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july 16, 2001.The weekend passed over us like a dream. Everything was so quiet that even the unsettling moments were charged with a strange tranquillity. On Friday we went out for some truly excellent Chinese food, which was a total surprise. Either I buy into Maritime stereotypes without realizing it, or I extrapolated from the fact that we can't get a decent slice of pizza in the area; either way I hadn't expected excellent Chinese food in the Annapolis Valley. In any case, the buffet was just lovely and full of old favourites done with a maximum of subtle flavour and a minimum of batter & grease. When we got home, the Boy played his new song for me, 'The Deep Fields.' The chorus goes like this: She plays in the deep fields (3x)It a very catchy, very hooky song and I was singing along by the second chorus. Only because I was feeling puckish, I sang "I'm full of Chinese food / Your underwear's grey." The Boy made a face, but grudgingly admitted that it was a compliment to be parodied so quickly. I don't think he ever understood that I wasn't parodying him; I was just singing out my day to a tune that was handily available. On Saturday I woke up homesick and there wasn't much I could do about it. I made it even harder on myself by tracking down Little Spider's cell phone and giving her a ring. She's just moved to a seedy downtown apartment and is now living The Life, full of clothes bought on Queen West and weekends that run very late. She's even living across from Anarchist's Cocktail, a.k.a. the new Sanctuary! It seems to agree with her; she sounded giggly & bright for the first time in months. After an hour on the phone, my homesickness had become a dull ache. None of that is her fault, of course, and I'm glad that she finally seems to have the world in the palm of her hand. I just selfishly want what I can't have. In between telephone calls, the Boy & I tackled the mountain of filthy laundry we created over that last 3 weeks. We do laundry every week, but our conversations always run like this: boy: do we have to do towels/sheets/whites* this week? You may have predicted where this is heading. The 'not till next week'ers' had become a monstrous force in their own right, completely overshadowing the week's harvest of dark socks. By yesterday, the pile of my underwear alone had reached shin-level - and we're talking cotton panties here, so that's quite an achievement. I was down to my last pair on Saturday morning. If we didn't do laundry that afternoon I would have to go to church wearing a bathing suit under my dress. We ended up doing 5 loads of laundry yesterday. We were supposed to have a picnic, but that was postponed in the interests of laundry. We were supposed to pay our bills and deposit money to my personal account; we ended up rushing to Kentville at 4:30, after the last load had been hustled out of the dryer (just seconds ahead of a grubby party who had unloaded my underwear when we were a few minutes behind schedule some hours before. blech.) We didn't do anything on Saturday except launder clothes and buy groceries. The Boy barbequed hamburgers while I made an enormous and disastrous Greek salad to match. It was a good meal, although I believe I mentioned that the salad was a disaster. This stemmed from both from the salad's size and my complete ignorance in all matters Greek salady. I think that the dressing came out all right, but it was hard to tell - the salad was so big that you couldn't toss it worth a damn. I ate several leaves that were all-over oregano as well as leaves that were as innocent of dressing as Adam & Eve. It was kinda gross, but I'm used to suffering through salads so I just plowed ahead as best I could. The terrifying thing is that we ate it for lunch on Sunday, I had some for lunch, the Boy took some on the road with him and there's still a healthy portion of salad waiting for me when I get home. Sandwich comparisons first appeared yesterday, and they're getting less funny every day. "We hardly made a dent in that Greek salad." "Have you been eating that salad again?" "New Brunswick...hurrah!" (hooooooonnnnnnk)
On Sunday we got up at a reasonable time and drove to church. Although I enjoyed the sermon (and the repeat of the archaic exclusive language hymns), I spent most of my time mentally sandblasting the pew boxes and repainting them eggshell white with dark brown trim. This is, of course, just another extension of the mad nesting impulse that's plagued me this weekend, and I became aware of this when I found a small bird's nest in the churchyard cemetery. It's a beautiful little thing, all thistle down and grass, and it fits in the palm of my hand. I put it on the bookshelf in front of a Fireball picture of the Boy & I, and it was the final piece of the weird, unknowable decorating puzzle I've set for myself. Now I can go back to thinking about Canadian politics and biography entries with a light heart. (smirk)
Shortly after the end of my nesting phase, we grabbed a bunch of stuff and went picnicking on Blomidon. Our town faces this small mountain, but somehow we've never gone exploring to see the provincial park on its crest. It was a ridiculously fun enterprise to stuff the van with everything we needed or might possibly need for an afternoon outside - we just grabbed everything that came to hand and set off quickly up & down the road. I was banjaxed by the view as we drove. I just cannot get used to this province. Most of the week I stay in my little plot of land, walking back & forth from home to work without seeing anything unfamiliar. But as soon as we get in the car and go, I'm cold-cocked by the mixture of raw & tamed natural beauty streaming past the windows. I mean, there is no place on earth that is truly unspoiled by modern intrusion, but Nova Scotia comes pretty close. As we drove to Blomidon, I muttered 'we're in Paradise,' and I meant it. We set up camp on a slanty hill under some leafy fern-like trees that gave us just the right mixture of sun & shade. I knew to stay away from the still shade of the evergreen trees, as that's where the worst bugs congregate. Even with a fair breeze ruffling our hair we were bitten a few time each before we got the Muskol applied, but that's becoming such a regular occurrence that we ignored it. (I'm covered in a succession of fresh and healing bug bites, and I don't expect that to change until frost sets in. But I love it. Last summer I never left my basement but for lousy temp jobs and wedding appointments. This summer I've literally unearthed myself and I can't get enough even if that means nasty little bug bites.) Lunch was unusually noisy. I chalked this up to a lack of manners on our part until I realized that everything sounded loud. When I began to pay attention, I realized that I could hear the birds as clear as a bell, even though they were across the enormous parklawn. There was just no background noise: no appliance hum, no recorded music, no human conversation that I could pick up, nothing. It was the quietest place I've ever been in. It inspired a natural reverence; although we had a booming drum with us, we played it quietly so as not to scare anything. It really was a beautiful picnic. I think the only reason we left at all is that the Boy was unhappy with our slanty camp, and began to fret. Yes, I realize that he's two years older than me and that I'll be turning 25 next month, but sometimes I wish I could just stick a pacifier in his mouth and let him sleep through the crankiness. (I think I just heard a hoot of disbelief from new mothers around the world. It's that easy, is it??) He left for New Brunswick at 4:30 this morning, as I alluded in the Greek salad dialogue. Last night we were both unexpectedly emotional, clinging to each other like burrs. It was like the very first Sunday night: a feast of sadness as if we hadn't spent months hardening ourselves to this reality of days and nights spent apart. But I suppose I should be glad that there is such pain on separation, for the opposite is not fun. I expect phone calls from St. Stephen and the newly-arrived Jerry & Kerri to tide me over socially tonight, which at least anticipates my usual need to hear a human voice other than my own. When I spend an evening alone, it's usually the cat who suffers. But isn't it always?
* ed. note 1: all my underwear are 'whites,' by the way ** ed. note 2: for some reason, all laundry tasks have become the boy's domain. my part starts with the statement 'we should get going on the laundry,' continues on to some joint colour sorting and finishes up with folding. this system started when I had projects coming out of my nose and had no time to join in with the weekly laundry effort; now I'm too lazy to make things fully co-operative.
this time 2 years ago: an emotional finale to the first camp session |
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