august 25, 2003.

A P A R T M E N T
C A S T

Me (me)

The Boy (played tonight by Morissey)

Pixie (the Boy's sister)

Joseph (Pixie's boyfriend & roommate)

Goethe (The third roommate, the one who writes plays & translates German & is a Shakespeare scholar & mostly keeps to himself)

The Rat (Pixie's best friend, living in her room temporarily after a sudden eviction)

Chocolate War

Most disturbing fact learned on our journey: when we were buying 5 pounds of peanut brittle for the Boy's father (don't ask), the lady behind the counter informed us that Fannie May owns Laura Secord. I find that profoundly unsettling on a primal level. It's like they finally won the war of 1812. Ick.

Baby Clothes

I had a really great time in Chicago. It was relaxing, it was amusing & it wasn't too expensive. Pixie & her beau Joseph were very sensitive to my need to sit down near a fan for vast swatches of the afternoon, and the weekend passed in reading, talking, laughing, talking, eating, talking, home improvement, talking & the occasional bout of restrained shopping. We are now the proud owner of a black onesie with a skull-and-crossbones on it, not to mention a little black knit baby hat. So. Cute.

Buddhism Without Back Support

One of the reasons we scheduled our vacation for the third weekend in August was that Thich Nhat Hahn was speaking at Loyola College. If you've never heard of TNH, I strongly suggest that you click the link & do a little surfing. He is an amazing human being and was a very real participant in my uncle's death last March through the book "Peace Is Every Step." I personally found it amazing that he held any kind of public event, but I was grateful for the chance to see him and hear his wisdom directly.

Pixie bought us tickets months in advance, and we planned our day to get there just in time for the beginning. As we walked into the auditorium, a small leaflet invited us to silently find a seat and once there, concentrate on our breathing. I greatly enjoyed the experience of walking into a basketball court full of hundreds of adults trying to be silent. Unfortunately, we didn't arrive in time for decent seats, and we ended up sitting in a section that reduced the monks on stage to a sea of brown dots. Drag.

There were problems with the sound system, something that became immediately apparent when the recorded voice of TNH began leading us in meditation. The problems continued through the "opening act" (monks chanting & singing) and well into the lecture itself. The sound was so bad that I could only catch one word in five, and I was reduced to meditating on the futility of expecting technology to always deliver. A good chunk of people left before the problem was resolved, thus adding to the noise - there is nothing quite as distracting as a continuous stream of people shuffling down the stairs & out the doors as you try to listen to a poorly-miked speaker who naturally converses in low, level tones. I couldn't figure out why anyone would pay the money to see a man promoting mindful living & meaningful communication...and then leave after 10 minutes because they couldn't get Dolby surround sound at their seats. 'Twas ironic.

I, on the other hand, kept my head & my seat by ignoring the fact that I couldn't hear a blessed word and focussing on the fact that very few of us ever have the chance to be in the same room with a wise philosopher. I wasn't about the squander the opportunity, so I stayed put. I lay down after awhile because the backless bleachers were murder on my spine, but overall I was chilling. Then two things happened: all the restless finally departed and an amp switched on. Suddenly I could hear everything.

The rest of the evening was magical. He talks just like he writes, in metaphors and epigrams and gems of wisdom that seem so simple as to be totally obvious - except that you never would've come to those conclusions if he hadn't been guiding your gaze. It was worth the back pain. It was worth fighting my own misanthropy. It was worth a Friday night.

It's All About the Love

When we got out of the Thich Nhat Hahn lecture, it was still fairly early. We grabbed a little bit of dinner, then Joe & Pixie decided to take us to their favourite karaoke spot: the Blue Frog. I have to say, I was surprised by how little & grotty it was. But it was an enjoyable surprise. I have more fun in dives anyway.

The unfortunate part was that I was tired & achey from the day & the lecture, so I wasn't too enthusiastic about watching strangers sing "Hard to Handle." Sometimes when I'm physically hurting there's a cause, but lately there seems to be a lot of pain that can be ascribed to nothing more specific than pregnancy. So I was uncomfortable & a little grim when we cleared the door. Even the wildly enthusiastic reception we received from the other patrons did nothing to lift my gloom; I figured that Joe & Pixie were well-loved regulars and wouldn't ever want to leave the warm glow of the neon beer sign.

(On the way home I found out that the host makes a speech every night that commands his audience to shower love on each patron and each singer. He takes pictures of the audience and the performers, and emails them on request. I really wish that I were feeling better that night, as it had great potential.)

