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

Yes, it’s been awhile. And if I didn’t forcibly carve out some time while Mason cooks and Blake sits in a time-out, there wouldn’t be this entry, either. My life is so stinking busy that I often have to make time for laundry and returning library books. There is so little relaxing that writing time is completely sacrificed. It sucks. I’m not happy about the fact that stories have been building in my head and pictures on my camera; both equally likely to fade away before they are noticed and dragged into the light.

Still, Wednesday was special and I want to spend those precious moments when I should be making a Hallowe’en costume or – heaven forfend! – marking, to think about them.

You will, by now, be prepared to roll your eyes when I tell you that we went to a concert by another member of the BSS family. (All I can say about our monomaniacal focus is that at least I like music again. Musical appreciation went into eclipse for just about all the years that the Boy & I were together, revived only by periodic pilgrimages to StanFest and the brief non-goth clubbing experiment of 2002-3.) It used to be that I only broke school-night curfew for something as epic as a Nick Cave concert; now that I’m in love with a smorgasbord of local and semi-local musicians, these “epic” nights come closer and closer together. I would have made arrangements for any night of the week (as I did for the Hidden Cameras gig last month) but Amy Millan’s Wednesday concert was particularly well-timed: every Wednesday during the school year, Blake spends the night with his dad and I am, if not responsibility-free, then responsible only for myself. Responsibility-reduced, I suppose. So we bought tickets last month and prepared for something, well, epic.

I’ve only been to the Mod Club a few times; despite living a block down the street, I don’t remember it being a concert venue then. The first time was to see Daniel Johnston, the second for They Might Be Giants, so I associate the place with eclecticism and a devoted crowd. The location also gave me a chance to introduce Mason to Kalendar, a restaurant from the old days that I visit now all too infrequently. Mason drew my attention to the Shiatsu School of Canada across the street, and the idea of massage gripped us (heh) until after supper. Mason has a number of permanent conditions and has been looking for a good legitimate massage for a long time (as opposed to the kind that are advertised in the back of local papers and take place in trailers). He got an appointment for after supper; I was so full by this time that I was more than happy to curl up on the waiting room bench and close my eyes until he came out of the room.

He emerged sweaty and disheveled. “That wasn’t a shiatsu massage,” he pronounced. Oh no! And the place looked so classy.

Yeah, well. It wasn’t one of those massages, either. It was acupuncture and cupping, which is one of those things that remains completely exotic to me. It helped, though; Mason was pain-free for at least a day which is a new record. He was comfortable enough to suggest walking to the club, three or four blocks away in a night that seemed anxious for winter’s official start. I have yet to harden to the cold. But it was fine.

We got there too late to get a booth seat, but early enough to bag standing room on stage left, where we stayed for the whole night. I was glad for both the close-up view and that we were cut off from the comings and goings in the back of the room, so we could concentrate on the music and not crowd-watch. This made it a complete surprise at the end of the night when the room thinned out and every second person was a musician or in the BSS family.

But! That moment was at the other side of two hours of fairly quiet music. We saw the Bahamas last June, opening for Zeus, but this was the first time we’ve been able to see him without a wall of hipsters in the way. Mason bought the album back then, so this time we actually knew a few lyrics. It was a listening audience, quiet and supportive, clapping along when asked and staying silent when not. Afie struts and preens like a hair-metal lead guitarist, but it’s packaged in jeans and a button up shirt, with quiet melodic lyrics and a creepy dad mustache. It’s fun to watch.

Amy came out with many of the same people as in Harbourfront, with the notable addition of her sweetie and bandmate Evan, who decorated the stage with flowers a la a Stars concert. It was a beautiful concert, full of little stories and gentle sweetness. It was quiet, too; standing next to the amps wasn’t even an issue. It’s hard to describe how soothing and lovely she sounds live; she sets such a high standard that it’s easy to take it for granted. I honestly didn’t think that “Bruised Ghosts” could get any better than the album version, but when Feist bounded out of the wings to sing back-up and Evan and Doug Tielli sprayed us with two trombone parts, a wave of joy flooded my body.

Seeing the family was incredibly surreal. I went to the bathroom while Mason waited to talk to Evan, and when I got back, Ron Sexsmith was getting hassled by security as he walked backstage. “I’m with the band!” he protested. Is Ron Sexsmith gonna hafta choke a bitch?, I thought to myself, amused. Finding it difficult to decompress, I decided to stall for time by picking out some merchandise. I realized that Kevin Drew was behind me, talking loudly to his parents. Be cool, I thought, and went to the bank machine. We had come to the venue with 7 dollars, and had spent that on a single beer. I’m not complaining, as it left us clear-headed for what happened next.

