miracle: Souzan does not perform in front of strangers, but she did, perfectly. (We all pretended not to notice, so's not to call her attention to her death-defying feat. She was our Coyote, but she got herself safely to the other side of the canyon.) I didn't screw up the improv verse under my leadership. It was so good.

With the dance debut done, I had a scant 12 hours to make ready for Mo & Brand's housewarming/xmas party. Fortunately, I didn't have to do anything but bake cookies and show up with the Blake. We had to miss Sarah & Leo's yearly do to dance, so this was our chance to sit and relax with the gamer geeks and geeklings. I miss those guys since I moved to B-ton. It just doesn't get any easier with time. But the party was nice, and the food was excellent and Blake accumulated many interesting new bruises and abrasions whilst playing in the basement.

After the weekend was done, it was just a matter of charging through my last week at school. I'm behind the 8-ball with two of my classes, so there was one period on the last day spent in tests with no fun at all. The others were treated to cartoons, although my 11 Faiths are apparently too sophisticated to enjoy the Tick. I didn't know there was such a pitiable condition.

The only other event of note in this week was when I scraped another car on Wednesday morning, resulting in a $500 cheque to some very nice people. Ho ho ho. It was totally my fault: I was trying to get through a gap in stopped cars, and I misjudged the distance. So in a week when everyone else in the GTA was skidding around in the winter wonderland, I just lack discernment. (Obviously.)

On Saturday I hosted a troupe tea to celebrate our successful debut and fight over Secret Santa stuff. Such a good way to end the year with the women who have changed my life forever. Sayward even give me a drop-spindle, a craft I was purposefully avoiding so that I could have the semblance of a social life. I can kiss that idea goodbye. Get ready for 2009: the year of the roving stash.

On Monday, Mason, Blake & I headed up to his parents' house for an Xmas sleepover. For people with four grandsons already, I'm continually surprised that they are so enthusiastic about seeing an honourary fifth. For me, the highlight was not the heated, late-night discussion of shifty Catholic priests, but rather the WWF wrestling ring of Mason's youth, unearthed for Blake's enjoyment. My boy had them all, including a ref. So we had the traditional Christmas smackdown, in miniature.

And then, on the way home, my transmission went on vacation. We were towed from the Kawarthas on the day before Christmas Eve, and the shop tells me that I'll be carless for a week into 2009 as well as on the hook for a 2 grand transmission. Ho ho ho…Santa, is there a mechanic in your family? Two repair bills in a week? Ho ho oh well. I've had a good run to this point.

Mason & I spent the time leading up to Christmas in an orgy…(wait for it…) of crafting. By the time Decemberween dawned, we had reduced the basement to a jumble of clean laundry, crafting supplies and a few unfortunate toys that got caught in the friendly fire. We spent almost all of the 'ween knitting, sewing and finishing things. And the best part was that it was fun. Blake was excited and happy, we were excited and happy, and there was a "Christmas in the trenches" feel to our final countdown of craftiness. Everything on my list was crossed off, with the exception of my mom's scarf that still needs an hour or two, but which I'd intended to finish on Christmas day (note to self: when hosting the family dinner for 10, don't expect a lot of time to sit n' knit).

I brought Mason to church on the 'ween, keeping him as far from my mom as possible. It worked, too: there was no apocalypse scenario, no fires to be doused. And I got to bring my sweetie to the big swirling chaotic mass of spirituality and grandparent-indulgery that is Xmas Eve. Also, for the second time in a lot of years, I didn't have the yearly "we are not going to your Mom's on the spur of the moment!" Decemberween fight that I've had with the Boy since we got married. Best Decemberween in a long time.

Yesterday I hosted my family for Christmas dinner. It was pretty good, right up until the point when the hat I'd made for my dad was widely mocked and I felt the need to retreat to the laundry room with my glass of wine before I burst into tears. I got over it. I had to. And everything else was excellent. My first turkey was juicy, completely cooked and, well, still had the giblets inside, but that wasn't a huge deal. The only snag was my spectacular lack of drinks, leading us to forage through the liquor cabinet for half-forgotten bottles of novelty whiskey. Even that was sort of fun, in retrospect.

