Write About Here

2009-01-01T12:49:00.002-05:00

I think the time has come to retire this space.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and I'm still not ready to say I will never post here again. But having two blogs has been splitting me, and it feels dishonest and artificial. There's so much overlap between them for one thing -- that overlap being me, of course. The reality is that my photography is informed by my motherhood, the people I've met in this community and my resulting interest in social justice, the books and blogs I read. I've been feeling really guilty about the fact that I've written so frankly about my experiences at the Drop In Centre here, but I only ever give the people I meet there my other website. I want to own what I write; anonymity is only an illusion, especially here where I've relinquished it to promote my photography.

I was debating taking the site down entirely, but I haven't figured out how to archive it all (boy I'd love a way to convert an entire blog into a pdf, just in case any Adobe people are reading and want to develop a new tool), so I'll leave it. Plus, I really don't want to close the door entirely on ever writing here again.

I sought this space out to reach out to other mothers, to find other people with similar, honestly reported experiences of motherhood. You got me through those hard, hard early days, not the really early days of motherhood, but the days when everyone else's babies were sleeping and mine wasn't. And it was blogging that caused me to start seeing photos everywhere, and your support that kept me growing (I love that I know pretty much everyone who's bought my photos or calendars). So much of the rhetoric around motherhood is about sacrifice and losing yourself, but for me it's been the catalyst to reconnecting with myself, my creativity. (Bea introducing me to Myers Briggs and my ENFP-ness also played a significant role in my transformation: it's been so freeing to discover that I'm not as pragmatic as I thought I was, that Sugar D didn't have the market cornered on dreaming. And Mad nominating me for Best Photo/Art Blog in the 07 Canadian Blog Awards also did.)

Ugh, I'm getting all verklempt. It feels a bit like the end of an era, but I'll still be blogging over at peripheralvision, and I'll be expanding the scope over there, for better or worse. I hope to see you over there, but I'll undertand if I don't, since this kind of means the end of Sin. I meant to close up before the end of 08, to make a clean break, but I didn't have the mental space to do it justice until today. But that's ok. New beginnings always need endings to start.

Thank you for reading, for everything.

another one about Swee'pea and the radio

2008-12-18T19:50:00.002-05:00

After I picked Swee'pea up at daycare today, we went to the grocery store to pick up a few necessities. "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails came on, and I realized it might have been close to a decade since the last time I heard it. I own the cd, but "Closer" was really always a club song for me. Anyways, I cranked it and sang along, badly and loudly (except for the f-word, since Swee'pea was in the backseat). I did wonder if this would be another scary cookie monster song for him, but hoped for the best.

"Help me," goes the song at one point. "Help me. Help me get away from myself."

We parked and I just sat there, waiting for the song to end.

"Help me," called Swee'pea from the backseat.

"What do you want help with?" I asked, not catching on to the echo.

"Help me get out of the car."

Walking across the parking lot, I found myself still singing the chorus: "Help me."

Swee'pea said, "I like that song!" He giggled then sang, "Help me!"

our Christmas elf

2008-12-14T09:30:00.003-05:00

Yesterday we got a tree, and pulled out the box of ornaments and stuff. We decided to wait to decorate the tree until we got some more lights this morning, and left the box out. While Sugar D cooked dinner, and I dabbled on the computer, Swee'pea played quietly behind me. I turned around and saw this:

morning rush

2008-12-12T17:39:00.005-05:00

By the time Swee'pea and I got in the car this morning (because we were too late to walk and I had a 9 a.m. meeting, which was at risk even with the car), I was pretty much vibrating from headache and rush and irritability. I mean, how many times does one have to ask a toddler to do something like put boots on or a toque??? I hate that I'm constantly at Swee'pea to hurry up, quick, quick, focus, just FOCUS on the task at hand, would you? and do it.

I flipped some radio channels in the car, and soon heard the first few chords from "Come as you are" by Nirvana. I turned it up and started ,~~yelling~~ singing along. It was just like being 15 again, and amazingly it felt good. It felt good just to sink into rage and self-loathing without apology, to feel 16 again. I had a moment when I wondered what Swee'pea thought, unusually silent in the backseat, but I didn't really care. I mean, I was singing. Singing can't be scary, can it?

The song ended as we pulled into Swee'pea's daycare. After I turned the car off, Swee'pea said, "That music was scary.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because it sounded like Cookie Monster."

cheap greeting cards ending soon

2008-12-11T17:59:00.003-05:00

Just wanted to let you know that as of January 1, 2009, I'll be increasing the price of my photo art cards from $3.99 each (less if you buy packs of 12 or 24) to $4.99. So you might want to take advantage of this extremely cheap price before I do.

Also -- I'm giving something away to interested Americans over at peripheralvision.

while I'm on the subject...

2008-12-08T19:42:00.007-05:00

I suspect yesterday's squash soup is actually quite good. But sadly, it's still too sweet for me, despite two cups of vegetable stock and several generous splashes of white wine vinegar. This sweet-savoury aversion is a REAL handicap. I think I'll just have to freeze it all and let Sugar D take it for a month of lunches. I'd donate it to the drop-in centre, but many folks thought I was nuts for enjoying the pumpkin soup so much, so I suspect sweet squash soup wouldn't go over well. Besides, how popular is someone for bringing in something they cooked but can't stand the taste of???

* * *

When I started this blog, I immediately covered it with google ads, convinced it would be the ticket to my working from home and, eventually, living for six months in South Africa and six months here, never having to experience cold again. It didn't canvas shopping bag of food), along with my thoughts:

PC Celebration Sparkling De-alcholized Wine, Blanc - I don't much care for sparkling wine with alcohol, so I doubt I'll be trying this one... maybe I should find a pregnant woman to invite over for New Years.

PC Decadent Hot Chocolate - haven't tried it yet, but it's the real stuff you add to milk.

PC Peach and Mango Salsa - Hey, there was peach and mango salsa in the box? I must have stuck it in the fridge before I realized. I probably won't like it (sweet-savoury aversion and all), but I bet Sugar D will be ALL over it...

PC Memories of Fuiji 3 Mushroom Sauce - probably won't try it because I don't really like crazy weird mushrooms and somehow this just makes me think of hoisin sauce, which I hate (see sweet-savoury aversion above).

PC Lingonberry Sauce - Sugar D had it in some yogurt. Said it mostly tasted like cranberry sauce.

PC Dark Chocolate Covered Caramels w/ Sea Salt - Yum! If you scrape off the salt crystals. Otherwise the salty flavour lingers long after the chocolatey caramel goodness.

PC Black Olive & Fig Tepanade - saving it for a party.

PC Dark Chocolate Candy Cane Bark - not bad but a little more toothpastey than I generally like my chocolate.

PC Biscuits for Cheese - Swee'pea went so cuckoo for these mixed crackers I barely got a taste in before they disappeared. Not bad. I'll probably get them for our next party so I don't end up with half-empty boxes of crackers I don't like.

PC Fruit Cake with Single Malt Whisky - I hate fruitcake but Sugar D, the resident fruitcake aficionado, said this was pretty good: moist, nice flavour, just not as dark as he would have liked.

So that's that. I kept my word, and only need to feel a little bit weird for pimping my space.

* * *

On Friday night, we moved Swee'pea's double bed away from his window, because we'd noticed a nasty cold draft coming in. I thought maybe that would reduce or shorten or maybe even eliminate??? his night-time visits to our bed. (No joy there by the way.)

The next night, as I was putting him to bed, he said, "Oh noooo! There's a draft coming in the window!"

He wasn't placated when I told him it wouldn't bother him across the room in his bed: "It's scary! The draft is scary!"

Which is when I explained that a draft is just cold air... He still talks about the draft but at least it's not scary anymore.

squash soup

2008-12-07T12:39:00.003-05:00

My hands are orange and sore from cutting up a huge butternut squash. It's one of those bright wintry days that look really nice from inside a cosy house, but feel like a son of a bitch when the wind blows ice crystals into your face. Everything is coated with a powdery, pristine blanket of snow, so it's almost painfully bright in our living room with the wall of window. I can barely read the computer screen.

Yesterday at the drop-in centre, we served a fantastic pumpkin soup. Gingery, garlicky, smooth but not too smooth, it was delicious. Sadly, nobody knows who donated it or where I might find the recipe. So today I am attempting a butternut squash soup with the flavours I think I tasted (onion, a bit of celery and carrot, fresh ginger and garlic, and turmeric -- I'll add a bit of cream at the end I think). It's simmering now.

Last weekend I went hunting for new recipes. We've been in a bit of a cooking funk lately -- for months, really -- and I need to find new things to cook, things that don't depend on cheese and pasta, because that gets old pretty quick when you eat it four nights a week. But I realized we have a significant handicap: there are a lot of vegetables I don't like, or that I only like rarely with specific and careful preparation (that I don't know how to do). Eggplant falls into the latter category, and all the autumn vegetables fall into the former - squash, turnip, carrots by themselves, sweet potato, rutabaga, parsnips, fennel. Oh and I don't like bizarre, slippery-feeling mushrooms either. Which writes off almost all the recipes in my cookbooks that I haven't already tried. Sugar D doesn't like brussels sprouts, and I don't think lima beans don't really count as a vegetable.

Wow, that was fast -- the squash is already cooked! Apparently, butternut squash takes longer to peel and chop than it does to cook. Regardless, it smells fantastic. Now I just need to put it in the blender, which could prove hazardous since Swee'pea is napping.

Oh crap. I just tasted it - it's way too sweet. (I also hate sweet and savoury flavour combinations - probably why I hate all those root veggies.) Anyone know how to cut the sweetness? Vinegar? Salt? Add more stock to thin it out? Help!

Which was not what I was going to ask for help with. But it will do for now. Help?

anniversaries

2008-12-04T10:58:00.007-05:00

The second anniversary of the Just Posts is coming up very soon.

It was through the Just Posts that I read something about all the women in Africa suffering from fistula, which is preventable and treatable. Yesterday one of my favourite photography blogs led me to this multimedia presentation about a hospital in Nigeria that treats women with fistula. Go watch it; it's beautiful. (Just click on multimedia when you get there.)

* * *
This anniversary is also making me reflect on how the Just Posts have changed my life. On the first Just Post, I pledged to sponsor a child through Help Lesotho and I actually set it up six months later (I know, I suck. But at least I did it, even if it was disgustingly late. And we're still doing it.)

On the first anniversary last December, I pledged to volunteer two hours a month somewhere. I decided on the Drop In Centre, and after my first morning there, I immediately decided to make it two hours a week (give or take a weekend out of town or of illness). I'm still going strong on that.

Last January, I also started selling my prints online and donating at least 50% of the proceeds to the Stephen Lewis Foundation. I've donated more than $200 now from the sale of my prints.

Last Friday I got the following message from the foundation:

It is said that the international financial turmoil will undermine the work of agencies like ours. Supposedly there’ll be no money around for charitable purposes. My colleagues and I refuse to accept that. We work from the premise that the struggle against AIDS will not be sacrificed on the altar of financial turbulence.

So we’re defying the odds. And we’re asking you to do the same. In fact, we’re asking you to do more. We’re asking you to join us in a new fundraising campaign called “TURNING THE TIDE”.

It’s our conviction that so much has been accomplished on the ground in Africa, for grandmothers and orphans and women in particular, that if we can fund every worthy proposal, we can turn the tide of the AIDS pandemic at the grassroots.

People will say that the timing is all wrong. We say, to the devil with the timing. We’re on the cusp of bringing hope to thousands upon thousands of people living with HIV/AIDS. Please join us.

It makes sense to me that charitable organizations could be among the worst hit by the global financial downturn. And it makes even more sense to me that we not let it. (So c'mon, buy a print or a calendar? They make great gifts! Or how about just donate to a charity you believe in...)

* * *

So now what? I feel I need to mark this anniversary by doing something more. But I can't think what. Any ideas???

irony

2008-12-02T09:19:00.003-05:00

Not one hour after I wrote about Swee'pea's capacity for tenderness, he punched a little girl in the face at his daycare. I don't think it could have been too hard because she didn't cry but she did lose her balance. Swee'pea was utterly unapologetic. He said he didn't want her to come to his cubby -- which, given we were at the front door, was nowhere near the poor girl.

moment

2008-12-02T07:39:00.003-05:00

This past weekend, I went out to a party. I said goodbye to you and asked for a hug and a kiss. You hugged me and presented your cheek for my kiss, then pulled away. "I want to kiss you," you said, and I consented. So you placed your hands on either side of my face, and slowly pressed your lips to my forehead. Your capacity for tenderness is a salve.

Guess what?

2008-11-25T22:43:00.001-05:00

I have calendars for sale now. And I've committed to donating all the proceeds ($9.50 for ever calendar) to the Stephen Lewis Foundation. Read more...

so many suckers on my sacro-illiac*

2008-11-25T09:43:00.002-05:00

Apparently I let my backbone slide.

Guess what exercises I need to do to support my sacro-illiac and prevent it from slipping out again? Kiegels.

Yippee...

* With apologies to Maestro Fresh Wes.

2008-11-24T07:33:00.002-05:00

Ugh. I have several posts in draft, but all of them are stupid. Not that that's stopped me from publishing before, but... I don't have much to say. I put my back out Saturday morning while vacuuming of all things so I've been sitting around a lot this weekend, but not in front of the computer because that hurts. I've also been watching a whole lot of Angel.

Anyways, all this to say that peripheral vision was nominated for a Canadian Blog Award in the category of best photo/art blog. Go vote if you want. Now I'm going to try to find a massage therapist with an opening today.

missed

2008-11-16T19:26:00.004-05:00

On Saturday I volunteered at the drop-in centre for the first time in a few weeks. And you know what? I was missed! The minute I got there, Lucille was all, "Where have you BEEN the last few weeks?" I felt bad that I didn't call, but I felt really good they noticed. Is that shitty? Whatever... I used to call to let them know if I was going to miss a shift, but I was never sure the message got through, and nobody seemed to notice anyways, so I sort of stopped.

Anyways, I was missed. And it felt good. The Book Guy is leaving town this week, going to BC, and he's been trying to give me back In the Skin of a Lion, which I lent him a while back. I wished him well, and gave him one of my photo cards. I hope things go better for him there than they have here.

Another man, who I haven't seen for a month or more, also commented on my absence. So I commented on his and he said he went to Scotland. I don't know whether to believe him at face value or if it's a euphemism for a hospital stay or something.

best laid plans and all that

2008-11-14T11:26:00.003-05:00

Some days maybe it's better just to listen to your gut and stay home. I took today off and dropped Swee'pea off at daycare with the intention of taking my camera to the drop in centre. But once I dropped him off, I had cold feet. For one reason and another I haven't been to the centre in a few weeks, and I started to feel scared and self-conscious about just showing up with my camera. But since this was what I'd taken the day off to do, I made myself go. I figured I was just being silly, and once I got there I'd be fine.

On the way out my door, I had sudden misgivings. I have a brand-new winter coat. How can I go there in my brand-new winter coat? What if someone asks where or how I got it? I can't possibly admit it cost nearly $300. But it's my coat, so I wore it.

Sure enough, the first person to greet me comments first on my hair -- for once it is down and really long and big. Next he asks me about my coat - is it really made of titanium? I look to where he's pointing, and see the word on the sleeve. God, I'm such an ass where this stupid coat. I chuckle, "No, I think it's just the brand."

I end up having some really nice conversations, mostly with people I've photographed before. I ask them for more pictures, because the overcast light is soft and the sky is reflected in their eyes, but they all refuse. As I left, memory card blank, I wondered if maybe I should just quit this project. Maybe it's just not the right project for me.

So I go to the used bookstore, which had a gigantic red SALE sign on its wall yesterday. I'll feel better if I just buy more books, if I can just learn enough to feel comfortable. I pick out two books, The Writing Life, by Annie Dillard and Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir, edited by William Zinsser, whose On Writing Well I already own. I rant internally about the price of even used paperbacks on my way to the cash register. Once there, the sales dude tells me they're on sale: one is 25% off and the other is 50% off. Oh, right. The whole sale thing that brought me in in the first place. I was too busy doubting myself and feeling stupid to remember.