The merchandise table had no change, so they sent me to the bar with my wallet in my hand. As I turned around to go back to the table, a guy asked me for ten dollars. We started to banter back and forth, introducing ourselves, talking about money and being a teacher (me) and how he had thought about it but didn’t care about teaching (him) and I realized that he looked familiar because he plays bass in Metric. Mason was still carrying the book around after having Evan sign it, and Josh found the one picture he was in to autograph. Jimmy Shaw wandered over to see what we were doing and exclaimed over the book. “That’s my picture! I took that on my camera!!” So we had him sign it, and we chatted about the New Year’s Eve dance party which he claims to only vaguely remember, “but not because [he] was drunk.” Smirk. So that’s why they were so nice to us. I’m not proud, I’ll take it.

Brendan Canning was also wandering around beardless, and we found the opportunity to apologize to him for invading the dj booth during the dance party. He was gracious and sweet, which is the first time I’ve been able to see up close what everyone says about him. All is forgiven, I hope.

There were still more autographs to bag, but at this point we were so overwhelmed by the rapid succession of meetings that we decided to leave. We were a block away before I realized that I had left the camera, full of lovely close-ups and photographic proof of the very special guest, somewhere in the venue. I ran back, but it was just sitting on the stage, waiting for us. The place was full of musicians, so who would have stolen it anyway?

We were still lucky.

Labels: music, triumph

Everything continues to accelerate, and the fun keeps piling up with barely a moment to stop and write. I'll do my best before we have to leave for the next concert(!).

On Friday I convened the first in what I hope will be an ongoing series: Drunken Knitting, B-ton. It was a small turnout, and three of us came in the same car, but it was more fun than I've had at a Toronto edition in a long time. As the place brews its own beer, we started with pitchers, and ended up drinking a good deal more than we might normally. This is evidenced by the fact that it took me all night to cast on for a baby hat, and Jessamyn forgot to pay her bill on her way out. Hee.

Next month my minister might be in attendance. I feel like I'm at the start of something very very good.

I felt less positive the next morning, though, when the alarm went off at 7. We were getting up to help Jess at her jewelry stall. The summer Arts Festival is held in the lovely downtown Rose Theatre, site of the beloved departed Indie Arts Festival. And though it was early, and we had nearly four hours to fill before the second shift arrived, who doesn't like playing store? Especially when you get to wear jewelry samples all morning and play dress up with potential customers. I found a still-life painter that could be commissioned to do a sage canvas (in honour of Sage, of course) and fell madly in love with a Calamity Co., pendant maker who used vintage images and rescued text to create satisfyingly heavy work. I was attracted to the Alice in Wonderland pieces, then I discovered that a large selection of the pieces were knitting-themed. I bought a Red Cross Knit Your Bit pendant with a pattern on the back, and I think I may have found another recruit for Drunken Knitting.

Two weeks ago when we came downtown for the Broken Social Scene concert, we came later than we should and had to be content to stand. Consequently, we had decided to get to yesterday's Amy Millan show as early as possible and then camp out. What we didn't count on was the rain. There was a lot of it. There was so much that there were no tourists at Harbourfront, and we were able to get a parking spot on the closest lot. There was so much rain that by the time we went from the car to the shops, and the shops to the stage, we were soaked to the skin. And I, of course, was still wearing my jewelry-hawking outfit, which was a sleeveless black dress and thigh-high stockings, with vespa boots & my small-brimmed couture hat for extra stylishness. Nice.

We washed up like drowned rats at the front of the stage, in an almost-completely deserted auditorium. "Plenty of good seats still available," I gasped to Mason. He nodded, wringing out his Tilley. We watched an equally-wet band set up, and Amy caught our eye.

"It's wet," she called out. "Uh huh," we breathed, too stunned by the rain to say anything else.

"You're here early," she continued.

"We were here last week and we couldn't get seats."

"Well." She smiled knowingly. "That was a different thing entirely."

