I showed this to my class on Friday, and I heard a voice pipe up, "ooh! xkcd! I love that strip!"

To which I, of course responded, "you're such a nerd. [pause] Have you seen the video?"

I'm pretty sure that I'm using the wrong needles for my Knitting Olympics event. Yeah. This realization comes after 1. realizing that I needed to learn a new and complicated cast-on, and deciding to go with the old standard cable CO instead, and 2. realizing that I had the wrong size needles for the cuff and 3. realizing that crowdsourcing the colour combo gave me the wrong one, and then ripping back 4 rows.

I feel like I showed up at the arena during the ice dancing event with my skates over my shoulder, and saying "yeah, I can probably do that. I can skate."

Is it worth it to rip back? Let's see how well the second one turns out. I figure I can compete and fail. Thousands do.

"What time is it? It's Valentimes!" – tgs

Today was pretty low-key, what with the small people and the church and all. Mason made a wonderful dinner for the four of us, which we ate in candle-lit style. I finished two Vamlumtines project (one for Blake, one for Mason) and continued to move stuff around to accommodate what started as a simple time- and money-saving project (i.e. let's get a unique space for Sage so we don't have to haul a playpen up the stairs every weekend he sleeps over, and let's move the 6 items out of the storage locker) and has turned into a massive re-organization of my house. Office furniture has migrated downwards, while couches have migrated upwards. Hand-me-down furniture has gone on to the next kharmic cycle at the Goodwill, there to be some one else's (literal) pain in the ass. Bookshelves are waiting to receive the crated treasures of the crawlspace. Blake's drumset is continually on the move.

The current state of affairs is baskets of office supplies everywhere, interspersed with extra furniture. One day I will reclaim my dining room, which currently holds all of my massive circa 1970's dining set and an 8 foot couch. But today I just concentrated on the love.*

* And on reducing the yelping and screaming with joy. Two small boys + extra couch = shenanigans.

Labels: blake, comics, drunken knitters, house rich, knit, mason

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

or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Label

My fandom for the BSS family/Arts & Crafts stable is becoming something of an in-joke among my non-afflicted friends. They no longer comment on how many times Mason or I will wear a band shirt instead of a real shirt, or that my living room art is band posters (which will change soon thanks to a wicked linen Book of Kells dishtowel I picked up last Saturday at the Brickworks. Looks so good with my old, clunky, dark, hand-me-down 70's furniture! But I digress.), or that I have a calendar in my study that I made for Mason's Christmas present that features band pictures for each month (June is K Drew). Although the "golden age" of the scene has long-since passed, this is still a good time to be a fan. Fandom has encouraged us to sample solo projects and enjoy a wide range of musical offerings from related bands like the Happiness Project or Apostle of Hustle. It's like going to a year-long music festival where every act is different and good but I get to use my own toilet.

Being older fans (as these things go) we also tend to take some things for granted. We're used to showing up at these things and being blessed beyond measure: not only really liking the performance but taking home a balloon or dancing with the band. So when we bought 5-day passes for NXNE to get into the launch party for This Book Is Broken, we expected to get into the launch party. We also expected all kinds of little bonuses. After all, we are the ones who show up to knit night at Lettuce and walk into book launches a half-dozen times a year. We come to craft and get free cupcakes and wine, or sushi and beer, or yarn door-prizes and lemon squares.

This is not the world in which I toiled when I was a teenager: bands were remote and suicidal, not mixing in the crowd. Authors sat in state at the end of 2-3 hour line-ups; you skipped school to spend the day at the World's Biggest Bookstore, dodged your grandparents who were there to get you a birthday present, and the author would graciously spend almost 4 words on your overwhelmed carcass. Free cupcakes were exclusively the province of birthday parties for younger siblings. Wine was gross. Free yarn was useless.

Like I said, Mason and I have been extraordinarily blessed, first to have so much access to art and then to have all of the unexpected access to the artists. It's a lovely thing to have given up on new music for almost 10 years, only to be so undeservedly rewarded when we plunged back into the fray. And we fully expected that when we pulled into Terroni's at 6:30 for a much-needed dinner after two-hours of terrible rainy driving, and saw at least four members of BSS at the front table, that we would be seeing them later that night. We had to give up on the free Apostle of Hustle show at MTV, due to a late doctor's appointment and the rain that made all the drivers angry and slow. But we were psyched to see everyone that night. It was going to be like the old days, the early days when all the family played together, one band bleeding into another.

