I have the afternoon off while Blake is decorating my parents' tree, which allows me to get caught up on my digital tomfoolery. I'm glad he's doing it for his own sake; I thought that boy would explode with the need to decorate. We bought our tree on Thursday, which meant that it needed at least a night to relax. His first question when he woke up on Friday: "can we decorate the tree?" No, son. I'd love to know the code for calling in Festive, but it's a closely guarded secret. So yesterday, despite spending most of the day booting around downtown until Mason & I were thoroughly wrung out, we got out the precious red tote and started the tinselling.

Why were Mason & I so spent? It might have something to do with the fact that we were in pubs from school's end to well past midnight. It was a perfect storm of bar-crawling, starting with a staff function, sailing on through Brampton Drunken Knitting (with a brief dinner visit by Blake & my dad before they went off to see the Olympic torch in a nearby park), and finishing off at the Artful Dodger for a res reunion. It would have been even more difficult to get out of bed on Saturday if I had been able to put down the car keys at any point, but that's the problem with an inter-city booze expedition: there really can't be all that much booze if I don't want to have my car towed to some nearby, put-upon friend. So I watched the old crowd get loaded instead of participating.

(I'm really not sure that I could have stood back from this 12 years ago, put-upon friends or none. I suppose that means that I'm growing up. Or? Really tired.)

Everyone was feeling cozy and sentimental, and my ancient velour Christmas dress went over well, as the later it got no-one could stop petting my arms. (People love that dress. It is by far the most popular thing I've ever worn. Maggie M in particular thought it was worth building a time machine so that she could do as my mother had, and order it from the Sears catalogue in the early 90's.) I spent time catching up with Pete, Cranly, Steven, Seth & Kat, without wondering too much about when I would see anyone again. That may be the other thing about not drinking: I was able to appreciate seeing everyone without getting anxious about the fact that we never ever see each other any more.

I also found it interesting how easy it was to talk to Cranly, as I had to literally corner him to talk to him 6 ½ years ago, and I haven't been able to keep in touch since. Now he frequents the Dakota (for bluegrass), nearly joined the Peace Corps and has had a parallel experience with being seduced by bands in the BSS family. When I was younger I used to think that my friends then would like the same things as I did pretty much forever; now that I'm older my biggest surprise is that sometimes, they do.

No pictures, because I never went home for my camera. And also, I was talking too much. But to know what it looked like, you just have to picture everyone in my photos from the first days of the journal, only with beards. Yes, even the ladies.

Especially the ladies.

Labels: blake, christmas, friends, nostalgia, outfits, outings, res

Still incredibly busy, although on Tuesday, when midterm reports go in, I should be able to breathe a little easier. Tonight I gave up Friendly Rich to spend the night marking Nineteen Eighty-Four essays; I appear to be breaking out in a rash of responsibility. I was in the process of packing Blake off to Camp Grandparents when it hit me: I could spend my time marking instead of having fun! So I did. It sucks but at least I won’t be as anxious as I’ve been.

Why all the anxiety? Throughout most of the fall season I’ve been struggling with a cold that lingered improbably long. This has put a serious dent in the amount of marking I’ve been able to complete at work, as most of my “free” time is spent preparing for lessons I might otherwise have faked my way through were I feeling shipshape. Also, I can’t pretend that I haven’t been dragging myself to extracurricular activities in addition to the Amy Millan concert: I had two dance recitals in the week leading up to Hallowe’en, I lurched through my second Toronto Zombie Walk, I dressed up for work, and I sewed my best costume yet (about which more later). The arrival of Hallowe’en was a desperate relief: for the first time in days, I only had to worry about Blake’s costume and not my own. Sweet.

The crowning touch was that two days before Hallowe’en, Mason’s car died and I had to scramble to buy a new car. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday were a nightmare, but now I have a car. It’s black, as Henry Ford would have wanted, and it smells good and it’s mine. It’s the first car I’ve owned since the ill-fated Mustang Scotty. I'm very proud.

This coming week will be all about insulating my bathroom so that my upstairs bathroom doesn't grow any more mold, sewing a purple outfit for my NEXT dance recital, and perhaps attending to the dishes more than once a week. I'm excited.

And, without further ado, Hallowe'en!

I'm pretty sure that the weeks of stress leading up to this night were more than worth it.

Labels: blake, car, outfits, outings, photos

Things I learned at Hillside Festival yesterday, in reverse chronological order:

