further adventures of rocket bride: september 3, 2001 (continued...)

september 3, 2001 (continued...)

(actually, august 27 - 30. shh!)

Scherezade was supposed to go to work that morning, but our midnight conversation had killed her ability to sleep, and she decided to call in sick instead. She was not, however, too sick to walk around the city, so we took off for Dirk's place of work as soon as we could drag ourselves off the couch. I was supposed to be his sandwich bunny this week, but Monday was the only weekday that I was in the city, and it turned out that Dirk needed to do errands. So we walked to the Wiener Home Hardware (I'm not making that up - Weiner, for all you tool needs) and flaked out on the patio at Futures for as long as he could stay away from the office. After he returned to work, Scherezade & I embarked on a shopping trip the likes of which shall ne'er be seen again! (This is because the slow, inexorable plod of our progress is more suited to the agèd rather than the merely slothful.) Our target Yonge Street, we trod up & down it's great length, accumulating CD's, books & sexual novelty items.
("Why did those people in the store think we're lesbians?" Scherezade wondered on the way out. "Oh yeah. Because we're flirting in a sex store."
"Making that joke about waking you up tonight after he showed us the vibrator remote control probably didn't help either," I added absently.)
During our stop-over at the massive HMV, I found myself on a great washroom quest. It's funny how difficult this can be in the middle of a teeming city when you're nowhere near a restaurant and unwilling to pay for a token snack even if you found a likely spot. Right across the street from HMV is a foot clinic, and I figured at the time that even if I were caught using the washroom, the worst thing that could happen is that I'd have to submit to an exam and a lecture about my footwear habits. So I sailed through the waiting room to the open bathroom door, looking neither left nor right and acting as if I had every right to be using the clinic washroom. Once inside, I noticed a big open box piled high with urine sample jars. On the door was a big sign: PLEASE CLEARLY LABEL YOUR SAMPLE BEFORE GIVING IT TO THE NURSE. I have to admit, I entertained brief fantasies of using a jar, labeling it, and leaving immediately. But there are limits, even for me.
Eventually we found our way to Kensington Market, where I was able to find a black spiked leather belt to complete my Joan Jett outfit for the Garden's upcoming Retro 80's party. It was a bit expensive, but I've never had anything so badass in my entire life. Besides, it's a hell of a conversation piece back in Nova Scotia (actually, I'm a hell of a conversation piece back in Nova Scotia. But I digress...)
Dinner was a group affair at Kalendar. Scherezade & I claimed the best patio table, and hogged several more as the night went on and more people showed up to shower gifts on me. (Well, on the Boy, I was just the envoy.) Besides Scherezade & myself, we accumulated Guy, Exodus, St. Stephen, Stacy and Dirk over the course of 2 ½ hours. Everything was kind of fast & furious & funny & beautiful for awhile, and there was excellent food buoying us up during the gaps in conversation. Guy asked a lot of questions about Nova Scotia, Exodus & St. Stephen talked about how much they missed the Boy, Dirk was his usual Dirkself and both Stacy & Scherezade seemed tired. We finished off the meal with a group postcard for the Boy and split up for sleep, work, play and in my case, tarting up.
I was really looking forward to this night from a pure dancing standpoint (and really, what other standpoint is there?) Once again, I would be reunited with my beloved dj shannon! Once again I could hear the best 80's mix this side of a time warp! Once again I was going out by myself!
Awright, I couldn't really blame Scherezade for wanting an early bedtime after a sleepless time the previous night and a full day of dragging our asses around Toronto. And Stacy was still physically recovering from a manic shooting schedule and an increasingly hectic day job. Exodus doesn't dance. Guy had to - get this! - do more genetics research for his pre-doctoral work. Dirk was still tangled up in the siren call of Movapalooza, and wouldn't promise anything (which is a particularly bad sign for Dirk; usually you can at least get a promise early in the evening, even if he's destined to punk out later.) So I left the house alone, all dolled up in black PVC pants, black Bauhaus t-shirt, new spiked leather belt, and Pink Bag of Justice. God, I felt so fucking hot & powerful. Boy, did it feel good to stomp down Bloor Street in such an ensemble. Even being alone merely heightened my appreciation for these moments.