Need I tell you that it didn't happen? That by the time we got out of the restaurant, the people in charge were no longer letting in 5-day pass holders?

Well. It didn't. We were left standing in the drizzle, our hopes of seeing the bands evaporating like our body heat. To make it even better, the woman in charge of telling us to go away whispered that the special secret guest was, in fact, Broken Social Scene. Mason was livid; so angry he couldn't talk. I felt like I had been punched. It had been so cold and rainy and such a crappy night to come down. My dinner had been expensive and disappointing. We had bought the 5-day passes just to see the acts that night. It was overwhelmingly disappointing. We went home and I spent the night in a freaked out state of anxiety; every time I woke up (which was every hour) I looked at the clock and told myself which band I was missing. I couldn't stop the Apostle song playing on an infinite loop in my head, gnawing at me when I tried to relax. I was certain that we were missing the best night ever, an unexpected return to an earlier time when everybody played all night and the final set blew everyone away.

We over-reacted. I see that now.

The next day, my disappointment had translated into anger. I got onto the message boards and vented. I made liberal use of swears. Then I tried to mark exams. The day passed: I would mark for an hour, then get up and checked the boards. If I'd had any sense, I would have avoided the new information and tried to calm down. But I didn't. I found out that not only had the special secret guest been BSS, but Feist had come out to play as well. Beautiful. I went back to marking. I listened to a band that wasn't in the family. I marked. And I made plans to show up again for the second night.

I decided that we had over-reacted, and that our disappointment was way, way out of proportion. I decided to redeem the purchase of a festival pass by seeing the new bands. Maybe I'd have a good time. I'd be going alone, as Mason had cut off his band the night before (at the same time as declaring his fervent desire to avoid BSS, Arts & Crafts or indeed, music itself, forever). That didn't necessarily bother me; I could knit through the boring and go home when I got tired. Being alone doesn't faze me, although this would be the first time I had been alone at a concert. Besides, maybe the other secret special guest would be cool. There were a lot of bands I liked on the label who didn't show up on Wednesday. Maybe I'd see one.

Mason came home, and though not happy, he didn't have much to say about me going out without him. He had, after all, decided never to like music ever again. I continued to putter around until I got an email from Remedios, the head of the record label. He had seen my vitriolic posts and offered to put me on the guest list with a +1, an overwhelmingly generous offer. I was both ashamed of my anger and sort of glad that I had complained so brattily. The entitlement train continues to roll, and I'm not 100% sure if that's a good thing. But it was enough to get Mason reconciled to the previous night's disappointment, and it was enough to return our band/label crush to previous levels. It was another unexpected blessing, another undeserved moment of grace. I just wish I didn't feel that our temper tantrums sullied the whole exercise. It's embarrassing to be shown up as less deserving, less faithful than we'd always assumed we were.

We went for a cheap, satisfying dinner at Burrito Boys, and then to C'est What for a beer so that Mason could wait for the line to build up. Someone was excited about front of line privileges. Turns out that there was no line. We were happy anyway. We bought some hard-to-find BSS vinyl and stowed it until later, then walked in and listened to Zeus. The Courthouse is a tiny, tiny venue and I can see why it filled up so fast the night before. The place was about half-full and we could still barely see Zeus through the press of bodies. We could see their mustaches, however. And we could hear, "That's All," their swampy, dirty Genesis cover, which turned a guilty pleasure into something one could blast from the car with pride. As they played, K Drew came in and greeted the people next to us. I tried to be cool and not eavesdrop. Stupid band crush! I'm too old for this crap!

Timber Timbre is a quiet, experimental act that was hard to hear over the chattery venue. It was a no-win situation for us: if we were close enough to hear, we would be jammed in with a hundred strangers and still unable to see the band because they were all sitting down; if we stayed in the back, we couldn't hear anything over people talking loudly to their neighbours. Eventually, Kevin came down to shush the crowd. They looked at him bovinely, then swung around and resumed talking at high volume. I felt my dormant work skills twitch, so I went over and offered to help. "I'm a highschool teacher. I can get them to be quiet."

He grinned. "No. They'll hate you. They already hate me."

"I'm a highschool teacher," I repeated. "I'm used to being hated."

I walked back to Mason. "What were you guys talking about?"