1. You can get your car out of a swamp if you have 6 strangers to help you push. Also, someone needs to have figured out a route before you gun it out of the muddy parking lot. Thank heaven we received all of those particular blessings.
2. It's important to remember where you park. Or you'll end up taking the shuttle bus to the farthest overflow of overflow parking, ask kind strangers to drive you around, and then have to walk back to the other parking lots in the pitch dark, holding hands with your sweetie. At least we kept moving and our soaked cotton clothes were warm with body heat. We then hitched a ride in the back of a cop car, talked to the parking supervisor, walked around another parking lot, watched other people try to get their cars out of the mud, thought about going to Guelph for the night and coming back in the morning, and finally took the advice of a stranger to look in the next parking lot. There was the car, remarkably dry, looking like an oasis of sanity. Then, of course, we got stuck in the mud.
3. Owen Pallett is the bravest man in Canadian music. Those stupid lionizing house ads for Kim Mitchell on Q107 can just shut the fuck up, 'cause I saw the coolest, ballsiest guy last night in the middle of a truly frightening rainstorm. Forget the soi-dit "rock gods"; I saw skinny little Owen play down a thunderstorm, begging the sound crew for another minute to finish the song. The lightning crashed and he played louder. It rained harder and he went faster. All you could do was whoop and laugh and clap along as he raced against a short in the sound equipment. As soon as the song was over, the stage went dark and everyone in the audience started chanting his name and shaking their umbrellas in the air in celebration. It was the most awe-inspiring thing I've ever seen. There's a video of it here and despite the sketchy sound quality, hearing it again gives me full-body goosebumps; we were all the way across the field and it was just as electrifying as if we were in front of the stage. The title of this entry is the chorus of that song, a glorious sung defiance against the elements.
4. Patrick Watson is very cool, and I wish we had made it into his record release this year. (We were just going to see Laura Barrett open for him, and naively thought we could get a ticket at the door. Ha!) His band played the clouds away, which Final Fantasy called back immediately (see above).
5. Great Lake Swimmers are dull, and their shortlisting for this year's Polaris (ahead of Timber Timbre and Charles Spearin, I might add) is a crime against good sense. This follow up to Issa (see below) bored me to the point of crankiness and made me want to go home.
6. Jane Siberry appears to have completely lost her mind. Issa-what? Don't clap (or "let it leak") and I won't have to take a vitamin tomorrow? Not to worry; I wasn't planning to clap anyway.
7. Every time you see Gentleman Reg, you'll like the band more. Even if it's the third time in a week and a half (and the second time that weekend. Lately I see Reg more often than I see my parents). Also, you will have an awesome time singing, dancing and clapping along to "The Boyfriend Song" next to your boyfriend, who is doing the same thing, even more enthusiastically. When we put the album on this morning, we clapped along through sheer habit.
8. Watching a David Francey show is even better when you're huddled under the stage roof to get away from the rain and you find yourself beside his wife, who asks you to help her read the symbols on her camera. And it's pretty good to begin with.
9. Don't underestimate how much rain you'll get based on the festival's location. I've always thought that nothing could be as wet as StanFest, which joins other such famous generalizations as "it couldn't possibly be sunny enough at StanFest to need sunblock" but fortunately was not followed by a second degree sunburn. And I was trying, a bit. In deference to the previous day's wetting I wore a black hoodie, blue jeans, lace-up leather boots & a Tilley instead of a fancy jean jacket, black dress, thigh-high stockings & vespa boots. But that shit does not cut it in a torrential, all-day soaking. In fact, I probably made it worse for myself as my jeans and hoodie got sopping wet within an hour and never dried, meaning that I was uncomfortably cold and wet for most of the afternoon. At least my stupid impractical stockings are nylon and dry in a snap. The all-day wetness let to a sub-realization, which is always pre-wash your clothes before wearing them in the rain, as my new Amy Millan hoodie leaked black fuzz over my arms and black dye onto my pretty orange tank top, giving me the unlaundered gorilla look I so crave.

   

10. Do not become so excited by the lightning show that you stop caring how wet you're getting. If you do not have a change of clothes, you will be cold and wet all day. Stupid me wore all cotton, despite knowing the value of a good wool garment in a soak. I was worried about the camera; I should have been worried about the loss of body heat and the state of the knitting book I dragged through two days of rain. Knitting Vintage Baby Clothes will never be the same.
11. If you're knitting, you'll meet knitters. I didn't exactly learn this at Hillside, but it was proven there once again. My in-progress beret inspired the girl behind us to pull out her sock. We even met people who used to run an online knitting magazine called Spun. Of course, we were mostly chatting about going to festivals with young kids, and taking breaks from the conversation to dance to Gentleman Reg, but there was some yarn talk in there.
12. Drummers get everywhere. The Afrobeat session on the main stage included the drummer from The Happiness Project, who is also the leader of Samba Punk Sound System, the drumming ensemble at the Brampton Indie Arts Festival with whom I danced out my lungs last year.
13. Toting in a bottle of wine with the makings of a charcuterie & fromagerie plate is completely unnecessary. Delicious, but unnecessary. Apparently, they sell food at folk festivals now. It is, however, both important and fun to get your Hillside beer mugs & wine glasses as early as possible so that you're set for the rest of the day. Draft beer in the mud! I love it! Also, the ice cream there is better than most restaurants, and needs to be carefully planned to maximize the number of cones eaten in a day.
14. Listen to CBC on the way in to get amped about the place you're going. Stuart McLean has many interesting things to say about Hillside, including the fact that Jason Collett can fit into a tent. Diagonally, one assumes.

Labels: festivals, food, music, outfits, outings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: bat masterson, blake, outfits

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: bat masterson, blake, house rich, outfits

I’ve been wondering when my life will slow down enough to sit down and write. Turns out it’s right now, while I’m wallowing in the end of a sick day. Mason is here with me, off ill as well. This is the first time I’ve ever had a co-ed sick day, which is just like a regular sick day but much less lonely. We slept until 2 pm, and only got out of bed because there was no food in the house and a genuinely evil smell in the refrigerator. He’s making chili right now like the angel he is while I wallow in Zombie Walk pictures.

I was there on Sunday, shuffling by myself, if you can say that when you're marauding along with three thousand other "undead enthusiasts." My concept was "zombie soccer mom" which may have been too subtle, especially since I came too late for the free blood and had to resort to smearing my face in the bloody handprint on a restaurant window as we passed. Freaking out casual diners? Check. I think that was my favourite moment.