So I go back to the shelves. May as well take advantage. And I pick up three more titles: Homesick by Jenny Lauren, another memoir of eating disorders (I haven't yet blogged about the anthology I read a few weeks back on the same topic), Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn, a memoir by a man who met his father while working in a homeless shelter, and Eudora Welty Photographs.

So a slight change in plans. Rather than spend the day on photography, I'll spend the rest of it reading. I still have to finish Gabor Maté's In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts.

moment

2008-11-14T07:34:00.007-05:00

Sometimes it's the strangest, most insignificant moments when time slows down and I notice everything, all the details of the world outside of me AND the details inside. Yesterday, one of those moments happened, driving my friend's SUV. A man was waiting to cross the street, a man I've seen at the Drop In Centre. I first noticed him because he's exactly the kind of hippie-looking guy I fell for when I was younger: long brown hair, intelligent eyes, long, sharp nose, pretty full beard that somehow echoes the same sharpness and angles of his whole face. He had a black eye the first time I saw him, and he always keeps his hood up. He seems like a loner, at least in the context of the centre. He doesn't drink coffee, so I only really engage with him at meal times when I'm too busy serving everyone to chat. He's always very gracious, makes sure to thank us after he's eaten. He winked at me once, after I smiled at him, and my body responded with a teenage jolt.

Anyways, it was him waiting to cross the street. And I cringed, hoping he wouldn't recognize me in the SUV with the toddler in the back seat. I had to slow down for a pick-up truck that two young men were pushing into the traffic. The guy at the back was wearing a white tank-top and jeans, no jacket despite it being November, and he's really straining to move that beast. Whatever's in the back of the truck is covered with a tarp, lumpy from the cargo. The second guy has the driver's door open, and he's pushing while he steers. He's wearing a sweater. And these boys are working their asses off.

In this moment, I'm all adolescent uncertainty. Not sure if I should stop to make sure I don't hit the pick-up or just keep going since there are two lanes and they should be in the one I'm not. But mostly I just want to keep driving so the cute guy from the Drop In Centre doesn't see the frumpy mum I really am.

not sure where this post is going but I'm tired of typing

2008-11-12T19:05:00.005-05:00

This stuff makes me so angry. Especially the people who are trying to argue that it's unhealthy for a child to suck on boobs that have just been in a chlorinated pool. Showering in hot, chlorinated water for 15 minutes, your skin absorbs way more chlorine than drinking vast quantities of chlorinated water. Our breastmilk is full of crazy chemicals thanks to all the shit that just floats around. So really, I think it's just fine for a mother to choose to breastfeed in a pool (her boobs were out of the water, by the way).

Some commenters say they don't understand why the mother didn't just get out of the pool. After all, the viewing lounge is perfectly comfortable. But I know why. When you're mothering an infant, all adult conversation is precious. And if it's taking place in a pool, I sure as hell wouldn't want to leave it. After all, breastfeeding is the perfect time for good conversation, because the baby's not squawking.

But more than that stupid smoke and mirrors argument, I really, really, really hate the assholes who say things like, "Well you can't pee or poo or reproduce in the pool so why should it be ok to breastfeed?" Um, because peeing, pooing and reproducing do not FEED YOUR CHILD.

Or the assholes who say, "I'm quite certain that nobody would like it if I changed out of my bathing suit and into my street clothes on the pool deck." Yes, because changing into street clothes does not FEED YOUR CHILD.

And don't even get me started on Bill Maher's stupid masturbation comparison. It's not because breastfeeding is natural. It's because it's FEEDING YOUR CHILD. And breastfeeding is really, really fucking hard work, and any opportunity to be part of a community, each moment in a conversation with people doing the same fucking hard work, holds a mother that much closer to sanity. It was my experience that breastfeeding specifically, and motherhood more generally, pushed me to the edge of my sanity. And until our culture recognizes it for the very hard work it is, until we truly value motherhood not just pay it lip service, this stupid shit will keep happening over and over.

* * *

Last week I peed on a stick. In fact, I peed on two sticks, just to make sure. That's what happens when I have several days of intense fatigue, mild queasiness, sore boobs, and sudden queues of people asking me if I'm pregnant. (I'm not.) At first I was terrified at the prospect. But within hours I was pretty ok with it all, even a little excited at the possibility. The thing is, I think I do want a second child. But I don't want to have to decide when the right time is. So a surprise would be kind of perfect, because then you're just dealing with the reality, not creating it.

A few days after the pee-stick, it occurred to me that there will never be a perfect time for bringing another child into this world. Now that I know how hard mothering an infant really is, deciding to mother a second will probably always scare me. I'll never truly be ready for it. There will always be things I'd rather do than be nauseous for four months, have trouble breathing for four more, and then have raw nipples and sleep in milk puddles. Not to mention the fear and anxiety and general uncertainty of the whole affair.

So I made my case to Sugar D, my case of hey it's never gonna feel easy or right so let's just do away with the condoms, how about? But he's not having any of it, at least not right now. Which is sorta kinda ok with me. Maybe even a bit of a relief. For the moment, anyways.

purple roses

2008-11-10T09:31:00.005-05:00

The coffins were in the basement. The stairs down there were carpeted with a thick underpad but the steps were narrow and steep, and I was six months pregnant. Upright coffins lined the walls, while others lay, open, on stands in the middle of the floor. There were shiny white melamine ones, which I thought were horrible, and many wooden ones, all shiny, except for an unfinished pine number that they kept a little hidden. My mom remembered her client, the one who had no family. He lived alone in an old farm house, rich from development deals, although you'd never it know it from his life or home. The executor of his estate refused to pay for a decent coffin, so the old man was buried in one of those pine coffins. Only my mom, her colleague, and the old man's neighbour attended. It was shameful, she always said. In fact, it was this very funeral director who carried out the executor's instructions, despite his own misgivings. That's how my mom met him; they ranted together about the injustice of it.

I'd never helped pick out a coffin before. It was easy to narrow it down to two, but hard to choose between them. I think we ended up with a cherry one, of a similar colour to my grandpa's old bedroom set, now in my bedroom. But I can't remember for sure.

My mom was an only child, so she could only look to her own children for help in carrying out the myriad tasks involved with burying her last parent. Her mother, my grandma Ruth. My sister and I picked out flowers for the arrangements.

Everything my grandma brought into her house was pink or purple, almost exclusively. Mauve was her very favourite colour. Yvonne, the village florist, remembered my grandma from her visits. When my sister and I came, she pulled out a bucket of the most perfect roses from the fridge with the sliding glass doors. Mauve or lilac, I don't know what the difference between them would be, except lilac sounds so much nicer, like spring instead of mauve's retirement homes. The roses were just perfect, barely open. I'd never before seen roses this colour, and haven't since either. Like they were grown just to honour my grandma's passing.

I can't remember what outfit we picked out for her. I remember having two or three options, and I remember being sad that they seemed so much more grave than the outfits she wore when I was a kid on summer vacation, before the strokes and the car accident and all her friends dying. I think we went with a lilac cardigan that had embroidered flowers in one corner. We even had to bring a bra and panties to the funeral home, which seemed somehow obscene. Although I guess when I think about it, the folks at the funeral home had already been more intimate with her body; putting on her underwear and fastening her bra would be nothing to them.

All this was just so impossibly mundane, all this dealing with the earthly. It would be so much simpler if all of her had just floated away. Except of course, we'd keep hoping, waiting for her to come back, if we didn't have the body to focus on, the body that was so obviously not her anymore.

* * *

I kept two of those roses, the ones that seemed to have been grown just for my grandma. I hung them in the basement when we got home, next to the musty old red rose from my grandpa's funeral less than a year before. I'd never dried flowers before, but I took a guess, and wrapped the stems with an elastic band, and hung them from a nail sticking out of the low rafter. I didn't know what to do with them, where to put them more permanently. I only noticed them when they tickled my hair on the way to the laundry tub.

* * *

The night before our moving day, Swee'pea was in bed. I was packing in our kitchen and Sugar D was clearing out the basement. He came upstairs to ask me what to do with those roses, and I said I'd go down to take care of them. But I never did. I forgot. If the movers didn't knock their petals flying, then surely the new owners have cleared them out. They looked like death anyways.

* * *

ANYA: (crying) I don't understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she's, (sniffling) there's just a body, and I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead anymore. It's stupid. It's mortal and stupid. (still teary) And, and Xander's crying and not talking, and, and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well, Joyce will never have any more fruit punch ever, and she'll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why.

I was reminded of those abandoned roses while watching "The Body," which is one of my favourite episodes of Buffy. All that silence. And Anya's speech, that speech made me love her and her ex-demon-ness more than ever. Then, in "Forever," when Buffy has to choose a coffin, that room looked just like the basement room in my memory. I watched those episodes early in October, and I decided to write a post for my grandma on Halloween, the third anniversary of her death. But any time I've had a moment to myself in the last few weeks, I had no words left for anything. So here we are, 10 days late.

ugh

2008-11-09T13:06:00.007-05:00

Shortly after I met Sugar D, I started having horrible gastrointestinal attacks. I'd been having gastrointestinal complaints for a couple of years already, but after I met Sugar D, sudden, intense, and long-lasting nausea joined the parade of symptoms. The attacks came on without warning. One minute I'd be fine, the next I'd feel like I was going to be horribly, violently ill. Often they occurred at restaurants, right after dinner, and I'd either be trapped in the washroom or race home in a cab. Either option was hugely embarrassing, especially if my dinner companions weren't particularly close friends.

A number of factors were at play in those attacks: poor diet, too much booze and stress, undiagnosed panic and anxiety. I've already written, at length, about how I overcame panic and anxiety. Or so I thought. On Thursday night I had another attack - the first in many, many years. Out of nowhere, I felt nauseous and shaky and terrified. I'd been talking to my mom earlier in the day and she told me how she had a stomach bug. I thought about all the people at my work who have had recent stomach bugs. I realized if I got sick that night, I'd be totally screwed because I had something important on at work the next day, something I'd been working on for months. So when I started to feel nauseous I was terrified that it was actually happening.

Once I realized how scared I was, I decided it must be panic. So I pulled out my usual bag of tricks for managing panic. Usually just recognizing it for what it is is enough, but not this time. I tried the tapping thing. I tried a happy place. I tried relaxing my muscles. I tried waiting. But nothing worked. It lasted hours - hours of nausea, shaking, trips to the toilet, sips of water, and wondering if perhaps I actually was sick. The ghosts of Wretched Past flitted in front of my eyes, all the grotty floors I've been intimate with. Finally, around 9:45 (two and a half hours after it started), I decided to take some Lorazepam. I've never actually taken it for a panic attack before, only for prevention on solo flights. But I had it, so I thought I might as well take it. It took an hour to take effect, and even then, I still felt sick, I just wasn't terrified. So it was an improvement. I slept - mostly - through the night and woke in the morning with no vomiting having taken place.

I went to work, relieved I could make it, but still the worse for wear. I felt crappy all day, and crappier once I got home in the evening. The day was a success, work-wise, as far as I could tell, but I was exhausted. I don't think panic is the only culprit for Thursday night. Given how crappy I felt the next day, physically, and how the physical crappiness has continued over the weekend, I figure it must have been a combination of exhaustion and panic (caused or ennabled by the exhaustion).

I've been working flat out for the last six weeks. From the moment I arrive at my desk until I race out to pick up Swee'pea, I'm on one long adrenaline trip of not having enough time to get everything done that needs to be done and not being able to delegate anything. So Thursday night was my wake-up call. If I don't set some boundaries at work, I'm going to end up the way I was before: feeling mildly ill all the time and violently ill sometimes, afraid to eat, afraid to be full, afraid to leave home. I know enough to know I'm not exaggerating. I thought that kind of attack would never happen again because I could control my anxiety and panic, but I took for granted the balance and wellness required for that kind of control.

So this weekend is my sick day. I've been trying to take it easy at home for the last few weeks, during my time off, but the bottom line is that 8 hours (or 9 if you count the rushed drop-offs and pick-ups at daycare) of adrenaline every day is just too much for a body to recover from - for my body anyways. I've never felt this way at work before, never been this busy before.

No more.

SYTYCD Canada stuff

2008-11-08T10:43:00.003-05:00

I actually do have a more serious post in the works, but first I wanted to share with you one of my favourite couples on SYTYCD Canada: Lisa and Vincent. Here are two reasons why:

And while I'm on the subject: I want to see more House on SYTYCD! AND how about a contemporary routine to "Record Body Count" by the Rheostatics? I think that would kick ass. How about more Cancon generally in the music?

If these videos break my blog for you, be patient, I'll take them down in a few days.

public service

2008-11-05T19:34:00.005-05:00

Well it's already been a week since I finished Buffy and I haven't returned the dvds yet. I'm just not ready to let them go. I think I may have to ask for the whole series for Christmas or something, just so I know I'll be able to watch them whenever I want (HINT, HINT, Sugar D). I think I will watch Angel, soon, and then I'll just have to watch Buffy all over again. It's that good.

For the Buffyheads who visit, you probably already knew that there's an entire field of academic inquiry dedicated to Buffy Studies. Did you know there are entire periodicals dedicated to Buffy Studies? Like Slayage: The Online International Journal of Buffy Studies, which is on issue 26 and still going strong, five years AFTER the series ended. Crazy, eh?

There's even a virtual season six of Angel. And not only have I seen Spike action figures for sale, but I've seen a Spike bust AND a Spike flip lighter.

So here's where you find the season 8 comics, and the complete series on dvd is only $180 on Amazon (I saw each season for sale for $50 a season, which adds up to like $350!).

Hopefully this marks the end of my blogging about Buffy.

what do I do now?

2008-10-31T19:03:00.007-05:00

Well, it was inevitable really. Last night I finished Buffy. And here I am on a Friday night, not sure what to do. Do I rewatch some of the episodes I still have in my possession? Do I surf online now that I don't have to worry about spoilers? (But shit I'm handicapped for not having seen Angel. I just saw a reference to a relationship between Angel and Cordelia - WTF?!? That is SO unnatural! My eyes! My eyes! Maybe that's enough web-surfing.)

Do I catch up on all the tv I missed? Edit the photos I took in my class last night of some very kind and beautiful and tattooed models? Try to persuade Sugar D to bleach his hair and find a long black trench coat? (He said he rather fancies himself in a black trench coat but only because of The Matrix. Nothing to do with Buffy of course.) Try to start some discussion here about whether Buffy is a feminist icon? Maybe check out the reported season 8 in graphic novel format? Or find Dr. Horrible? I just don't know. It all feels so empty now.

[SPOILER ALERT if you haven't seen Buffy]

I'm still feeling kind of raw. Today at work, I had a bunch of meetings, and my mind kept wandering to the series finale and Spike, and my eyes would get all prickly and my chest would get all tight, and I'd have to drag my thoughts back to the room just so I wouldn't make an ass of myself. I just wasn't prepared for Spike dying. I accidentally read somewhere online that Spike continued his role on Angel, so I thought he was the most likely to survive. I'm still clinging to the possibility that he somehow managed to survive.

I'd been planning to take a break before tackling Angel, to recapture some of my life. Maybe even wait until Janna comes home in February (fat chance), but now I'm going to have to watch on the faint hope that Spike will show up later in the series.

Anyways, now you're all free to share your innermost thoughts about Buffy... did you like the way it ended? I think I did. I just wish Spike hadn't been all, "No you don't." And I wish Andrew had died instead of Anya -- although I did really like Andrew.

And since it's Halloween, here is our jack-o-lantern (I think Sugar D outdid himself this year), and our little trick-or-treater.

Wordless Wednesday: the morning commute

2008-10-29T06:23:00.002-05:00

Pictures from the walk to work-slash-Swee'pea's-daycare, a couple of weeks ago.

And ack! I only have five more episodes of Buffy to watch! I'm torn between wanting to see what happens next and not wanting it to end.

this is your brain on 2 1/2 years of sleep deprivation

2008-10-27T06:36:00.010-05:00

Another shitty morning after another shitty night.

Last week at the market, I saw a woman with her newborn son. Someone asked her if he was sleeping better, and she said, "Not really. He's still waking every two hours. I guess it's just a phase he's going through." He was 10 weeks old.