I believe that I was the 3rd person to arrive. They were still playing a metal tape over the P.A. when I grabbed my first plastic cup of water from the bar, but I was still having fun anyway. It's funny how metal, random quality metal, relaxes me in a way that no easy listening station can match. Bizarre. I suppose this is what happens when a girl cuts her adolescent teeth on the heavier side of rock: she grows up into a freak who can think important thoughts during Ministry but gets fidgety & tense listening to hold music.
When the opening bars of "This Corrosion" fanned out over the empty hall, I knew that Shannon had arrived. I shot up into the dj platform to an enthusiastic welcome from Shannon, who was surprised as hell to see me, and gave me many startled hugs. She, too, was full of questions about teaching & life in Nova Scotia, and seemed surprised when I told her that none of my kids thought of me as 'cool.' (Maybe that'll change with the black hair.) Before I went back downstairs to groove in my empty booth, she pledged to play any song I wanted to hear. I floated down to the level of mere mortals, knowing that I owned that place for at least one night.
Back at my seat, my kharmic retribution was waiting for me in the form of a really annoying manic guy who held me somewhat less than spellbound with the involved story of the industrial album he just wrote ('razorface'). I was happy to talk to him for the first 5 minutes, steadily more restless for the next 10, and obviously, rudely bored for the last 5 minutes of my capture. I heard about his trials in writing the album, his search for a band, his tastes in music, and finally the story of a girl in England who he knew was his soulmate. ("It's always easier when they're far away, isn't it?" I said starchily. "Oh no, this is it. I know when a girl doesn't like me," he said, a little perturbed. Do you now? I thought as I plotted escape.) And it's not like I gave him an excuse to keep talking to me, beside my simple politeness: I used the word HUSBAND, as in MY, not one minute into the conversation. Perhaps he interpreted the phrase "my husband's in Nova Scotia" as "I'd really like to have casual sex with a stranger who hears 4 different vocal tracks in his head at once." If that's true, I guess I kind of led him on. I'm just so baaad.
Eventually I was able to deke around him by heading for the water jug, then beating a quick retreat up to Shannon's aerie. And then he followed me. Shannon, appraised of the situation, was as rude as it's possible for her to be, and he soon scuttled back down the ladder. Yet that was not the last of him. When I began to dance, he quickly positioned himself in front of me, creeping as close as he dared before I whirled away. Ambryse, a girl I know from U.C. Tea, lent me her man to dance protectively between me and Mr. Razorface, and soon everything began to be exciting rather than just creepy. As I've learned on so many nights at the Dance Cave, there really is nothing like a little drama to liven up an already-good night.
Around midnight, just when I had reconciled myself to spending that fabulous night by myself, Jesse cleared the door and began the ritual round of greeting that marks the entrance of any semi-serious clubber. I knew that he hadn't been to the Cave in months, and that I was watching a silent pantomime of surprise and happiness. It made me feel very powerful, knowing that I had convinced him to show up, and thus had caused some of the joy being spread around.
Before he could make his way over to my corner of the dancefloor, Ian popped up in front of me. Despite his new corporate haircut, he's just as hyper and frenetic as ever, and he did his best to talk my ear off in between bouts of wild dancing. Finally, just after midnight, St. Stephen showed up, thus completing my triumvirate of testosterone. For the rest of the night I shuttled between the three of them & the dance floor, my sweat & PVC & metal spikes & manic grin shining.
Shannon truly surpassed herself that night, playing a set of songs that could be divided into the merely good and the really fucking good. RFG: "I was made for loving you," "Lady Marmalade," "Girls," "Rasputin," "Sex Dwarf," and a blistering funk set that made me panting, weak and sore. There was actually a point during "We want the funk" that I'd simply had enough funk, and I watched the rest from the sidelines. Jesse came up afterwards and declared that his legs were shaking. That boy dances hard, 'specially to funk. I myself nearly danced my way into a coma, although nothing tops dancing through chest pains. Go hard or go home, baby.
The night wound up in what had become a routine: we closed out the club, said a huggy goodbye to Shannon, Jesse walked me home, and we sat up in Scherezade's living room talking about stuff. I slid into the big bed at 4:30 a.m., sweaty, smoky, achy, and supremely happy, for I had finally had a night I can only dream about in Nova Scotia. I could be strong & smart & sexy & loved & dance like hell to fantastic music. Even the prospect of getting up at 10 the next morning did little to diminish my shiny shiny joy.