I also enjoyed swarming the streetcars ("trains…trains…") and looking at all the other high concept zombies. After seeing the Ronald McDonald, I definitely have to pick up my game for next year. Even bringing Blake won't be unusual, considering all of the kids I saw in full makeup.

A fabulous time. I just wish I had a picture of my own minimalist costume to show off.

A conversation in the morning. I am in the bathroom, Blake is in my bedroom. In the mirror I see suspicious activity.

me: You better not be getting into your clothes basket. It could fall off the bed.
blake: I'm not.
me: Then why do I see a little brown head in the basket?
blake: That's some other boy.
me: What's this other boy's name?
blake: (long pause that's not at all suspicious) Cranberry Juice.

Labels: blake, festivals, humanity on parade, outfits, outings

This year’s hunt for a Hallowe’en costume has begun in earnest. Not so much for me, as I have a few old chestnuts as yet unaired at Bat Masterson (is she a vampire or did she just forget to take off last night’s club clothes?). It’s Blake who’s grown into an odd anxiety about his upcoming role. He continually changes his mind, which isn’t making it any easier, but under considerable pressure from his father, he’s decided on Spiderman. Great. It’s what I’ve spent 15 years avoiding: a costume I can’t fake.

The child’s costume industry is one of those grey areas in the marketplace. I find it irritating that I can find every manner of esoteric product online with ease. Look at etsy – there’s always stuff there that I never knew I wanted, and it’s all fully searchable. With costumes, I have to go to the MegloMart and hope. It’s the last area of commerce I indulge in that survives by word-of-mouth. I suppose copyright laws are the problem here, and though I’m generally a supporter of artistic right to royalties, I wish we could get to some sort of agreement so I could search for a damn superhero costume without all the obfuscation.

Hell, I’d send him out in his pj’s if he thought it was acceptable.

Labels: blake, outfits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oh, what a night!

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

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

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

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

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

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

What have I been up to?

A little crafting

a little socializing with the knitsibs and knitsiblettes

and a little belly dance costuming for my troupe, with a great deal of help from the cool Family Studies Teacher, who does this to her horse's mane. Five minutes after this photo was taken, I was cutting the Manos del Uruguay yarn out of my hair. Cut about an inch out of my hair as well. D'oh.

meme via notanartist

What we have here is the top 106 books most often marked as "unread" by LibraryThing’s users. As in, they sit on the shelf to make you look smart or well-rounded. Bold the ones you've read, underline the ones you read for school, italicize the ones you started but didn't finish.

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Anna Karenina Crime and Punishment Catch-22 One Hundred Years of Solitude Wuthering Heights The Silmarillion Life of Pi : a novel The Name of the Rose Don Quixote Moby Dick Ulysses Madame Bovary The Odyssey Pride and Prejudice Jane Eyre The Tale of Two Cities The Brothers Karamazov Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies War and Peace Vanity Fair The Time Traveler’s Wife The Iliad Emma The Blind Assassin The Kite Runner Mrs. Dalloway Great Expectations American Gods A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius Atlas Shrugged Reading Lolita in Tehran : a memoir in books Memoirs of a Geisha Middlesex Quicksilver Wicked : the life and times of the wicked witch of the West The Canterbury Tales The Historian : a novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Love in the Time of Cholera Brave New World The Fountainhead Foucault’s Pendulum Middlemarch Frankenstein The Count of Monte Cristo Dracula A Clockwork Orange Anansi Boys The Once and Future King The Grapes of Wrath The Poisonwood Bible : a novel 1984 Angels & Demons The Inferno (and Purgatory and Paradise) The Satanic Verses Sense and Sensibility The Picture of Dorian Gray Mansfield Park One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest To the Lighthouse Tess of the D’Urbervilles Oliver Twist Gulliver’s Travels Les Misérables The Corrections The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time Dune The Prince The Sound and the Fury Angela’s Ashes : a memoir The God of Small Things A People’s History of the United States : 1492-present Cryptonomicon Neverwhere A Confederacy of Dunces A Short History of Nearly Everything Dubliners The Unbearable Lightness of Being Beloved Slaughterhouse-five The Scarlet Letter Eats, Shoots & Leaves The Mists of Avalon Oryx and Crake : a novel Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed Cloud Atlas The Confusion Lolita Persuasion Northanger Abbey The Catcher in the Rye On the Road The Hunchback of Notre Dame Freakonomics : a rogue economist explores the hidden side of everything Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance : an inquiry into values The Aeneid Watership Down Gravity’s Rainbow The Hobbit In Cold Blood : a true account of a multiple murder and its consequences White Teeth Treasure Island David Copperfield The Three Musketeers

Labels: crochet, dancing, friends, outfits, silly

Today my peace accord with the spiders came to an abrupt end. I walked into the bathroom this morning and felt a filament brush my face. It's my hair, I thought frantically, but it wasn't my hair. That's it, sisters. It is on.

I kept count: I squished 12 in my bathroom alone. I left the ones in the hall alone, because I can't reach them and they don't bother me as much. I figure the one spider left in the bathroom can stretch out and enjoy herself. I'm pretty sure they don't dig competition.