And because I'm me, I had to share my truth with her, that my son woke every two hours until at least 14 months, and even now doesn't sleep through the night very often. "My son woke up every two hours for -" I started to speak, but I just couldn't go through with it. "... A very long time," I finished weakly. I laboured through Swee'pea's entire infancy believing that a good night's sleep was just around the corner. If someone had told me then that it could be years before I could depend on a four-hour stretch of sleep, I might have been in danger of doing something drastic.

* * *
The stretch of two nights in a row I last blogged about? It lasted a month. A month of being able to stretch out in sleep, of waking up on my own, a month of peace. A month without ambivalence, without constant, unfillable hunger. I was a bit disturbed that we'd done nothing differently, that it was all completely beyond my control. And I knew it was too good to be true, I knew it couldn't last. But with every good week, I thought we were that much closer to putting the sleeplessness to rest. I started to wonder how I would revise the little about me bit here, the bit that says my son is a lousy sleeper. I never imagined we'd have another whole month and a half of shitty nights. And now we're worse off than before, because now I know how good it can be, I know how good *I* can be.

Back when Swee'pea was a baby, I thought the secret to him sleeping through the night would be getting him to fall asleep on his own. That's what all the books said. But I can tell you from personal experience that that is total bullshit. Most nights he falls asleep by himself, but that doesn't stop him from waking up within a few hours and demanding to get into our bed, even if we ourselves haven't gone to bed yet. Then he'll wake up screaming to have his socks put on or taken off or to change his pyjamas, or to find his soother, or give him another soother, just to hold. Sometimes he bellows like an autocrat, "Lie on your back!" (so he can rub my belly more easily). Sometimes he screams for reasons I can't figure out.

Last night at 4:30 am, he was screaming for socks (his dad had taken them off when he changed him out his wet diaper and pyjamas), and I lost it (not the first time). I yelled at him: "Stop screaming! If you're going to scream, do it in your own bed. Mommy and daddy's bed is only for quiet indoor voices." The middle of the night is not a good time for me; I think all my night-time patience dried up with my milk. These days, however, after so many interrupted nights, the daytime isn't great either. I'm resentful and impatient, I yell at the slightest provocation and disengage at the first opportunity, running to the computer for some kind of connection, some kind of relief, but never quite finding it.

I find myself rationalizing my daytime distance the way I did when he was a baby. That he's chosen to demand my attention while sleeping and he doesn't demand it while awake. Or that it's just until I finish Buffy, then life can get back to normal. But I think Buffy is just a friendly escape.

So... please help. Give me your best advice. How can I get more uninterrupted, solitary sleep?

in which I try and fail to channel Bea

2008-10-22T18:15:00.005-05:00

I'm beginning to think I have a thing for vampires. I'm well into season 6 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer now and I love Spike. (WARNING: If you haven't seen Buffy and you think you might want to, I'm pretty sure spoilers will follow.)

For the first three seasons, I crushed on Angel with an embarrassing intensity. He was so sweet and loving and tortured (except of course when he was evil), and his taut torso didn't hurt either. I was not impressed when he decided to end things for Buffy's sake. I don't much care for that kind of condescension in a romantic relationship.

When Riley first came on the scene, I thought he might make an interesting love interest for Buffy, mostly because he didn't notice her for so long and that might be appealing for her. But as soon as they got together I was bored; he was so available and needy. The part where he wants her to cry in front of him was especially annoying. If he really loved her he would have respected her needs and supported her in the way she wants supporting. I kept thinking that he had to come back, but he never did... perhaps he never will (fingers crossed).

Which brings me to Spike, my new embarrassing crush. It occurred to me this morning, as I was walking to work (yes I think about Buffy most of the time I'm not watching it - got a problem with that?), that I think I even like him better than Angel. I've always had this idea that the series would end with Angel becoming human and he and Buffy riding into the sunset. But if that happened right now, I'd totally want her to pick Spike. Compared to Angel, Spike's so multi-dimensional, he looks like a geodesic dome next to Angel's flat scrap of cardboard. (Of course I say this not having watched a single episode of Angel, so for me he's mostly been left behind by the series. Maybe it's not fair to compare them when everyone on the show has become more dimensional over the seasons.)

In season one, I was overwhelmed by the similarities with Harry Potter, except that Harry was a girl and a couple years older. From the school setting and the teachers that could be good or evil to the arch-villain conniving to return to full power and destroy the world, the similarities were remarkable. But within a few seasons I could barely remember that I'd once thought Buffy was just like Harry Potter.

In Harry Potter's world, people might be misled into believing that someone is in a different camp than they actually were, but there isn't a lot of ambiguity; people are either wholly good or wholly evil. You might argue Sirius Black was ambiguous, but that was only because of a misrepresentation. The fact remains that Sirius is all good. The only other possible ambiguous character is Mad-Eye Moonie (shit is that his name? I have a terrible memory for details I read in books!), but the ambiguity only arose because of an evil imposter.

In Buffy's world, once upon a time (like in season one), good and evil are clearly defined. Even when Angel turns evil, he's 100% evil without a shred of goodness left. By season 4, that dichotomy starts to change. We see that demons can be victimized, and humans can be evil. Buffy begins to explore her own darkness, and that first slayer seems pretty evil the first time we see her (end of season four?).

Where I'm at in the series right now, none of the main characters fall neatly into good or evil categories. In season five, Spike is capable of great love and great creepiness. He makes me more ambivalent than any other character in the show. I *should* hate him because he can be so abusive and stalker-y but even when he's at max creep factor, I still just want Buffy to love him. I melt when he looks at her all lovey-dovey, and he always comes through in the end. And he's a lot funnier than Angel.

Of course, nobody can comment on this, because anyone who's seen Buffy will be worried about giving away the future, and anyone who hasn't, well they stopped reading in the first paragraph. Plus they probably don't have a lot to say on the subject. So I'm not really sure what the point of any of this is. I guess it's just to purge some of the obsession from my brain? Thank goodness I only have another season and a half to go. Then life - and blogging - can get back to normal.

Edited to add: Aw, man! Seriously? The episode I watched RIGHT after posting this? Riley came back. And Buffy dumped Spike; she seemed pretty serious this time, different. Now I'm sad.

Wordless Wednesday: Autumn

2008-10-22T15:49:00.001-05:00

rich

2008-10-20T19:46:00.005-05:00

That boy whose picture I posted last time? You wouldn't know it from the picture, but he asked me to take it. He totally mugged for the camera, and I love his expressive forehead.

The first time I had my camera in the smoking area, he commented, "Nice camera." I thought, "Oh shit, he knows it's expensive. I'm busted." I said, "Thanks."

In retrospect I think he was trying to invite me to take his picture, but I didn't clue in, and I didn't want to intrude. We haven't really developed a friendship yet.

But last time I was shooting there, someone else suggested I take the boy's picture, and I said I'd love to, but I didn't want to approach him; again, I didn't want to intrude. Finally, he jerked his head at me and said, "Hey, why don't you take my picture."

So I did, with enthusiasm.

* * *

On Saturday at the Drop In Centre, I showed T. his pictures. I recounted his comments over at my other blog, but here's something I didn't say there. I told him that eventually I'd like to have enough pictures to make an exhibition or a book, and when I asked him if that would be cool with him he said, "Yeah, that's fine. It's like you're doing a family tree, like you're looking into your history."

I didn't know what to make of that. Maybe that is what I'm doing?

* * *

Another man always wears his headphones and sunglasses, like he'd rather not have any sensory input from this place. Apparently there is a no sunglasses rule at the Drop In Centre. I didn't know. But this man was finally coaxed out of his sunglasses, and his eyes were beautiful and alien. For months I've only known him with shades and headphones, and underneath he has brown eyes. He seems much friendlier with the shades.

He said something to me that I didn't quite hear. Something like, "You can tell you work up at the university." When I indicated I hadn't heard, he asked, "Do you ever go to the university?"

I said, "I went there back when I went to school there."

He asked me what I studied and I replied English.

He didn't say anything and walked away, having finished with the milk and sugar for his tea. I wondered if he studied there too, or what he thought of me. I've been getting more comfortable, letting big words come out of my mouth with more frequency. I suppose that's what he was getting at.

I've decided that it's ok for me to be rich. As long as I'm grateful and acknowledge the extreme good fortune I've had my entire life. If being poor isn't something to be ashamed of then surely being rich isn't either?

2008-10-18T19:07:00.004-05:00

I went shooting at the Drop In Centre again, if you're interested... no obligation to click of course. If you are interested in this stuff, you might want to subscribe to my other blog, because I post more often than I link to from here. Mind you, I have been noticing a snafu on bloglines with my feeds there so it might not help... oh well.

As a teaser, here is a pic I didn't post over there because I didn't process it until today. I love it.

excess

2008-10-13T08:13:00.001-05:00

or, why I'm not voting conservative

Eight conservative signs in front of a four-car garage. Can you get any more excessive?

we interrupt this hissy quit

2008-10-08T21:15:00.004-05:00

Well, I'm coming out of my hissy quit (thanks for the perfect term, Mad) just to say this:

If you are not watching So You Think You Can Dance Canada, you should be. Even if you're not Canadian (although I have no idea how you'll find it...).

Tonight was the first night I wasn't aching to watch Buffy, or scheming how to fit in a little Buffy around the commercials or skipping other tv shows altogether. I suspect I have the sudden appearance of a 14-year-old sister of Buffy's to thank for that. I mean seriously? You didn't think we'd notice that we'd never seen her in the house before??? (Don't give me any spoilers -- I've only watched the first two eps of season 5.)

But back to SYTYCD Canada. Already, I don't want anyone to get eliminated, which has never happened to me in any of the four US seasons. The Canadian version is better than the American for a few others reasons. We got to the know the top 20 in the auditions, all 20 of them. I picked out Arassay, Bre, Dario and Nico as must makes from their very first auditions, whereas in the States, you often don't even see the first auditions of the top 20. And there were barely any assholes auditioning. AND there are several 29-year-olds competing. I'm quite certain there was barely anybody in the US competitions over 25. And French Canadians -- you can't get those in the States!

I have not felt this patriotic since I was probably 10. I mean, not only are the top 20 dancers all AWESOME, but the choreographers are awesome too. The contemporary piece tonight that Lisa and Vincent danced? Could rival ANYTHING from Mia Michaels. Who knew Canada had such a raging dance industry? I read somewhere that the Toronto auditions brought our more dancers than any city in the US. When you consider the fact that the US has ten times the population we do, it's incredible to even be in the same ballpark of absolute numbers, never mind hitting bigger ones.

So, if you're not watching, why the hell not? And if you are, who are your faves? Mine are Dario, Nico, Allie and Arassay.

Doh! [slaps forehead] I just realized that I could have VOTED last night! The most important benefit of the whole Canadian thing!

it's not you it's me

2008-09-25T09:20:00.003-05:00

I think I'm going to take a break from blogging here for a bit, focus on some other endeavours. In the meantime, I finally found a way to share this slideshow I made with you. The song is "Encountering the Crippled Elephant" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

Best...

wordless wednesday

2008-09-24T16:57:00.003-05:00

you

my interpretation of "Moving, Shaking" by the Great Lake Swimmers.

2008-09-23T16:44:00.003-05:00

A coworker called me kind today. I don't think anyone has ever called me kind, certainly not at work. Neurotic, confident, warm, smart, assertive, annoying -- sure. But kind? It's unprecedented. And really nice.

the deal

2008-09-21T07:54:00.004-05:00

OZ: We should figure out what kinda deal this is. I mean, is it a-a gathering, a shindig or a hootenanny?

CORDELIA: What's the difference?

OZ: Well, a gathering is brie, mellow song stylings; shindig, dip, less mellow song stylings, perhaps a large amount of malt beverage; and hootenanny, well, it's chock full of hoot, just a little bit of nanny.

XANDER: Well, I hate brie.

Yesterday we had a party. I'm still trying to figure out what kind of a deal it was. I mean, we had brie (which I actually don't really like but lots of other people do) and the song stylings were relatively mellow, but we also had several 2-year-olds so it was chock full of hoot. And there were definitely a few malt beverages.

It was a last-minute affair; I just decided to have a party on Friday when I saw the nice forecast for yesterday. If we'd had more notice I would have invited some bloggy peeps.

All summer long, my goal was to have a housewarming party before the end of September so we could enjoy the yard. This house really felt like a party house, like Burt Reynolds's house in Boogie Nights. But the issues we've had since we got possession kind of put a damper on my party visions, and I started to wonder why I wanted to have a party so badly anyways. I mean, who needs a party when you have seven seasons of Buffy to watch?

Unfortunately, the party segregated early on. None of my old friends have children, and the new friends do so they split along old/childless:new/childful lines. Which meant that I couldn't really catch up with the old friends OR get to know the new folks. After a while, the only old friends I have with kids showed up and provided a bit of a bridge between the groups. I felt all angsty about it last night after everyone left, but maybe that's just always how the host feels? Like they didn't get a chance to visit with everyone? And maybe people just have a good time anyways. That's the view I'm choosing to take.

As usual when I'm in the room, Myers Briggs came up. And you know what? They were almost ALL idealists (NFs) like me. Idealists are pretty thin on the ground at my work -- I only know of one, who is of course great to work with. No wonder I feel a bit out of place there. But discovering all the idealists I invited to the party made me realize that perhaps it's not so much that I need to make new friends, as that I have to reconnect with old friends.

The evening wound up pretty early in party terms, which was just fine with me. [Spoiler alert for potential Buffy watchers.] Earlier in the day it suddenly struck me that Buffy and Angel can never really be together again, now that they know what will happen if he ever experiences true happiness. How awful is that?!? Anyways, after everyone left and Swee'pea settled into bed, I popped my latest Buffy dvd in. It skipped so much I gave up on it. I'd rather wait until my new friend at work can give me her copies on Monday than miss any crucial scenes that involve Angel. Yes, I know I have a problem.

morning

2008-09-19T08:52:00.001-05:00

On the way to work and daycare is a mansion. It’s newer but blocky and traditional, with a grand estate-esque stretch of grass around it. I’ve been meaning to take a picture of it for the last few days because its manicured lawn features no less than four signs (two large and two small) in support of our local Conservative candidate, all lined up in front of its attached, four-car garage. Somehow that image just says it all…

Anyways, this morning when we walked by there were a bunch of trucks parked in front of it and large men in jeans and black t-shirts going in and out of them: a film crew. Amid all that activity sat one lonely figure in a folding chair next to the sidewalk, hunched against the September chill and looking decidedly like Not a Morning Person. He was dressed all in black, and his hoodie was pulled low revealing only dark sunglasses and a reddish goatee, individual hair glinting in the morning sun like dew-covered blades of grass.

Yesterday our house was so cold, I finally relented and turned on the heat. It stank and made me sneeze but it was preferable to the kind of cold I’m pretty sure that dude experienced this morning. I’m really starting to hate our house, but I hate the idea of selling and moving again even more. And the location is growing on me with every walk to and from work. I’m shocked that door to door to door only takes about 10 minutes longer than it did with the car at the other daycare.

if you've ever thought about buying my work

2008-09-17T19:24:00.005-05:00

Now may be a good time, especially for you lucky Americans.

Imagekind has a great new promotion until September 23, 2008: 20 percent off all custom frames. It also just so happens that all my images get free ground shipping in the US until the end of September, so now is a GREAT time for Americans to buy my stuff. Sadly, since my galleries at peripheral vision aren't working, you'll have to browse my images over at my Imagekind galleries.

To take advantage, type promo code FALL2008 in the promotion box at checkout. This from Imagekind: "Promotion expires September 23, 2008 at 10pm PDT and cannot be combined with any other promotion code. Limit one order per person. Promotion code must be used at time of checkout to apply. Your order must be placed during the promotional period to qualify for this special pricing offer. Discount promo applies to custom frames only."

transition

2008-09-16T13:21:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was Swee’pea’s first day at the new daycare. When he woke up, he looked out the window and announced, “The sun’s up! I’m going to my NEW school!” And that’s pretty much how the day continued. No tears when we said goodbye, no breakdown when I picked him up – in fact, he didn’t want to leave. He was most pleased to get to wear his new indoor shoes with yellow dump trucks (NOT big tractors – our friend already made that mistake and was promptly corrected). This morning, our separation was once again a non-event.