I woke up way too early on Tuesday, but as I was in an unfamiliar bedroom and didn't know how to reset the alarm clock, all I could do was be thankful that I hadn't overslept. I was due to meet my mother and 3 of my young cousins at the Tequila Bookworm at noon, but it was barely 9 o'clock when I gave up on sleep. I spent the time packing my clothes & new stuff into my groaning suitcases, carefully sluicing off my smoky musk, and walking slowly through the cool Toronto morning. It was kind of nice to be able to spend the time walking down Bathurst and not worrying about my perpetual lateness. I had a chance to observe a few indolent men in the park, who passed the time as if they were in their own private village, complete with in-jokes & a storied community. Of course I have no way to prove this, as they spoke Portuguese the whole time. But it was still fun to assume this rich community life, even if it wasn't really so.
By the time my mom & co. caught up with me, I was halfway down a glass of orange juice and at least a third into the latest issue of Bitch. Unfortunately and unbeknownst to me, the Bookworm has changed its' classification to 'bar' in the wake of the new municipal smoking by-laws, and my minor relatives were hustled out the door as soon as they could find me. We consoled ourselves with a big slice of Amato pizza, my second piece of Pollo Basilico 3 days (I forced Dirk to take Tymothi:J & myself to Amato following our first 5-hour stint at Movapalooza.) You can't get really good pizza in Nova Scotia, something which I'm at once horrified and resigned to. At least I could gorge myself when in Gomorrah.
(ed. note: several weeks later, I have been told that 12-year-old *J* enjoyed Amato so much that his parents took him there for his birthday later in the month. They even took him to the Queen Street location, which is not the first place you would expect to find a family from the suburbs. This news makes me happy.)
For the rest of the day, the herd of us amused ourselves with kid stuff. We stopped at Sugar Mountain first for candy, then headed to Silver Snail for comics. When we were done with Queen Street, we walked up to the Art Gallery & saw the Shakespeare painting (finally!) And despite loud, annoying complaints from the two tired & footsore 12-year-olds, despite irritating guards in the Gallery, despite poor displays that created more glare than appreciation, and despite my own insane weariness, I had a pretty excellent time. Maybe it was because I knew that I wouldn't have to walk anywhere after we found the car & went home. After 3 days of intense walking, moving & dancing, no other prospect could be as sweet.
I had a pretty good time chatting with my 12- & 14-year-old cousins (codenamed *J* & ~N~) The two of them have suddenly become fully interesting personalities, which is a very welcome change, and it seems to have happened overnight. Maybe I was too busy last year with working full time, attending 2 university courses & getting married, or maybe it all happened while we've been away, I don't know. All I do know is I had fun just chatting. I could drool over the House of Ill Repute ballgown window display without having to explain myself. I could point out little stores like a tour guide and feel like they were really interested. I could make feminist statements and hear them agree (!) And I could hand ~N~ a flyer to King's Textiles, and when they asked why, simply respond that it's part of the Queen Street experience. *J* even comforted me when an Art Gallery guard told me off for bringing in the Pink Bag of Justice as a purse. It was kinda amazing, really. They were babies for so long, and then there was a long annoying period of little boy-ness. Finally they're people. What a strange concept!
The only other thing of note to happen was that I had my first nonchalant conversation about birth control with my mother & my adult female cousin (codenamed ^N^). O, how marriage changes everything! No longer am I the secretive little breeder, hiding pill decks under old paper diaries! Suddenly my sex life is socially sanctioned! Super.

In as much as such a thing was possible, Wednesday was my day off. In the morning my mother took me to get my license renewed over my strenuous objections ("people are going to ask me what I did on my vacation, and I'm going to have to tell them that I helped a friend move & got my license renewed!") The poor clerk had to take 5 pictures of me because of glare from my glasses, chin too high, mouth open, etc. The mouth-open thing happened because I couldn't stop talking to my mom for even 30 seconds at a time - a rare phenomenon, but enjoyable when it happens. In fact we had an excellent time together the entire week: when I complained later to Stacy that I was really stressed out by parts of this vacation, I had to specify that for once it wasn't my parents freaking me out.
Something unexpected has happened in my relationship with my mother: not only can I enjoy being with her on a personal level, but I've started to enjoy her presence on an aesthetic level. Back in April she secretly joined Weight Watchers, and has lost more than 30 pounds since then. You can see it, too - not just around her waist, but in her face. Plus, right before she went on her nursing mission to the Dominican Republic, she got her hair cut into a short, stylish bob (a hairstyle she's been avoiding for years because my dad prefers long hair on a girl). I found myself staring at her when we went places, marvelling at her new shape. I was a little stunned at how pretty she is now. She was always beautiful, of course, but now she's regaining the youthful prettiness that my schoolmates used to comment on when she would chaperone fieldtrips in grade school. It's awesome. And of course, now that I've been obsessively reading Pound, I have this new base of knowledge about Weight Watchers and can drop words like "points" into the conversation like I actually know what I'm talking about.