"I offered my skills to shut these guys up, but it didn't work out. And he gave my arm a scrunchy pat."

"Really?!"

Band crush, you run my life. So much for never listening to music ever again.

Kevin made a reappearance to introduce Still Life Still, the buzz band of the scene, and to chuck cameras at us so we could record it all. I got hit in the arm while shielding my (better) camera and didn't care. It was an indie rock wedding, and we were all invited to send them off. And, despite the fact that the band could have been writing exams for me this week and their fans were even younger, it was the most fun I've had in weeks. Bouncy, loud, fun rock, from kids who weren't all old enough to drink at the bar. We felt both ancient and elated.

We left after this, stopping outside to buttonhole Remedios and thank him for the passes. He was devilishly charming, and I felt even more remorseful for our ranting of the night before. He renewed our faith in the label, in the system, in the whole concert-going exercise. It was undeserved, but then all of our blessings are equally so.

"I was with a radio guy from Calgary, and I guess you're supposed to suck up to them? But I had to say, 'dude! Shut the fuck up! They're playing!'"
- remedios commiserating on the difficulties of hearing timber timbre.

Labels: mason, music, outings

As the truly long-time readers will have noticed, Sunday marked my twelfth anniversary of keeping this journal online. Twelve years and no domain to call my own! To celebrate, I uploaded a funkload of pictures, correlating to the appropriate entry. Yesterday I made the first setting change since I added Blogger comments, which is that I disallowed anonymous posting. I've been noticing that when people want to tell me that Mason is creepy, they do so anonymously. Feel free to judge our attractiveness, just tag on a name from now on. Also, have you noticed how fat I'm getting lately? Discuss.

To address an (anonymous) comment from the last entry: yes, I am surprised that the Boy has served the papers. His only action thus far has been to leave; I've been cleaning up the legalities ever since and have been paying the bills of nearly 3 grand. Perhaps in retrospect I should have expected that he would jump on the cheapest, easiest step…but I didn't. Be clear: I don't consider myself a victim here, but that doesn't mean that I can't acknowledge when things are done suddenly and without warning. It was a shock. Wondering why is not productive…although it may help to know that I dream of reconciliation 3 nights out of 5, and wake up feeling worse than ever. (Last night I dreamed of a Christian rockband that solved mysteries, so it's not always like that.)

A lost anecdote from Renfaire day:

On the way home, we discovered that Sage could "sing" "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," although it was a lot like listening to Frankenstein's monster & Tarzan sing holiday greetings. He skips words, syllables, lines…sometimes he'll produce 6 garbled sounds before awarding himself a flat "yaaaaaay."

It was far past his bedtime, and halfway through the long drive home he became incredibly tired and cranky. He started to produce the long, sustained crying that doesn't stop until a bed is produced…but if asked, he would still "sing". So we sang with him, over and over and over. Near the end of this litany, Blake turned to him and asked, in all seriousness, "Sage, do you know any other songs?"

Um. Stats? Of a sort.

• So. I suppose that, except for waiting for my heart to numb during brief custody hand-overs, I can reasonably claim that my relationship with the Boy is now completely over. That means that I get to add another milestone to the journal stats, which is that I have written of the birth, the flowering, the withering and the death of my marriage, all in one series. Yee haw.
• I have developed an interest in photography, and am starting to be able to (sometimes) produce the pictures I've visualized since I was a child.
• My child has gone from a surprise union of two cells to a fully literate boy who dresses like Spiderman, demands his own copies of Neil Gaiman books, and sings hooks from Apostle of Hustle songs in the other room while I'm making dinner.
• I have accepted my occasional nature, and stopped apologizing for it. To compensate, I make sure that my feed links are working, and I have Facebook trolling for notes as well.
• I have redeveloped a love of music not really present since my earliest journal years, and spend much more time at concerts and listening to new music than I would have thought possible five years ago.
• I have permanently lost touch with Poet (by his desire), Palaver is too sick to venture out much of the time and Preacher lives in another country. Of the three, I am closest with the one who lives farthest away, and our sons get along famously.
• I have added a third person to my monogamy series. The first is getting married sometime soon; the second will be divorced from me in about three weeks.
• I finally found a job I loved with friends, love, yarn, and mutual respect; these elements have disappeared or been co-opted so that I am more than ready to move on next year. And yet I can't imagine being anything but the World's Worst Teacher. (A label to which Blake strenuously objects, by the way. He thinks I should get it changed to World's Best. I already have the t-shirt, though.)

two years ago

five years ago

seven years ago

eight years ago

twelve years ago

Labels: achievement, angst, blake, comments, mason, music, nostalgia, on-line diaries, photos, the boy

Spent the weekend in Watertown. Now that it's over, I'm having trouble remembering how it all fit together. I've had a cold for a week, which isn't too serious but comes with a runny nose and perpetual headache, both of which slow my thinking and scrub my memory.