And with the spectacular exception of my dad, all my other presents were well-received. It was a good Christmas. Of course, this one had no marital trauma, but it wasn't that that made me the happiest: it was putting my Blake to bed in his new pj's and then going to snuggle Mason while he finished reading "World's End." It was talking to Preacher on the phone. It was knowing that I had lots to do and many new things to be this year, and most of them were wonderful tasks and interesting identities. I'm happy. Merry Christmas, my peeps.

Labels: blake, crafty, dancing, family, friends, house rich, mason, outings

Yadda yadda day off yadda yadda yadda. Although I am sick today, this journal entry is brought to you by the letters K & V as in "Kindergarten Visit." All the SK parents are asked to come in to view their spawn in a classroom environment. Today was my day, and although my new principal has instructed me to return for a single afternoon class (wtf? Why do I have to come in for 77 minutes of work??), a new irritation has taken the place of that one. Namely: I appear to have a problem child on my hands.

Blake has been going through a difficult phase of late in that he is much more defiant, hysterical and stubborn than usual, and usual being very. Last weekend when Mason was laid up with a leg injury and I was busy assembling my mother's birthday present (aside: what the hell, photo corner industry? Why is your product so crummy?), Blake spent more time in his Naughty Spot than out of it.

(When I recounted this to his teacher, I choked on the adjective for Mason and blurted out "partner." Boyfriend seemed way too crass. And suddenly I've gone from respectable teacher, wife and mother to the sketchy single mom with the boyfriend who lies on the couch all weekend. Fuuuuuuck.)

And I know I've been overusing the "what the [cuss]" format in this entry, but my reaction to the teacher's report was an entirely typical: what the crap? How did the Boy and I end up with a problem child? We're both overachieving first children, adult- and praise-oriented. We were, and still are, brilliant and teacher's pets (to paraphrase Lisa Simpson). How could our own first child be the one the teacher hints of sending to the pediatrician? Suddenly all the potent Dutch pot I smoked before I knew I was pregnant and the daily dose of aspartame in my Diet Coke become much more sinister in retrospect. Which is sort of a joke, but not really.

In all seriousness, I'm stunned. It was Pixie & Nic who were fidgety, stubborn, hard-to-focus and rebellious. Why are we blessed with their spiritual child?

And though a part of me resists with all its might, blaming his teacher's vagueness or chalking it up to Blake's age, the other part of me, the one that wasn't really joking about the pot and the aspartame, is pretty upset.

My dance debut is in 2 weeks. Two weeks until the world sees my flabby pale midriff. I wish I could focus on something other than that aspect, but I can't. I'm shallow. Also, sick.

Tonight: Broken Social Scene!!

Labels: blake, family, mason, school

My narrative has gone off the rails in a big way, literally and not. That’s the problem with staying with family and friends: it’s too comfortable. In a hotel you have dead time, weird inconvenient lumps of minutes that bubble up unexpectedly and are perfect for a few scribbled words. Staying with my uncle and his husband has been enveloping in the best way, but not in a way that encourages writing.

Seattle is fabulous. Yesterday we did an all-you-can-eat dinner at the Alki House, a stunning log cabin that specializes in a homestyle fried chicken dinner with all the fixings. They even let you take home extra chicken, a courtesy unheard-of in the a.y.c.e. restaurants of my experience. This was after a day spent at the ocean, in a place called, confusingly, Ocean Shores. The day was grey and unpromising, but the presence of the ocean always makes up for a sullen sky. We started out in a crowded section of beach, then drove to a quiet rocky place where I scrambled up dangerous piles of boulders to keep Blake safe (with the power of my mind, I suppose, since he was moving too fast for anything else to help). On the top, in the whipping wind, we saw seals bobbing in the surf and some kind of porpoise showing off deeper in. Every time a fin appeared, I squealed and giggled in star-struck joy.