That afternoon we went clothes shopping with wolverine-like ferocity, hunting down defenseless blouses & skirts like there was no tomorrow. Mom still isn't quite used to the idea that I like to try on clothes just for the hell of it, and even if it looks good we don't need to buy it. I suppose that in some sense she's still coming to grips with the fact that although I'm not always entirely happy, I've become enormously confident in myself over the past couple of years. This is, of course, partly due to various boys & girls making a fuss over me during university, but mostly due to the tutelage of Scherezade, who is a textbook example of fabulousness that starts from within. Before I met her I spent so many years as an awkward, slumping, nerdish girl that it must be hard for my mother to entirely lose that image, especially when it's time to buy teacher clothes.
I had dinner with the Boy's mother that night, which apparently required a lot of courage on my part to do alone, or so I was told. I duuno, I don't find the Boy's family intimidating in the least. Every time we get together, we talk about family, the education system or philosophy, and it keeps us occupied for hours. Scout showed up late, stressed out by her life-guarding job and her upcoming move back to college. Everything in her life seems to be chugging along nicely as well. All in all it was a typical pleasant evening with the Boy's family. You know. Nothing special. I was just sorry that he couldn't be with me.

When I met up with Dirk at Movapalooza on Sunday, I told him right away that there was a schedule conflict: despite the fact that I really wanted to go to the Retro Party at the Savage Garden on Thursday, I probably wouldn't be able to go because I was supposed to see "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" at the Stratford Festival on the same day. Palaver, however, refused to be persuaded, and swore up & down that he would find a way to get me to the Garden on Thursday night.
Needless to say, all of this was in the back of my head as my mother, myself & two of my cousins set out for a day at the theater.

It was a beautiful day to be driving: sunny, warm, but not particularly hot. We talked about family stuff on the way down, and took periodic smoke breaks at road-side Tim Hortonses. But once in Stratford, I found myself easily irritated by the stores we wandered through. Everything was too expensive or cheaply made or just plain unappealing. Even my favourite Victoriana shop, the one that sells corsets & other neat garments, pissed me right off thanks to the rude sales lady. On top of the indifferent service, and despite a full night of sleep, I felt weak and tired. (My body hadn't fully recovered from last weekend, I guess.) This made our time-killing pilgrimage from store to store more of an ordeal than usual. Mostly I just shifted from foot to foot, followed the crowd, and waited for the whole thing to be over with. Half my mind was on Joan Jett anyway, and on my new studded leather belt.
After an expensive and sorta sucky dinner, we filed into the auditorium. We had pretty good seats: fifth row, very close to the action. I enjoyed the play very much - I had to get over my expectation that George would have an English accent, but once I got used to the actors I began to really enjoy anticipating each subsequent dysfunctional exchange. One of the interesting things I learned from this performance is that the movie is really an incredible example of acting. The woman who played Martha just didn't have the range of Elizabeth Taylor. When she described her son, I felt flat and restless, waiting for the magical transformation that Liz effects. And near the end the actress was just bleating, over and over. But by then I had other issues on my mind.
The play, by the way, started at 8 p.m. and took 3 hours to perform. During the third act I checked my watch obsessively, trying to convince myself that I had enough time for the 2 ½ hour drive to Savage. But I knew, watching George think up the death of his son, that it wasn't going to happen. Dirk confirmed this when I called him from the highway.
The ride home sucked. I sat in the back seat - thinking about all of the people who had promised they would meet me at the Garden that night, thinking about our tight household budget and my now-useless 30 dollar studded belt, thinking about the fact that Dirk had failed to show up for dancing every night to date - and trying not to cry. A midnight order of MacDonald fries helped somewhat, and I was able to suck it in until I got home. I told my parents that I was crying because I was afraid that I had spent our little money foolishly. They were sympathetic, and reminded me that they were holding a certain amount of our wedding money that we could "get back" whenever we wanted. In lieu of the Boy actually telling me that everything was okay, this was the best thing I could've heard. I went to bed grimly resolved to call everyone the next day and apologize for not showing up.

