July 2, 1999.

Yesterday was an exhausting day, both physically and emotionally, but I still should have posted an entry celebrating the creation of that cute little dominion we call Canada. I'm just a bad Canadian, I guess.

You know, taking this foreign relations course has blessed me with the typical cynicism of the Canadian historian. I think this is why so few history professors seem overtly political: if you know the history of the party and keep up with current events, it's much more difficult to maintain a sympathetic attitude toward the emotional ploys and deviousness of politics.

(Not that I dislike the concept of government. I'm a Canadian, for heaven's sake, not one of those godless Yankee Republicans. Home schooling, my ass.)

I was talking about this to a nice man sitting outside my Early Modern Europe exam (later I found out that he's married to my adorable professor). He asked me about other history courses I was involved in, and we ended up talking about Michael Bliss. Bliss, for those who don't pay strict attention to the Canadian media, is a retired professor of my alma mater. In my first year he taught me Canadian History, and now he's constantly on media panels. The nice man was wondering why they kept calling him in to talk. I said it was because most Canadian academics are left-leaning Liberal-ish people, and Bliss is both intelligent and small-c conservative. The Nice Man thought it was because his name was at the front of the rolodex.

Occam's razor, anyone?

For my entire life, celebrating Canada Day has also meant celebrating my grandmother's birthday. This year she turned 74, and we had a barbecue. And for some reason, it totally exhausted me. I didn't want to talk to my relatives, I got upset at small things, and basically had a quietly rotten time. This despite the fact that the Boy was able to attend, granting us a small separation reprieve.

I don't know why I was so let down. Maybe it's an echo of summer school stress. Maybe it's pre-camp depression. Or maybe I'm just a miserable bastard.

One thing that doesn't make me miserable is handing out my stuff for the month of July. Unlike my other changes in living situations, I'll be cut off from most of my stuff for the duration, and there's no reason why someone else can't enjoy them. St. Jack is babysitting my stuffed pig Zelda, since he always played with her during his mid-afternoon visits this month (she's also a great little hog to buff with a tissue, should that be your fancy). The Boy got my Sandman and JTHM collections and some CD's. Q has been sent some of the best cockrock in my brother's collection...I gave him a Danzig album for his birthday, and it amuses me to be a source of 80's mėtal. Pixie's dismay is also somewhat amusing. It's the sort of thing that's impossible to explain. If your teen years didn't include a rock-on phase, then you don't get it either and God's pity on you.

"I made her listen to the Danzig album. I don't think she's been this disgusted with me since the time she saw me eat sushi."

- q

Went mega-shopping at a mega-outlet-mall this afternoon. I am now the owner of 5 pairs of mega-shorts, 3 pairs of mega-socks, a mega-t-shirt with a mopey puppy dog and an assortment of mega-candy for the kids in my cabin (I'm not bribing them; we get an allowance). Trips to the Bulk Barn always freak me out. The quality of food combined with the prices always makes me feel like something barely legal is going on...like I'm buying peanut butter out of the back of a van. Their natural cosmetics excite me, though. My mom allowed me a treat and I chose a bar of cucumber soap for the Boy's sensitive skin (wotta good girlf, huh?). Cucumber soap!!! Too cool.

Final note: tomorrow I go to camp. I'll be writing in that time, but it may need some transcribing if I can't get at a computer. And even if I get it typed in, I'm not sure that I'll be able to upload. I'll try my best, but don't hold your breath during the week. And of course, you can always subscribe to the notify list for all your notifyin' needs. Or you can subscribe if you want to chat with a bunch of cooooool diary fans. It swings both ways, baby. Yeah.