I know it started with a dead mouse. When I came home from work on Friday, I found a mouse in the kitchen trap, its back half hanging out the side. Awesome, I thought. (You wouldn't be sentimental either if you knew that they were using your son's highchair to get to the counter or if you had to wash shit out of your pots every time you wanted to cook.) For some non-psychotic reason, I wanted to take a picture (vindictiveness?) which was when I discovered that my autofocus was busted and my latest point n' shoot was useless right before a vacation.

This was not the worst part, though. That came a few minutes later, when I emptied the trap in the park right behind my house as a gift to the scavengers and it started to twitch. Traumatic. I watched in horror as its convulsive twitching brought it a centimeter from where it was dropped; then my courage broke and I fled to the house, locking the gate behind me. Mason ended up using a garden shovel to put it out of my misery, which surprised me because I was the one who had to deal with the skinned squirrel that appeared in the backyard last summer.

Getting out of the city was a hassle. Mason couldn't find his passport, I had That Headache, and what with anxiety and irritation the packing took twice as long. We didn't get out of town until 6:15, which sucks when you have a four hour drive ahead of you. But we were fed, watered and walked, so we were able to go straight through. We got there at 10:30 or so, Blake sleeping in back and the two adults singing along to the radio to stay awake.

Preacher & Martha were waiting up for us, and we quickly initiated Mason into the Watertown diet, which relies heavily, if not exclusively, on beer and cigarettes. The only downside to the diet is that, by the time we were all ready to pack it in, it was unconscionably late for two sets of adults with very young boys. Blake proved this to be true just before 6 the next morning, when he arrived at my side, wet and repentant from soaking the bed. I let him dress himself, which was amusing, and it was about 10 before I was able to drag myself out of an allergy-swollen sleep to join the party.

It was Saturday morning, showing Mason the newly-restored historic downtown with the boys in a wagon, that I noticed Preacher & Martha's boss camera. I got my tax return last week, and after the car repairs got whacked off and I decided to put off a tattoo yet again, I found in me a deep desire for a spanking new camera. Preacher explained the awesome pictures that could be taken with this model; Martha poured fuel on the fire by extolling the bargains to be found at Sam's Club, and it didn't take much convincing before I resolved to take the plunge.

As we brought Mason from site to site and I looked at the ready-to-go wrought iron fountain, the still-crumbling Masonic lodge (my future home) and the Tiffany stained glass window that was completely blocked off before the library's restoration, I found myself calculating the views as one who would soon return with an awesome camera. Watertown's epic combination of the glorious and the crumbling are the photographic subjects of the gods, the exact thing to make my heart go pitter patter with voyeuristic lust.

Lunch was at the Crystal, where Mason confirmed my faith in him by falling as deeply in love with it as I. But poor Blake was sleep-deprived from his late-night arrival and early morning bedwetting, and a chocolate milk to one unused to such luxuries was not the best balm to his spirit. When he ran out before the food arrived, he demanded another, and by the time my tuna melt had arrived he'd had a little meltdown of his own. I spent a fair amount of time at lunch trying to coax him back inside the restaurant, asking him to sit down, reminding him to eat, hugging him when he cried and fending off his attempts to relieve his bruised feelings by throttling me. Preacher made a big deal about how slowly I finished my sandwich which earned him a caustic reply softened by a smirk; yes, I'm a slow eater, but if anyone else at the table wanted to hug Blake and risk the sudden choking, I didn't see any hands go in the air.

It was at some point at lunch when the subject of my mouse-ridden house came up. Preacher & Martha offered me their cat, a sweet tempered blue who has been unhappy ever since the puppy moved in. At first this was a joke: ha ha, an allergic couple is bringing a cat across the border! Then Martha offered a new litter box and the chance to return her in a month if it didn't work out. "Ok," I said cautiously, "but if I want to give her back, I don't want to hear any sassmouth."