More vacation fun awaits! In the words of Joseph Campbell, "follow your ka-pow!"

	september 3, 2001 (continued...) (actually, august 27 - 30. shh!) Scherezade was supposed to go to work that morning, but our midnight conversation had killed her ability to sleep, and she decided to call in sick instead. She was not, however, too sick to walk around the city, so we took off for Dirk's place of work as soon as we could drag ourselves off the couch. I was supposed to be his sandwich bunny this week, but Monday was the only weekday that I was in the city, and it turned out that Dirk needed to do errands. So we walked to the Wiener Home Hardware (I'm not making that up - Weiner, for all you tool needs) and flaked out on the patio at Futures for as long as he could stay away from the office. After he returned to work, Scherezade & I embarked on a shopping trip the likes of which shall ne'er be seen again! (This is because the slow, inexorable plod of our progress is more suited to the agèd rather than the merely slothful.) Our target Yonge Street, we trod up & down it's great length, accumulating CD's, books & sexual novelty items. ("Why did those people in the store think we're lesbians?" Scherezade wondered on the way out. "Oh yeah. Because we're flirting in a sex store." "Making that joke about waking you up tonight after he showed us the vibrator remote control probably didn't help either," I added absently.) During our stop-over at the massive HMV, I found myself on a great washroom quest. It's funny how difficult this can be in the middle of a teeming city when you're nowhere near a restaurant and unwilling to pay for a token snack even if you found a likely spot. Right across the street from HMV is a foot clinic, and I figured at the time that even if I were caught using the washroom, the worst thing that could happen is that I'd have to submit to an exam and a lecture about my footwear habits. So I sailed through the waiting room to the open bathroom door, looking neither left nor right and acting as if I had every right to be using the clinic washroom. Once inside, I noticed a big open box piled high with urine sample jars. On the door was a big sign: PLEASE CLEARLY LABEL YOUR SAMPLE BEFORE GIVING IT TO THE NURSE. I have to admit, I entertained brief fantasies of using a jar, labeling it, and leaving immediately. But there are limits, even for me. Eventually we found our way to Kensington Market, where I was able to find a black spiked leather belt to complete my Joan Jett outfit for the Garden's upcoming Retro 80's party. It was a bit expensive, but I've never had anything so badass in my entire life. Besides, it's a hell of a conversation piece back in Nova Scotia (actually, I'm a hell of a conversation piece back in Nova Scotia. But I digress...) Dinner was a group affair at Kalendar. Scherezade & I claimed the best patio table, and hogged several more as the night went on and more people showed up to shower gifts on me. (Well, on the Boy, I was just the envoy.) Besides Scherezade & myself, we accumulated Guy, Exodus, St. Stephen, Stacy and Dirk over the course of 2 ½ hours. Everything was kind of fast & furious & funny & beautiful for awhile, and there was excellent food buoying us up during the gaps in conversation. Guy asked a lot of questions about Nova Scotia, Exodus & St. Stephen talked about how much they missed the Boy, Dirk was his usual Dirkself and both Stacy & Scherezade seemed tired. We finished off the meal with a group postcard for the Boy and split up for sleep, work, play and in my case, tarting up. I was really looking forward to this night from a pure dancing standpoint (and really, what other standpoint is there?) Once again, I would be reunited with my beloved dj shannon! Once again I could hear the best 80's mix this side of a time warp! Once again I was going out by myself! Awright, I couldn't really blame Scherezade for wanting an early bedtime after a sleepless time the previous night and a full day of dragging our asses around Toronto. And Stacy was still physically recovering from a manic shooting schedule and an increasingly hectic day job. Exodus doesn't dance. Guy had to - get this! - do more genetics research for his pre-doctoral work. Dirk was still tangled up in the siren call of Movapalooza, and wouldn't promise anything (which is a particularly bad sign for Dirk; usually you can at least get a promise early in the evening, even if he's destined to punk out later.) So I left the house alone, all dolled up in black PVC pants, black Bauhaus t-shirt, new spiked leather belt, and Pink Bag of Justice. God, I felt so fucking hot & powerful. Boy, did it feel good to stomp down Bloor Street in such an ensemble. Even being alone merely heightened my appreciation for these moments. I believe that I was the 3rd person to arrive. They were still playing a metal tape over the P.A. when I grabbed my first plastic cup of water from the bar, but I was still having fun