This set the tone for the afternoon: Amy would set up, talk to her band, and in lulls, come down to the front and chat with us. (And yes, I'm going to reproduce as much of it as I can remember, because the woman is amazing and I'm still astounded that we had so long to talk, and that I didn't say anything weird to fuck it up as I'm wont to do with Kevin Drew or my new target, Gentleman Reg. I'll try not to rewrite my dialogue so that I sound like Oscar Wilde, which I certainly don't in real life.)

She even tossed us some water she'd brought in for the crew, which I referred to thereafter as 'Precious Amy Water.' We asked her to sign our book, which she seemed happy to do. She, like Kevin on Wednesday, wanted to know who had signed it already. "Just Kevin and…?"

"That's Remedios."

She smirked. "Oh, Jeffrey." It is a little weird to be collecting the record label boss as part of the signatures, so I gave an extremely abbreviated version of our colossal disappointment, my loud ranty jackassery online and Remedios' out-of-the-blue email that let us in on the second night of the NXNE showcases. "We were so grateful that we asked for his signature," I finished.

"Wait a minute." She looked me hard in the face. "Are you Rocketbride?"

Oh. Dear. God.

Just as I thought that I couldn't be further humbled, that I was finally able to live with the idea that the people at Arts & Crafts are way more classy and generous than even I could imagine or credit, I find out that the reason it all happened was because a woman who I have loved from afar for a year, who is easily my favourite of the Three Graces, read my stupid, stupid posts and got on the phone to her label boss.

"People think it's all so private, that we never go on it," she said. "The truth is that I was supposed to be there that night for the book launch, but I had some sort of attack and I couldn't get out of bed. Evan and I – we're together – woke up, and I couldn't go. So I was looking online to see how it went, and I read your posts. I got on the phone to Jeffrey and said, 'look, we've gotta do something for these people.'"

"Thank you so much," was all we could think to say.

"Did you like it?" she said, flipping through the book. We nodded. She looked sideways at us, wide-eyed. "They left a lot out. And I kind of wish Stuart had shown me some of the things that Emily said. I didn't know she was going to go there; I didn't go there and I wish I could have commented on it."

"I used to write for Stuart at the Varsity," I offered. "My strongest memory of him is this one day when my girlfriend, who had a crush on him, wanted to go down to the newspaper office and seduce him. And I knew him, because I did all these little articles for the Arts section. So they got dressed up in French maid outfits and blindfolds, and I came along, and they tried to feed him cheesecake. But he was all awkward about it, and he said he was full, so I ended up feeding the cheesecake to this writer who was hanging around the office. We started dating the next year, we got married, we had a baby, he left me last year and now we're divorced. But that's how I remember Stuart, from that day at the Varsity."

Her jaw dropped satisfyingly. "Wow. Drama. Have you told him that story?"

"Nope. I've seen him at a couple of concerts, but I'm way too shy. He won't remember me and it'll be all awkward."

"You need to do it," she encouraged. "Don't be afraid of people." Which is, I think, the moral of every musician encounter I've had this summer and the way I can stop screwing it up and saying something dumb. Of course, they can't all be as nice as Amy. But it's a start.

When she went back to soundcheck, I turned to Mason. "Amy knows me," I whispered. "She read my stupid posts. And you were right, she and Evan are together. Can I see that picture you took? I forgot to put my chin down and I'm probably all neck."

He looked up at Amy, singing into the mic. "Actually, I think you have the same neck."

"We do. That's why she looks good and I don't. Her chin is down."

After that, the show couldn't help but be anticlimactic. I did love seeing Gentleman Reg walk out for his soundcheck and being comfortable enough to yell out, "where's your onesie?"

"It's not performance time yet," he admonished with a smile.

"Is it creepy that I know what you're going to wear?" I asked. He said it wasn't, but we all know better. This is what happens when it's been 10 days since the last time you saw someone perform: you get to know the stagecraft a little too well. It didn't matter in the long run; despite the creepy stalker factor, the onesie was put on and they did a rocking show that got a seated crowd to our feet and dancing in the aisles.

Amy's set was beautiful, just as we'd expected it. (And you can listen to the whole thing by clicking that link, courtesy Radio 3.) Her solo album was my February solace, my little fire to get me through the winter. Seeing it live was just about everything I wanted. We even got her to sing a song she wasn't sure she remembered, which involved a guitar part that would sometimes drop out when her hands got confused. The only thing missing was Evan on the trombone, but we got to hear the story of his sound check phone call, so that was ok. It's such a contrast from two weeks ago, when everyone was there sharing the stage, to Amy alone with only the stories and memories of her loved ones to keep her company.