"With us there's always sassmouth," Preacher replied. He picked up the cheque, and the deal was sealed.

Our gorgeous morning turned grey as we ate, and we hurried home to avoid the rain. Martha & I left the various boys to their various devices & went off to buy a camera. At Sam's, the only D60 left was the display. Not being particularly snobby about getting a product pre-smirched by little fingers, I asked about a discount. What they knocked off the sticker price was enough to pay for a carrying case & a smoking memory card. I was ecstatic. I floated through the rest of our errands, buying sheets and allergy meds but dying to get to an outlet and begin The Charging. After The Charging would follow The Insertion of the Memory Card and then! The Taking of Many Pictures.

But. My beautiful new (slightly sticky) camera would only take two half-pictures before the shutter quit completely. I was crushed. I walked out to the backyard, where Preacher and Mason were in the early stages of a bbq.

"My camera is defective," I announced. "I need a beer and a cigarette."

There were many consoling hugs, and promises that it would all get sorted out tomorrow after church. We decided that I would do a straight-up return/refund; later Martha offered to check out the Sam's Club near her church. These things being tomorrow's problem, I shoved aside the disappointment and we concentrated on getting supper into the boys with a minimum of spray, crumbs, dawdling and breakaways to fetch small toys. After dinner we piled into the cars and went to Sackett Harbour for ice cream cones, the final element in my comfort triumvirate (tri-comfor-ate?). And also, when the boys were put to bed, I had the added joy of the fire pit, a perpetual memorial to Preacher's mom that, not un-coincidentally, gives light, heat & primal soothing.

The next morning, still vaguely smelling of woodsmoke, Mason, Blake & I got ready for church. My original plan had been to walk, but it was cold and wet and Mason appeared to have sprained his ankle the day before. I didn't push it. Since we were a half-hour early, we decided to drive around and see if we could find any more fun features of Watertown. We managed to stumble across Thompson Park, which was worth it (if terribly chilly), and got to church – ta da! – two minutes late. Blake consented to visit Sunday School (which I thought terribly brave), and this was the best Mother's Day gift I could get, as it freed me to sit next to Mason and soak up Preacher's rather uncharacteristically casual sermon in peace. Breaking the usual rule of polite distance, I found us some kickass seats near the front and I could laugh, snort and gesticulate in response to Preacher's storytelling. I caught hell for it during the Peace, of course.

"Don't ever laugh at my sermon again," he warned me as we hugged.

"I was laughing with you!" I protested. (And I'm sure he wouldn't be able to handle complete humility from a girl who once went after the wafer with not so much as a by-your-leave.)

After church (and the obligatory snacks), I went off to return my first camera. We met back at the house, all of us more than ready for a late diner lunch at Sh(hhh)orty's (I told Blake & Good Hank that the extra 'sh' is to remind you to be quiet; this isn't Yellington's, you know.) I packed as quickly as possible, knowing that we'd still have to come back for the cat. Preacher and Sally looked at each other, clearly figuring out who was going to break the news. Uh-oh, I thought. They've finally decided to stop letting us come visit. But it was the cat; they'd had a moment with her the night before and decided to keep her. I was both relieved and crushed: no worries about allergies, but who was going to chase my vermin? It's probably better this way. I guess.

At the diner Blake managed to soil two shirts with his spaghetti & meatballs, and was taken to Best Buy with a hand-knit wool sweater zipped up to his neck. My new camera was the next model down, as it was on sale and still more expensive than my pre-smirched Sam's Club special. I resolved to be patient and not think about how long it would be until I was home and my battery charged up.

It wasn't until we were home, catless and yet laden down with much NY pale ale, new sheets, Ontario fudge and enough dirty clothes to choke a fish, that I realized my lovely new camera case (and my even lovelier unused memory card) were still in Watertown. And I cried.

Still, I hear that cases can be mailed, memory cards can be purchased locally, and Watertown will still be there when I have all my ducks in a row. It was a wonderful weekend, full of old favourites and the joy of introducing them to a new love. It was a rollercoaster of camera elation and crushing camera disappointment. It was Blake's joy in a new pet, and then the reality of saying goodbye to a cat we'd never really had.

Good thing the kids have tomorrow off; I'm just not ready to lead the youth of today in useful pursuits. As I said in September when I pulled in the parking lot on the first day of school, "I'm just coming here to come down."