Everything about the new daycare is better than the old one, not just its location. The teachers just seem so much more enthusiastic and focused. As soon as we walked in, his teacher asked for a hug immediately, and Swee’pea obliged, which is highly unusual. But it occurred to me afterward, that it was a great thing for his teacher to do. It sends a clear message to Swee’pea, that she is someone he can attach to, and doing it while Sugar D and I were still there, also tells him that it’s not a competitive attachment (please forgive the psychobabble: I’ve been reading Hold Onto Your Kids by Gordon Neufeld and Gabor Maté).

When I went to pick him up yesterday, his other teacher immediately started raving about what a great day he had, how cute he is, how laid-back he is, how chatty he is, how he even participated in circle time and started to show some interest in the other kids. The teachers just seem more satisfied and engaged. Another bonus is that some of the teachers do private babysitting at people’s homes – date night here I come!

I also like that they mandate parental involvement so you can build some community. I’ve already recognized several of the kids in his class as belonging to people I already know and often work with directly, and it’s allowed me to reconnect with two friends I’ve lost touch a bit with. And I haven’t even mentioned the morning walk across campus, by the grazing horses and cow barns… I hate to jinx us, but so far so good with the transition. What a relief.

On the Buffy front, I’m in trouble. I just discovered I’m running a marathon, not a sprint as I’d previously thought. My video store only has three seasons, so I assumed that’s all the seasons there were. I did think it was a bit strange that it developed SUCH a following in only three seasons, but I figured it was just one of those things, like the Caramilk secret. I figured I could finish the series in another couple of weeks, and then my obsession would relax and I could get back to normal life. But this morning I was told there are, in fact, SEVEN seasons. Now I have months ahead of me, and Amazing Race, Survivor, Grey’s Anatomy, House AND SYTYCD Canada (has anyone else been watching? The calibre of dancers makes me proud to be a canuck – but that’s for another post). There’s no way I can juggle Buffy with all those shows, not to mention two upcoming photography workshops, and that miniscule task called motherhood (and partnership for that matter but that always seems to be an afterthought these days).

On top of that, my latest disc started skipping and finally crapped right out last night. My video store is the only store in town that carries Buffy and they don’t have a buffer to try to fix the disc. A coworker of mine has a friend who owns the whole collection on dvd, and she’s going to bring me the disc in question tomorrow – but what about tonight??? I must watch Buffy every night! I’m getting twitchy just typing this… Fingers crossed I can get my hands on some more Buffy before I get into the really serious withdrawal symptoms.

step AWAY from the Buffy

2008-09-14T07:10:00.007-05:00

I'm devastated. (I'm assuming I'm the last person on earth to watch Buffy but if you haven't seen it AND you're thinking about maybe watching it one day - SPOILER ALERT.)

I've been watching Buffy pretty obsessively, two, sometimes three episodes every night. The thing that keeps me starting a new episode, even when I'm so tired my eyes are watering, is - I'm ashamed to admit - primarily Angel. He had me at hello. Those deep longing gazes from delicious brown eyes, the tortured soul (Oh, I am SUCH a sucker for a tortured soul)... I think I fell for him as badly as Buffy did.

When he was about to go away to take the Judge's arm off to the ends of the earth, I was all, quick, have sex! You don't know when you might have the chance again! And then he gave her the cladagh ring (after I went to Scotland that became my number one teenage fantasy, a boy giving me a cladagh ring to match the one he was already wearing, heart pointed inward), and then he jumped in the water after her... I cried for a good chunk of that episode, I'm not sure why exactly. I'm thinking it had something to do with the unrelenting rain and spiders seeking shelter and just generally feeling trapped (and yes I feel stupid for whining about a little rain when Hurricane Ike just flooded Texas and Louisiana).

And then Angel lost his soul and I really lost it. Not so much that he turned bad, I kind of thought that might happen, but that it was because he experienced true happiness? With Buffy? The irony gets me even now.

It's ridiculous. It's like all I can think about, wondering if it's at all possible that Angel might have his soul restored. Knowing that he got his own spin-off series, and that Morrigan thought it was funny, I'm trying to figure out which would be more entertaining: totally evil heartless vampire or vampire with a conscious? At this point, I'm just holding onto the hope that since his soul was retrievable once for the gypsy, it's still out there somewhere, whole. Right?

In the meantime, there is Oz. And really, he's got a lot more personality than Angel.

I've been playing my wallow music on repeat for days now (so I know it's not just Angel): Great Lake Swimmers are my new favourites ("Moving Shaking" is SO haunting) but since I only have a few songs by them I've been forced to branch out. Now it's Cold Play. What's your favourite wallow music?

Real Estate Lesson Number One:

2008-09-11T22:29:00.003-05:00

Every house is a money pit, not just the cheap ones. So if you thought you could afford a more expensive house because you wouldn't have to fund costly renovations and repairs, think again.

* * *

The young guy who cleaned my ducts last week came back today with experts, to see if there was anything more they could do to eliminate the no-good, horrible, very bad mouldy smell. I was suddenly struck by how very good-looking the Duct Guy was. Sure, I'd noticed last week that I was cracking nervous jokes and he was laughing heartily at them, but he's really good-looking, complete with five o'clock shadow, not-too-coifed fauxhawk, and bright blue eyes. I couldn't look at him today. And all I could think about was how I couldn't look at him -- of course that's a much easier topic to contemplate than the FUCKING HUGE STINKY LEMON of a house we've just saddled ourselves with.

* * *

When we first looked at this house, its lack of a basement was a serious hurdle for me. But then I went back to our (old) basement -- nearly dirt floored, damp and smelly itself -- and realized that having no basement could actually be a selling point. As we sorted through all our stuff in the basement, all the stuff we'd forgotten we had, stuff that got damaged by the damp, completely obsolete stuff, as we swept the gobs of cobwebs down and I nearly died sneezing, the one thing that kept us going was the fact that we would never again have to deal with such unpleasantness.

WRONG. Now we just have to deal with it in our living space. And we have to figure out something soon, because it's getting colder and the stench is fucking awful when the furnace is on.

disappearing

2008-09-10T11:45:00.001-05:00

"I fell for the American dream, female version, hook, line, and sinker. I, as many young women do, honest-to-god believed that once I Just Lost a Few Pounds, somehow I would suddenly be a New You, I would have Ken-doll men chasing my thin legs down with bouquets of flowers on the street, I would become rich and famous and glamorous and lose my freckles and become blond and five foot ten. I would wear cool quasi-intellectual glasses and a man's oxford shirt in a sunny New York flat and sip coffee and say Mmmm and fold my paper neatly and He would come up behind me and look at me with an adoring gaze. I would swing sexily into my red coupe, and the wind would blow through my hair as I drove into some great big city, stepping off the elevator and striding (with a feminine but authoritative step) into my office where everyone would be impressed with my every feminine but authoritative word. In the evenings I would go home and make magical gourmet meals and eat three bites, and He would look at me in the candlelight and I would be a superwoman 1980s goddess, yes indeed. As soon as I left my hometown and lost a few pounds."

A couple of weeks ago, I picked up a book at my local used bookstore. I didn't know I was looking for it, but it pulled me in so thoroughly, I finished it in a weekend. It was called Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia by Marya Hornbacher. Partly it hooked me in a train wreck kind of way: I couldn't look away from its horror. But also, if I'm honest with myself, I identified with a lot of what Hornbacher said. I've never had an eating disorder, but I think most women in North America have disordered eating and fucked-up body images. Hornbacher is an extreme example, but she makes it pretty clear that, as a culture, we're pretty obsessed with thin.

When I was at the peak of my illness and anxiety, I didn't eat much. At one point I was down to only a very few 'safe' foods that I could eat - foods that wouldn't make me sick. I could only eat in strictly prescribed situations and times, mostly at home. Although I wasn't motivated by weight loss, I did lose weight. I got angry when people congratulated my weight loss, because, intellectually, it wasn't something to congratulate -- I was sick. But I secretly enjoyed being thin. I enjoyed that when I laid on my side, I couldn't let my knees touch each other because they were so bony. I enjoyed my jutting hip bones. And I remember times when hunger pangs meant power, they were good - they meant I had nothing in my stomach to piss out my ass, that I would be safe for a little longer. Hornbacher also enjoyed the emergence of her skeleton and the power that she wrought over her body, the power she felt in hunger.

* * *

"And when you decide you are tired of being alone with your sickness, you go out seeking women friends, people who you believe can show you by example how to eat, how to live -- and you find that by and large most women are obsessed with their weight.

It's a little discouraging."

* * *

"Now that I think of it, most of the women I worked with talked about diet and weight."

* * *

The cafeteria at my work offers several varieties of yogurt for sale. However, they are ALL zero-percent fat, the kind with ingredient lists the size of the container, all those ingredients to make up for the fat. I prefer my yogurt with more fat and fewer ingredients.

* * *

"Women use their obsession with weight and food as a point of connection with one another, a commonality even between strangers. Instead of talking about why we use food and weight control as a means of handling emotional stress, we talk ad nauseum about the fact that we don't like our bodies. When you decide not to do that, you begin to notice how constant that talk is."

* * *

I work in a woman-dominated field. Most of the women I work with are either dieting or actively managing their weight. Most of the time I don't participate, but occasionally I'm drawn into discussions. And several times various women have indicated an assumption that I must want to lose weight, that I'm struggling. Often the assumptions remain unspoken but they hang in the air, in a moment of silence, or a pointed question about my wedding photo - when did you get married? (When were you last thin?)

Yes, I'd like to lose some weight, I'd like for my body to become familiar again. But my self-worth isn't tied up in it. And I resent that others assume it is. And I'm just as willing to just accept my new(ish) shape as I am to try to change it. Frankly, diets scare me.

* * *

"When a study was done on a group of young, healthy men whose daily caloric intake was cut to just under a thousand calories, they began to: stash food surreptitiously, talk about food constantly, chew gum and mints perpetually, read recipes for dishes they couldn't make. As the study went on, they were frequently caught digging through garbage cans, sneaking into the hospital kitchen to binge. They began to purge, and -- interestingly enough -- they became incredibly worried about their weight, the shape of their bodies, and began to diet. They worried about getting dirty, got disgusted with their own biological functions, and didn't want to touch food anymore."

* * *

In university I once wrote a paper for Women's Studies comparing eating disorders and plastic surgery with female circumcision in other cultures. I got a lousy grade but I still stand by the comparison. A woman I know recently asked me if I noticed a difference in her skin. I looked closely, but couldn't really see any difference, or at least not one I felt comfortable noting. She confessed that she'd gotten a chemical peel and it really, really hurt, but she couldn't see a difference. And if there wasn't any difference, she definitely wouldn't do it again because it was so painful.

I reacted all wrong. I felt so badly for her, for how awful it must feel to hate your body so much that you would choose to corrode your face just to reduce your pores and look younger. But I didn't convey my compassion very well... instead I ranted about how that is self mutilation, how nobody seems to realize how violent plastic surgery is. How you don't solve body image problems by changing your body, how that just pulls you in further, pulls you into more and more extreme acts against your body.

I think the only thing she learned from the conversation was to never again tell me about any treatments she gets. About a week later, I did notice her skin seemed smoother, and again a few weeks after that. I guess it's working for her.

* * *

"Starving is the feminine thing to do these days, the way swooning was in Victorian times. In the 1920s, women smoked with long cigarette holders and flashed their toothpick legs. In the 1950s, women blushed and said tee-hee. In the 1960s, women swayed, eyes closed, with a silly smile on their faces. My generation and the last one feign disinterest in food. We are "too busy to eat, "too stressed" to eat. Not eating, in some ways, signifies that you have a life so full, that your busy-ness is so important, that food would be an imposition on your precious time. We claim a loss of appetite, a most-sacred aphysicality, superwomen who have conquered the feminine realm of the mind. And yet, this maxim is hardly new. A lady will eat like a bird. A lady will look like a bird, fragile boned and powerful when in flight, lifting weightless into the air."

* * *

In high school, one of my best friends was anorexic. She grew fur over her cheeks and arms while the hair on her head fell out in clumps and left bald patches. Her eyes were sunken and hungry-looking; she watched us eat like some kind of predator but I mostly only saw her eat apples. She ate them down to nothing but seeds and a stem.

I remember a girl in my chemistry class commenting that she wished she could be as thin as my friend. My telling her how sick my friend actually was didn't seem to revise her opinion. And, much as I never admitted it, there was a small part of me that, separate from worrying her heart would just quit, kind of admired how good her Guess jeans looked on her skinny arse.

* * *

"This is one of the terrible, banal truths of eating disorders: when a woman is thin in this culture, she proves her worth, in a way that no great accomplishment, no stellar career, nothing at all can match. We believe she has done what centuries of a collective unconscious insist that no woman can do -- control herself. A woman who can control herself is almost as good as a man. A thin woman can Have It All."

* All italicized text is from Wasted.

on vampires and cable guys

2008-09-05T11:51:00.009-05:00

Wow, has it really been more than a week since I last posted? I've been trying to work on a thinky post, but as usual it's not really coming together. In the meantime, since we haven't had cable (I'm at home waiting for the cable guy as I type - a week and a half after the last appointment that the cable guy ducked out on me), I finally rented the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and I'm totally getting sucked in. I've only finished six episodes, but I'm lovin' it, especially Angel.

****

So Mommy C has tagged me for a meme. Yippee! It's been forever since I've been tagged and I love myself a good meme. This one's a challenge though. Six unspectacular quirks. First off, after two years of blogging, I think I've already put all my quirks out there. Second, it seems to me that all quirks, especially mine, are spectacular by their very definition. But really, I just don't think I have any quirks left to mine. So instead, I will give you six unspectacular things about the new house.

1) The duct cleaner is currently cleaning our ducts, and there is a lot of poo in them. Mouse droppings, which I knew about, but also something much larger. I fear raccoons have been inhabiting the six-inch space between the concrete pad and the floor. Ok, that one's actually kind of spectacular in a horrible, horrible way. I'm trying to not think about it.

2) The dishwasher is great. We've never had a dishwasher before, and I can't tell you how warm the evenings of its grunting and swishing make me feel. Oh the warm and loving sound of dishes being washed that don't require hands, either mine or Sugar D's.

3) The driveway. Unlike our neighbours, we don't have a garage. We do, however, have a double-width driveway, and with our friend's car, it is SUCH a luxury to be able to fit both cars in the driveway. Not only do they fit, but I don't get scratched or soaked by the neighbour's shrub that never gets trimmed.

4) The den. I love having a separate room for the tv, so we have to go out of our way to watch it. (Of course, it helps not to have any cable, so we'll see how we do on this once cable is installed.)

5) The light is pretty spectacular, and I can see I'm going to have lots of fun with my camera.

6) Ok so I was starting to get panicky that there was only a half-hour left of the cable guy's appointment and maybe the phone had run while I was out meeting the duct cleaner or the time I peed and forgot to take the phone with me (as opposed to the time I peed and TOOK the phone with me). So I called Rogers to find out what was up. Guess what?!? Apparently the hooked up the cable a few days ago. Apparently they don't ACTUALLY need you to be there when they do it. What if I hadn't called? When were they planning to tell me that everything was a go? On the plus side, they're giving us free PVR rental for a year to make up for all the hassle. Wanna know how I got it? I said, "I know you're personally not responsible for this but your company's customer service TOTALLY sucks and it makes me want to just switch to Bell. Their service probably sucks too, but I bet they would at least call to cancel a fucking appointment."

just when I thought suburban alienation was a cliche not worth exploring...

2008-08-28T11:22:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, my motivation to continue unpacking never returned. I guess I needed to rest a bit after all the craziness.

In the afternoon, I decided to explore my new neighbourhood, and I took my camera.

I wanted to photograph some of the differences between this neighbourhood and the one we left. The one we left was the original working class neighbourhood, where most of the houses were about 100 years old on very narrow lots. This one is not precisely a suburb, since it's so central, but it's definitely 50s suburban: huge lots, almost entirely bungalows. It wasn't until I got home and saw all the photos that I realized the number one difference: built-on garages.

I saw barely anyone walking. A few people worked in their yards, but more than anything was a ubiquitous twitching of front curtains and heads peeking through windows only to withdraw as soon as I tried to look friendly or determine for sure what that movement was.