"This little ditty I wrote with Kevin Drew. [audience cheers] Yeah, he's alright." - amy

Labels: music, outfits, triumph

Saturday's free Broken Social Scene concert was probably the best concert of my life. I say "probably" because it was operating on an extreme handicap: Mason & I had a dumb fight on the way in, and when I stalked off in a huff, the crowds of people guaranteed that I lost him for the night. I was sorry about 10 seconds later, but by then it was too late. Shit. So I spent a good deal of the next four and a half hours wondering how I was going to find him, and what I would do if I couldn't.

BSS concerts are supposed to be about Mason & I being with people who like what we like, not to mention surreptitiously stalking band members* while remaining too terrified to get close enough to wave. They're supposed to be about screaming and dancing and getting chills of beauty and howling lyrics to "Major Label Debut" in each other's faces. They are not supposed to be about stupid half-second decisions that make it impossible to concentrate on any of the good things. So this concert was under a cloud. The worst event is still a good one with Mason at my side; that this one managed to edge into the top spot is a testament to how many delights were on offer.

And there were a mind-blowing array of delights. This concert was very much a valentine to the fans, with each surprise wonderful on its own; overwhelming in the aggregate. The first thing that was awesome was that they were all there, with very few exceptions (Bill Priddle, Ohad, Leon & Torq were all I could think of). The core was there, of course: Kevin, Brendan, Charles, Justin, Andrew & Sam. And I've seen them with guests before. But this was the first night I've ever seen when nobody seemed able to leave the stage. Evan and Jimmy were there for the whole night, rotating between guitars, brass and percussion whenever possible (they always make me smile). Julie Penner stayed onstage after her violin parts were done, and rocked the percussion with a big grin on her face. Jason Collett was there, freakishly tall as always. All of the original three ladies--Feist, Emily & Amy--were there, plus Lisa Lobsinger who has her own songs at this point and more than held her own. There were also people I'd never seen up there, like "founding non-member" John Crossingham who was there playing percussion for "Fire Eye'd Boy," just like their Letterman appearance. I kept a running count, and by the time they played "Major Label Debut" for the third encore, there were 19 people on stage. It was unbelievable.

What made it more exciting than just the sheer numbers was the obvious way that they structured each appearance for maximum impact. First Kevin brought out Feist, who (with the exception of the NXNE gig) hasn't performed with them since '06, and who is on record as saying she might never play with them again. Then Amy, who performed a solo song with Evan doing the hiphop drums behind her. The two ladies traded off vocals on "Shoreline," a song I never thought I'd see with Feist at the mic. (She couldn't get it loud enough to suit, so she ripped off the cover early on. Still wasn't loud enough.) All of the girls backed Emily in "Anthems," a song so beautiful that it sends shivers down my legs.

The best part was that it wasn't just about Broken Social Scene songs. I could have gone home happy with a pure BSS concert, but clearly the idea was to give us a revue-style performance with each solo project getting their own moment of glory. This was first obvious when Kevin & Feist quieted it down, trading verses of "Past in Present" "Safety Bricks" & "I Feel It All" in beautiful, stripped down harmony. Then Emily, "the ninja" came out to sing a gently rocking acoustic "Gimme Sympathy," led by Jimmy and backed by the entire band. (Feist singing along with the rest of us, completely away from the mic and for the pure joy of it, made me love her even more. Amy's still my favourite, but Feist in front of BSS, wearing a skirt with pockets that she stuck her hands in from time to time when she danced like a five-year-old, was magic.) Collett came out and sang "I'll Bring the Sun," which is the loudest song I've ever heard from him and inspired some deep back bending that I haven't seen since the Heads' Tina Weymouth. Andrew and Lisa blasted us out with "Soul Unwind," which I last heard in a stripped down, essential oil version at the album release and which was a thousand times better with a gang behind it. Brendan and Lisa sang "Chameleon," chilling us all out.

It was like a dream of a concert, a show that had could go in every direction and might very well never end. I know that I didn't want it to end, and it was pretty obvious that no one on stage wanted it to end, either. The encores went on forever, full of Brendan's scissor kicks and the crowd screaming for more. Kevin kept trying to go home, but he was continuously overruled. Right before the third encore, he attempted to say goodbye.

"Who wants to hear KC Accidental?" Brendan yelled, cutting through Kevin's farewell.