Labels: blake, friends, mason, photos, vacation

Last night four of my troupe were standing around in my kitchen, drinking tea and chatting before we started to practice our newest choreography. Juuki and Jessamyn linked arms, and one asked the other if they would tell them. I immediately began to wildly speculate. Jess took a deep breath.

"I'm not pregnant, but the person on my right is."

Immediately I hear thumping feet, as Mason runs in from the livingroom. "Calm down," I hollered. "I'm nowhere near her."

Later, when we were slow-dancing in my study to Patsy Cline, I thought back to this moment and giggled. "You were in a huge panic to see who it was." He grinned.

"'Somebody next to me is pregnant'? I didn't know Jess had that kind of power."

Labels: dancing, mason

"If I stumble, they're gonna eat me alive…" – metric

I'm having one of those claustrophobic weekends I used to have so often when the Boy was here. I would drag myself through the work week, cutting corners wherever I could, and surface into the weekend still tired and suddenly overwhelmed by the amount of chores facing me. Then I'd get frustrated and cranky and look for big solutions.

The state of my living room alone made me crazy this afternoon, but it all worked out. Blake and Mason & I spent 4 songs* cleaning up, and there is significantly less crap tumbling across the wood floors and clogging up the couch. I've hung a few more beautiful pictures in my bedroom, although not where I'd wanted to (stupid concrete dividing wall). I've even figured out the steps I need to take to finally use the orange paint I bought two summers ago.

Step 1: clean up study and get rid of newspaper clippings I've been moving from place to place since teacher's college.
Step 2: paint it orange.
Step 3: move my sewing machine onto the spare desk.
Step 4: use this sewing machine to make excellent fruity curtains.
Step 5: Hang said curtains.
Step 6: ??
Step 7: Profit.

Whenever my own life makes me claustrophobic, I turn to interior decorating.

* A song is an excellent unit of chore measurement.

And no, it wasn't VD that made me freak out. My VD was fine, thanks for asking. We made it out to the Drunken Knitters the night before, where I managed to finish Blake's knight helmet and two heart ornaments (one of which I lost in Fresh Collective the following day, but let's not judge.) The day itself was mainly taken up with errands in town: Blake's first trip to Wychwood market and subsequent cupcakes, picking up Blake's awesome new sweater and splurging on a gorgeous winter dress for me, purchasing sandwiches in the Distillery District, and home for a late lunch before Mason began the elaborate VD supper.

It's not just that I love him, and that being with him makes me happy; he also puts on a good meal. It was like a Christmas log cake, only with steak instead of cake and mushroom stuffing instead of icing. Plus, an apple-carrot-cabbage-pickled turnip coleslaw that I'm still thinking about today. After dinner, I made lowfat brownies ('cause that's how I roll) and Blake licked the bowl. It was a good day for us all.

I'm just tired. Thank heaven for Family Day. I get to spend an afternoon marking, which sounds sucky but will greatly improve my return to work. Guilt does nothing for my complexion.

Labels: blake, house rich, mason

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

Closer and closer to my public dancing debut. Last night Jessamyn and Keeral came over for a drill session that became an impromptu henna party. I can't get over how profoundly my social life has changed since I started taking belly dance lessons. When I moved to Brampton shortly before Blake was born, I was more or less content with the assumption that I would never have any local friends to match my Toronto pals. Or, any at all. And now, 5 years on, I have local friends, local activities and even local parties. The only thing I lack is a local boyfriend, but I'd rather have a commuting Mason than no Mason.

We had our dress rehersal last Saturday, and I felt the magic of costuming for the first time. I had no idea what a profound difference it would make to run through the choreography in full shimmying, sparkling glory. Juuki was overwhelmed with pride in her girls. I was pretty pleased myself. Since last week's practice was punctuated by long bouts of crouching on the floor, coughing helplessly, this couldn't help but be an improvement.

Yesterday was Blake's fifth birthday blow-out. For obvious reasons, I took a year off from the party thing, but somehow I managed to make the house look great without filling it with people. My secret is dollar store streamers in orange and hot pink, and helium balloon bouquets left-over from the semi-formal I supervised on Friday (tarted up with Buzz Lightyear stickers from last year's birthday). Total expenditures: $2. This is so typical of me; if I pour tonnes of money and effort into something, results are decent but if I slap a bunch of dispirate elements together, I somehow make something amazing.