The most twitching by far occurred at the last house of the above series. The little old lady who lives there even came out and asked me suspiciously what I was doing. She was hard of hearing and I had to repeat myself quite a few times. "I like your house. I took some pictures."

"But what are you going to DO with them?!?"

"I'm just an artist..."

"Who are you?!?"

"I just moved into the neighbourhood. My name is Cinnamon Gurl. I live over on ___ street."

So we chatted, but her suspicion never really left her.

My first stop had actually been the United church that I once thought was heinously ugly in its modernity, but which now I quite like.

Behind it in the parking lot were a few sheds and an institutional-looking building behind it. As I shot, a few kids rode through the background on the bikes, so I shot a bit longer (you can just make out one of them - the white speck between the sheds). They noticed me immediately, so I smiled and waved, then turned around. The shot wasn't really working.

Halfway across the lot, one of the kids called out, "What do you want?" I wasn't sure they were talking to me, so I turned around, gestured questioningly to myself and said, "Me?" They said nothing and turned around.

Later, they caught up to me. "Excuse me," one of them said. "We were just wondering why you were taking pictures of us."

"I'm just an artist," I said. (I've never called myself an artist before but it seemed like it would make for fewer questions than photographer.)

"Oh, sorry" they said, like I had some horrible affliction.

This neighbourhood is so suspicious! In my old neighbourhood, people asked what I was shooting, but it was out of curiosity, not to uncover my nefarious plot to harm them in some way. The whole rest of the day I felt like this is a horrible neighbourhood, and I don't belong here. What the hell were we thinking?!?

I also discovered that the institutional building behind the church was an abandoned school. It's so sad that they're doing away with the small local schools and bussing kids to mega-schools.

My town is in the midst of a by-election, which makes it a good time to get a sense of the neighbourhood. As much as I'm trying to curb my judgments, I still judge people by their politics. My old neighbourhood was full of NDP and green party signs. They were everywhere, with only a single liberal sign on my street.

Here, there are virtually no signs. I guess these people are just apathetic. Either that or they have a bizarre need for privacy -- who KNOWS what people could do if they knew which party you supported! Especially in this day and age with the whole Internet thingie. Of the signs that are here, most of them are liberal and conservative, with the odd renegade NDP and green party sign.

I'm still really torn myself. I love the NDP candidate as an individual, but the thought of being the first riding to elect a green party MP is pretty tempting.

(those campaign shots were all from a few weeks ago)

almost back in the land of the living

2008-08-27T08:04:00.004-05:00

I'm sitting in our new house, boxes still all over, Death Cab for Cutie on the speakers, and I'm not sure what to do. Swee'pea's in daycare and Sugar D's back to work. There is lots of cleaning and unpacking to do, but we took care of the high priority rooms yesterday (kitchen and bath), Swee'pea's room we did Monday.

I really just want to vent, but I have no real-life friends outside of work, and I'm not at work.

**************

Dear Rogers,

Just a thought, but when a customer moves to a different house, you might want to consider NOT depending on the phone to find out whether the customer is at the new house at the agreed-upon time for the cable hook-up. You might want to try, oh I don't know, KNOCKING? on the door? before deciding that the customer hasn't shown. Because sometimes Bell fucks up too and the phone may not be working. The dead air that comes after you dial the number? That's a pretty good indication that something may be a bit off with the phone rather than the customers not being at the house.

We were here! Waiting! For all three hours of the stupid three-hour window you force customers to hang around waiting for a hook-up.

If you do insist on depending on the fickle phone lines, you may just want to keep a few appointments open every day, just for the people who took two fucking weeks off work for this g-d move (why did we want to do this again?!?) and who may not want to wait a further two weeks just to have to leave work for ANOTHER 3-hour window of sitting at home waiting for the cable guy.

The thing is, you never know what other shit your customers may be dealing with during a move, things like -- hypothetically of course -- dangerous electricals that the home inspector didn't catch, mould, an automobile accident and an insurance company that made a "small mistake" when they didn't include the driver and part-owner of the car on the policy (woops), a mistake they're fixing but which is taking a long time to fix since the driver was out of the country for a week right before the move. Oh - and maybe a broken phone line, which got fixed but apparently the maintenance package they hosed the customer for doesn't come into effect for 15 days so they have to wait to get the broken JACK fixed. You never know if your unwillingness to knock on a door might be the straw on the poor camel's back and might cause ordinarily reasonable people to yell at your poor customer service reps at 7:30 in the morning. Of course, the 20-minute hold time didn't help either.

Next time, please just knock?

Sincerely,
Sin

***********************

For Swee'pea, the move has been effortless, as Mad predicted. We had to stop at the old house for a few things after we picked up Swee'pea, and he yelled, "No! New house!" He stayed in the car and had no interested in seeing the old house. Bedtimes aren't quite so smooth and he's cried a few times in the night, but mostly he's slept in his own bed. He loves it here. It helps that when my parents babysat on the weekend, they spent most of it here, my dad fixing stuff and my mom cleaning a bit in between Swee'pea chases, so he's totally familiar. I love my parents.

Over the summer, I met two different women at the park who have boys almost exactly the same age as Swee'pea and who live in our new neighbourhood. They gave me their addresses and I'm wondering if a drop-in would be ok? I got the sense that they were kind of desperate to make friends nearby with young kids, since mostly the neighbourhood is full of old fogeys. But we didn't exchange numbers... what do you think? Should I wait until I have Swee'pea with me? Or should I go alone? I'd like some real-life friends...

closing ceremony

2008-08-24T07:57:00.005-05:00

I'm always a bit sad when the Olympics close, especially the most recent few. For whatever reason, we've had something momentous going on during each of the last three Olympics. In 2004, we got married about a week after the Opening Ceremonies, and we spent our honeymoon in a house in Tobermory. We'd brought our bikes and big plans for hiking and biking the Bruce Trail, but we only did that a few times before we succumbed to the allure of the Olympics. After weeks of wedding preparations, we needed some veg-out time, and we took it.

In 2006, the Winter Opening Ceremonies were playing on the little tv in our hospital room, as we packed up wee Swee'pea into a sleeper that was way too big for him (now impossibly small!). We needed the nurse's help to figure out how to put him into the carseat without breaking him. Once home, the Olympics kept me company through the long night feedings, and it was so nice to have good tv to focus my bleary eyes on. The Closing Ceremonies meant 3 am infomercials, before, finally - at six weeks - I just brought Swee'pea into bed with us and nursed him lying down forever more. "Move over, Sugar D," I said in the middle of one night. "He's comin' in!"

This past June, or maybe it was May, I commented to a coworker that although the last two Olympics had coincided with major life changes, this games would be uneventful, because clearly we didn't have anything significant on the horizon. Now, the Closing Ceremonies coincide with our last full day at this house.

I feel like I should take a moment to thank this house for its shelter, to honour the memories it now holds in its walls and floors. But I don't have the mental space, what with all the logistical details darting around my mind, all these things to remember. Don't forget the stuff in the shed, or the little castle slide in the backyard, or the tools in the basement. I'll have to label the pieces that are staying, and the furniture that's going with the rooms they're going to. I worry I'll regret not taking a moment to say goodbye.

I was 8 years old when I read Black Beauty. My sister gave me a beautiful, leather-bound edition with gorgeous illustrations for Christmas. And immediately I was riveted. But that book sort of broke me. I had to put the book down at one point for more than a week because every time I picked it up, I started sobbing uncontrollably again. It was in the middle of the scene when the old cavalry horse is left riderless in the battlefield, terrified and bewildered in the midst of such carnage. I empathized so strongly with what he must have felt, not having any instructions on how to get out of that chaos alive.

Other scenes from the book made me cry almost as hard, and they always involved horses being taken away from their friends without knowing in advance they were leaving. The saddest thing for me was not moving away or losing friends, but not having the chance to say a proper goodbye, not knowing that the last time you saw them was the last time you would ever see them. It's what makes me the most sad about death, the possibility that you may not get to say goodbye to the people you love.

Later in my life, break-ups that bothered me the same way, because you never knew that the last time you kissed or made love was going to be the last time ever. Or at least that's how it was with all of my previous relationships. I always wished for a do-over, just once, to know enough to savour it in the moment, this last taste of tenderness before it all goes to shit.

And I'm more than a little torn about tomorrow. The movers are coming while Swee'pea is in daycare and we'll no longer have access to the house after we pick him up. We've told him about the new house and he's excited to stay there, but I don't think he really gets it. And I doubt he'll really get it until it's too late to say goodbye. On the one hand, I don't want to put my stuff on him, but I don't want to screw him up the other way either.

I had a panic attack last night. It's been years since I had one. I've had a few panicky starts, but I've always been able to manage it and get the panic under control. Last night, I couldn't. It felt just like the spells I used to have nine years ago, back before I knew they were panic attacks. I thought I had some bizarre disease that, without warning, made me suddenly nauseous and shaky and increased my pulse till it was pounding in my ears.

I was worrying about some stuff in the new house, worried it will lead us to financial ruin (which I've never actually worried about before, strangely). (The new place smells mildewy in the front hall and dining room despite dehumidifying and airing out - and without a basement, we have no way to investigate the situation. I have one of two visions flitting around: 1) we all get sick and die from mould or 2) we lose all our money tearing the house apart to find the mould and sink into financial ruin. Please don't comment on this bit - we have a tiered action plan.)

I was thinking about how deeply Black Beauty affected me. I was trying to sort out how best to help Swee'pea through this transition, whether to keep him out of the movers' hair as originally planned or let him witness the physical process of moving homes to help facilitate the emotional process. But mostly I was utterly exhausted and unable to sleep. My muscles were all tense and I started to feel some gastrointestinal twinges. Then I felt like I was going to vomit. Or my head was going to explode with all the worries darting around. The intense fear made me suspect panic over food poisoning, so I did the things that usual help me resist emerging panic. But it didn't work. I just felt sick and scared and alone, and Sugar D was still packing the kitchen downstairs (yay West coast jet lag!) and I didn't feel like I could manage the stairs to get the company I needed. So I laid on the bathroom floor for a while until I felt well enough to go downstairs, then dozed in front of the Olympics, with occasionally screeches of packing tape behind me in the kitchen.

When we went upstairs, I realized that it was shortly after I read Black Beauty that any time I was overtired, I would become convinced that our barn was going to burn down in the night. I imagined the horses panicked and squealing in the barn all choking black and angry red and the vision was so clear I just knew I was having a premonition. I felt I had to stay awake so I could save the horses. I remember the first time my parents told me they would stay awake so I could sleep, and I was only a little angry to discover in the morning they had gone to bed after all, but not really because the barn was still standing, not a streak of charcoal anywhere. Last night, it struck me that those late night fearfests were probably my first panic attacks, or at least a precursor.

And I don't know where this post is going. Is it a treatise on panic and anxiety? A plea for advice on what to do with Swee'pea? A musing on goodbye and the Olympics? I really have no idea... except I have to keep packing.

2008-08-23T06:47:00.004-05:00

I was a little concerned about how exhausted I was yesterday, when the real hard work is still ahead. Luckily, my mom had told me to take it easy, to just hang out in the new house and figure out where the furniture will go and sit in the backyard. So I did. I also ran a few errands, returning overdue books to the library, dropping off paperwork at Swee'pea's new daycare (starting date Sept. 15), getting a bit of cash to pay the hardwood installers to put the baseboards back on.

I read an article about Mandela's leadership style in Time magazine, while listening to South African pop accompanied by the roaring nail gun and whining saws of the floor installers. I was surprised to discover just what a strategist he is, but I guess that makes sense given that he accomplished the seemingly impossible. I think he must be ENTP. I think ENTP's make the best leaders. I know ENTJ's probably have a stronger urge to lead, but the J can rub people the wrong way and lead to hasty decisions. ENTP's get the benefit of the logic with the P to keep them open to new ideas and able to change track at a moment's notice. (My Myers Briggs obsession hasn't abated at all -- I've found myself on more than one occasion trying to figure out what types our new neighbours are based on their lawns and gardens.)

I read another article about the science of love and romance, which mentioned a study that discovered female strippes' average tips change depending on where they're at in their cycle. Apparently their tips average $70 an hour when ovulating, $35 an hour when menstruating, and $50 an hour when neither ovulating nor menstruating.

Ok... I can't procrastinate on packing any longer.

This Marriage

2008-08-21T06:11:00.008-05:00

May these vows and this marriage be blessed.
May it be sweet milk,
this marriage, like wine and halvah.
May this marriage offer fruit and shade
like the date palm.
May this marriage be full of laughter,
our every day a day in paradise.
May this marriage be a sign of compassion,
a seal of happiness here and hereafter.
May this marriage have a fair face and a good name,
an omen as welcomes the moon in a clear blue sky.
I am out of words to describe
how spirit mingles in this marriage.

Kulliyat-i-Shams, 2667

Nine years ago today, around 2:30 pm, you reached into your breast pocket and pulled out a tiny scrap of paper. You blushed and stammered as you gave me an excuse for using the phone number on it. I know you hate it when I say that part about blushing and stammering, but it's important to me. It showed me you don't make a habit of giving your number to strange girls in stores, that I was somehow special.

I used to feel a mild guilt that I never wrote you a love poem in the following months the way I did for previous loves. I worried it meant it wasn't real, but enough time has passed now to know this is as real as it gets. I was just too busy being with you to write about it.

Four years ago today, around 2:30 pm, I walked towards you down an aisle of green grass (I remember I wanted to start our marriage when the clock was on an upswing). We spoke and heard beautiful words in a beautiful place. I never felt a moment of doubt or fear.

Anniversaries used to be important occasions to me. Now I see it's the year in between that matters. We've barely spent any time apart in the last nine years, less than 30 nights I'm guessing. If we had been separated during an anniversary before now, or before Swee'pea was born, I would have worried that it was a bad omen, that it foretold future separation. But the distance between us today (5000 kms?), just reminds me how strong our relationship is, and how strong we are individually.

Every time we lead up to you going away, I dread having to do everything on my own. But once you leave, I discover it's not your doing I miss but your being. I unlocked the door of our new house for the first time by myself, without blinking an eye. I am fine on my own, but boy I sure like having you around. It is good to be reminded so clearly that it is you, all of you, that I love, not just your hands.

Being with you has taught me so much about myself, about you, about compassion and how to be together. It makes me a better person. Many times over the last several months, I have reflected on how peaceful and loving and full of laughter our relationship is. Here's to many more years...

Thank you for the last nine years. Travel safely tomorrow.

Love...

Wordless Wednesday: Wish you were here

2008-08-20T05:38:00.004-05:00

(Not an accurate representation of the current paint colour.)

(Note the lime green door - it's the back door but every single exterior door -- there are 4 -- is painted that colour.)

(this is the first time in many, many years that I've had naked toenails.)

2008-08-19T12:43:00.003-05:00

On this day five years ago, I was painting kitchen cupboards in an empty house. St. Germaine was playing on a small cd player. The painting took much longer than I'd expected, and the blackout brought a welcome surprise. As a non-essential Ontario government employee, I was required to stay away from work. Oh, the hardship. That week let me finish painting the kitchen cupboards before we moved in. Sugar D still had to work, so I worked completely alone, and I enjoyed the rhythm and the solitude.

When I discovered the extra painting needed at the new house yesterday, I decided to take today off. With Swee'pea in daycare and Sugar D in California, I had visions of the same scene. Brush up brush down, dip in white paint... Too bad we've already packed the St. Germain cd. I loaded supplies into the car: some old tapes, a few cds still unpacked, a drink, a cup, a chair, a ladder, and all the painting stuff. My lawyer told me I'd probably be able to get the key at noon, so I duly called at noon. But apparently I chose the mortgage provider who's slower than everyone else, and suddenly my peaceful afternoon of painting has disappeared.

So now I'm sitting in the same house, only this time it's full of furniture, boxes, and cluttered lives, and my hands are on a keyboard instead of a paint brush. I'm listening to "Abrakadabra," and desperately trying to find some St. Germain. And my imagination is full of another house, all square corners and rectangles to this one's curvy trim and wonky dips.

in search of the perfect beige

2008-08-18T12:53:00.005-05:00

I thought I had our bedroom colour chosen weeks ago. But it's been niggling at me that I just don't like the colour (Benjamin Moore's Waterbury Cream); it's too green. So yesterday, after Sugar D left for California, I decided to open it back up again. I have one day to decide, and today was my final walkthrough of the house. The winner? Benjamin Moore's French Toast (CC-224). I don't have time to second-guess myself... anyone have happy French Toast stories to share?