"Okay," Kevin sighed. "But I'm going into the crowd for this one. I'll come up and sing, but I'm going into the crowd now." He did, and the band played through the fanfares without him.

It was overwhelming. It was a hundred plates of food from the best buffet in town. I was feeding song titles to a sweet group of kids on my left, one of whom had only heard BSS the day before, and trying not to dance-collide with the couple on my left, whom I later found out, met at a concert at the Drake in 2003. Free concert audiences are full of weird people, and I saw my share (like a woman who pestered for a close-up seat and sat, head down, the entire performance), but there was a lot of positive energy all around me and it elevated the night.

I needed that, worried as I was that I would miss Mason entirely. When Kevin led us in screaming apologies, and assuring everyone that "[we] still fucking love you," I choked. So, despite the parade of hometown heroes and despite the beautiful moments that threatened to crowd each other out, my best time was walking to the car in the dark, and seeing Mason walking toward me.

At the very first part of the show, Bruce Macdonald was there, to announce that he was filming the concert for an upcoming documentary. They want fans to submit footage from the summer, to piece out the story, and I wish I could recreate that reunion, to put it alongside the glory that was that show. I have the feeling that even if I figure out a way to do it, it won't get into the movie. That's okay. At the very least, I can buy the DVD and watch the whole thing over again. It's only been two days, but I can't wait.

* (And, just for the record, I managed to overcome my feelings for a spot of shy stalking when I looked around for Mason and found the Spearin family getting food. "It's Ondine!" I thought, and then I saw Lisanne, an original member of my prenatal group. By the time we were done chatting, I lost the target. I also approached Kevin's mom & dad after the show, as it seems I'm only shy normally. After a concert I appear to be flooded with endorphins and will ask anyone anything. It's probably a good thing for the Spearins that they didn't have to deal with two small children plus an insane fan while balancing plates of food.)

Labels: angst, mason, music, outings, triumph

I got five hours sleep last night, I’m running on a very large tea and the need to prove that I can’t be felled by my own stupid choices, I look like death on a cracker, but. But.

But just over 7 and a half hours ago, I was listening to Kevin Drew tutor us on the correct lyric to “Major Label Debut,” as he's hooked up and not fucked up. 8 hours ago, I was watching hundreds of balloons drop from the ceiling to be batted around by an ecstatic crowd who were all in agreement that they were “All Gonna Break.” Just before that I was watching Andrew Whiteman dance around Charles Spearin, who charged him with his guitar as if Andrew was a matador and Charles a guitar-strumming bull. Ten hours ago I was having an extremely abbreviated and awkward conversation with Brendan Canning, who stood 2 inches away from me on the other side of the barrier, watching the opening act. (“Hi.” “Hi.” I think this means that I get to come over tonight, if I bring a pizza.)

7 and a half hours ago, I was climbing into the backseat of the friendliest cab driver in the world, the first to let us in after 7 refused our short fare. I was toting 2 orange balloons, drop survivors we named Kevin and Brendan (we took Brendan from the gig, but we found Kevin in the gutter. In the morning, real Kevin’s earlier voice loss caused balloon Kevin to shrivel up. As one would expect.) Shortly before we got into the cab, we were shaking hands with Sam Goldberg and Charles Spearin, who were sweet as all get out (Sam and I talked about the balloons on the ceiling; Charles smiled graciously, his mustache beaming with pride, when I told him that we’d heard and loved “The Happiness Project” in Ottawa.) And 8 and a bit hours ago, I was watching “Love is New” and Brendan, dressed in a gold sequined short set, held aloft by the Broken Social Scene Solid Gold Dancers. (I really thought they were going to do a piss-take of the “1234” video, but they were classier than that.)

"You haven't even seen the motherfuckin' dancers yet!"

Just over seven and a half hours ago, I was laughing and whooping along to Kevin’s sleazy medley of “all the songs they hadn’t played” including “Almost Crimes,” “Fucked Up Kid,” “Swimmers,” “Hotel,” and “I’m Still Your Fag.” Ten hours ago I was watching the opening act and sneaking glances at BSS members wandering to and fro in the area just to my left, kind of like going to a backlit BSS zoo. Just before that, I was blowing a wad of cash at the merch table, including “I <3 BSS” socks to make sure I wouldn’t go bare-ankled today.

