April 4, 1999.

I'm playing a game with my new fan. I'm not quite sure how to work it, but I thought it would be a good idea to change the air in my bedroom via fan (it's awfully cold outside these days). But the fan soon chills me too much. So I stand up on my chair & tug the chain, having faith that that will shut it off. Sit down, check some email...hey, is that fan still going? Climb up on the chair, tug the chain, sit down, read a few more missives, wonder where my contact lens case is...haven't you stopped yet? Sigh. Up on the chair, pull the chain, watch it slow down. Good. Finally.

Argh. What a week.

The good news is that I'm falling in love with the new Grotto. The bad news? Oh, nothing much. Minor irritants, like my roommates continuing surliness (guess what, sweetie? Breaking your lease, flitting from place to place like a gypsy moth is hard work. I've done all I can for your lazy hippie ass, but I'm not your mother.) I wouldn't say that tensions are running high, but they're running somewhere off the ground. I can't be bothered to care...I feel like the injured party here. Isn't there something in the Geneva conventions prohibiting people from making fourth year BA candidates uproot their entire life in the last week of classes? Well, there should be.

Friday was an interesting, if uneven day. In the afternoon, I dressed myself as Kindergoth, paying special attention to the makeup this time (the great thing about kindergoth as a look is that any sloppiness fits under the "I'm five years old, whadaya want?" excuse). This included purple streaks courtesy of Manic Panic hair mascara, courtesy of Stacy, courtesy of being me. I was so in love with the mauve running from my part to my pigtails that I'm seriously considering doing it permanently.

(And before you remind me that I'm holding a position of authority in July, remember that bleaching blonde and then adding temporary color creates purple streaks. It's a very transient thing, and can look vary "normal" with enough washings. I'm also thinking seriously about getting a second tattoo to celebrate graduation. More on that later.)

In any case, the reason I costumed myself thusly was for Dirk, who celebrated his 29th birthday on Friday. This was his "statutory" birthday, meaning that he wanted to take pictures of himself in strange positions around the statues of the Provincial Legislature. I thought straddling a cannon would take the photo prize of the day, but Tymothi:J outdid me of course...by shinnying up the pedestal and humping the seated statue of Queen Victoria.

The birthday barbecue was splendid, despite a somewhat slow turn out (Good Friday, last week of classes, etc.) We made daiquiris for 4 hours, stopping only when we ran out of rum. Then the party moved to the Slanty Shanty, the home of 4 acquaintances, one of which used to live with Ophelia and shuns me on her behalf. She (of course) showed up after about 20 minutes, cueing me to leave. It was just that I felt so stupid for skulking around the kitchen, petrified that she would come in and I would have nowhere to go...and that's no way for adults to behave. So the Boy & I decided to drop by the Garden. I was very glad for his presence, not just because he backed me up so completely, but also because 2 people is a departure, 1 person is a hissy fit.

The walk to the Garden was idyllic, even though the weather was turning decidedly unfriendly. And best of all, the walk back from the Garden was incredibly short! I actually said, 'are we here already?'

I love the new Grotto for this.

Saturday was rather tense...family dinner with the Italians, which had the usual amount of unpleasant seasoning. Added to the normal background noise of stress and horror was a particularly ugly fight about unions, which consisted of my mother the nurse, my brother the communist and myself the Amoret against a whole table of management level capitalists. Whenever we struck a blow for universal ethical considerations, they switched the talk back to the personal...and when we put the personal in its' place, they switched back. This sophistry is necessary, because after the statement "protecting people should be the first priority of the management," there is no convincing riposte. It was an argument of self-interest vs. enlightened self-interest, and it made us all mad.

But despite this solidarity on human rights, the final piece of the aggravation puzzle which made up Saturday evening came from my mother, who has dropped enigmatic hints that the Italians don't like the Boy. This pisses me off mightily, but is totally understandable. After all, he is nothing like them. I am nothing like them. And my alliance with him points to a future in which I will move farther away from their shallow, materialistic unhappiness.

But at the same time, if anyone makes my Boy feel bad, I want to feed them their heart...especially if they're family. Relatives should know better. I wonder why they never do.

In addition to arguing about basic human dignity and the "right" of the oppressor to screw over the little guy in a free-market economy, we spoke briefly of the second-fave weightloss trend on the market today, namely the protein diet. Two chronically overweight members of my family are on it right now, but nobody knows why it produces results. Having learned how it works a month ago, I lectured my end of the table accordingly.

You see, when your body gets too much protein, it reacts by secreting a chemical that eliminates your water weight. So while it's great for short-term loss, it reduces vital liquid & puts your health in danger after awhile. Besides, it stops working after a certain point...only so much of your body mass is water weight, you know.

I just wonder why they can't connect the goddamn dots. They have the same "weight management" problem as I do...namely they eat too much high-fat food and they're not very active. If they put their ages together, they're almost 100. I'm only 22. Why do I know better than to trust a fad?

(Ooooh, what a smart one I am. Makes you sick, huh?)

After dinner I hitched a ride to S-ville, to join the Boy in his traditional Saturday night kareoke outing. I tried not to repeat myself, but one of the regulars begged me to do a repeat performance of "Birdhouse In Your Soul." And I'm nothing without my fans, daaarling. To even it out a bit, I also sang "Ashes to Ashes" (a mistake, as I don't have the Bowie drama queen thing down) and "Brass In Pocket" (a triumph, as Chrissie's right in my range and they're the next best thing to Concrete Blonde...plus I came in late on the line "I got rhythm.") The Boy said that I out-vamped every girl in the bar, but I pay him to say that. A good time was had by all.

Which brings us to today. In direct contrast to dinner with my father's family, this afternoon I had dinner with my mother's brother et ma "tante" Bibi. And, like most dinners with my mom's people, everything was great. I've come to the conclusion that I can't relate to my dad's side of the family because I wasn't raised Italian-Canadian, but rather Anglo-Canadian. We have no common syntax, whereas when I'm with my mom's side, they understand & accept me with all my strange characteristics. I felt like a real adult...brought my boy, ate with the grownups, even spent the afternoon in conversation with them (that's another thing...all the Italians talk about are day to day minutia: work, cars and sports for the men, homemaking, kids and social events for the women. It's very boring stuff that I don't want to be around.) The only sour notes were (predictably) my cousins. They're nasty pieces of work, the both of them. The boy is an utter brat who's broken a lot of our pool stuff during the afternoons he's been over, and the girl is a sullen little bitch without even a monosyllable for anyone (yet she was so torn up by my uncle's death in November that she had to stay home from school, the poor darling). But I was surprised that Bibi's children saw their surliness and raised them an uncomfortable silence, since Bibi herself is so outgoing and nice.

But what do you want, really. Part of being an adult is accepting the behavior of the younger generation, I suppose. And so I grow up another notch...