We didn't stay very long after everyone discovered how rotten I felt. Sometimes I'm utterly convinced that I have nicer family and friends than I deserve.

Allergies-a-go-go!

I'm allergic to cats. We all know this. You may not know that Pixie has two black cats (Virginia & Meathead), and that her roommate Goethe has two black-and-white cats (Augustus & Doc). The Rat, who's staying in Pixie's room until he finds a place, has a grey cat named Torbo who doesn't leave the bedroom to avoid disrupting the fragile dominance chain. I took antihistamines in 4-hour intervals for 3 full days & stayed on the roof whenever possible. It wasn't that bad, as long as the pills remained effective for the full 4-hours (which they didn't always).

To make matters even more enjoyable, the four cats are using excretion of various kinds to assert dominance. The rankest example involves the bathroom. Some bright light put carpet in there, and it was recently "claimed" by one or more of the cats. Territorial cat urine is supposed to stink forever and a day, and Lord God, does it ever. The only consolation is that you as a human being could never create a smell worse than the carpet already exuded.

Being Instead of Doing

Sometimes I have no idea of my own capacity for activity. I tend to think of myself as a lazy person, so my immediate impulse is to go along with any and all plans because it beats sitting on my ass, alone & well-rested. Pregnancy has meant that all bets are off, and I'm starting to allow myself a little leeway to relax.

But not on vacation. I was trained long ago by my mother that vacations were meant to be useful periods of novel activity, not quiet periods of rejuvenation. On Friday we went to the Art Institute, and while I was still amazed by the collection, I found myself just a bit too weary to stay longer than 2 hours. We saw the Wild West exhibit, we saw my Rosetti, and then we left. Still, I was happy. I learned a lot at that exhibit, and it was certainly a good idea to capitalize on Pixie's free passes.

But on Saturday we were supposed to go to the Zoo. It's not that I didn't want to go to the Zoo, it was more like I didn't want to do anything that involved walking as a primary means of transportation. But old instincts resurfaced, and I determined to swallow my reservations and suck it up for the greater good. The fact that I was slowly filling with aimless resentment was ignored. So what if I didn't really want to do anything? What the hell did I know anyway?

We had breakfast that morning in a kickass vegetarian diner that served the best meatless fry-up I've ever encountered (hail seitan!). Food loosened me up, and I confessed to my own lack of initiative. Pixie & Joe were very sympathetic, and we decided to spend the day hanging around with each other. On the way back to the apartment, we stopped by a second hand store and looked at the strange variety of flotsam that had accumulated for our purchase. Joe bought 2 metal lamps; we bought a mobile and a terrycloth hippo bath puppet. (For the rest of the trip, we would pull it out and say, "I have my hippo dignity.") We walked home, and then Pixie & Joe took the car out for some lamp shopping.

For the rest of the afternoon, while I sat in the back & read maternity magazines, the two of them worked to make their apartment more functional, more beautiful, more excellent. We pitched in here & there, but the main work was theirs. I couldn't help wondering if my own laziness hadn't produced the better result. In any case, the rest of the weekend was conducted at a deliberately slow pace - just what the doctor ordered.

Random Glee

On Saturday night, Pixie, the Rat, the Boy, Joe and myself sat around their roof patio, drinking beer (everyone else but me), telling stories and laughing hysterically. Pixie told a story about being part of a dramatic presentation where she was told to put on a robot costume and dance during an inspirational soft rock song.

For the rest of the weekend, I would flash on her wearing a tinfoil-covered box & doing the robot (of course) to "The Greatest Love of All." It was really hard to explain why I kept giggling uncontrollably at random intervals.

Car Fiasco

Okay. I've had to piece this together from a number of sources, but to the best of my knowledge, here's what happened:

  1. Everyone mentioned in the above story is sitting around on the roof. We're about to give up on the shishkebobs, as early attempts to light the charcoal fire were rather unsuccessful and resulted in a great deal of lighter fluid added to the fire. (Apparently mushrooms soak up offensive odours & tastes just as well as they do pleasant sauces; eating those 'bobs was like trying to choke down gasoline-flavoured candy. We are in barbecue purgatory, a land where it feels like you will never get to eat properly cooked meat. Maybe that's where McDonald's CEO's go when they die.)

  2. Phone call. Joe takes it in the house. He comes out looking worried.

  3. We learn that Goethe's girlfriend is in the emergency room in a scummy part of town. She has to wait for an indeterminate length of time and she doesn't know where Goethe is. Joe does. Joe asks if he can borrow my car so that he can pick up Goethe and take him to the hospital.