Through it all, from the moment we arrived in the line up to the moment we climbed into bed, I was laughing, kissing, dancing and screaming my joy right next to Mason, the only person who could have made me love this group this much. The soreness in my back and head and neck that is the legacy of an accelerated flu came sharply last night, but I discovered a wonderful thing: as long as I kept singing and dancing, everything felt alright. The kissing was either the icing on the cake or the cake under the icing.

Labels: mason, music, outings, triumph

Blake's Christmas concert was last night. O Christmas concert of preschool awesomeness, I sing of thee! There were many acts that blew me away. There were the SK's with a girl dressed like a Christmas tree who danced alone the entire song (me: "I want to be her.") There were the Toddlers dressed as snowflakes who stood amazed while their teachers tried to get them to shake glow sticks (except the one kid who cried unremittingly until muffled by a soother). And then there was my son, who helped to introduce his class, and was part of the only introduction not delivered in tragic sing-song. (At one point he forgot his line and just laughed directly into the microphone. It was quite possibly the most infectious laugh I've ever heard - and we all laughed along.) Blake was also the most enthusiastic performer in his class, jumping emphatically, singing loudly, and pulling a classmate into a dance seconds before the others remembered their cue. If I had any doubt that he was related to Pixie, that doubt vanished in the shake of an unlabeled stocking. I don't think I could tell you about anyone else on stage; the tunnel vision was profound. I was overwhelmed.

Of course, my hard candy exterior was already softened before the concert experience itself. I went to see a lawyer yesterday to draft a separation agreement, and the combination of that appointment, two nights of insomnia and a steady parade of happy-seeming families in the audience just about ripped me up. I've been brooding on this today, about what makes a pair decide to stick it out and go on with the first family, and what makes others split up and hope for another chance. My impending single status looms like that ridiculous monolith in 2001, throwing a shadow over these last days of co-habitation. I find myself wondering if I'd really prefer my old, pre-August life. A choice between lonely stability and lonely instability doesn't seem much of a choice. Still, I find myself longing for the chance to be forgiven. Maybe I'd still be here a couple of years down the road, but maybe I wouldn't. All I know now is that my family isn't all that dissimilar from the families I saw last night. It's just pulling apart instead of pushing ahead or pulling together.

Labels: angst, blake, the boy, triumph

Yesterday was my seventh wedding anniversary (as opposed to my mothering anniversary which coincides neatly with Blake's birthday, or the anniversary of the day I came out of retirement to clean up this rotten desert town.) I feel cautious in saying this, as there have been many storms this month, but I think it went pretty damn well. I got up with Blake and hurried through a number of chores and giftie preparations so that when the Boy woke up we could concentrate on getting him to church with his accordion.

(Aside: at the beginning of the summer, I signed him up for special summertime music. I thought it would be a good deadline to learn the new instrument, plus he'd be the lead-in to two weeks of tween instrumentals. If you haven't already guessed, standards are looser in the summer. This was a good plan right up until Saturday, when he began to panic, hence straightening his accordion path on Sunday.)

The Boy was excellent, and although there were a couple of train wrecks, people were too busy singing and clapping to mind. You definitely have surprise on your side when you walk up to the front and pull out an accordion. Even people who have been told aren't quite prepared for the majesty that is our creaky, dead-grampa-smelling accordion. It's just that awesome.

Blake fell asleep during the service, and thus chose books over a snack when he woke up (he may have been sleep-addled, as this is not a typical choice). We came home, made a massive 5-egg mushroom & cheese omelette, and revelled in the Boy's victory. Then there were presents.

(Aside: In all churlishness, I was a little afraid of what the Boy would get me. He had told me a few days before that he was starting from scratch, due to the massive series of fights we'd had after my birthday. I try not to get my hopes too high, but this year is wool-themed. It's relatively easy. Just Buy Me Yarn.)

I had made up a little knitting basket in honour of the Boy's fluctuating interest in knitting. There was exciting thick-thin Romni Yarn (and most importantly for the Boy, it was blue), two balls of the cheap cotton I'd picked up last week in Watertown that he'd admired, a pair of Brittany Birch needles to replace the ones I sat on and broke, and a copy of Knitting With Balls (the modern man's guide to knitting, which isn't nearly as stupid as it sounds). I also popped in a co-operative educational card game we'd picked up on the night we went dancing, and The Dangerous Book for Boys (a how-to omnibus which may very well have been his favourite gift. It rocks my socks, too.) The basket was to be for his stash, projects or whatever. I was pretty proud of myself.

Then he pulled out the ballwinder & swift.

