july 12, 2003.

I took the Boy to Carabram last night. It's the annual multicultural festival in the town where I grew up - each pavilion is run by a heritage group of volunteers who provide food, entertainment and some kind of cultural information. I used to go when I was a kid, and as a teenager (before I became 'cool'), but I haven't been back for about 10 or 11 years. Some things have changed; some things stayed exactly the same. There are many fewer pavilions this year, but the exhibits in the survivors seem pretty consistent with what I remember from the early nineties.

Anyway, we had a pretty great time. We went to India first, where the Boy stuffed his face with what he calls 'the most adventurous curry in recent memory,' and I watched the dancing. The man selling me a drink ticket wanted to know if, based on my choice of beer, my husband was Indian. That made me proud of him for being adventurous and open in a way I've never quite managed. From time to time I wondered if I should be smug or concerned about the fact that we were one of the few white faces in the crowd. Ultimately, it wasn't anything close to an issue - just a good time for all.

Our second and final stop (it was late!) was the Ukraine. This has always been my favourite pavilion, partly because I'm a little bit Ukrainian on my mother's side, partly because I love the food & dancing, and partly because I'm fascinated by the making of pysanka. As the Boy put it, I geek out for hours at the egg table. He was fascinated by the traditional instrument table. I bought a tchotchke that I loved despite the tackiness. We had a good time.

And now it's off to a stupid standardized test mandated by the stupid Ontario government that's a stupid requirement if I want to stupid teach next year (even though this is the first year of testing and they have no study materials and no plan other than, 'you must pass this test!'). Stupid! Well, at least when it's over I can start applying for the wage increase I deserved last year but couldn't get because I was certified out of province. That's right, folks - because I spent 2 years in Nova Scotia instead of 1 year in North Bay, I was screwed out of a few thousand dollars. As I've said in the past about this situation, it's not like I went to the University of Nic for my degree.

"...and I'm not just the university namesake...I'm also a graduate of the University of Nic."

Well, that wasn't so bad. There were 4 case studies (3-4 questions each) and 32 multiple-choice questions. I finished in 2 hours, only slightly held up by a case study about Grade 7's that made my hatred for 12-year-olds wash over me like a wave. Also, the girl next to me grabbed my pen by mistake & we had a quick, whispered & decidedly illegal conference to correct this (for about a minute I was suffused with the sick conviction that I was going to fail the test because I hadn't been choosy about where I put my supplies.) I only left one question blank. I'm pretty proud of that.

Of course, I have fuck-all idea what this means in the long run. I'm hoping that we can boot out the provincial government before it becomes necessary for the Boy to subject his wonderfully scattered brilliance to this particular box.

After I was done being sorted, measured, scaled & gutted, we wandered around the city for a few hours positively giddy with the unfolding possibilities of mutual summer vacation. Suddenly the rep cinemas are looking like a requirement rather than an entertainment.

Went by Secrets from Your Sister for the first time since I bought the corset, and loaded up on 3 properly fitted, comfortable, non-underwire maternity bras. Ever since I gained weight this fall, I've been completely out of touch with my measurements, let alone being thrown for a loop by pregnancy (I'm not exactly bigger in the chest, just a bit firmer. Apparently I could still go up 2 sizes. Here's hoping...).

Anyway, I thought that the best course of action given my chest confusion would be to visit a place where I could be measured and fitted with an absolute minimum of hassle. And again, SfYS delivered as promised. I ended up with 2 black bras and a tan one that can hook into an X-shape and thus be worn under tank tops.

Apparently my back measurement is now at the limits of what can be easily purchased, and if I go up again it'll be easier to get a back extension than a whole new bra. I'm not sure if I should be ashamed at this news or what. I've never had a small, sylph-like back; I am definitely the child of European peasantry in that regard. Also, I owe a great deal of credit for the backfat to the happy pills that kept me glued together this year. But let's be honest - there are also a lot of fries, a lot of ice-cream bars and a lot of sedentary afternoons in front of various screens & screaming adolescents to claim credit as well.

To state the perfectly obvious, there aren't enough legitimate excuses in the world to erase the feelings of shame & failure when you're bigger than a size 10. Even being pregnant is sometimes a trial, coming as it does so quickly on the heels of sudden precipitous weight gain. I'm not sure if I enjoy the fact that my belly button is getting shallower and shallower. I can see the bottom now. That's kind of creepy.