In less happy news, I discovered that I have to paint the baseboards. They have knots showing through. Not sure exactly when I'll find time to do that because I have only eight daycare hours before the hardwood installers come.

We also discovered more electrical work than we expected, thank to strategic placement of furniture. Oh well...

unprecedented

2008-08-16T10:21:00.005-05:00

For four out of the last five nights, Swee'pea has slept through the night, all alone. That's two times two nights in a row. He has never, ever slept through the night in his own bed two nights in a row. It's such a treat to cuddle while awake, taking our time to reconnect and greet the day, instead of the nocturnal cuddles and immediate leap to consciousness.

You'd think I'd be Ms. Calm after all that uninterrupted sleep, but I am not. Last night, just before I fell asleep, I heard a jet fly overhead. It made that freaky whistling sound that I associate with plane crashes in the movies. For one irrational instant, I wondered if it was going to crash into our house and I felt a jolt of panic. But I caught myself: this is just because I'm stressed out. The more stress I feel, the more panic and anxiety I experience (AND the more ice cream and beer I consume). I have to remind myself that the world didn't suddenly just get a lot more dangerous.

Sugar D leaves first thing tomorrow morning for six days in California on business. I have a final walk-through of the new house on Monday afternoon and the electrician is coming to give us a quote on some work we need done before we move in. We take possession of the new house on Tuesday afternoon and I have one day to paint our bedroom, rip up carpet in two rooms, and remove the baseboards before the hardwood installers come. Sugar D comes home on Friday night, just in time for two days of intense packing and one day of intense moving. And that's just what I planned.

What I didn't plan was for Sugar D to crash the car yesterday while he parked it and I got a money order for the lawyer, right before our appointment to sign all the g.d. papers (this was after the whole daycare dilemma and tour -- which we have to decide on by Monday, also unplanned). Sugar D wasn't hurt at all (thank goodness!) and the other car wasn't damaged. But our car is looking a lot like toast. We just got a quote to repair it: $2000. Our insurance agent is unavailable until Monday so I can't find out what our insurance policy covers, what our deductible is, or what a claim like that will do to our premiums. So apparently I have to fit all that decision-making and coordinating in between all the other bullshit I'm dealing with next week. Of course it's not bullshit, but it's feeling just a touch overwhelming.

This morning at the market, I saw a guy from the drop-in centre. He's taken to hugging me hello, I don't know why. But we tend to see him a lot when we're out and about. Anyways, he's having to stay at the men's shelter while his wife stays at the women's because he lost job and they got evicted, all within days of each other by the sounds of it.

I'm feeling so overwhelmed, I almost bailed on the drop-in this afternoon so I could get more stuff done, but then I thought of that guy and wondered what he'd think if I didn't show up after he just saw me this morning. I imagined explaining my problems: my husband's going away and we're buying a big house and our 2006 Toyota needs to be fixed and I have to arrange insurance, and wah wah wah. Um yeah, a little embarrassing.

I can handle this week; I just don't want to. And we can delay the car fixing if we need to because we still have our friends' car. So I'm going to the drop-in momentarily.

last chance to vote!

2008-08-15T20:02:00.004-05:00

My photo's at fourth place, after falling to sixth. So if you haven't voted yet and you want to, make sure you do it by 10 pm Pacific Standard Time tonight. Sorry for being annoying, but the top three get prizes - mostly in the form of credit for a print at Imagekind - and I've got new walls to fill!

By the way, the new daycare was really nice. Better food -- almost all homemade. Better outdoor space -- they even have trees! It's bright and organized and requires 4 hours of parental involvement every four months. I actually kind of like that, forcing me to be engaged in his daycare space.

When we got home, I had to tell Swee'pea what we'd done, because I can't keep a secret. The first thing he said? Is Neeum there?

I definitely think we'll need to set up some playdates with the famous Neeum.

2008-08-15T10:39:00.002-05:00

This morning I walked to work for the first time in ages. It was heavenly. The sun was bright but it was fresh enough to wear a light jacket. Geese were just beginning to stir on the soccer field, and traffic was minimal. I walked by student places and remembered what the morning freshness means: fall. A new school year.

It feels like summer is over before it's even properly begun. Is it bad that I'm already looking forward to next summer? To a summer that isn't overshadowed by a move to a new house? Regardless, this summer is nearly spent, and really, it's ok that it was spent preparing to move. Hopefully, we'll enjoy many relaxed summers to come in the house and not have to consider moving for a long, long time.

While I walked, I thought about how much I enjoy walking to work, to starting the day out with a meditation on the morning beauty of everything. Even last night's empties look beautiful. Our new house is only a 20-minute moderately brisk walk to my work compared with a 30-minute brisk walk up a big hill that morphs closer to 45 minutes in snow.

But Swee'pea's daycare is in the other direction, so if he stays there, it will mean either a second car or a long and frankly annoying bus ride. I have him on the waiting list for the place next door to my work but he loves his current daycare so much. He loves one teacher in particular and he's always talking about one of his friends. When he had scarlet fever and couldn't go to school, he wept at the doctor's when she told him. She said she'd never seen this kind of reaction in a kid his age.

As I walked, I decided screw the inconvenience, that place is good for him. My own fantasy of walking to work isn't enough to justify the change. Besides, he probably wouldn't even get a spot anyways.

About an hour into my workday, I got a call. There's a spot for Swee'pea starting in September. He'd be in a slightly larger group of kids (16 to 2 teachers instead of his current 10 to 2). They don't have a four-day option, but the five-day price is less than what we currently pay for four. We have to decide by Monday, and we're going for a tour this afternoon.

I think I've mostly decided though, because the walking fantasies -- even in minus 30 degrees and rainstorms (provided we weatherproof ourselves appropriately of course) -- are irresistible. It would mean we wouldn't have to buy a second car, which is huge for me both ideologically and economically.

What do you think... do you think the transition will be as bad as last time?

please vote?

2008-08-13T16:35:00.003-05:00

One of my photos made the top 10 cut in a contest over at Imagekind with the theme of unity. Now it's open to voters, and anyone can vote - not just Imagekind members. So if you think this photo represents unity the best, please feel free to vote for it.

How I believe it fits the theme: Visually, this photo shows four boys unified by their focus on a single book. As well, mosaics are made of disparate fragments unified by art. The photo was made in the courtyard of the Gugu S’thebe Arts and Culture Centre in South Africa, 13 years after the end of apartheid. These boys are younger than the country’s new democracy, the product of years of united, hard work.

And while I'm on the subject, Imagekind just announced a 25% discount on all framing until August 18, 2008. Just enter the promo code PLUNGE25 when you check out.

better late than never?

2008-08-13T06:14:00.003-05:00

So yesterday was Bad Teenage Poetry Day, as declared by Superlagirl, and Andrea very bravely posted some of her very bad poems. Most of my poems are packed away for our move (in less than two weeks!), but I do have one I can post.

It's funny, I've posted a fair amount of silliness from my teenage years, and I just think it's funny. It doesn't embarrass me. But this poem seriously embarrasses me. It also embarrasses me that I thought it was so good at the time, I was going to post it at my horse's barn to intrigue the guy I was crushing on. Ok, so fine. I guess I can't delay any longer.

Lucifer Falling

Hitler was around then
even in New France
the devil himself
in your Jesuit habit
hiding in your circle of rosary beards
implanted in your cerebra
so you may think
you are god-like
so you may kill all that argues
in the name of the father
the son and the holy ghost.

You bring the plague on the savages
but it is you that is
savage
converting left, right, centre
she is not yours to convert
you may as well rape her
but you will not touch her soul.

It is you,
Satan
wearing your kachina mask
that sends all into chaos
your heritage is mine
and will still be mine
tomorrow
as we are stuck in a ring
neverending
as the sun until
we self-destruct
and our atoms shall mingle together
as one with the stars
at peace as nothing...

two very cute things and a question

2008-08-10T20:12:00.004-05:00

Swee'pea decided to take his new bear with him on our walk tonight, the polar bear his Papa brought him from the Arctic. As he climbed into the stroller, he said, "My bear LOVES me." (It sounded like, "My bayo does me.")

He got out of his stroller once we were away from the traffic and had a ball jumping in and out of puddles. His shorts were quickly soaked, and I was sorry I forgot my camera. He took a break from the puddles and came running up to me, "mommmyyy!" He slammed into my leg and hugged my thigh. "I love my mommy!" (It sounded like, "My duff my mommy.")

***************

Question: have I been invading the privacy of the folks at the drop-in centre by blogging some of their stories? Am I betraying their trust? Or is it ok because mostly I do it sensitively? Thoughts?

You know you're a packrat if...

2008-08-09T10:49:00.003-05:00

You find yourself hanging onto the following items as proof that you were once young (and really, really stupid) too:

a handful of blank postcards of Florida Manatees, because you once felt an affinity with the sea cow.
the explanatory note that accompanied a rune pendant, long since lost. It was the run called Eh, (which I think I know better as Ehwaz) meaning movement and symbolizing the horse and the sisterhood or brotherhood for horse and rider. "Movement is necessary for progress along one's path. Loyalty and trust are qualities needed for journeying together. Herb - ragwort, tree - ash/oak."
an empty envelope from an old bank statement with Al Purdy's phone number on it, because you once were you so casual with his phone number, you just wrote it on any old paper. (I also kept the address book that I later transferred his number into for safekeeping.)
the program from a production of Saint Joan at the 1993 Shaw Festival that was so bad, your teacher gave you all permission not to return to the theatre after intermission.
the program for Buddy: The Buddy Holly Story, which set off a long obsession with Buddy's music and glasses and tragic story.
a copy of How to Pick Up Guys, which includes such good advice as how to handle a shy man: "Try to help a shy man get over his shyness by saying, 'I'm going to make this as easy for you as I can. I'd like to have steamy sex with you. If you'd like to have steamy sex with me too, blink once.'"
an envelope from the stud farm you worked at in high school, which contains the price notes of everyone who worked at the yearling sale. Your notes are circled as the winner because you guessed $131,420 and the actual total was $120,900. You want to keep this envelope because you had totally forgotten there was even a pool, let alone that you won. I guess that memory got wiped out by the shit that came afterward. I wonder how much you won?
A handwritten copy of a poem you wrote, which you were planning to submit to a magazine but never did:

Winter Scene
We trekked out
with our toboggans
and a pipe T*** had bought in Montreal.
To the top of the hill
and the moon,
she looked down
a ring of light
surrounded her in the clouds.
And L**** held it for me
tight in my teeth
as I sucked the flame
down.
The pipe we shared,
finally lit
and then we slid
down the hill laughing
back into the world.
A ring of girls
around of a ring of red
with a ring of smoke above
and a ring of moonlight too
reflecting in the white
of snow.
correspondence with your benchmate from biology, which goes something along the lines of:

me: Maybe I"ll say hi to him today. If I get the chance. I wonder if he knows i'm interested in him.

friend: If you would do the eyebrow thing he would know!

me: I did it at lunch. And I think he saw but it was quite a distance so maybe he wasn't even looking at me but I think he was.

friend: Do it! (ha ha) in the hall right at him (eye contact)

me: I will. But sometimes it's hard to position myself properly and sometimes he doesn't look at me. But I'm worried that if I stare at him too much, I'll stop watching where I'm going and trip right in front of him and totally embarrass myself.

[there's a little diagram here, complete with thought bubbles and everything]

me: I look like shit today. These jeans make me look like that grade 9 - she always wears tight jeans that totally flatten her ass.

friend: Those jeans look really good. Nice butt.
And finally, a sign you were planning (please please please let you not have actually done it) to hang on your horse's door at the boarding stable to impress the guy you were crushing on. This one's really embarrassing. It has a typed out copy of a really bad poem that you wrote after you watched Black Robe, your horse's name in marker, and underneath, to show your worldliness, I guess: "Un tres bon cheval. Un muy bien cavalla." Of course, that boy did become your first love, so you must not have actually posted it. Phew.

Looking for paint advice

2008-08-07T17:14:00.004-05:00

All the exterior doors on our new house are lime green. I'm not exagerating at all. They're pretty much neon. I definitely want to paint them, but I have no idea what colour family to start with.

It was built in the 50s and it's been called "architecturally significant." It's a bungalow and the siding is dark brown on the lower half and white on the upper (I think - I can't remember the exact colour divisions, but there's dark brown and white - that's what you need to know). The door is original, with three small rectangular windows cut out of it. This is the only picture I have, which, most inconveniently, doesn't really show the door.

So - what colour should I paint it? Blue? Brown? Red? What colour would it have been originally, do you think?

open windows

2008-08-07T08:05:00.003-05:00

Last night we opened the windows to let fresh air in. The songs of crickets also invited themselves in, and I realized I hadn't heard them all summer long. How is that possible?

I had trouble falling asleep. My throat was scratchy, my thoughts were racing, and after a week of shitty, wakeful-Swee'pea nights, I was dreading the hours of wakefulness to come. But it was such a treat just to lie there and listen to the crickets.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a hard rain woke me up and I realized Swee'pea hadn't joined us yet - hurrah!!

Later still, a rumbling pulled me gently awake. Daylight was just peeking around the curtains, and I decided the morning birds aren't nearly as nice as night-time crickets. Then:

BANG BANG BANG

[silence]

BANG BANG BANG

OPEN THE FUCKING DOOOOOOR!!!

[silence]

BANG BANG BANG

OPEN THE FUCKING DOOORRR!!!

BANG BANG BANG

SMASH

[the musical notes of glass falling to concrete]

Ahh. I will SO not miss my next-door neighbours and their troubled kids who refuse to leave their adolescence behind.

knots

2008-08-06T07:27:00.001-05:00

When I was lying on the massage table last week, finally getting some relief for my poor, rock-tense neck and shoulders, I couldn't stop thinking about all the people who can't afford massages. It felt a little disgusting to spend my money on something so self-indulgent. But massages are so good for you, especially if you work at a computer all day, and then come home to play on the computer. Massages detoxify your system, increase your circulation -- and prevent tension headaches, something I suffer from fairly frequently without regular massages. I think I've had two massages since Swee'pea was born, but I used to get them regularly, and I really noticed a difference back then. No more headaches, and all of a sudden I could do head slides in belly dance, which I just couldn't do before.

Anyways, the table. I was feeling guilty. Finally, I had to say something. I had to share this burden. So I told this massage therapist, who I'd never met before, that I was volunteering at the Drop-In Centre and that I felt really guilty for being so rich when so many are poor. I mean, many people don't even have a quarter for a coffee there. I would never have considered myself rich before, only millionaires are rich, but since I started volunteering, I've realized just how rich I am. I told her about what that man had said about coming to look at the poor people. (A surprised, "Oh!" escaped her lips and floated around the room when she heard that.)

She said I have to let that guilt go. Everyone has hardships and it really does no good to make comparisons. Some may say that another's hardships aren't as bad their own, but you really can't make those judgments. But I really don't have any hardships, I said. I've been so, so lucky. (Of course since then, I've remembered a few.) The therapist pointed out that some people also just have better attitudes than others, and I had to agree. Some people are more resilient than others, although that's not to say that a person's bad attitude is their fault. If no-one in your family is resilient, if they all have poor, self-destructive or nonexistent coping skills, how would you learn resilience? (And I do believe it's a learned skill.)

I had a friend in high school whose mother was a physiotherapist, and she'd also begun to study cranial-sacral therapy. She died when we were about 21, from breast cancer. She'd fought it once, but after a few years she stopped going for her follow-up appointments, and by the time she went to the doctor, she was too far gone. She died a week later, and it seemed clear to us all that she knew it had come back, and she knew she didn't want to fight anymore. She was a truly beautiful woman.

She believed that our tissues hold emotional trauma, they have a memory of sorts. Once, she was doing a treatment on my friend and my friend was suddenly overwhelmed with incredible sadness and she started to cry. She didn't know why she felt so sad, but her mother said it was because she'd released one of these emotional memories. Once she did a treatment on me, and when I went home, my parents thought I was drunk because my gait had changed. I remember feeling like everything was just slightly out of place from where it had been before - both inside and outside my body.

