june 17, 2001. I have had a wonderful weekend so far, despite the absence of vice (or as Buddy Cole pronounces it, Vicky). Friday night we lived like 12-year-olds thanks to the excessive heat. Valley weather is bizarro. One minute we're in a crisp, cool spring and the very next day we're swimming in humidity. My new office has a window but no ivy, so the sunlight pumps in all day long. Even 2 fans can't compensate for the heat generated by 2 humans, 4 computers and the ever-loving sun. Friday afternoon is a blank to me, as my brain overheated and ceased to function for long stretches. I would open a new graphic in Adobe, forget what I was doing, and spend the next 40 minutes playing on the internet before I returned to consciousness. Home was no better: the windows were closed the whole day and my living room resembled nothing more than a tackily-decorated sauna. It wasn't possible to think in this weather, let alone think about using a hot stove to prepare food; unfortunately grocery day is Saturday and we'd run out of fresh, cool alternatives. So we made a dinner of hotdogs, chips and ice-cream sandwiches, and ate it lying on the floor. Friday was the day that the Brita jug became the third most important member of the household. Ceilidh seems unaware of her loss of status, although we frequently point to her and say "demoted" in a stern voice. Her new name is "Little Miss Demoted." She doesn't seem to care. On Friday we went to bed early, worn out by the heat. The slow wakeup on Saturday morning after a very long sleep was like unto heaven. (I may be getting old, but I've always enjoyed a good snooze.) I lazed about eating chips and reading, kicking it oldschool stylee. And then we went to an ox pull. Yeah, you heard me. The Boy saw the signs for the 'annual ox pull and giant garage sale' in neighboring Port Williams and he was smitten. For an hour we watched teams of oxen drag enormous weights over short distances, culminating in a 5200 lb. pull. I was so far out of my depth that it was funny: farmers looked at my Curious George lunchbox with distrust, then turned away. Before the event, we walked by idle teams and wondered how dangerous it would be to approach them. My small store of knowledge culled from the novel Little House On The Prairie was deemed unreliable in this regard. The Boy was enthralled. Although we only stayed for 2 classes, he would've happily stayed on the aluminum bleachers all day. I found it interesting from a cultural anthropology perspective. Plus, there was something hypnotic about the event. The team approaches and is chained to the weight. The driver yells and smacks them on the back with his little whisk and they pull the weight forward the requisite feet (or far beyond, depending on the energy of the team) The team is unhooked and led away. A tractor is hooked to the weight and drags it back into place. The next team approaches. Etc. 200 pound blocks were added after each round, increasing the weight to almost unimaginable totals. I liked the fact that, like Olympic curlers, these oxen obviously had a day job outside of pulling weight. There's no such thing as the bichon frise of ox pulls, which pleases me. Seems more honest than your average animal competition. I wonder what my vegan siblings Pixie Stix & Nic would think of the event. Anyhoo, after an hour of this we went on our merry shopping way (although not before I'd received a wicked sunburn around my sunglasses and down one strip of my thigh. Sexy.) My eyes continued to be confounded when we arrived, for the mall parking lot was filled with vintage cars. There was a car I have never seen before but began to covet immediately: a black 1949 Ford Coupe. This car is so fucking boss. It's death and the devil on 4 whitewall tires. Yeow. During what was intended to be a quick troll through the mall, I ended up buying a load of sale-priced skirts and shirts at an unusually reasonable price. Still, I keep wondering if $100 for 3 shirts and 2 skirts is a good deal or far too much money to spend on clothes. I always make the excuse that I'll need lots of nice clothing for teaching, but who cares what the teacher wears anyway? Oh well. I'll be the most stylish web designer in the Annapolis Valley. (snort) I also purchased permanent black hair dye, as I figure it's time to stop freaking out over professionalism. I'm worried that if I change my mind, I'll be left to suffer through months of teenage goth roots i.e. the strip of natural colour that shows at the hairline of babygoths between allowances. I suppose I could cut it all off again. I used to revel in my hair freedom: if something didn't work out, I'd try something new or cut it off. I tried really hard not to be tied into any one hairstyle. And now look at me: afraid of a little natural black. God. I am overdue to bit this bullet: after 4 years of goth pretensions I need to take the next step and actually dye my hair black. I think this is the only way to renew my membership in the dark cabal, now that I've lost my phonebook containing the home number of Poppy Z. Brite. "my life is a dark room." - lydia, beetle juice anne gwish © jhonen vasquez Today was another perfect Sunday morning: sunlight, bagel, church & cool breezes. Heavenly. This is the Boy's favourite season, as it allows him to walk around the house all day wearing only a pair of shorts. He says he's going to pitch 'minimal clothing day' to the church council. I wish him luck. this time 3 years ago: the beginning of hippie hell