Today after school I picked up my mom and went to a boutique to get fitted for the church fashion show. This is the first time I have been volunteered as a model, and my mother is discovering how much she wanted to be a beauty pageant mum. (Actually, she's just helping me with the zippers and picking outfits. Not Gypsy at all.)

I tried on clothes for two hours. Two hours of elegant pants, clingy tops, and brightly-patterned blazers. By the end of it I was longing for my Owl Dress…but at least we found some good clothes, and when I walk down the catwalk I won't look like a little girl let loose in her grandmother's closet. And no, you can't come see me. That is a promise.

This weekend I was supposed to finish my report cards, so being me, I was entirely domestic on Saturday as I recovered from my cold and entirely social on Sunday as I celebrated Sandi Purl's upcoming baby. The report cards were finished after 8 p.m. on Sunday, and I had to cheat to get the last class done. Fixed it this morning, and no one was the wiser. (Except Mason, who I was compelled to warn before I went to sleep. 'If I drop dead,' I wrote, 'all of the comments on one class are exactly the same. Pass it off as a glitch. Wait, I'll be dead. Who cares?')

Tomorrow: the power of Sandi's dandy shower, plus pictures that will make you want to eat Fenner with a spoon. And no more rhyming. That's another promise.

Labels: bat masterson, church, house rich, outfits, outings

I've been taking quite a few classes this month, trying to whip myself into shape no doubt. Besides the twice-weekly belly dance sessions, I took a photography course last Sunday and a hyperbolic crochet course this afternoon.

The photography course was hosted by Jacquie & NotAnArtist, so I immediately felt at home. These two clever ladies put together over two hours of photo phun. My photography has improved a great deal just by following their three important rules:

1. turn off the flash
2. read the manual
3. take tonnes of shots

Some of the nicer ones:

Today's hyperbolic crochet was an exercise in non-Euclidean geometry taught by Miss Sweetiepie Press. I was just in it for the cool shapes, but I also snuck in some math. Go, me!

Yesterday I had the girliest day out ever in the history of the world. Throw in a waxing and the world would have burst with the free-floating estrogen (so it's good that there was no waxing). At 11 I had a hair appointment with Destiny. (Hee! I love pulling out the 10 ½-year-old pseudonyms as if I dropped them yesterday. That one's for you, long-time readers. Er, reader.)

Back to the hair appointment with Destiny. She cut my hair during the semester break in January, and it was the longest, strongest hair cut of my life. It was only last week that I started to think about getting it cut again, and even when I woke up on Saturday I found myself wondering if I had a few more weeks in it. The haircut is that good. But a haircut means girliness, and girliness means girlfriends, and I always need more of that no matter what my hair looks like. Scherezade met me at the salon, where the three of us chatted through the appointment (Destiny is her highschool buddy, after all). Then the two of us set out for what I thought would be a short trip up and down the strip. I failed to realize that when I shop with Scherezade, I shop the hell out of an afternoon.

First we stopped in at Fresh Baked Goods, where I was seduced by a bright pink t-shirt and a blue-and-brown dress. Although I paid for both, one is being custom-made and the second is getting slight alterations to make it perfect. Laura Jean the Knitting Queen pinned me up, and we were able to chat about her designs as I have enough yarn to crochet two of her Cupcake sweaters but lack the courage to cast on. At least I can buy her handiwork with no more courage than a credit card inspires. I'm not sure that the world will survive how cute this dress will make me. We can only pray that I won't find co-ordinating shoes.

After Fresh Baked Goods, Scherezade hustled me into the next store, which sells art and art products. She bought a set of postcards that I later fell in love with to the point that we had to return. But that second stop was well after lunch, which was my first visit to the Red Tea Box. The girliness hiked itself up a couple notches over the April Bento Box Special and the Competition Monkey Picked Oolong tea, not to mention ogling the fabric cakes. (Delish!) Having secured the postcards in my grubby little paws, we then went to Victor Gallery for frames, where I bought 4 identical frames which each cost more than all 8 postcards. (Easy come, easy go…or, as my grandfather might say, I have more money than sense.) We also ducked into Bakka for a quick banter with the saleslady and a hunt for some crappy sf novels recommended by Scherezade's honey.

Our final stop was Mac Fab, where I spent the better part of an hour looking for metal-shank buttons for my coat and some pretty plastic buttons for my dad's birthday present. I also found some awesome fabric for Mason's new apartment, which I shall buy next week, when I return to the block for my new dress. Life is good.

Labels: friends, knit, outfits, outings

Very strange week. The Boy & I reached a turning point on Wednesday, probably because three full therapy sessions equals some invisible tipping point. This was good timing, as I was pretty sure that if the "keeping his distance" trend hadn't ended, I would have gone round the bend. I could actually feel my nerves that day stretched almost to the snapping point. (I probably didn't help the situation by wearing one of my least-teacherly outfits: one of Stacy's black babydoll dresses, my new-old motorcycle jacket, and the Boots. Why does this matter? Because when I'm dressed like a teacher I can focus more clearly on being a teacher. When I'm dressed like myself, I tend to dwell on my personal problems.)

Wednesday evening was also the last of the Summer Knitting Nights; Mason will be starting pre-natal classes with his wife next week, and without someone to herd me out the door I can't be trusted to go home at a reasonable hour. So we both spent almost the whole of the night wrapped in a thick melancholy coating (which for me, surrounded a chewy nougat centre of anxiety about my marriage). How can I best convey my mind-state that night? How about: on the way home I listened to "Slow Hands" by Interpol 6 times in a row.