Today we visited Pike’s Place Market, which really is as wonderful as you’ve heard although it’s about 50-deep with tourists. (Not that I’m complaining – I am a tourist.) Mom bought a stunning bouquet from one of the many flower stalls, and I tried to take as many pictures as my macro setting and everyone else’s pace would allow. Lunch was a deeply satisfying combo of dolmades and spanokopita, eaten in a tiny alley somehow overlooked by the crowd. I found soap for my neighbours and a reprinted book on the art of kissing. (It’s of primary importance for the male to be taller than the female, so his raw vitality has the opportunity to make her swoon. Otherwise, the kiss is meaningless. D’oh.)

In the afternoon we went to Bainbridge Island, where I was turned loose in the legendary Churchmouse Yarns and Tea. As my tales of yarn tourism are generally only of interest to my knittas, and most of them will see the swag when I get back, I’ll confine myself to saying that the store itself is bright, well-stocked, and full of seductive store models that shook my every resolve. One non-fibre purchase that I was happy to make was a mug from a bird-watching series. My mug? Swallow, of course.

I’m so happy to be at my uncles’ house and so happy to be seeing the best of Seattle under their benign fussing. I’m already planning my return trip with Mason. He’d love it here, almost as much as I do.

Labels: family, vacation

Been traveling all day. Got up earlier than average in this Summer of Sloth, and ran around frantically in various states of undress, trying to pack it all up. Today is garbage day, so I also had to get it all to the curb before we left or face the wrath of my dad. I’m probably the only homeowner in the area whose dad makes someone else go out of his way to return the cans to my yard rather than letting the garbage sit for 2 weeks. Maybe the plan was just to give Nic something to do while my parents were gone – something other than bong hits in the living room, I mean.

At any rate, even though I ate breakfast in handfuls from the cereal box, I was clean and ready to go by the departure time. Of course, my parents were 20 minutes late, but at least I could feel holier than they…and I had a chance to say goodbye to my gardens.

Our plan ride was relatively uneventful: Blake was entertained by the video screens and tool a long nap. I wound up a ball of yarn and crocheted the hell out of a cute summer top. Life is good.

When we hit town, we went out to a Chinese food restaurant that overcame my dad’s fear of weird spices. I begged off the post-dinner trip to Lake Louise, as my back is aching and I want to wake up happy tomorrow. Three plus hours in a back seat this late in the day just isn’t appealing for some reason. And yet, now that I have the evening and the city to myself, I’m more than tempted to make a secret foray to Make 1 Yarn Studios. It may not be Casual Darts, but it just may be yarntastic.

Labels: blake, family, vacation

I’m discovering that gardening is more controversial than I realized. Who knew? In my ignorance, I thought gardening was all about the soil: either an old-fashioned love of tilling or a nouveau hippy be-in with Gaia. There are so many levels and opinions…it’s like saying, “I just started eating last week,” and hearing about the different foods I should be serving, eating and avoiding.

My vines are particularly contentious. The world seems to be evenly divided into those who think ivy is cool and those who have taken it off a house and therefore shudder at the very word. Nobody seems to take issue with my trumpet vine (no one will say bad things about hummingbirds in public), but the Boston Ivy provokes glowers from unexpected quarters. I’m fascinated.

The best thing about the past two weeks, other than my garden, has been Blake’s swim lessons. Last year we had him in lessons for a full month, which had an arguable amount of success but at least got him used to the idea of swimming. This winter’s experience with skating lessons was dismal, and I was afraid that his swim lessons would be equally frustrating. My worries were heightened by Blake’s custody schedule, as the first two lessons were under the guidance of the Boy, who never tells me anything if he can help it. I was desperate to know how it was working.

On Wednesday, the first day I took him to the pool, I discovered two surprising things: Blake was alone in his class, and Blake was flourishing under the tutelage of a tall, skinny, black lifeguard named T. And when I say flourishing, understand that before the lessons started, this kid couldn’t be pried out of a lifejacket without screams and panicked clutches. Under T’s watchful eye, Blake used a floatation barbell to kick on his back across the entire pool. While T sat beside him on the stairs, Blake obediently bobbed again and again. As T swam beside him, Blake used a flutter board for ten whole minutes at a time.

T is made of magic. I want him at my table every time I need Blake to try a new vegetable.