anyway. It's funny how metal, random quality metal, relaxes me in a way that no easy listening station can match. Bizarre. I suppose this is what happens when a girl cuts her adolescent teeth on the heavier side of rock: she grows up into a freak who can think important thoughts during Ministry but gets fidgety & tense listening to hold music. When the opening bars of "This Corrosion" fanned out over the empty hall, I knew that Shannon had arrived. I shot up into the dj platform to an enthusiastic welcome from Shannon, who was surprised as hell to see me, and gave me many startled hugs. She, too, was full of questions about teaching & life in Nova Scotia, and seemed surprised when I told her that none of my kids thought of me as 'cool.' (Maybe that'll change with the black hair.) Before I went back downstairs to groove in my empty booth, she pledged to play any song I wanted to hear. I floated down to the level of mere mortals, knowing that I owned that place for at least one night. Back at my seat, my kharmic retribution was waiting for me in the form of a really annoying manic guy who held me somewhat less than spellbound with the involved story of the industrial album he just wrote ('razorface'). I was happy to talk to him for the first 5 minutes, steadily more restless for the next 10, and obviously, rudely bored for the last 5 minutes of my capture. I heard about his trials in writing the album, his search for a band, his tastes in music, and finally the story of a girl in England who he knew was his soulmate. ("It's always easier when they're far away, isn't it?" I said starchily. "Oh no, this is it. I know when a girl doesn't like me," he said, a little perturbed. Do you now? I thought as I plotted escape.) And it's not like I gave him an excuse to keep talking to me, beside my simple politeness: I used the word HUSBAND, as in MY, not one minute into the conversation. Perhaps he interpreted the phrase "my husband's in Nova Scotia" as "I'd really like to have casual sex with a stranger who hears 4 different vocal tracks in his head at once." If that's true, I guess I kind of led him on. I'm just so baaad. Eventually I was able to deke around him by heading for the water jug, then beating a quick retreat up to Shannon's aerie. And then he followed me. Shannon, appraised of the situation, was as rude as it's possible for her to be, and he soon scuttled back down the ladder. Yet that was not the last of him. When I began to dance, he quickly positioned himself in front of me, creeping as close as he dared before I whirled away. Ambryse, a girl I know from U.C. Tea, lent me her man to dance protectively between me and Mr. Razorface, and soon everything began to be exciting rather than just creepy. As I've learned on so many nights at the Dance Cave, there really is nothing like a little drama to liven up an already-good night. Around midnight, just when I had reconciled myself to spending that fabulous night by myself, Jesse cleared the door and began the ritual round of greeting that marks the entrance of any semi-serious clubber. I knew that he hadn't been to the Cave in months, and that I was watching a silent pantomime of surprise and happiness. It made me feel very powerful, knowing that I had convinced him to show up, and thus had caused some of the joy being spread around. Before he could make his way over to my corner of the dancefloor, Ian popped up in front of me. Despite his new corporate haircut, he's just as hyper and frenetic as ever, and he did his best to talk my ear off in between bouts of wild dancing. Finally, just after midnight, St. Stephen showed up, thus completing my triumvirate of testosterone. For the rest of the night I shuttled between the three of them & the dance floor, my sweat & PVC & metal spikes & manic grin shining. Shannon truly surpassed herself that night, playing a set of songs that could be divided into the merely good and the really fucking good. RFG: "I was made for loving you," "Lady Marmalade," "Girls," "Rasputin," "Sex Dwarf," and a blistering funk set that made me panting, weak and sore. There was actually a point during "We want the funk" that I'd simply had enough funk, and I watched the rest from the sidelines. Jesse came up afterwards and declared that his legs were shaking. That boy dances hard, 'specially to funk. I myself nearly danced my way into a coma, although nothing tops dancing through chest pains. Go hard or go home, baby. The night wound up in what had become a routine: we closed out the club, said a huggy goodbye to Shannon, Jesse walked me home, and we sat up in Scherezade's living room talking about stuff. I slid into the big bed at 4:30 a.m., sweaty, smoky, achy, and supremely happy, for I had finally had a night I can only dream about in Nova Scotia. I could be strong & smart & sexy & loved & dance like hell to fantastic music. Even the prospect of getting up at 10 the next morning did little to diminish my shiny shiny joy.