Um, if you're not into yarn I just lost you completely. A ballwinder and swift are two tools that turn skeins (that yummy figure-eight of nice yarns everywhere) into a ball suitable for knitting. For two and a half years, I've been using God's ball winder and swift (i.e. my hands and my knees/my kitchen chair), which can be actually quite therapeutic if you enter into it with the correct spirit. I'd always consoled myself by holding that my lack of gear made me more like the knitters of old. Well, turns out that was just me being brave because I love my new equipment!! We wound two "yarn cakes" yesterday, one of which Blake immediately adopted and took with him on his overnight to Camp Grandpa. We'd've done more, but it's actually better to leave the yarn in a skein until you're ready to use it. More stable that way.

This constituted a second victory for the Boy, so we celebrated by watching Blake dig in his new giant grandparent-built sandbox all afternoon. It's the Cadillac of sandboxes: cedar planks, 900 pounds of soft sand, 8 feet by 4 feet…they went to town on this one (Sandbox Town, one assumes.) The next step is to trick it out by painting sea creatures on the seats and sides. Gorgeous.

My dad came over in mid-afternoon and picked up Blake for his night at Camp Grandpa, leaving the two of us to read, knit, work on the computer, snack, listen to ska, and generally indulge ourselves in the way that the child-free folk do. Unfortunately, I started feeling ill, so we cancelled our reservations at a nice restaurant and made do at a cheap Pho place instead. (Mental note: next time I'm sick, I'm going to avoid the tripe.) And then we caught the early show of Stardust, which was a) dashing b) complete c) only changed in a few tiny ways, one of which was disappointing, one of which made little difference and once of which was an improvement. So hooray for that! It's always good when a special occasion is complimented by a good book adaptation. Bravo to Mssrs. Gaiman & Vaughn: you have ensured that my anniversary did not descend into disappointment.

And as I have never made a habit of writing about the other stuff, we shall draw our curtain here. Happy anniversary, Boy.

more photos here

Labels: blake, gifties, the boy, threshold experiences, triumph

What the hell day is it? I'm having a bit of trouble adjusting to my post-party life, as in comparison to my pre-party life I have nothing whatsoever to do. Not only did we spend four and a half days in a painting vortex of despair, but Friday, the day I was supposed to be cleaning and cooking, turned into an 8-hour kitchen marathon, leaving the cleaning for the morning of the party. (And when I say 8-hours of cooking, I'm not being my usual over-exaggerating self. I started making marinades at 2:30 and was putting a banana and chocolate chip cake in the oven at 11:10. I did three full loads of dishes throughout the marathon and all the spoons were used up by 9:30.) The house came together beautifully, and I even had a free half-hour to take care of the study, which has been overflowing with boxes and books since we moved in. (Unfortunately, that meant that the Boy's future studio/study closet is now really out of commission rather than just being probably out of commission. Still, nothing will fall down if you open the door. I think I did well.)

The greatest part about having a housewarming in B-ton is that only the people who really like you will make the effort to show up. There are no casual drop-ins when that means a 50-minute bus ride. Once again, my knittas came through for me. They arrived on time in well-dressed and mighty ranks, brought gifts and consorts and babies (both born and yet-to-be), complimented the place extravagantly, helped in the kitchen, and set up a knitting circle in the living room. They took the extended tour as many times as I felt like giving it, they allowed themselves to be drawn into Blake's odd conversations, and they spontaneously formed the Greater Brampton Downstairs Accordion Recital Society while listening to the Boy jam. (Credit to David for the name!) Thank heaven for Lisa, Nadia, Michelle, Joyce, Sophie, Jacquie, Paul, Emily, David & Clara (the most delicious party snack I could have ever served).

the dazzling light comes from the knitters, not my picture window

I'm kind of sad this pic turned out so blurry, because I love Sophie's expression. The image is a cross between a Rembrant and a digitally-enhanced security camera still. Sophie is responsible for the fine art element; I'm the one with the grainy technique.

Michelle kicks off the yarn tasting segment

Nad was so pretty in her white sun dress and strappy sandals, and this is the best picture I could produce. Also, she's working on my crocheted welcome mat. Yee!