But that story has a happy ending. Not to worry.

The next night I headed down to the city again for a clandestine knitting brainstorming party. I had originally meant to drop Mason at the bottom of Spadina, but I got so distracted by our conversation that I ended up driving him to the Annex, and then being in the unlovely position of squeezing my way across the city in the middle of rush hour. I felt like a bit of food in Elvis' digestive system in the last part of his life. Ugh.

I was a full hour late for the party, and had to be emotionally propped up by Michelle's offer of butter tarts and herbal tea. But the party was good, and my go to hell attitude actually unfettered my imagination thus my suggestions were perhaps more creative than they might have been otherwise, and there was lovely swag, and then there were rather excellent burgers afterward with Michelle and the redoubtable Rachel H. So that was wonderful.

Going home and trying to kill myself marking two sets of tests when I wanted to be asleep? Not Wonderful. Hearing the next morning that one of the next tests has been put off? Lovely. Having those fucking tests sitting in my bag upstairs at this moment STILL UNMARKED? Not Lovely. But my problem entirely.

Now I'm off to prepare for the weekend's events. I've already been involved in a large-scale pie-making operation, and the next 24 hours promise knitting! Dancing! Art! And a charity walk in my club clothes!! Because I am HardCore. Dig it.

P.S. There's still time to donate. If you like the thought of me with a walloping art hangover walking 10K in the Boots and knitting at the same time…well, maybe you want to drop a few dollars in the plate. There will be pictures. Just saying.

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

This morning I got up before seven so that I could make pancakes. Something about pancakes always fills my day with sunshine. So I did, and then when we were glutted with sweet gluteny love, I got dressed & took Blake to the supermarket. The Boy had been shopping yesterday, but there's a superior calibre of lunch meat to be found at a market farther away, so I went out in search of deli for lunches this coming week. As I wheeled around with a grumpy, snotty Blake, I noticed that most of my fellow patrons seemed to be wearing the shirts they slept in. I shouldn't complain; I should feel lucky that so many people remembered to wear pants. I am so overdressed, I thought.

After church, Blake & I got on our bike and headed over to the 6th anniversary celebration of our next-door neighbour's tabernacle. This was completely new to me, but it seemed like the kind of risk that it would be good for me to take. The Boy stayed home, felled by some weird creeping crud, but I was wearing a swingy skirt and my motorcycle boots and feeling good. When we walked in, I realized that I was one of the only people not wearing traditional African dress. All around me, women in dazzling robes were adorned with fantastic fabric origami crowns. I am so underdressed, I thought.

Other excellent things about today in no particular order:

The quality of afternoon sunlight when I'm hanging up clothes. Blake falling asleep on my lap as I knit. Lying on the uncomfortable hardwood floor with Blake before church and listening intently to the first 5 songs off the B-52's album. Riding my bike in motorcycle boots and a swingy skirt, with Blake in the front wearing a hockey helmet. The Boy holding my hand in church. Fresh bagels for lunch. A nap in the sun.

This is what keeps me going: the fact that there are such beautiful, glowing patches of happiness in my life.

Labels: blake, outfits, the boy

Mason: "I really want to knit this [secret sweater for my wife] at home."

Me: "You could always tell her it's for me."

Mason: "Yeah, that might…wait."

Me: "Hee! Sorry. That wasn't very nice."

The Very Odd Situation between me & Mason (i.e. the one with his wife that fears my intentions, while my conduct has been blameless) developed a new wrinkle last night when I continued to attend the Lettuce Knit stitch n' bitch with him, despite the resumption of the school year. I always quit my weekday commitments when summer ends because I know myself too well to trust myself to leave at an appropriate hour when there's socializin'. (And delicious suppers, and ice cream with waffles and, well, beer.) This is why I never-never-never go to the Dance Cave during the school year, because who wants an English teacher who assigns silent reading for the period while she falls asleep on the desk? Well, maybe more of you than I credit, but my bosses don't want that and I don't want the bank to take my house for non-payment.

But I went out last night. Because I figure that if Mason's proven resolve to leave at 8 p.m. and thus make his wife happy can be extended to me, I can keep going out. Plus, my parents sweetened the deal immeasurably by offering to take Blake for the night on Wednesdays. So after work I'll do yoga for an hour & find the inner peace I so lack, and then blow off that inner peace with burritos, ice cream, waffles & beer, and then go home and go to bed without having to read anyone stories. I am so lucky.

This has been an excellent school opening. The only thing I can compare it to was the year I came back very pregnant, and thus completely untouched by the usual anxiety. There's also the positive influence of my Back To School footwear, pictured below:

For two days I walked through the school a goddess in my own mind. Wearing these boots makes it easy to pretend that I have a scooter and a stylish European boyfriend. And that once this day is over, I will continue our motorcycle tour of Southern Europe. These boots don't really help me with the grasping of the reality, no.

But in case I need a quick dose of the stuff, this is what Blake's Back To School outfit looks like:

I had no idea how filthy a dress shirt could get in 8 hours spent on a wee student's back. It appears the reality will just keep on going, despite my pretensions to fantasy.