  4. I have some misgivings and feel like I should leaving the party with him, but I decide to be selfish instead. I give him the keys.

  5. Joe picks up Goethe at another party and the two of them drive toward the hospital.

  6. Joe & Goethe are stopped by Chicago's Finest. The cops want to know what a man with an Arizona license is driving a dented car with Ontario plates. Joe is hampered by the fact that his story is so implausible ("it's my girlfriend's brother's wife's parents' car") and that he doesn't know to whom the car belongs. Goethe challenges the right of the officers to stop them, as he feels they're not doing anything wrong. This antagonizes the situation.

  7. The cops take away the keys.

  8. Meanwhile, back at the apartment, an SUV pulls into our parking space. We feel bellicose and debate throwing flaming marshmallows at the car. We realize that we have no marshmallows. Then we realize that the two guys aren't getting out of the car. Further scrutiny reveals that they are the band from the country & western bar downstairs and that they're doing lines on the dashboard. They do this twice throughout the evening. We laugh & contemplate taking their picture.

  9. Joe calls us and asks to whom the car legally belongs. I am horrified to discover that I don't know. I am suddenly plagued by visions of my parents waking up to a phone call from the police. It hits me that I, let alone my parents, have no idea of Joe's last name, and they'd have no idea why he was driving their car.

  10. Joe hangs up. I call my parents in a cold sweat, trying to head off disaster with the truth. No one picks up.

  11. Joe calls back from the hospital. The cops returned the keys after they ran the license plate. Now Joe & Goethe can't find Goethe's girlfriend.

  12. Girlfriend finally located. Apparently she was bleeding a lot for no good reason. Joe calls again and we beg him to come home before the cops impound my parents' car.

  13. Joe returns. Coke-snorting band has left. I decide never to be selfish again. Barbecue purgatory ends and we all eat veggie burgers.

You Can't Ignore This!!

Somewhere in the mad flurry of sitting down and learning to use the new charcoal barbeque, we managed to hook up with Amy, Andy & Quinn. At first, in the planning stages, all parties were suffused with options. There were just too many possibilities. Food, however, was considered essential. I suggested a picnic, visions of Quinn tearing around a wooded glen dancing in my head.

"Uh, Andy & I are restaurant people more than picnic people," was the diplomatic response. Suddenly I remembered that I don't like to sit down without back support for more than 15 minutes, even before I got pregnant. So we decided on a place with chairs, a menu & waitstaff. 10:30 was proposed. It seemed ultimately reasonable.

At 10:20, I was reading a Livejournal backlog in my pyjamas. The Boy & Pixie were at Walgreens to pick up Tylenol & our first developed roll of film taken on my parents' old camera. I must note that Joe was dressed & ready to go. When appraised of the time, I became a whirlwind of feverish activity, dashing into my black almost-maternity dress, popping in contacts, fluffing up my flatty flat flat flat hair, putting on makeup, praying that they wouldn't be punctual. When the family arrived, I was still barefoot, so I grabbed my stockings & shoes and ran down to the sidewalk. Hugs were exchanged. Both Quinn and myself were confirmed as "cute." Everyone was smiling.

Quinn is a lot shier this year than the last - at least with me. She still uses her mommy & daddy as jungle gyms, and she liked hanging out with Joe's Leaf's cap in front of her face (with a slot for more sausage if needed). She didn't really like to come close to me, although I got my share of smiles & giggles. Far more popular were the Muppet Twins and Joe, the latter of whom became the focus of Quinn's attention. I suppose I should've worn a Leafs cap - then I could compete.

I loved hanging out with Amy, Andy & Quinn, but I can't find an easy way to describe our conversation. Quinn ate a lot of sausage and got in the way of the bar staff (who didn't seem to mind, although they were by no means enjoying the dodge as much as she was.) The boys talked about music both esoteric & not. The girls smiled a lot, and chatted non-stop about everything from pregnancy to diaries to names to Pixie's unfortunate tendency to shout animal sounds out the window. Amy shared her secret pregnancy fear, which was that Quinn would be ugly and that she'd have to love her ugly baby anyway. I was delighted - this fear has replaced a lot of other nebulous fears that have been swirling around my overheated brain for months. I no longer worry about Cesarian section - I just know that Ugly Sprout will be fine. So that's all right.

"You told me your name was Handsome Sprout!"

After brunch, Andy picked up Quinn, commandeered the Boy and drove to a record store some blocks away. The girls were left to walk in the hot sun. Granted, we all agreed to this plan of our own free will, so there's no point in complaining about it now. I tried my best to remain stoic as the sun beat down on my ill-advised black dress. Oh why had I passed up the maternity burnoose?