Other than the overwhelming force of the SNAY Team (Special Needles And Yarn) contingent, we were also blessed with:

• my grandparents (who brought a cheese plate, flowers and a magnificent old-school egg salad)
• my parents (who brought flowers and conducted information sessions on the fence and toolshed)
• Scout (who stayed all day and helped clean up)
• Nic (who arrived after the party ended and stayed to chat as everyone left)
• Exodus and Levitica (who also helped clean up, plus took the Boy out to see the Simpsons movie when the party officially ended),
• Cheryl and her whole family (Cheryl is a knitter, but with two kids, she had to be a mommy most of the time. Blake had a freaking BLAST running, climbing, jumping, yelling and digging around with K3nt0n!), and
• St. Jack & Sr. Maria (who engaged Blake in long fascinating conversations about rocks and insects)

What a cliché to say that I love them all, but it's true. I am so happy they came to warm our house, and that people who wanted to come out but couldn't sent their warm thoughts as well.

Swag pics! Sorry about some of the blurriness; I think I have a) more talent and b) better photographic equipment than facts will bear out.

drool-worthy yarn from Sophie, nestled in the Boy's accordion case

sheep salt n' pepper shakers from Lisa came nestled in a sewing pattern form and grammatically-incorrect gift bag. hee! massive candelabra from Nad that could be used as a menorah and currently snuggles my wonderful yarn from Sophie.

good luck bamboo from Joyce; 39-year calendar from Michelle; stripey thermos and yummy-smelling coffee from Emily, David & yummy Clara

a sheep's-eye view of the table

blurry but fun aerial shot of it all. not pictured: classy French wine from Jacquie & Paul and desperately-needed baking stone from Cheryl et. al.
I. Love. My. Friends.

I'm waiting for other pictures from other guests, including the delicious Clara and the delightful Pax, the rough n' tumble antics of two rough n' tumble boys, and the basement accordion jam that created a Society. Oh yes, fun was had.

Labels: blake, family, friends, gifties, house rich, pictures, the boy, triumph

"This next song is about a dream I had in which I was pursued by the Living Bride of Death. It's called 'The Living Bride.'"

The Friendly Rich show was last night. As always, edge-of-your-seat excitement, culminating in my adoption of a prize zucchini (it didn't win a prize; I won it as a prize).

Actually, I didn't win it in the strictest sense. The person who truly won the trivia contest wouldn't come forward, and after Rich complained that the last prize winner didn't take home the goldfish in the blender (Tony Fernandez) which meant that he (Tony) had to be killed, and thus the prize needed to go to a home that wanted it…in short, the victory fell on me. I think this makes up for the pizza I didn't get in May, especially since it was presented by an extremely surly Soot (who was wearing a nurse headdress).

It was a good time, bolstered by the attendance of Exodus & his girl Levitica and necessitating the consumption of much beer. (By the Boy, of course. I'm being Good From Now On, remember?) The opening acts were superb for a happy change: Mr. Marbles was a gloriously cool jazz band, Mississippi Grover was a one-man travelling-medicine show and his tonic was sonic, and The Scramblies scrambled up some down home washtub bass roots music about simple delights. I'm still singing "Sandwich" and "Snakes in my House" to myself. (The latter of which you can hear if you follow the link to the myspace page.) Oh, and Laura Barrett was there to add her kalimba to the understudy-sung "Sure that I'm Sure," which was a beautiful surprise. I miss going to her live shows and I've only seen her the once.

I was genuinely sorry that Lisa the Needle Addict and Stacy the…uh…frill addict couldn't make it – this clearly made up for Sir Smarmy and the Smirkalots from the May gig.

Some bonus pictures:

sometimes it's hard to be a spaceman...giving all your love to just one ship...

saying cheese

Labels: blake, friends, music, outings, triumph

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

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

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

Which would be me. Weaning and all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, I still can't calm down.

Labels: bat masterson, books, church, family, music, outings, the boy, triumph

I'm published!!!!! (Or, as Lisa likes to put it, I'm made of win. Which is a nice thing to be made of, and much better than being made of stalemate.)

The last few days have been extremely distracting for one of my limited attention span, and the moments not dedicated to end-of-term schoolwork have been squandered in basking. I'm basking right now. Bask.

Anyhoo, you can read the whole story on my other blog, or you can wait while I calm down. Like the phone connection in my house, which calmed down for 36 hours yesterday due to an unspecified number of squirrels eating through the wires. Yep, those were some nice 36 hours. It's such a good thing when your moment of triumph, located solely on the Internet, is denied you because of some goshdarn tree rats. Yes, sir.

There's only one thing a knitter can do at a time like this: strut.

Labels: knit, triumph