Labels: bat masterson, blake, friends, knit, outfits

I had a fantastic day. I got all my anniversary shopping done (wool, glass, card), plus correctly-fitting post-nursing bras, a staple-less stapler, and various toy treats for the Blake. Plus, I got to spend all afternoon with Scherezade, one of my favourite people, and I spent the end of the day chasing a naked Blake through Dufferin Grove Park. Fortunately, that place is always full of so many hippie parents that nobody seemed to care.

Why was he naked? Well, he had an "accident" in the art supply store that left him commando, so when we got to the wading pool, he rushed in and I had no alternative but to strip him of his soaking togs and send him in nude. Then I took off with Scherezade, leaving Cheryl with her two kids and my nudist. Cheryl's so great - she just thinks this kind of thing is funny rather than deeply alarming. We both thought, "what's the worst that could happen?"

While I was gone, a guy came over and asked Cheryl if she was the naked kid's mom. "No, I'm just watching him. His mom took his clothes off and left." When I heard this story later, I was compelled to add, "she sounded pretty high." We laughed.

Turns out that you have to wear clothes in the wading pool and in the play area. Who knew that this wasn't Woodstock, what with all the organic food and bra-less, nursing mothers? Squares.

I have several short videos of Blake chasing his friends through the park, him naked and them clothed. It was good times for all. By the time I managed to pry him away from Cheryl's son K3nt0n and their chasing and singing games, the sun was setting. I returned home with two fresh rotis and all of Blake's clothing quarantined in plastic bags, and I walked in the door completely spent in body and soul.

The bra shopping was top-notch, as per usual. Secrets from Your Sister takes all the hassle out of bras, which is good when you're like me and yo-yo around the sizes with unpredictable force. To give you an example, when I started wearing bras after an 8-year hiatus, it was after the antidepressants had kicked in and I was 20 pounds overweight. Size: 38B, with the possibility of extenders to accommodate my enormous back. Then I got pregnant and gained a cup size. Then I had Blake and started nursing, which started to shrink my back somewhat. Now I'm a full year past nursing, 5 years past my weight gain, and still firmly in need of a bra. What does one do? One goes to SfYS, where you will be accurately measured and waited on by a consummate professional who – irony – is not wearing a bra herself.

My overall experience was enhanced by Blake, who, giving no hint of his later descent into anarchy, sat quietly in a corner with a bottle of apple juice and listened contentedly to the Scissor Sisters album being played over the shop speakers. He was, uncharacteristically, angelic. This may have been because I woke him up from his nap after only 20 minutes of sleep, and he was bone tired…but I'll take it wherever I can get it. Usually I have to enlist my companion to distract/guard him, but even Scherezade's late arrival went unnoticed. He was Just That Good.

We spent the rest of our afternoon buying him little toys. I hardly ever indulge him like that, but I was feeling pretty indulged myself (I will not disclose my underwear bill; it is, like its subject, unmentionable). So he scored some new bath toys and a whale model, plus a new red, white and blue striped ball (a curiously hard-to-find item that he loves with the passion of a collector). Well, he scored 2, but that was because in all the confusion surrounding his "accident" I didn't realize that I had already slipped a ball into my bag for safe keeping, thus I wound up paying for another ball and discovering the first an hour later. The Clueless Shoplifter strikes again. I'm feeling pretty guilty; not only because of what I taught my son but because they let me use the staff bathroom in Blake's hour of need. Bad mom.

When we got to the park, he dug himself into a sand pit and allowed Scherezade & I to forage for an afternoon snack. There's nothing quite like sitting in the shade with one of your oldest and best friends, eating an organic hot dog with your fingers and chasing it with a sun-warm chocolate chip cookie while your son is absorbed into the anarchy of a hippie kid sand pit. I highly recommend it. Of course, as soon as the wading pool entered the picture it all fell apart. But it was awesome while it lasted.

Labels: blake, friends, outfits, outings

I've got a backlog right now, and the farther I get from it the less I want to write about it. So maybe we'll do this the way my kids always want to write: point-from style, bebe!

Friday:

• still grumpy and unsettled and full of confidence-eroding guilt.
• met Poppy & the twinz for a 'romp' in the park; romp was conducted by Blake while I got some twin boy time.
• alone with the Blake for most of the day, and happy.
• dropped him off at Camp Grampa at 5 and headed east for bright lights & excitement.
• continued grumpy streak at Betty's, where I could not get food or drink fast enough.
• knit a very tiny bit; mostly showed and told about my crazy patterns.
• Jendricks effectively boosted my spirits with her funnel/g-string comment, which will not be committed to print
• unintentional shirt twinz abounded! Including me! Good work, Old Navy.
• piled Sophie, Michelle, Nad, Lisa & Jacquie into the Purple Lassitude and prayed that we wouldn't be stopped. But then again, we couldn't be stopped.
• goth primped at Michelle's convenient condo. I pulled out all the classics: the Dress, the Fishnets, and the current pair of 'vogs. Too bad my hair sucked.
• saw Stacy & Death outside; chatted for a half hour until guilt kicked in, then ran upstairs to be with my abandoned knittas.
• hit Savage, danced like stompy fools, laughed at each other and everyone else
• left at midnight and laughed when Michelle gave me the look of perfect disappointment. "Don't give me that look!" I yelled over the band, "I invented that look!"
• drove home, tired but happy.