Blake and I leave tomorrow for our Planes, Trains & Automobiles summer vacation. This trip was a result of my parents wanting to take Blake to Disneyworld last winter, but having to postpone because of my inconveniently-timed separation. Tomorrow we set off for the Badlands, and from there the mountains and the sea. I have pretty low expectations (it won’t be a Casual Darts tour, for one thing) but I’m sure it will be a good time for Blake. Besides, irony tends to kick in and the trips with the lowest expectations are usually the most surprising and fun. Either that, or I’ll be hitchhiking home after a few days of trying to sleep though all of the snoring. Stay tuned.

Labels: blake, family, garden, vacation

When we bought this house last year, my mom quietly began to plant things in our gardens. She and her mother have gardened ever since I knew them, and although I was around gardens my whole life, I never bothered to do much or learn much about growing plants. I’m not completely apathetic; one of my favourite books from last year was Down & Dirty, a hip book of gardening projects for every level of engagement. Using this book, I planned my gardens for this year. Strawberries in the front, blueberries in the back, a trumpet vine up the back of the house, a dinosaur garden for Blake near his sandbox, containers full of vegetables…oh yeah, I was ambitious. But when it was looking like I’d be gone for a full month this summer, my ardour cooled. Vacation plans plus a typically hellish June with an extra helping of stress and depression finished off my ambition neatly.

And still, my mom and her mom quietly planted my garden for me. Tulips, mums, a hosta, day lilies, two rose bushes, foxgloves. A lot of the perennials from last year came back, and Grandma made a point of filling up the two swans in the front with some annuals. (The swans keep Beryl the houseplant company in the summer, when I move her to the middle of the lawn to cover a stump.) Last fall we seeded the back with grass seed, which had completely died out in that yard at some point before we bought the house, and this spring lots of grass poked up. It was a nice little plot. But it wasn’t mine. I watered it when I remembered, which wasn’t often, and I let the weeds expand. Mom & Blake planted beans along the back which were quickly eaten by bugs.

Last week everything changed. I’m not sure what changed: if I became more determined, or if my plans had become more than vague musing. Maybe my parents just decided to help, and that was the push I needed. In any case, they came over last week and started digging out beds. Mom, Blake & I went to the garden centre and came back with three ferns, two vines, a packet of sunflower seeds for Blake, three bags of dirt and a soil testing kit. For the first time in my adult life, I picked out the plant and the place. For the first time in my adult life, I put a young root ball in the earth myself. I was (and am) inordinately proud of myself.

Now when I get up in the morning, my first job after breakfast is watering the plants. I water the front gardens that my mom planted in the hopes that I would someday take a natural interest in gardening, and pay special attention to the place where Blake planted his seeds despite the late season. I go to the centre of the lawn and water Beryl, my faithful houseplant who lived long after any weaker plant would have withered away, and the two swans full of flowers who swim along with her each summer. I water Spidey the spiderplant who chums with Beryl in the winter and hangs aloof on the fence in the summer. I water the pot of perennials that my mom bought last year, that still struggles gamely onward after quite a lot of neglect. I water Blake’s dinosaur garden and the little plastic dinosaurs that stalk between the fronds. I go around the corner and water the trumpet vine that’s already reaching for the wall and demanding a trellis. I water the Boston ivy between the windows that I hope will make my house more and more like a library. I water the few beans in the back that have, against all expectations, survived their sisters and have shot out vines that require me to improvise with bamboo shish kebob skewers and string. And then I weed. I love the weeding. I often can’t stop weeding once I start, even if I know I need to be somewhere else and even if Blake is calling to me. God, I love the weeding. And luckily, there are lots of weeds to pull.

This morning the Boy came to pick up Blake, and I discovered that the frustration I feel around him could be profitably channeled into my gardening. It only took an hour of weeding to lose the anger, and I would have weeded longer if I hadn’t become dizzy. How did I get into gardening? Simple: I bought a house and lost a husband. Don’t try this at home.

I have been super busy the whole week that Blake’s been home. There have been a lot of outings, a few parties, and a lot of cooking, laundry and cleaning. The pureed food experiment is going well, although my success rate is still a lot lower than when I cook with other books. Blake has started eating peeled cucumbers and tomato slices as an appetizer, which is awesome.