	I woke up way too early on Tuesday, but as I was in an unfamiliar bedroom and didn't know how to reset the alarm clock, all I could do was be thankful that I hadn't overslept. I was due to meet my mother and 3 of my young cousins at the Tequila Bookworm at noon, but it was barely 9 o'clock when I gave up on sleep. I spent the time packing my clothes & new stuff into my groaning suitcases, carefully sluicing off my smoky musk, and walking slowly through the cool Toronto morning. It was kind of nice to be able to spend the time walking down Bathurst and not worrying about my perpetual lateness. I had a chance to observe a few indolent men in the park, who passed the time as if they were in their own private village, complete with in-jokes & a storied community. Of course I have no way to prove this, as they spoke Portuguese the whole time. But it was still fun to assume this rich community life, even if it wasn't really so. By the time my mom & co. caught up with me, I was halfway down a glass of orange juice and at least a third into the latest issue of Bitch. Unfortunately and unbeknownst to me, the Bookworm has changed its' classification to 'bar' in the wake of the new municipal smoking by-laws, and my minor relatives were hustled out the door as soon as they could find me. We consoled ourselves with a big slice of Amato pizza, my second piece of Pollo Basilico 3 days (I forced Dirk to take Tymothi:J & myself to Amato following our first 5-hour stint at Movapalooza.) You can't get really good pizza in Nova Scotia, something which I'm at once horrified and resigned to. At least I could gorge myself when in Gomorrah. (ed. note: several weeks later, I have been told that 12-year-old J enjoyed Amato so much that his parents took him there for his birthday later in the month. They even took him to the Queen Street location, which is not the first place you would expect to find a family from the suburbs. This news makes me happy.) For the rest of the day, the herd of us amused ourselves with kid stuff. We stopped at Sugar Mountain first for candy, then headed to Silver Snail for comics. When we were done with Queen Street, we walked up to the Art Gallery & saw the Shakespeare painting (finally!) And despite loud, annoying complaints from the two tired & footsore 12-year-olds, despite irritating guards in the Gallery, despite poor displays that created more glare than appreciation, and despite my own insane weariness, I had a pretty excellent time. Maybe it was because I knew that I wouldn't have to walk anywhere after we found the car & went home. After 3 days of intense walking, moving & dancing, no other prospect could be as sweet. I had a pretty good time chatting with my 12- & 14-year-old cousins (codenamed J & ~N~) The two of them have suddenly become fully interesting personalities, which is a very welcome change, and it seems to have happened overnight. Maybe I was too busy last year with working full time, attending 2 university courses & getting married, or maybe it all happened while we've been away, I don't know. All I do know is I had fun just chatting. I could drool over the House of Ill Repute ballgown window display without having to explain myself. I could point out little stores like a tour guide and feel like they were really interested. I could make feminist statements and hear them agree (!) And I could hand ~N~ a flyer to King's Textiles, and when they asked why, simply respond that it's part of the Queen Street experience. J even comforted me when an Art Gallery guard told me off for bringing in the Pink Bag of Justice as a purse. It was kinda amazing, really. They were babies for so long, and then there was a long annoying period of little boy-ness. Finally they're people. What a strange concept! The only other thing of note to happen was that I had my first nonchalant conversation about birth control with my mother & my adult female cousin (codenamed ^N^). O, how marriage changes everything! No longer am I the secretive little breeder, hiding pill decks under old paper diaries! Suddenly my sex life is socially sanctioned! Super.