Saturday

• packed up the car & went to KW
• watched the Boy impress his whole family with the accordion, and watched the accordion become an indispensable part of the campfire sing
• ate way too much layered dip and way too much everything else
• egged two family members into attempting the 6 over 60 cracker challenge; both failed
• let Blake pretty much do what he wanted for most of the afternoon; this entailed running wild with a pack of cousins older than he
• listened to one of the Boy's uncles do an unintentional reinterpretation of "If I Can't Smoke or Swear, I'm Fucked"
• was surprised twice; once when the same uncle turned out to have taken accordion lessons decades ago, and next when a cousin joined me and the accordion on the one verse of "Halleluia" the Boy could be coaxed to play
• held Blake in my arms next to a campfire until he fell asleep
• drove home, tired and happy. We couldn't stay the night because backyard renos have eliminated the fence around the pool, thus taking away the barrier between Blake and the sweet arms of Death. The kid can work dead bolts like a pro; a tent zipper is no barrier. (When I explained this at knitting, Michelle suggested I tether him to the tent. "That way, when he drowns, you can all drown with him!" And we laughed, mostly because everyone else at the table was horrified. It'd make a *great* Smiths song.)

Today I started decluttering and getting myself in order. I also started Blake's "gradual release" swim lessons, by which I mean, total release swim lessons. We've always done swim lessons together, so I picked a class that would work on getting him slowly to the point in which I could go up to the observation deck & knit. Today I took him to the poolside and was summarily dismissed. It was kind of sad – I was in my bathingsuit, still damp from the shower, and completely redundant. No knitting either. So I went upstairs with my parents and watched Blake from afar. I think a 2:1 class ratio is exactly right where he's concerned.

Labels: blake, dancing, friends, knit, outfits, outings

Many things have happened over the past few days, the most important of which is, I suppose, that the Boy & I got the house in spectacular shape for Sunday's après party party. I had expected that everyone would be too tired after eating and swimming & celebrating my uncle's spring wedding to spend more than a token visit at the house, but I was happily surprised. They came for an hour, made themselves at home, ate almost all of the low-fat bean dip, and disappeared on the stroke of six. My dad has been heard to remark that the house looked perfect; so much so that he's started to talk about buying it when we move (a long ways down the road). My mom? Not impressed with this speculation. She does, however, dig the house and that’s all I want.

The avant "party party" party (or, the party) was excellent as well. I got to make an impromptu toast to my uncles, and the rest of my relatives actually shut up for 2 seconds. A blue-eyed miracle.

Speaking of family, my sister Pixie got married last weekend. She would have pulled it off in complete secrecy, but she drunkenly spilled the beans to Scout (or so the story goes), and Scout immediately bought a plane ticket. Scout has been maid of honour at all but one of her family's recent marriages; no one elopes on her watch.

The groom? We get to meet him next month. I can't say anything nice about him because I wouldn't know him from Adam. He seems to have made Pixie happy, and that's all that matters in the long run.

From the No Good Reason Dept.

Hey look, I actually had a good hair day in 2007:

And this is what I'd look like as drawn by Matt Groening. This picture comes courtesy of a tripple-dog-dare from Alexi. Ha! Ex dares are the most serious, and I never beck down from a dare to begin with.

Labels: family, outfits

Let's all bow our heads and have a moment of silence for the following purged items:

• a shiny silver suit Stacy thrifted for me, one piece at a time. I wore the jacket one memorable night at C*8, and I've been waiting to slim down enough to wear the whole outfit. The painful fact is that even if I lose 20 pounds, giving birth has irrevocably changed my hip shape.
• the turquoise and green dress in which I met Callum Keith Rennie. I threw it in the washing machine last year and shrunk the outer layer. I'm going to hope that some smaller girl thinks that the extra fringe is a design feature.
• the grey cardigan my grandmother gave me in the mid-90's. When everyone else aspired to the frumpy cardigan, I cornered the market.
• the skirt-that-may-as-well-be-a-belt that I inherited from Scherezade and wore to my 28th birthday celebration.
• the velvet tunic I found at Good Will By the Pound in '97. I interviewed the Heads in that goth-figure-skater-gone-wrong outfit.
• the navy blouse that was a staple of my first office wardrobe in '95.
• the denim jumper I bought with Alexi and wore over a series of little t-shirts. Also, the little black t-shirt I bought that day.
• the black and purple dress that made the Lawyer give me a good once-over when he came by to see if I was going to Tea one fall afternoon in '97.
• a number of items I inherited and kept even though they didn't look good on me.

Labels: friends, house rich, nostalgia, outfits

So, following hot on the heels of the pig incident, Mason managed to lose one of my knitting bags yesterday. I had lent it to him last week with the barely-started second kimono because I wanted to hook him on the project (he's not knitting right now; I need to not knit a second kimono right away or I will seriously lose my knit). It’s not a proper knitting bag, rather, it's a baby bag Theresa gave me that's a bit awkward when loaded up with baby stuff, so it lay unused for years until I resuscitated it as a knitting bag. It's made of Nova Scotia tartan and it has no tag, so there was no possibility of replacement.

I wasn't too worked up about it; between the shame-guilt of my unfinished weekend marking and the new house, I don't have many grey cells left over for random sadness. Mason thought I was being overly accommodating (hiding rage, he supposed), but my real response was, "how is this about my house, now?"

Anyway, the bag resurfaced with one of my yoganaut friends and Mason feels better. This is the best thing that's happened to me in two full days; that alone should tell you how crummy my week has been.