As much as I’ve enjoyed this week, I’m looking forward to these next few days. I need the sleep, for one thing. For another, I’ll get the chance to do a few things that require solitary concentration, like writing this journal and setting down the Strong Bad crochet pattern for those who have asked. Maybe I’ll even get to eat something that Blake wouldn’t touch with a pole. Good times.

Labels: blake, family, garden, house rich

Battling a low-grade spring cold and a heavy conviction that I won't manage to finish out the teaching year in good form. Two weeks to finish Catcher in the Rye and all I want to do is lie down. With a book that isn't Catcher.

In my last entry I think the emphasis came through in the wrong place. I wasn't so much complaining about my impossible child as I was coming to the realization that I need to make things a lot less tough on myself. It's my stubbornness that makes things so damn hard for both me and Blake. It's this feeling that I'm doing him a disservice if we bring a wagon, or if I buy him an ice cream in the afternoon. I need to stop taking such a hard line about everything and try to be happier, lighter and more present. I need to stop worrying about the future Blake (the soft, spoiled kid I'm afraid of creating) and start enjoying the weird, energetic, sweet boy I have now.

Last night I participated in one of the most fun ideas ever conceived: a blend of Rocky Horror and Pee Wee's Big Adventure called "Pee Wee Herman Picture Show" at the Bloor Theatre. Nic, Mason, Pixie, Pixie's husband and a few hundred others came with me and were transported. Unlike the Rocky Horror Experience, in which you are encouraged to hate the characters on screen, we all love Pee Wee. I know the movie well from my younger days, and I think I scared Mason a little with the depth of recall I could command once the Danny Elfman score started to unspool. By the time we staggered from the theatre, I was voiceless from two hours of laughing, singing, and cheering along. Mason, Nic and I all agreed: if we hadn't had to work today, we'd have turned around and bought a ticket for the second show. I hummed the theme all the way home. Oh, and that this was Pixie's very first time seeing the movie. I couldn't have picked a better way to show her.

And there was something about being in a theatre full of happy people that made it better than Rocky Horror in which you throw contempt along with your toilet paper. Everybody was there for Pee Wee, and a number of them brought their kids to share in the fun. It still makes me grin, just thinking about the screams during the Large Marge scene.

"You have to watch it! You're 30!!" - nic attempts to be sensitive to my anxiety

I had promised Nic Ethiopian food that night, and after listening to his hissy fit when we went to Chippy's before the show, I decided to take him out for some fermented fun after the show. Unfortunately, Nic was a little too sick to enjoy himself, so Mason & I sipped drinks and tried to resuscitate our voices while my brother morosely shoveled food in his pie hole. I went to bed far too late for a school night, but so very happy that I had made it down.

Labels: blake, family, friends, health, outings

One of the things I forgot to mention about Mother's Day was that I hosted a barbeque for my family. Very low stress; just my parents, Nic & the Blake (who fell asleep before eating his burger). My mom even picked up the food, which was a blessing in my post-party-bus state. It was one of the good nights; Foreman-grilled burgers liberally garnished with tonnes of loud conversation & laughter.

dad: "I thought your feet were bigger."
nic: "what are you implying?"
me: "you know."

In contrast to my other weeks, it's been pretty quiet around here. I took Monday as a sick day, and spent it watching videos and eating salty snacks. My parents took Blake that night, meaning that my triumphant return to work on Tuesday was made as easy as possible. I'm having trouble establishing a consistant night routine, what with all the interruptions in service. Almost every night I spend with Blake includes the inner question, "so, what should I be doing now? And when?" When I can get him bathed and into bed before I pass out, I'm doing real well.

On Wednesday my mom & I went to North Gomorrah to see "My Fair Lady." I like spending time with my mom, and I like going to the theatre and I tend to like musicals. Unfortunately, these were the best parts of Wednesday. Eight p.m. on a school night is not a good time for something to begin, at least in my dozy world. I spent most of yesterday craving my bed, and I couldn't lie down fast enough once I got home. My dad, who was over to fool around with my fence, was incredulous that I would want to lie down. Just because I don't do my lying down in front of a teevee doesn't mean we're not alike, Dad.