	In as much as such a thing was possible, Wednesday was my day off. In the morning my mother took me to get my license renewed over my strenuous objections ("people are going to ask me what I did on my vacation, and I'm going to have to tell them that I helped a friend move & got my license renewed!") The poor clerk had to take 5 pictures of me because of glare from my glasses, chin too high, mouth open, etc. The mouth-open thing happened because I couldn't stop talking to my mom for even 30 seconds at a time - a rare phenomenon, but enjoyable when it happens. In fact we had an excellent time together the entire week: when I complained later to Stacy that I was really stressed out by parts of this vacation, I had to specify that for once it wasn't my parents freaking me out. Something unexpected has happened in my relationship with my mother: not only can I enjoy being with her on a personal level, but I've started to enjoy her presence on an aesthetic level. Back in April she secretly joined Weight Watchers, and has lost more than 30 pounds since then. You can see it, too - not just around her waist, but in her face. Plus, right before she went on her nursing mission to the Dominican Republic, she got her hair cut into a short, stylish bob (a hairstyle she's been avoiding for years because my dad prefers long hair on a girl). I found myself staring at her when we went places, marvelling at her new shape. I was a little stunned at how pretty she is now. She was always beautiful, of course, but now she's regaining the youthful prettiness that my schoolmates used to comment on when she would chaperone fieldtrips in grade school. It's awesome. And of course, now that I've been obsessively reading Pound, I have this new base of knowledge about Weight Watchers and can drop words like "points" into the conversation like I actually know what I'm talking about. That afternoon we went clothes shopping with wolverine-like ferocity, hunting down defenseless blouses & skirts like there was no tomorrow. Mom still isn't quite used to the idea that I like to try on clothes just for the hell of it, and even if it looks good we don't need to buy it. I suppose that in some sense she's still coming to grips with the fact that although I'm not always entirely happy, I've become enormously confident in myself over the past couple of years. This is, of course, partly due to various boys & girls making a fuss over me during university, but mostly due to the tutelage of Scherezade, who is a textbook example of fabulousness that starts from within. Before I met her I spent so many years as an awkward, slumping, nerdish girl that it must be hard for my mother to entirely lose that image, especially when it's time to buy teacher clothes. I had dinner with the Boy's mother that night, which apparently required a lot of courage on my part to do alone, or so I was told. I duuno, I don't find the Boy's family intimidating in the least. Every time we get together, we talk about family, the education system or philosophy, and it keeps us occupied for hours. Scout showed up late, stressed out by her life-guarding job and her upcoming move back to college. Everything in her life seems to be chugging along nicely as well. All in all it was a typical pleasant evening with the Boy's family. You know. Nothing special. I was just sorry that he couldn't be with me.

	When I met up with Dirk at Movapalooza on Sunday, I told him right away that there was a schedule conflict: despite the fact that I really wanted to go to the Retro Party at the Savage Garden on Thursday, I probably wouldn't be able to go because I was supposed to see "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" at the Stratford Festival on the same day. Palaver, however, refused to be persuaded, and swore up & down that he would find a way to get me to the Garden on Thursday night. Needless to say, all of this was in the back of my head as my mother, myself & two of my cousins set out for a day at the theater. It was a beautiful day to be driving: sunny, warm, but not particularly hot. We talked about family stuff on the way down, and took periodic smoke breaks at road-side Tim Hortonses. But once in Stratford, I found myself easily irritated by the stores we wandered through. Everything was too expensive or cheaply made or just plain unappealing. Even my favourite Victoriana shop, the one that sells corsets & other neat garments, pissed me right off thanks to the rude sales lady. On top of the indifferent service, and despite a full night of sleep, I felt weak and tired. (My body hadn't fully recovered from last weekend, I guess.) This made our time-killing pilgrimage from store to store more of an ordeal than usual. Mostly I just shifted from foot to foot, followed the crowd, and waited for the whole thing to be over with. Half my mind was on Joan Jett anyway, and on my new studded leather belt. After an expensive and sorta sucky dinner, we filed into the auditorium. We had pretty good seats: fifth row, very close to the action. I enjoyed the play very much - I had to get over my expectation that George would have an English accent, but once I got used to the actors I began to really enjoy anticipating each subsequent dysfunctional exchange. One of the interesting things I learned from this performance is that the movie is really an incredible example of acting. The woman who played Martha just didn't have the range of Elizabeth Taylor. When she described her son, I felt flat and restless, waiting for the magical transformation that Liz effects. And near the end the actress was just bleating, over and over. But by then I had other issues on my mind. The play, by the way, started at 8 p.m. and took 3 hours to perform. During the third act I checked my watch obsessively, trying to convince myself that I had enough time for the 2 ½ hour drive to Savage. But I knew, watching George think up the death of his son, that it wasn't going to happen. Dirk confirmed this when I called him from the highway. The ride home sucked. I sat in the back seat - thinking about all of the people who had promised they would meet me at the Garden that night, thinking about our tight household budget and my now-useless 30 dollar studded belt, thinking about the fact that Dirk had failed to show up for dancing every night to date - and trying not to cry. A midnight order of MacDonald fries helped somewhat, and I was able to suck it in until I got home. I told my parents that I was crying because I was afraid that I had spent our little money foolishly. They were sympathetic, and reminded me that they were holding a certain amount of our wedding money that we could "get back" whenever we wanted. In lieu of the Boy actually telling me that everything was okay, this was the best thing I could've heard. I went to bed grimly resolved to call everyone the next day and apologize for not showing up. More vacation fun awaits! In the words of Joseph Campbell, "follow your ka-pow!"