I wonder if the pain and extreme stiffness in my shoulders and neck ("I'm not gonna lie," said the massage therapist the other day, "It's not looking good.") is partly the result of this guilt and shame and embarrassment I've been carrying around for having money, feelings that have only intensified over the last six months. I've never really felt comfortable with my income, I've always been embarrassed that we have a cleaner - embarrassed that we can afford one: I've never been embarrassed for being a slob.

It strikes me that this middle-class shame isn't doing me or anyone else any favours. It doesn't make me donate more or use it more wisely. It just makes me feel bad - silent and embarrassed, especially around really poor people, and I'm quite certain that doesn't help them. The same guilt and shame infect and inhibit my photography. So. How do I get over it?

Wednesday was amazing, and if you can get through this post to find out why, you are amazing too

2008-08-01T07:14:00.000-05:00

I've been reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. Much of her stuff on the practice of writing and observing people resonate with me, but when she talks about creating fiction, about letting your characters drive the story, I get lost. I just don't get how that happens.

My father-in-law is a novelist, and last time we visited him I asked, "But how do you create fiction?"

He said, "Well you take real life, the things that happen to you, and you make it into legend."

This isn't a poor me post at all. I'm fine with not being able to write fiction, with not being suited to it. But I find it a fascinating shortfall, especially since I'm so fond of blogging and photography.

I love to write, I love to use words to capture or inspire emotion; I love to study people, I love to imagine what's going on with them now and what's happened in their pasts; I love finding or creating meaning in the real world. You'd think fiction would grow naturally from these passions. But I am very much grounded in the real world. It strikes me that perhaps this is why photography appeals to me so much. Photographs can be meaningful and imaginative, but they are foregrounded in some slice of the real world - or at least mine are.

In the second part of Bird by Bird, Lamott gets into "The Writing Frame of Mind." A lot of what she says here seems relevant to photography as well. She says, "Your job is to present clearly your viewpoint, your line of vision. Your job is to see people as they really are, and to do this, you have to know who you are in the most compassionate possible sense. Then you can recognize others."

"There is ecstasy in paying attention. You can get into a kind of Wordsworthian openness to the world, where you see in everything the essence of holiness, a sign that God is implicit in all of creation."

"To be engrossed by something outside ourselves is a powerful antidote for the rational mind, the mind that so frequently has its head up its own ass - seeing things in such a narrow and darkly narcissistic way that it presents a colo-rectal theology, offering hope to no one."

On Wednesday, I decided to drop in at the Drop-In Centre. I've never gone for just a visit before; I've been too nervous. But I feel like I can't delay on my project any longer. I just have to go for it. So I stuck my camera and a couple of memory cards in my bag and headed out.

I stopped at the store and picked up a couple of locally grown cantaloupes, because I've noticed that fruit goes like wildfire whenever they're lucky enough to have some donated. I couldn't help but wonder, though, if this urge to bring fruit was really a need to position myself as benefactor so nobody would be confused about what I was doing there. Maybe I was, but I was also just seeing a simple way to bring folks a small bite of summer pleasure without taking any skin off my back. I also thought about Dirty Dancing, and if anyone asked me what I was doing there I could say, "I carried a (water)melon," and then kick myself for such idiocy after the fact.

When I arrived, Sister Christine exclaimed about the melons. She hugged me and said in my ear, "Aren't you wonderful?!" And I was so pleased and warm. Did I tell you she's being given the Order of Canada? And her response was that well, she couldn't do it without all the volunteers. Yeah, she's pretty cool.

I loitered at the counter, unsure how to approach someone, how to get comfortable. The man who's given me grief before was behind the counter and offered me coffee. I don't drink coffee so I just poured myself some water.

"Did you come here to look at the poor people?" he asked, his friendly smile at odds with his nasty words. This is the second time he's said something like that to me and I felt awful and found-out. I froze. Why does he hate me?

I decided to go to the smoking area because I would feel less on show. If only I still smoked. I was so uncomfortable and still recoiling from that man's words. I remembered the words of the instructor at the portrait workshop I went to a while back. She said when you're working on a documentary project, you will have a point of view; you will have intention. And that point of view may conflict with the subjects' agenda for about how they want to be portrayed. You can't really tell them what your point of view is and get the images you want, so you need to be ok with what you're doing. I've been thinking a lot about that last one. You need to be ok with what you're doing.

My mind went back to Lammott's words, specifically the ones I read just before I left home: "If your deepest beliefs drive your writing, they will not only keep your work from being contrived but will help you discover what drives your characters. You may find some really good people beneath the packaging and posing - people whom we, your readers, will like, whose company we will rejoice in." ... "But you have to believe in your position, or nothing will be driving your work. If you don't believe in what you are saying, there is no point in your saying it. You might as well call it a day and go bowling. However, if you do care deeply about something - if, for instance, you are conservative in the great sense of the word, if you are someone who is trying to conserve the landscape and the natural world - then this belief will keep you going as you struggle to get your work done."

By showing up at the drop-in, I'm trying to break down imaginary walls. I want my photos to show that there is no us and them; there is only us. My conscious is clear. That man obviously feels protected by those walls of class, and every time he sees me he has to draw them around him. His words are more about him than me. Sitting on that bench in the smoking area, I asked myself if I was ok with what I was doing. Yes. Absolutely, I am. That said, that man has an uncanny ability to voice my worst fears and anxieties about what I'm doing.

Immediately a guy I've been friendly with sat down next to me and started showing me his drawings, which he does to keep his mind off things. He starts with the date and goes from there. One page had a map of roads he used to travel in Michigan. Another had the New York City skyline. I told him I'd never been there. He said he's been all over in a car and on a train, but he's never been abroad like to Italy or France. He's never flown. We talked for a while then he moved away.

I sat alone for a few minutes wondering what next, when a woman who's agreed to let me photograph her came out. We chatted for a while and I nervously told her about what the man inside said, wondering what her perception of me is. She asked who and I described him and she said he was just an ass.

I asked her if I could shoot her now instead of the more elaborate locations we'd been considering. She asked if I already had and I laughed. I don't think I could be quite that secretive. She told me that she's been using lysol to clean her feet. She's on day three of an overnight, intensive food-cleaning endeavour. Lysol is so safe she's showered in it before. She said she needs her feet to be clean or she can't focus. And she never wants to consider herself permanently settled because she wouldn't want to miss an open door, an opportunity to go somewhere else. I took some pics and we chatted some more and she went back inside.

Later, someone said she never talks. They were surprised to hear the smart things she had to say. Now, Sister Christine's thanking me for talking to her made more sense. I felt privileged that she talks to me.

After she left I sat there feeling weird again because some people were around when I shot her. But immediately this guy commented on my camera and said he likes to take pictures too but he doesn't read or write so he just learns by doing. I'd never seen him before so I didn't feel comfortable asking for his photograph, but later I wondered if he'd felt left out.

Another man that I've been friendly with sat down and we talked for a long time. Whooee, he told me some intense shit. I don't even know where to start.

His dad tried to get him on disability when he was 23 but the government workers wouldn't even come out to see him. He wonders if maybe he'd gotten on ODSP back then if maybe he wouldn't have gone through all the shit he's been through.

He had five kids and two wives. He loved his kids but he couldn't hold down a job because he has epilepsy and he's illiterate. His dad went through the Second World War and wasn't in good shape when he came home. He did some really bad shit on the street for a long time: for 12 years, he moved the city's crack. He lost his daughter when she was nine and it cut him up. He sobbed on the street. And two days later his older brother died.

But he's been clean for three years, thanks to Sister Christine. He doesn't care who he pisses off; he will stand up for Sister Christine and the Drop-In Centre anytime anywhere, no matter what. She's done so much for him. He said the police laugh now when he calls them about a problem at the drop-in centre, because for so long they knew him as the problem.

He says the government doesn't know its people. It just judges. If only the government could see that people don't just do bad things out of nowhere. He said he could never say this stuff to someone in an office, but he can tell sociable people like me.

I leaned in and whispered that I work in an office. I'm one of them. And he laughed and said he'd like to talk to someone higher up in ODSP, get an apology, some closure. No money, just an apology. But he couldn't do it by himself. He could only do it if someone like me was in the room, someone who understood what he'd been through. Wow, did that ever make me feel good. When we finished I wanted to hug him, but I didn't.

Finally I chatted with John. He was the one who on my second day told me, "This place is amazing. You will meet people here... well some of them you'll wish you'd never met, but some people here are so wonderful, in what they do, and just who they are." He limped over and said he's been having a lot of trouble walking, he's worried that soon he won't be able to walk at all. He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis back in 1985 so he knows the end of the road is coming. But he said that his illness has given him the opportunity to learn and he's embraced it. He talked about his grandparents, who raised him, and all the varied work he's done, and how he believes in reincarnation and the near-death experiences of his grandma and grandpa.

I could feel my face getting sunburned. I'd been there for nearly two hours and I needed time and space to absorb all that had been said and felt. By myself for the rest of the afternoon, every once in a while I had to gulp a big breath in and blow it out in a rush. I wanted to cry or talk to someone but I was alone, and really I kind of wanted to keep it to myself a bit longer anyways. But wow. This afternoon was really a dream come true. I can't believe how forthcoming people are if you only give them a chance.

Who needs fiction when there are so many amazing people in real life?

I've posted the photos over at peripheralvision. I'm really happy with them. They aren't posed, formal portraits, but they also aren't starkly documentary photos. I think they show people you would want to meet. I'd LOVE to hear your thoughts - please go check them out and come back here to comment. What do you think?

And now it is 9:40 am on my second day ALL BY MYSELF and I'm listening to Jimi Hendrix for the first time in many years and wishing it were a reasonable time to just drink beer in the sun, but I have things to do (oh hardship - a massage AND a haircut) and besides that I'm not 21 anymore. But oh the nostalgia.

in case you were wondering where your money went...

2008-07-31T12:36:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I received a letter from the Stephen Lewis Foundation thanking me for the contributions I’ve raised through the sale of my photography. The letter detailed some of its funded projects and associated costs, which I thought would be good to share here.

yeehaw!

2008-07-29T19:51:00.003-05:00

I am positively giddy. Tomorrow and Friday I'm taking off of work while Swee'pea goes to daycare and Sugar D goes to work. I get to be all alone in my house. That NEVER happens!

My original plan was to spend a bit of time shooting and/or editing photos and/or blogging and a lot of time throwing out more photos and putting the keepers into albums, but last week I had an epiphany. I could go to the gym and have a leisurely workout followed by a leisurely swim in the saltwater pool! I could get a haircut! I could get a massage! (My shoulder has been REALLY sore and stiff for more than a month.) I could hang out in the peace and quiet of my very own house and then leave whenever I want! On the drop of a hat!

So it will be interesting to see whether I actually achieve anything or if I just flit around like a humingbird in a garden FULL of red tubular flowers, never settling to a single one. I do have some papers to find and sign, and phone calls to make regarding our new house sale (less than a month till we move!), but I've also scheduled a massage AND a haircut for Friday.

YEE HAW!

************

And hey - I think tomorrow is my two-year blogiversary. To celebrate, I've updated my blogroll, which hasn't been updated in probably 18 months or more. I used blogger's new Blog List feature to import my feeds from google reader and look at it! It orders them according to the most recent post and even shows the title of the first post. Fancy, eh?

********
I edited this photo from Havana yesterday and I don't know what I think of it. What do you think?

because it's been a while since I posted gratuitous swee'pea shots

2008-07-28T16:52:00.004-05:00

Swee'pea had a fever for the better part of this weekend, but I figured he was just teething. He had his hands in his mouth near constantly and his cheeks went red, which contributed to my diagnosis. This morning, his fever had broken so I figured he was fine, but we had a doctor's appointment already scheduled for a follow-up check-up on his ears. So I mentioned the fever and the rash even though I figured if it was anything, he was mostly over it. And it's scarlet fever. Poor kid's had a sore throat all weekend. I did ask him if he hurt anywhere, because scarlet fever flitted through my mind, but he kept saying no.

Bottom line is we had to stay home today and he's getting banana antibiotics twice a day. Apart from a misdiagnosis, this is the first time he's ever been on antibiotics. We've been so lucky to get this far.

So we had a nice day, just the two of us. He watched obscene amounts of Ni Hao Kai Lan and we baked banana bread. We hung out in the backyard and just took it easy.

Yesterday was the first weekend day in months and months that we haven't had a single thing scheduled. It was kind of a nice day for Swee'pea to be sick, a nice excuse to take it easy. We hung out in the backyard, which is something we don't do very much. Instead, we always go for walks to the park or the library but I figured those wouldn't be very good options. And since part of the reason we got a new house was for its gorgeous backyard and easy access to it, I want to get into spending time in the backyard before we move.

Anyhoo... here are some pics from yesterday afternoon. You can see the scarlet fever rash on his cheeks, especially his left one.

(shelling peas for yesterday's potato salad)

sunshine and honey

2008-07-27T16:30:00.002-05:00

Yesterday at the drop-in centre, a card was being circulated for signings. In my eternally nosy-parker way, I had to find out who it was for, so I asked. And lo and behold, it's for my friend and his brand new wife - apparently they just got married yesterday. How wonderful is that! Pretty wonderful, I have to say, and now when I think about his story, I get an even bigger balloon of good feelings pushing my rib cage up and my shoulders back, like this world really IS ok.

* * *

In other sunshine and honey news, we're having my new favourite meal tonight. We're not really vegetarian: I eat chicken and fish and Sugar D eats seafood and Swee'pea eats whatever he feels like. But it's simpler just to describe ourselves as vegetarian. So tonight we're having creamy dijon potato salad and fresh rainbow trout panfried with butter and fresh dill. Yum.

In the interest of public service and for documentary purposes, I give you the recipe for the potato salad, which I sort of made up from a bunch of different sources:

5-6 medium sized cooked chopped potatoes - I use red ones
about 2-3 cups fresh (cooked) peas - I throw them on top of the boiling potatoes for a few minutes
1/3 raw red pepper, thinly sliced
1/3 raw yellow pepper, thinly sliced
10-20 capers, to taste

dressing:
2 enormous tablespoons of mayo - probably more like 1/4 cup
2 not heaping tablespoons of dijon mustard
1 teaspoon of caper brine
2 tablespoons chopped fresh dill
freshly ground black pepper to taste
(mix it all together)

And that's it. It's pretty salty, which I love, but if you're not keen on salt, you might want to leave the caper brine out.

an anecdote and a plea for help

2008-07-24T12:19:00.003-05:00

Well, I dragged my ass to belly dancing last night, and I feel much better now. Shakira came on the radio on my way home from work yesterday, and "My hips don't lie" - or whatever it's called - got me back into the groove.

Later, after Swee'pea had gone to sleep, and Sugar D was washing dishes, I snuck up behind him. He was listening to his ipod, as he always does when he washes dishes. I pressed up against his back suggestively and let my hands roam his body. It seemed like maybe things were heating up.

Suddenly, he fumbled in his front jeans pocket, and I wondered why. He pulled his earphone out and grabbed for the ipod in his back pocket, "I have to turn this Chinese lesson off!"

* * *

I've gotten really sick of the meals I cooked all winter and need some inspiration. I can already do a good potato salad and a pasta salad. We usually have veggie burgers at least one night a week. Got any suggestions for vegetarian summer dishes? We usually prefer one-pot cooking.

Bah Humbug

2008-07-23T14:38:00.006-05:00

I'm tired and bummed out. I've lost momentum with my photography and have succumbed to discouragement. I have belly dance tonight, and I always feel good after I go to class and it's so good for me, but I feel like it just takes my limited time away from photography. I can't keep up with the editing of everything I shoot, and I haven't even been shooting much. But every time I sit down to edit some photos I just feel drained and uninspired. I've gotten some rejections sort of recently, and sales have pretty much disappeared (except yours, Bea!) and I'm finally giving in to the "What's the point anyways" feeling I've managed to keep pushing away for the last six months.

I think I'm also a bit confused, visually. I've been looking at lots of other people's photos online and I just don't know anymore whether to continue in the highly post-processed look that seems kind of shunned by "serious" "art" photographers or to go with the clear, crisp, straight shots that seem to carry more status. I hate to be driven by status but I'm finding myself increasingly drawn to those kind of photos. Ugh.