This weekend is the first one with Blake in a while. I plan to celebrate with a trip to see the local fair and possibly a quest to the grocery store. I am an exciting single mom! Ka-pow!!

Labels: blake, family, outings

Last night I got on a bus with 13 other teachers, various snacks and a tonne of booze. Destination: Niagara Falls. Purpose of visit: Ladies Night. It was completely unlike me; I was way out of my comfort zone, not to mention wearing a low-cut grey dress and a push-up bra. And yet I had a brilliant time.

Poppy came over to my house early, and we chatted while I did some last-minute tidying that I hadn't done because I was busy recovering from Drunken Knitting. Poppy is such a great friend that she immediately joined in, and between the two of us we had the place sparkling within a half-hour. So completely awesome. Then it was time to put on my owl dress…which wasn't zipping properly…and led to the last minute substitution of the grey dress. So instead of being quirky and childlike, I was busting out of this slinky grey thing. Shit happens, I suppose.

Trixie came to the door when I was in my underwear, so I rushed down to let her in with a dress held over my front. Good thing we take yoga together, and the sight of my granny panties is a familiar one. We quickly primped and prepped and the three of us stepped out the door with our potluck goodies, taking my wedding boa for good luck.

Our cocktail hour was kind of rapacious, as none of us had eaten supper and we fell on the dips and snacks like wolves on the fold. There's nothing quite like a room full of beautiful, ravenous women set loose on a buffet. It's humbling. We also started the night's drinking in earnest, me with Orangina and rum and the others with more grown up drinks. What can I say; Preacher has ruined me for more sophisticated mixed drinks.

By the time the party bus pulled up, we were more than ready to be let loose. The ride to the falls was marked by laughing, dancing & drinking. We made good use of the pole, let me tell you. This was my first real surprise of the night, that I would have so much fun lurching down the highway, dancing and giggling and getting down in a 3" wide aisle. Reminded me of the C*8 improvised punk dance floor, in the best possible way. When you gots to dance, you gots to dance.

Trixie wouldn't let me take my knitting into the casino, so spent a profoundly bored 45 minutes staring at people who looked like they just came from Arby's for a brief stop at the slots. It ain't no fun to be wearing a tight evening dress when you're in a crowd that could be at the mall. Things picked up when we got into the nightclub, which was packed tighter than a rubber brick. I can't even imagine what it would have been like back when they let us smoke indoors; we were asses to elbows (thanks, b-girl!) and I grew desensitised to strangers brushing up on me at all times. In 2 ½ hours of dancing, I didn't recognize a single song, and was tremendously amused to be the only one in the crowd not singing along. I made this comment to a stranger, and he was incredulous. "How can you not know this song?" Because I live under a rock, buddy. Or, more accurately, because I live under a shifting yarn stash. It muffles the sound of your popular music.

I spent a goodly chunk of the night talking to some tall guy in a sweater who kept telling me how innocent I looked. I liked hanging out with him, but I was absolutely blunt. "I'm a single mom. I'm a cynical goth. I'm on a bus with 13 other women. I'm not getting picked up tonight. I like talking to you, but if you want to go find some other girl, I won't be upset." He stuck around for awhile, his arm around my waist, and we yelled minimal conversation in each other's ear. At one point he said that he wanted to kiss me, so I let him. Why? Because he was sweet, and because it wasn't going anywhere, and because I didn't really want to know his name or for him to know mine, and because it was Ladies Night. There was no making out, just a few random kisses, and then he went away.

I heard about it on the way back. "Who were you making out with?" "Nobody," I said, and kept eating chips. That's just as true as anything else I could say.

oh, what a night!

Considering that I saw Blake for a grand total of 4 hours today, it was a pretty damn fine Mother's Day. When the Boy dropped him off for church, Blake held out a five dollar bill. "Happy Mother's Day!" he beamed.

I looked at the Boy and smirked. "You are a class act."

"It's for the spring concert ticket!" he protested, but the damage was done. Highly amusing.

