august 30, 2002.

Seriously shitty day today. Socially, the centre is not holding. Professionally, about a hundred rough beasts are slouching towards my classroom, waiting to be bored. I keep getting lost, making my fallacy even more pathetic than usual.

What the hell am I talking about? Sorry. My social troubles are many and vexing, but a public retelling just might aggravate them further. Suffice it to say that Preacher called from Alberta to work his pastoral care magic on me, and it was none too soon or too little. I must also point out that St. Pete asked why I failed to show up last night, as they had actually missed my sweet presence. Too bad I was mired in the depths of room preparation.

As for the professional thing, it's just all the freefloating anxiety of a first-year teacher. Don't let it bring you down / It's only castles burning.

And as for the fact that I am continually on the wrong road, I'm long past the point of blaming my famously bad sense of navigation. There must be another reason why I am going the wrong direction and making stupid, risky decisions every day. I mean, other than the fact that I haven't driven in two years and that I'm new to the area. I have yet to make a single trip in the last week that doesn't include at least one five-point turn and a near-death experience.

"You need to pay attention!"

- the guy in the truck i had just cut off, who pulled up beside me and shook his fist for emphasis.

As I write this, I am choking on a glass of water. Now my esophagus seems to be in revolt, as chocolate and bile have begun to leak out of my sinuses. I'm sure you'd rather not have known, but really. Chocolate and bile. It's just so me...

Chicago (1)

We really weren't ready to make the trip. We woke up on Friday morning utterly exhausted and almost entirely unpacked, but a little bit of perspective (i.e. "we're going to Chicago! yay!") made everything fit together (and I'm not just talking about the luggage). We dropped by the Boy's mom's house for some last minute cash, and then went to the beer store in order to stock up on a much-missed Toronto beer for our American siblings. Then I got behind the wheel and drove to Detroit.

I love how I can sum that up in one sentence. As I said, it's been two years since I drove regularly, and although the 401 is not a terrifically challenging highway, it still felt like a big deal to be the captain of our international voyage. The only problem was that my pants were too small (I couldn't find any proper pants in the minefield that is our bedroom), and so I crossed the border in my pink ME shirt and unbuttoned pants. The Boy found this high-larious, and insisted on drilling me about the correct border-crossing procedure.

"Ma'am, are your pants done up?"

"No. I mean, yes! Of course they are!"

"Please pull the car over. You're staying in Canada."

(hangs head in shame)

And you just know that I had to mention this episode to everyone I met, because it was the funniest thing to happen on our drive. Pixie tried to make something smarmy of it, but really, it was just weird. Like the way my brother used to walk around highschool with his fly undone, just to see if anyone would notice. Okay, maybe not like that because, damn. Nic is one creepy motherfucker. But I digress. Back to the drive.

We stopped for gas in Detroit, as we were running on fumes and I had been drinking water since London...thus, I was more than ready to explore the alternate reality of American gas stations. Washrooms proved adequate, but the really nutty thing was that the Boy filled up the tank for $12.50. I believe my exact response to this was an awed, "fuck off." I remember when we could fill a tank for just over twenty dollars, but those days are long gone. $12.50 seemed a ludicrous figure, a number completely unconnected with reality. Welcome to America little girl.

Whenever my family would travel to Ohio in my childhood, the tension in the car would increase as soon as we crossed the border. This, therefore, is always my association with the United States: terrible roads and increased paranoia. I was relieved to find out that the bad roads were mostly confined to Northern Detroit, and the paranoia was an optional emotional burden. Heck, even the sight of a dozen cars swarming up behind me like sharks failed to freak me out. Everything was so weird by that point that the total aggression of Interstate 94 seemed no more weird than anything else.

The other neat thing about the drive was that as soon as we crossed the border, we were able to follow signs to Chicago. We didn't bring or need a map the entire weekend. How cool is that?! Speaking from personal experience, I know that Quebec is in complete denial that any of their highways lead to Toronto; having driven across that signage wasteland a few times now, I appreciate the value of a good road sign.

Unfortunately, our fantastic time was interrupted by incredibly heavy rain. We pulled into a Denny's somewhere in Michigan to wait it out. That whole time felt incredibly surreal: the warm rain pelting down in sheets, the unfamiliarity of the landscape, and the sense that we were on a grand adventure remade the time into a honey-rich flow. By the time we got moving again, I had begun to nod. I ended up sleeping through most of Indiana.

Finding Q's place was no trouble at all. The trouble came when I realized that we were about to leave the car parked on a street where people were sitting and drinking!! I was yet unaware of my own hickness at this point, but it was definitely, if unconsciously, manifest in my immediate distrust of the situation. I'd like to say that I lost that feeling of unease, but the truth is that I merely got more used to it as the weekend rolled on. I don't think I ever felt completely comfortable walking away from the car, even if I'd just heard the keyless locks beeping shut.

Q was very glad to see us, and we tramped around the surprisingly large apartment and admired his miniatures whilst waiting for Pixie to arrive. Once she bounded up the stairs, we strode off to Leona's for my first truly overwhelming Chicago experience. As Pixie so sagely advises, sometimes it's best to stick to one page of the menu. That's the kind of metaphor I really needed to keep in mind that weekend.

Once home, we each proposed DVD's until we all agreed on "Moonstruck." I have to say it: it was a better experience on a big teevee with excellent sound. I suppose I've just lost my membership in the "gritty young poor malcontent brigade." Oh well.

And then there was sleep. As there will be for me, now, in Gomorrah.

3 years ago today: so much good-natured irony that I didn't even feel self-conscious