Bridesmaidmania was a big corsage of excellent this year. I was afraid that it would be like last year with big gaps in the fun and the conspicuous lack of dancing (until the end). Turns out that was mostly due to the tiara; without it, I had a blast. (I don't look any better, but what can I say. It's been a bad year for my physical appearance: lots of stress-eating and an unbroken string of bad haircuts. Plus, the pimples of my adolescence seem to be returning, one at a time.) Cyn and Mike were the special Bride & Groom this year, and knowing a big chunk of the participants helped me feel comfortable without Dirk.

(Oh, yeah. Dirk bailed on me. He spaced on the date and made alternate plans in another city, leaving me with a week of "should I stay or should I go" type decision-making.)

I also made some new friends, relying on my special combo of hideous dress, brazen conversation, and funky dance moves. Plus, this crowd loves the fact that I'm a teacher and I can surf on that fascination endlessly. It's the kind of event where you can discuss everything under the sun, and then move to a new conversation at will because there's just so damn much going on. Because of the extreme busyness of this weekend, I had asked the Boy to pick me up early; when he did, I was sorry to go.

I didn't, however, leave with my reputation intact:

More photos here.

Labels: bat masterson, dancing, friends, house rich, outfits, outings

So, I had a lie-down and I feel better. I skipped my Diet Coke at lunch; that probably had something to do with my inability to cope with my day.

I totally forgot to mention that my department went out for lunch, stuffed ourselves slothful with Vietnamese food, then my ride went to the bookstore. As soon as we walked in the door, one of my colleagues picked up a book as a joke: "Do you think we should get this for [Employee Leaving Tomorrow]?" I looked at the title: "You Suck." The author: Christopher Moore. The blurb: "C. Thomas Flood…" And then I totally lost my shit and started bouncing up and down in front of my co-workers because IT'S A SEQUEL TO BLOODSUCKING FIENDS. I know what I want for Rocketbride Day.

I have some questions for the universe:

Why is it that everyone I know who got married in 1999 is now divorced/on the way? Why are things going so poorly for the Boy's family on the relationship front, when they're such interesting and good people? Why do people think that this shirt is attractive? Why is Mason so awesome? Why do the people in my family vacillate between stupidly elaborate weddings and secretive clandestine hitchings? Why do my students think they can all get away with writing the same fucking exam? Why didn't anyone tell me about this new Christopher Moore book? Why am I making mad cash for eating food?

"Why can't a mouse eat a streetcar? Why oh why oh why?" – Woody Guthrie

Labels: bat masterson, family, outfits

I had a crummy day at work yesterday. First off, I've lost interest in the semester, it being three days until the exam, so my lessons were boring & largely focused on "work time," which became "chat time." Second, I had to tell the guy next to me to stop making ribald jokes at my expense because I was getting uncomfortable. That is The Last Time I ask him to take me on an off-site errand – he was fine during the errand, but before & after he made a number of comments insinuating that our business was sexual. Blech and double-blech – even though I told them to stop, and they did, I still feel garbagy. Third, the purpose of the errand was to buy samosas for a English department birthday, one that I loused up by forgetting cups, plates & napkins. Go me.

So I was not in a great mood when the Boy & I got ready to go out for the night. (As you may recall, this was the night for the po-mo/porno horror.) Mason called to back out right before we left, Dirk & Exodus & Ex's woman (Levitica – I've decided to refer to them collectively as the Pentateuch – look it up) were looking like sketchy prospects at best, and my PVC pants* were uncomfortable (go figure). I was nearly positive that we'd go to Future Bakery, eat a quiet dinner, chat with Stacy for an hour, then go home.

Need I say that my disappointments were, well, disappointed? For one, Dirk picked up the phone when we were loudly singing along with Frozen Ghost on the highway, and he even promised to put on pants in time for our arrival. I didn't end up eating at FB (which was weird, because me and eating are tight), but we had fun anyway. And then Stacy & the Pentateuch showed up, so that was cool, too. Much laughter, and the eating of schnitzel later, we were ready for the soi-dit porno horror.

I have to say that, Behind the Mask: the rise of Leslie Vernon did not disappoint. Last night was a perfect echo of every reason I had to watch horror when I was a teen, namely:

1. it was what all my friends were doing, which was therefore what I wanted to do
2. thrills n' some tame chills that couldn't quite compare to what my imagination has been conjuring out of the dark since the age of 11
3. voyeuristic explorations of airbrushed teenage sex, which I soaked up as a valuable source of information/inspiration. Hey, when you're 16, it's easier and classier to get away with watching horror rather than porno in your parents' basement.

"Isn't this a little gratuitous?"
"Tay, who's telling this story?"

* Why was I wearing my PVC pants when no club was in sight? A few reasons. When we called Dirk on Thursday, he expressed an interest in – get this - going dancing after the movie. Buddy hasn't made it past 4:30 p.m. this week and he wants to close out the Garden's retro night. But since I'm an "anything can happen and I want to be dressed for it" kind of person, I spent some time at the lunch table musing about the most efficient outfit change before I settled on the pants. They actually make a lot of sense in winter, I just haven't really worn them since my anti-depressant-pro-weight-gain era. Of course, the people at the table began giving me shit for my bad fashion sense, so I got a little stubborn and decided to wear them out no matter where I ended up (even if front of the teevee). I even put in my new contact lenses and slathered on my typical helping of Too Much Dark Makeup to match the mood of the pants. It was fun.

Labels: bat masterson, friends, outfits, outings