Pixie and Scout dropped him off for supper, waking me from a long nap of doom in the late afternoon. I didn't know that they were coming over, and I was really glad to see them. The Boy has been stiff and uncomfortable this past week, so I'm just as happy to see two friendly faces, especially since I haven't seen Pixie since last summer and I haven't seen Scout since she came by to move over a load of the Boy's stuff.

I'm glad to know that I still have sisters, even if I may not have a husband.

Labels: bat masterson, blake, dancing, family, outfits, outings, the boy

Listening to a lot of music these days, as always. I've been unusually pleased with the albums I bought two weeks ago, and I think I figured out why this morning. I finally have something that the Boy doesn't know about. In some ways the worst aspect of our separation is that he started keeping secrets right away, while he was still living with us and our lives were open to him. Now that he's gone, I'm curious about all manner of things. Is his bathroom as filthy as it was when we dated? Is he cooking real food or stir-fries and pasta? Is he already dating? Is he thinking about dating? Does he spend as much time thinking about us as we do thinking and talking about him?

These are questions I won't ask, nor would I trust his answers. (See above, re: secrets.) Music was/is a big part of what we have in common, and there is something about having music he's never heard that makes me feel a little less vulnerable. I suppose that moving on needs to start with the feeling that I don't need him to enjoy Arcade Fire with me if I'm to enjoy it at all.

Aaaaand speaking of music, I suppose we're all wondering the same thing: how did the third night of the Brampton Indie Arts Fest go? Well, fabulously, of course. I went home for a bit after school, then went to my parents' for dinner and Blake noodling while I waited for Nic to come home. He was an hour late (which I should have expected but somehow didn't) and I had to drop him off at Kenny's house before driving myself to the theatre. There was barely time for a driveway dance-party before he was into the house and I was gone.

The main stage was late, so I saw a bit of Courtney Lynn's set and bugged back to the main theatre in time for the beginning of that program. I caught all of Dan Griffin's set, which was so lovely that it felt instantly familiar, and so intimate that he could hear me boo'ing when he asked if everyone had had a good Valentine's Day. (Hee.) Somehow I managed to get a free copy of his CD (no, not by stealing it, thank you) and will be passing it on to someone else who will love it.

Back to the Secondary Stage for David P. Smith, a quirky solo accordion player from B.C. who isn't Geoff Berner. He was a lot of fun, and there were so few people in the theatre that I could stretch out on the floor in front of the stage and pretend I was at StanFest.

Back to the Main Stage for Dr. Steve Mann's States-of-Matter Quintet. I love the hydrophone, but it was kind of disappointing seeing it so far away after last year's up close experience. Not that I played it last year, but I liked that I had the option.

Intermission! I did something I never ever do: buy and drink a regular Coke after 10. It got the job done, though, and I went back in for Becky Johnson in considerably better spirits. (Weird, spastic, funny monologue about an agoraphobic with social anxiety accepting a write-in election for school president.)

The next act was billed as "A Celebration of Canadian Beards: 50 of the GTA's finest beards will swarm the stage of the Rose Theatre," and I was beard-spotting all night, trying to figure out who I would see. Only one beard was present, and though it was a great beard, I can't help but feel cheated.

I went to the lobby to complain to Nic and stood around chatting to him and Kenny and some of their friends. Kenny is an old friend and old bandmate of Nic's. He has a moderately successful music career and knew enough about tech to get he and Nic employment as teenage roadies at a variety of festivals and concerts when we were all in highschool. Kenny is also probably the weirdest functioning adult I've ever met. As a kid, I found his company hectic and unpredictable in the extreme, but he can also be as charming as Satan, and this was the side on display Friday night. I think we made a playdate for him and Blake.

nic and the gross bald spot he's shaved into his head

his eyes shut under the radiance of his own sneer

I went back to the theatre for Maypole, a film inspired by a Joel Giroux poem and scored by Gavin, another old friend and bandmate of Nic's. The follow-up was Dorit Chrysler, an awesome blonde sex-kitten theremin player. She was poised and talented and kind of spooky in a way that totally fit the sound of her instrument. I liked her a great deal, even though the Coke had worn off and I was getting sleepy again.