We did not slide into a puddle. We lived. We talked even more. We field tested baby names. And eventually we got to the record store.

I had a good time. Like everything else about my weekend, it was mellow in the extreme (if that's not a contradiction in terms). Amy & I had already had the first meeting, so there wasn't the same kind of tension; everybody was happy & there was more talking than anything else.

"Thanks for making my wife happy," said Andy as they packed up the sleepy Quinn."

"And for yourself, you're relatively indifferent?" I grinned back.

"Come back again to visit Pixie," chimed in Amy.

"Or you can ignore Pixie & visit us," Andy responded. Pixie immediately began doing a weird flailing dance with her arms & legs.

"You can't ignore this!" she intoned in a weird, spectral voice. At the same time, a large group of people came up behind her, clearly looking for a way around our sidewalk block.

"Pixie, you just backed into a bunch of strangers!" I crowed, dissolving into glee. She turned to face the fleeing pedestrians, continuing her dance.

"You can't ignore this, either!" she called out to their backs.

Planet Smoothie

After Amy, Andy & Quinn left, Pixie, the Boy & I moseyed down to the Alley. On the way we stopped in at Planet Smoothie so that the Boy could use the bathroom. We were going to have a drink after we finished buying black baby clothes, but the menu sucked us in & refused to let go.

All I have to say is: Holy Mother of God! The Lunar Lemonade (with Femme Blast) is positively the best-tasting thing I have ever put in my mouth. It's sexy. We're damn lucky we don't live nearby...we'd be dropping all our money on wheatgrass shots & funky lemonade variations. No, a puritan existence is the best thing for us.

Yup.

The Apartment

By the time we left on Monday, I was half in love with the apartment. We were told that it used to be a newspaper office, and it still has a tiled hallway and office-like dark wood doors to the three bedrooms. The ceiling is very high and there's a fire escape onto the roof. Joe and Pixie have begun turning the roof into a backyard straight out of every urban movie in existence. This is a good thing!

Right now they have an astroturf deck on the metal roof, deck chairs, a fold-up picnic table, icicle lights wrapped around the dry cleaner's chimney-vent that emerges just outside the door, strings of little red Chinese lanterns that hang from the chimney guy wires, a new charcoal barbecue (which the Boy helped to assemble), a reassuring dryer smell that issues from the chimney, and a picturesque view of a brick wall. Beyond the wall you can see chimney swifts at sunset, a free arial display identical to the free chimney swift tourist attraction in Wolfvegas. I spent a great deal of time on the roof, not just because we spent a lot of time barbecuing, but because it was the one place I could get away from the cat hair. Also, it was cool and relaxing in the midst of a heat wave to flop out on a chair and read or talk for hours.

Underneath the apartment, in addition to the dry cleaners, is a country and western bar and an alternative theatre. Both of these places made themselves known over the weekend whether we wanted it or not. The bar had a band in on Friday & Saturday night, and we went to sleep with the soothing rattle of electric bass vibrating through the bedframe. It got so that I didn't even mind hearing "Ring of Fire" over and over; perhaps because both nights I was utterly exhausted and slept the sleep of the just (and pregnant). The other fun story about the bar is that on Saturday night, we noticed a strange car parked in our newly-acquired parking space. We debated throwing burning marshmallows at the car, but all thoughts of war disappeared when we realized that it was members of the band - and they were doing lines on the dashboard. This was too bizarre for words.

The theatre was quieter than the bar, but it did disgorge an actor during intermission on Saturday night, who came up for free liquor and then went back to finish the play. Apparently Pixie & Joe know him, which is, I suppose, why he felt free to stand on the sidewalk and demand liquor like an alcoholic Stanley Kowalski.

That was the best part of the apartment. The worst thing was that something way in the back of the fridge had turned evil and every foray for fresh food was met with a paralyzing whiff of unidentifiable horror which would then drift through the apartment in search of new victims. Much like the cat-smelling bathroom, it turned into a huge joke. Then Pixie threw away some suspicious potato salad and it got better.

The fridge smell wasn't the only thing that improved; one of the things I liked best about our stay was that Joe & Pixie spent a chunk of the weekend making things nicer with lamps and such. Joe is surprisingly handy around the house (which, considering his job as set designer, maybe isn't so surprising). It's such a thrill when you can leave a place that's nicer than the one you entered, even if it wasn't your doing. Our decision to leave Mount Olympus in the month after the Sprout arrives and my parents' veto over the basement decoration means that I don't really get to nest in preparation for the Sprout. This weekend I got to exorcise a great many nesting impulses by discussing improvements with Pixie & Joe.