Blake was spinning with glee all day long. (His first question when I picked him up from Casa Nova in the morning was, "Daddy gave me Iron Man; what did you get me for my birthday?"*) My parents showered him with Backyardigan merch, Uncle Nic bought him his first drumset and promised to give him lessons, I made him an Arthur Mothman doll...he even got a small box of chocolates from Jessamyn. Dinner was ham, scalloped potatoes, peas and coleslaw. My mom made the Iron Man cake of his dreams; he was served the head at his request and I let him eat it any way he wanted. He got to stay up late with the ladies and sing snippets of lusty pirate songs. It was pretty much the perfect day.

just in case you forgot what he looks like.

I even got a present: there was a fair chance that Mason would have to stay in the hospital after his doctor's appointment yesterday, and he didn't have to after all. So my gift was not loading a sleepy and sugar-crazed Blake into his carseat for an evening in the ward. Not that I wouldn't have done it if he'd called, but it's nice not to have to add a depressing asterisk to this year's birthday celebration.

The only downside for me was that I was up till forever o'clock finishing Arthur - it took me a full half-hour to realize that the wings weren't going to work - and I was pretty tired. It was a weird kind of tired, though; I didn't feel tired but my patience was at absolute rock-bottom. I snapped at more than a few kids with very little provocation. I called it my rage-bubble. I'm just glad I didn't do it to my classes.

Tonight I'm hiding out from the oppressive sleet and trying to finish my choli. I had an appointment to eat food for money, but when I arrived I discovered that they were overbooked. Easiest $15 I ever made, and it's nice to be back in my found money/yarn money loop. If only I could let myself knit something that wasn't a gift and required foolish squandering. I'm sure I'll find some reason to blow it.

* "A pancake," I responded. "I hope you didn't get one already."

Labels: blake, dancing, friends, home town, knit, mason

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

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

I'm home with a migraine today, my second week in a row home sick on Monday (although last week I outdid myself with jabbing pains in my neck and guts stretching into Tuesday). I can't remember a migraine ever lasting this long – it's been going on since early in the morning, when I woke up around 4 a.m. with a headache too bad to sleep. Last night I was finishing my marking for the midterms like a good girl, despite what was then only a bad headache (albeit one that laughed in the face of extra macho Tylenol). I was all set to go in today and finish my report cards well in advance of tomorrow's deadline. Now, despite a grim determination to finish regardless of said migraine, I find myself the victim of network troubles. Oh well. I'll have to stand in abasement like a bad teacher, but I know that they make the deadlines in a logical way so that there's room for a little bit of lateness.

This entry, of course, is another in my trend of entries written when I have unexpected time off, my schedule being so damned tight otherwise. Must look into that.

Quickly then, before I have to go lie down again (but off my suddenly-sore hip). This weekend I experienced one of those truly zen-like rambles through the fall, the exact feeling I was hunting last year at the Humber Arboretum but missed due to my sleeping and ambivalent companions (guess which was which!). Mason is a devoted patron of the Don Valley Brickworks Saturday morning market, and this one was the last until Spring. Since we very rarely get the chance to take Blake due to the busy schedule of a kindergartener, we were hyped about including Blake in the fun. He made me proud, loving the kid's garden, gawping at babies and dogs like his elders, and tearing through the brush in the adjoining park land. The only sour note was the loss of the black keyhole scarf I knit for my dad three years ago that has only recently found use as a Blake-muffler. I don't know what I was more upset about: losing the first and only present I've ever knit my dad, losing a scarf that has just come into its prime after years hanging around the backseat of the car, or the way Blake 'consoled' me by assuring me that I should just knit a new one.

It wasn't until lunch at the Mill Street Brew Pub that my spirits were restored, partly by an unspectacular cottage pie and partly because Mason's in-house connections as a regular allowed us to skip a long line. Are we VIP's or does my sweetie have a drinking problem? Why does it have to be just one?

Labels: blake, health, mason

I had a big party called Accordionstock '08 on Saturday, and if you missed it, you're probably the reason why we had 5 1/2 quarts of vegetarian chili left over.