Two more films: Golden Age, a hilarious animated short following the later lives of various imaginary candy and cereal mascots. Then, Nic's film: A Day or More in the Life of a Russian Furniture Maker! A Grade 12 story that had received a 60% was produced by Kenny into an OAC project that got a 90%. This was that film. Silly and clumsy in parts, but fun and weird. After it was done, Kenny got into the puppet booth to chat with Curtains, the puppet MC. (He and Nic had been talking about doing it, but only Kenny had the guts when all was said and done.) Somehow, seeing Kenny as a puppet only made me like him more, especially when that puppet plugged my brother.

Because all enjoyable experiences need a palate cleanser, the next act made me want to tear out chunks of my hair to distract from his voice. No names, because I don't want him to ego-Google and get sad. But it was the first time I truly understood what it would be like to listen to Vogon poetry. Ugh.

The festival closer was an outfit called Samba Punk Sound System, a group of percussionists somewhere between a marching band, a drum circle and a house party. They encouraged dancing, and when they started up, I knew that all my time in the hippie dance circles of StanFest would compel me onto that stage. I waited until two girls ahead of me started dancing up the aisle, and did a different dance behind them so they would know that I wasn't biting their style. We got onto the stage, joined the guy who was already dancing up a storm, and started the wild rumpus. At one point during that frenetic first dance, I opened my eyes and saw my brother and Kenny playing drums at the other end of the stage. I danced over, one of the two girls following my lead. Nic caught my eye and grinned. And then I danced until the drums stopped, at which point I realized that I had lost my breath some time ago and could taste blood at the back of my throat. So when the next song started, I got up and danced some more. Absolutely glorious.

When it was over and we had shaken hands all around and gone back to our seats to watch I Met the Walrus, I tried to catch my breath. The endorphins were still sizzling, and I found that I didn't care much about anything. Even the lingering cough didn't bother me (although I decided that dancing had somehow given me the TB, and delighted in accusing the other dancing girls.) When the film was over, I caught up to Nic and Kenny in the lobby. Kenny held his palm up. I high-fived it, smiling.

"I have got to thank you. You took it up a couple of notches."

I smiled bigger, wondering what this was about.

"I was sitting there with Nic, trying to get him to go up. He was complaining about his wrist. And I said, how can you stay here when your sister is up there, owning the place?"

Like I said, charming as Satan. And I, for one, welcome my Satanic acquaintance.

Labels: dancing, family, festivals, friends, music, the boy

This is my second weekend off, and true to form, I've stayed up too late, overslept, and hardly touched my professional work. I did get a lot of domestic stuff done, though, and in my defence my dad was over at the house for close to 5 hours. I love my dad, but he's kind of lonely now that he's in retirement. When no one else is around, he often comes up with a project for my house, which is extra fun when I've been awake for 10 minutes and being asked about programmable light switches. I ended up cooking dinner for the two of us, as the alternative was each eating alone in our quiet houses. I figured that I owed it to my mom to feed him at least a few times.

(Why, yes, the Boy did cite feeling smothered by my family as a reason for his desertion. How observant of you.)

My other bit of defence is that my late night and later morning were the result of genuine social interaction and not pointless websurfery. Last night I had an extended visit with Mason's baby Sage, after which I went to Drunken Knitting and closed the night down. I am completely in love with Sage, and found a way to hold him for most of the three hours that I was over at his house. (I even have a touch of carpal tunnel in my forearms today, which makes me feel like a bit of a mommy copycat.) No pictures because my camera is taking some exotic vacation of which I was uninformed (read: lost). Take my word for it: he may very well be the most beautiful baby since a certain alien-eyed moppet stole our hearts in 2003.

Drunken Knitting was also awesomely awesome (and featured a soundtrack bonus, as we were unexpectedly rocked like a hurricane.) The Gorgeous Ladies of Yarn were more than ready to dish about my domestic bizness, which is a welcome change from some of the other groups I've been in of late. (The only thing worse than talking about my marriage dissolving is not talking about my marriage dissolving.) I was humbled by the revelation that I am the most sexually inexperienced knitter in that pool by a factor of 20. Or maybe I was relieved. I can't remember.

Labels: family, friends, knit, outings