Goethe's Big Speech

Goethe came out to the roof and slapped some raw burgers on the grill. "Thanks for letting us use your car last night."

"Don't mention it," I responded lightly. "I'm just sorry it turned into a French farce."

"French farces are funny," he growled.

"Well, how about a Swedish farce, where nothing is funny?" I tried.

Choke!

On Sunday night, it seemed like everyone was choking on something. I choked on a little piece of carrot. Pixie choked on a mouthful of beer. And Joe choked on a big hunk of steak.

It was Joe's steak that caused the most consternation, of course. We were ranged about the roof in indolent splendour as he cooked his steak. When we started to eat it, the Boy discovered the chimney swifts nearby, and nothing short of a movement of the earth would get him to stop monologuing about the birds. In the midst of all this, Joe got Pixie's attention & make a casual gesture towards himself. She looked at him blankly. The Boy's insights about swifts rolled on unbroken. Joe made the same casual gesture.

"I think he's choking," I said, but Pixie was already moving into Heimlich position. She got the wad of half-chewed meat out of his throat, and then started to panic.

"I've never done that before! You almost choked! And...why didn't you make the international sign of choking instead of just pointing to yourself?" We were all laughing at this point, the Boy having finally clued in and the rest of us glad that the crisis was passed. She had a point: I've never seen anything so casual and cool as Joe's signal for "I may be choking to death." It was hardly anything at all.

Watch Wars

My watch is still in Chicago, by the way. I was really dumb: as soon as we arrived, I took it off, put it down and poof! No watch for the rest of my stay. The current theory is that the four adult cats are wearing it as a status symbol. The fact that it's on a different & exotic timezone can only add to its worth in the feline mind.

Ontario update: we found it. In my luggage. I am the loser of the millennium.

Flint, Michigan

I'll keep this brief, because Flint already has its poet.

There are towns on the South Shore of Nova Scotia that have been virtually abandoned now that the fishing has collapsed. There are towns in Northern Ontario & the Yukon that were mined out and are now empty shells. But those places are, for want of a better word, little.

Flint is not little. We pulled off the highway with 4.80 in American currency and a powerful hunger from fasting all day. It took us about 15 minutes to find a restaurant that looked promisingly cheap - and not totally spooky. The empty parking lots freaked me out, you see. Finally, we walked into a fish & chicken restaurant next to the McDonalds.

I put our money down on the counter and smiled winningly. "Can we get fish for this much?" We could. I got the feeling that I wasn't the first person to ask that question. I got the feeling that I wouldn't be the last to ask that question.

It was great fish - greasy, hot & fresh. We ate it while fleeing Flint as quickly as our tired Purple Lassitude would take us away.

I suppose that you have to see Flint for yourself to even begin to understand Michael Moore.

Responsible

In the car last night, the Boy called Exodus to arrange for the return of Cuddles (they were cavysitting for us while we were in Chicago). He decided to go over tomorrow & hangout. After he got off the phone, I reminded him that I had a fitness appointment 3 hours after the meeting time, so he couldn't do a marathon hang-out session as per usual. He looked annoyed.

"Why didn't you mention it when I was making plans?"

"You didn't give me a chance," I responded reasonably. "Besides, you knew I had a fitness appointment."

"Well, I forgot." He smirked a little, recognizing that he was losing ground.

"Am I supposed to be responsible for the both of us?" I was smiling too.

He mock-exploded. "Yes! Yes you are! From now on, you're responsible for the both of us. 'Why were you 3 hours late, Boy?' 'You'll have to ask my wife, since she's responsible for me.' There. We're done. You: responsible."

"Do I get to tell you what to do?" I giggled.

"Nope."

"Great. It's like a preview of parenting a 16-year-old. I'm totally responsible for your behaviour, but I can't tell you anything."

"That's it exactly."

Last Chance Dance Cave

Tonight is the last night I can go to the Dance Cave without consequences. Unfortunately, I'm not 22 anymore...I'm just too wiped out to think of going into the pounding music. And the Boy is utterly, utterly burnt. We stopped for fried rice on the way home, realizing way too late that we hadn't eaten any real food in about 7 hours. On the way into Ho Lee Chow, he was complaining about his skin feeling weird. I get that from time to time and usually it means that I need to go to bed. So that's what we'll do.

Heh. It's not like I'll be working the full year anyway...

Booty Call: Day 171 - Fingernails are now present.

3 years ago today: a dumb picture of alexi