It was small in numbers but extremely satisfying. A small coterie of faithful knitters were the first to arrive (as always), followed by the writers, a bellydancer with small daughter (K82*), and two knitters with their families. The five under 5's set about making a glorious mess, which is exactly what the party was for, and at any one time you could find some drawing, some playing with toys, some running in the yard, and some eating. Simon was caught eating crayons, so I offered him baker's chocolate instead. You can tell that he's a second kid: Blake's first birthday cake was made with organic cane sugar to reduce the refined sugar intake and four years later I'm giving other people's kids squares of ingredients. It'll be my fault if he starts hanging out around baking supply stores.

The presence of little eaters meant that we put hot dogs on the menu (the only thing we served that wasn't handmade). Once Blake and K82 had their dogs, they celebrated by spinning in circles, mouths full. The childfree adults, burgers in hand, soon came to a decision. "I want a hotdog." "What?"

They ate the remaining three in short order, and I'm pretty sure if we'd grilled the pack, they'd have eaten them all. I still can't get over it - all this time I've been searching for the perfect party food, and it was right under my nose, swathed in the mists of childhood and a white bread bun.

Yesterday we were able to visit with Mason's son Sage for approximately 5 minutes before he was ushered home to his nap. It was an interesting moment: last time I was asked to come out with Sage, Mason and his family, there was a lot of anxiety about running into Sage's mom. It was so upsetting that we decided on transparency for the next visit; I'm not sneaking around and I refuse to behave as if I'm doing something wrong (or have others behave as if I don't really belong). Sage's mom was told about my invitation, which was a good thing. Not so good was that my arrival at the coffeeshop coincided exactly with hers, so there was some awkward conversation on the sidewalk. Still, it was better than the alternative. A craven part of me thought about hiding in a store before they noticed Blake & I, but we didn't. I didn't touch Sage in front of her, though. That's just pushing it.

One of the most interesting things about the past summer is that I've been forced into much more compassion than I would have otherwise. I'm not just "the girl who was left," I'm also "the replacement" and I'm dating "the boy who left." It's so much harder to judge the Boy and Sage's mom when I'm an analogue of one and dating the counterpart of another.

* Blake was pretty jazzed that K8rs was coming over, and he insisted on sitting outside the door to wait for the family to arrive. Souzan showed up soon with her K8, and took it upon herself to introduce them.

"You must be Blake. What are you waiting for?"

"K8," he replied simply.

"I'm K8!" Souzan's daughter replied eagerly, delighted to be anticipated in a strange place.

"No," said Blake with finality. I haven't heard of such coldness since the infamous "Space Island" conversation.

Labels: blake, food, friends, mason

Did I miss something? Tell us about your new relationship! Is it with Mason?

Not that this reply will at all match up with the comment, as I’ve been trying to catch up with my stored backlog, but. Yes. I’m dating Mason.

Just about everyone I’ve seen socially in the past season has seen the two of us together, so it hasn’t exactly been a secret anyway. From the summer afternoon in May when we stumbled across Emily, Dave, Clara & Sheila in the Distillery, the word has been slowly leaking out. In late June at Knit Night, Denny saw Mason kissing my cheek and made an absolute shrieking deal out of it, which was one of those “Denny makes already awesome things even more fun” nights. She insisted on trumpeting the news to everyone who entered, most of whom were not at all surprised (Harlot) and a few who complained that they were the last to know (Rachel H., but don’t worry Rachel – my mom still doesn’t know). People at Bat Masterson are starting to get in on the open secret as well, and I figure it will be yesterday's news in a few months to all but the most oblivious.

I resisted coming out and saying it in public, mostly because of fear. I think I had the irrational fear that the Boy would discover this as published fact and any hope of reconciliation would be scotched. I’m trying to accept that I am not responsible for his desire to come back, and if he doesn’t understand that I would have done anything to keep him, than omitting what’s become fairly obvious from my journal won’t do the trick either.

I also was afraid of what people would say. There wasn’t a lot of time between Mason’s marriage breaking up and our dating (about a month) and there are people at school who have openly speculated that we started having an affair last year. Just knowing that my conduct has been blameless doesn’t seem to be enough – I still worry about how it will appear.

And my mom went completely round the bend when she found out last spring. She made a huge scene that had way more to do with her anxieties about Blake and her own experience as the child of divorce than about me. It was pretty awful, and I promised to stay alone until more time had passed. This is why I started going to see my councilor again, a practice I have since abandoned since I really didn’t have all that much to talk about after 3 or 4 visits. So I’m still sneaking around there.

It feels good to come out here, though. Thanks for asking.

Labels: mason