I'm also a bit lonely I think. The last two weekends have been so busy that at the end of it, I don't feel like I've had a weekend. And I'd love to get out for a beer or two on a warm summer night. I miss that thrill of warm air on bare arms.

It's not really as bad as all that. I'm pretty sure I was feeling great just a few days or a week ago. But my tiredness has caught up, and not even the fact that SYTYCD is on tonight is very exciting. I found last week's dancing decidedly unthrilling (well, ok, that MIGHT have had something to do with the fact that I *thought* my vcr was recording the last half-hour so I let myself be distracted only to discover that the vcr ran out of tape. Bring on the PVR!), except for Gev's solo on elimination night, and then he got eliminated! As much as I love Mark, I really thought Gev should have stayed another week. Boo.

And what's up with all the radio silence on off-stage relationships? A couple of years ago there was lots of gossip about off-stage romances but there's nothing this year. Anyone got any dirt?

Anyways, can you tell me a joke or something good that's going on with you?

Lost with Myers Briggs

2008-07-21T18:40:00.015-05:00

My first thought about Myers Briggs and Lost was that the whole faith vs. logic conflict is really a conflict between NFs and NTs. The faith side is led by Ben and Locke and the rational side is led by Jack. Wouldn't it be tidy if that's how the Myers Briggs worked out. But it doesn't.

First off, I think Ben is a cold, hard rationalist, maybe ENTP. He understands and manipulates people's motivations so well that I think he really must be an extravert. I don't think introverts have as much curiosity about people's motives as extraverts and therefore they have less insight. He always has a plan, but he's quick to revise it on the fly, which makes me think he's a P but I could be persuaded to ENTJ.

Locke is definitely an NF, only an NF would be conned out of a kidney by his evil father. Maybe INFJ. He's always looking for (and finding) meaning, and he's obsessed with figuring out his destiny and that of the island.

Jack's a bit harder for me, because my inclination always seems to be to divide people into either NT or NF. So first I figure he's an NT (and that fits better with the faith vs logic dichotomy) but then I think about his sense of right and wrong, his desire to protect people, to fix broken people, and I think maybe he's an SJ. And then I realize I may have just described an NF with that romantic need to fix. All in all, though, I'm thinking INTJ, especially because he goes crazy as soon as he goes near emotion territory, like he just doesn't have a clue what to do with feelings or how to integrate them into his world. (I'm not saying all NTs do this, just the really badly damaged ones.)

I think Sayid must be another rationalist, and I have to go with ENTP. I'm guessing that extracting information from people with torture requires considerable insight into people's motivations AND an ability to distance yourself emotionally from your victim.

Kate was also tough for me at first but then I come down to ESTP. She's a human chameleon and mostly seems to go for the quick fix rather than the long-term strategy. The way she can go on the run for long periods and improvise her movements, the way she's adopted personas... sounds pretty ESTP to me.

Sawyer - pretty sure he's another ESTP. I don't think you can be a con artist unless you're extraverted. But he reads a lot on the island and doesn't get too involved in all the group shenanigans, so then maybe he's an I? Nah, I think he's just the sort of worst-case manifestation of ESTP. (Again, not saying all ESTPs are con artists and criminals -- just the ones who as children watched their father kill their mother after being swindled by a con artist.)

Charlie - my first thought was ESFP because of the whole rock star thing. But with his heroin addiction and moodiness, I wondered if maybe he was a tortured NF. I'm quite curious to see if certain MB types are prone to certain mental illnesses and addictions... somewhere online I saw that heroin's for NFs and cocaine's for SPs - or was it NTs? Whatever... I still fall back on ESFP for Charlie.

Desmond. Oh, Desmond. I just love Desmond. I'm not sure I'm capable of the emotional distance required to type him, but I'll try. The tricky thing with him is it's hard to tell which circumstances he's created and which ones just happen to him randomly (as if anything on Lost is random but you get my drift). He seemed pretty sane after a very long time by himself in the Swan, which makes me think he's an introvert. He's done so many different things in his life that I think he may be an SP but his undying loyalty to Penny, and his fondness for work in hardcore hierarchies (the army and the monestary) swings me back to SJ. Maybe ISFJ? No, ISFP. I have a hard time putting Desmond into SJ.

Juliet - I'm thinking INFP. She's got a pretty cool, calculating streak, but I think at heart she's an idealist who believes the best of people until they are proven absolutely guilty.

So far there aren't a lot of SJs on the island. I'd think SJs would be extremely useful if a plane crashed on a (not really) deserted South Pacific island. It's reasonably clear that everyone on the island was destined to be there, that the island pretty much hand-picked them. Does the island not want SJs? Or is the absence of SJ's the result of my own personal handicap-slash-bias? I think I just can't put myself in the shoes of SJs... I just don't quite get what makes them tick.

So bring on the SJs:

Sun: She's developing quite the streak of cold, hard logic so first I think INTJ. But then, she didn't leave Jin when she had the chance in the airport, so that loyalty makes me think SJ. ISTJ?

Jin - he's very concerned with class and propriety, and he follows Sun's dad's authority pretty unquestioningly, so I'm thinking ISTJ for him too. Not sure if it makes sense for people of the same type to get married, but it does explain a lot of their problems with no E and no F to draw the other one out.

Claire - Oh jeez. This is getting hard. Some characters' personalities just aren't as evident. ESFJ? I'm not sure that sits quite right though because she's awfully gullible and flaky. Now I'm thinking NF. ENFJ?

Hurley - I give up. All afternoon he's been preying on my mind and I just can't get my head around his type. My gut says SP but would be SPs be prone to depression? Maybe with an F tendency... let's say ESFP.

So. Still here? What do you think?

And if you don't watch Lost, you should... the space channel is starting it from season one in the fall or you can catch up by dvd, so there's no excuse.

notes towards an MBTI analysis of Lost

2008-07-21T10:35:00.003-05:00

My obsession with Myers Briggs continues, only now it's intersecting with a renewed interest in Lost, thanks to my recent discovery of Lost and Gone Forever. That blogger can THINK!

So I really want to do an MBTI analysis of the main Lost characters, sort of along the lines of what Bea did for Harry Potter. I can barely focus on work. And I keep finding myself caught up in loopholes and exceptions and roadblocks.

I think Bea is either INFJ or ENFJ, and she has a great ability to see patterns and group things within a structure. As an ENFP, I think I'm a bit more concerned with the individual and I tend to jump into things without a plan or a structure. So when I attempt an analysis of Lost characters, I see a sea of individuals and I can't seem to group them together.

I'm also discovering a few assumptions that I'd like (you) to validate.

I suspect that extraverts might have more insight into people's motivations and consequently a bigger capacity for manipulation. Does that mean anyone who manipulates people, for whatever reason, cannot be introverted?

I also think NT's have way more capacity for deception than NF's. Does that mean anyone who willfully deceives people cannot be an F?

What do you think?

In the meantime, I'll keep working on my unstructured analysis...

2008-07-17T08:02:00.003-05:00

I was just about to throw away our local free weekly when a small headline at the bottom caught my eye:

Breastfeeding Sees Police Called to Pool

Huh???

Um, yeah. Apparently a woman breastfeeding her baby at a pool -- a pool right down the street from me! -- was asked to leave the poolside area. Apparently "The lifeguard said that the pool is meant to have a family atmosphere and breastfeeding isn't allowed." The lifeguard ended up calling the police, and when they arrived someone came to their senses and confirmed that it IS legal to breastfeed in public. The city says it was "an unfortunate error."

The woman who was asked to leave said the lifeguard said other women had left without a problem. She's thinking about making a human rights complaint to the city.

I can't believe this happened in my very own city. I mean, I live in the city where Gwen Jacobs walked topless and (after being arrested for indecency) ended up setting a precedent that it's legal for women to go topless. So how can it be that using those breasts for their most important purpose could be illegal???

Of course I've heard stories like this before but more often than not the stories were in the States and I thought perhaps Canada, with its year-long, breastfeeding-ennabling mat leave, was more enlightened. Guess I need to think again.

Moosehead take me AWAYYY!!!!

2008-07-16T12:44:00.002-05:00

[edited later... everything's fine now]

If only I could split the space-time continuum for the afternoon and make everything *think* I'm at my desk but really I'm in my backyard consuming the two cold Mooseheads currently residing in my fridge.

just mommy

2008-07-15T19:05:00.003-05:00

I had a long day at work and Swee'pea and I got home late. The last few hours of work were especially stressful and I was still keyed up. I was too tired and wired to cook and I didn't want to wait for Sugar D to cook, so I suggested dinner out. Sugar D was unsure... Swee'pea was clearly cranky and tired, not always the best combination in a restaurant.

So I asked Swee'pea, "Do you want to go our for dinner?"

He replied, "Noni dow nono djussss mommy, daddy day da mome!"

[translation: I want to go out with JUST mommy, daddy stay at HOME!"

(He tolerated Sugar D just fine -- except for insisting that "just mommy" help him wash his hands -- and we had a very nice meal out and I feel MUCH more myself now.)

*****

Later, fresh out of the bath, Swee'pea announced he had to pee.

"Pee mommy dow!" [Pee coming out!]

Not long ago he said that and it was shockingly true. Lately, though, he says it when he WANTS pee to come out.

Tonight, I whispered to Sugar D that I don't really believe Swee'pea anymore when he says that. Except that the expression on his face looks kind of like he actually is peeing.

Then I noticed a little fountain rising out of the potty and onto the floor.

I guess now is the time to introduce the penis down rule.

Judgy McJudgerson

2008-07-14T08:32:00.022-05:00

This morning is GORGEOUS. Fresh and cool but sunny, with a gentle breeze like mint in a mojito. It makes me want to take today off. That temptation could also have something to do with the fact that I don't feel like I actually had a weekend. Yesterday I went to a full-day photography workshop, which I enjoyed but I didn't get as much out of it as I would have liked. It went over time and then I got stuck in traffic so it ended up being an 11-hour day that ended with a big headache.

Because of the workshop, I had to switch my drop-in shift to Saturday afternoon, which I quite enjoyed despite all the other people's drama (OPD), but ultimately I didn't have a full day to just hang out with my fam the way I usually do.

Funnily enough, that boy's mother was at the Drop-In Centre this weekend. First person I saw upon my arrival was the boy and immediately I thought his face looked different somehow, smooth and unpinched - medicated? Maybe I read him wrong and he's mentally ill, not addicted. Or maybe he's self-medicated? I have no idea why, but his face looked smoother.

Then I noticed the woman beside him and wondered if she was his mother. It soon became clear that she was and they were arguing. I tried not to be too obvious about eavesdropping but they were RIGHT in front of me and I was dead curious and I'm big enough to know that I don't camouflage easily so if they didn't want me to hear they could move away. I got the impression that she'd lent him money on the expectation that he would pay her back today but he didn't have it. She had to borrow $10 from her landlord just to get through the next two days and she didn't even have any cigarettes.

Their argument got quite heated and I started to get really uncomfortable. The look on her face was one that I don't believe parents should direct at their children. At times she looked downright hateful. He fought back a little bit, but then he became totally impassive, closed-off I guess, hunkered down. Eventually he walked away, and she looked at me for sympathy. I tried really hard to muster it, producing a weak, neutral half-smile. I think she wanted to engage me in a debrief, but I couldn't really understand her words and I didn't really want to.

I've been struggling about whether to write about this, because I try to make a policy of not judging other mothers, especially mothers of children who are older than Swee'pea, because you can never know what you'll do when the time comes. So far, my mothering is all about survival, and survival requires different things at different ages. It must be VERY difficult to parent such a badass. On top of that, this is not my story. Many times I write about folks at the drop-in centre, but it's as much about my interactions with them and my feelings about those interactions as it is about them. This is different. This is a story that I have no involvement in.

Throughout the afternoon, the mother was a bit erratic: she kept asking for coffee and forgetting it. She'd get caught up in ranting about her son's wrongdoing, to whomever would listen, and her coffee would go cold without so much as a sip taken - again. Some of the people she spoke to, people who are recovering addicts I think, told her she has to stop giving him money, that she's ennabling him. That she has to stop expecting him to change.

Later, she told me that he'd just taken the money without asking, that it wasn't her fault, and how pissed she was that people think it's her fault.

"Honey," said the staff worker, who looks like Lucille Ball, complete with thin, dark, surprised-looking eyebrows like upside down smiles, full red lips, big false eyelashes, blue eyeshadow, leopard-print shirt, tight black jeans and stiletto boots. "It's always gonna be your fault until he takes his head out of his ass." I fell a little bit in love with Lucille (not her real name - although her real name is awesome: think Canadian province that starts and ends with the same vowel and isn't Ontario), with her 50s glamour look, her ability to tell it like it is and boss us volunteers around. She even directed me to take a break, which no one ever has before.

I can't seem to stop siding with the boy no matter how many times I try to wear the mother's shoes. It may have something to do with the fact that he's cute and young (I say this from a maternal perspective not from any other perspective) and so very thin that his shoulder blades poke through his shirt like fragile wings from his hunched, bird-like posture. He stands like an apology.

There were times in their various exchanges that I really felt the mother was going below the belt, maybe not so much with her words but with her tone of voice and expression. If we're not supposed to go below the belt in arguments with our spouses, who are our peers (and we're not!), then it must be doubly important to never go below the belt with our children. No matter how angry and hurt and confused and scared we are, sometimes we just have to step up and be the parent. Children shouldn't be made to morph themselves into armour, certainly not against a parent's tirade.

****

After my shift, Sugar D, Swee'pea and I went to the library. Funnily enough, given the OPD of the previous few hours, I discovered Come Back: A Mother and Daughter's Journey Through Hell and Back by Claire and Mia Fontaine. The inside cover asks something about how can a 15-year-old honours student suddenly become a junkie living in the underbelly of drug culture and what does a parent do about it - or something like that. I cracked it as soon as we got home, hoping to feel more kindness and understanding for that mother, and I could not. put. it. down until my eyes were closing against my will. It's harrowing but beautiful and the thing that keeps me going is the "and Back" in the book's title. Otherwise it might be too difficult.

The book is not really helping with my judgment of that mother, though, because the program that leads to the daughter's recovery also includes a lot of work for the parents to recognize their own role in the behaviour of their kids and to change their own ways of being that aren't working.

This is a very uncomfortable post for me. I'm all about self-acceptance and not holding ourselves to a standard of perfection, especially with our parenting. I tell myself that kids are resilient and it takes a lot to fuck them up, which I still believe, but parents were kids too once, and some parents are more fucked up than others. Judgment doesn't help anyone.

holding back

2008-07-10T12:14:00.003-05:00

To the woman in the grocery store line-up who stuck her face in front of Swee'pea's and said, "Mama could understand you better if you took that [soother] out of your mouth":

I can understand him just fine thank you. Please don't stick your face in my child's again.

To the old lady at the market who said to Swee'pea, "Take that thing out of your mouth!":

Last time I checked you weren't my grandmother (or Swee'pea's). Mind your own business.

Yours in barely suppressed anger,
Sin

Letter to Swee'pea: 29 months

2008-07-08T12:04:00.002-05:00

Dear Swee'pea:

Yesterday you turned 29 months old. This month, I've noticed you're becoming more fearful. You've always been pretty cautious, physically, but now you're afraid of some things, mostly bugs. First it was ants, at the cottage, then the other day a big fly near your potty (and you LOVE to sit on your potty!). You refuse to go anywhere near them and even if the bug goes away or we take it away, still you refuse to go back to that spot. It's strange because you're not afraid of mosquitoes and they're the ones whose bites you react so badly to. And you're not afraid of bumblebees either.

The other day when I picked you up from daycare, your friend Neemum and his mom were leaving at just the same moment. All the riding toys were still scattered around the play area so you and Neemum took advantage. He got on a little scooter; you hopped in a toy pick-up truck. He race as around in circles as fast as his little legs could push him, just missing crashes; you pushed yourself forward with a few slow steps then sat there and watched Neemum. His mom kept calling for him to watch out and stood there scared; I watched Neemum careen around and felt relief that you are so cautious. I almost never fear for your safety.

(This, of course, is the exception that proves the rule. The other night you climbed up on a bench behind a baseball diamond, and your mother of the year on the wrong side of the fence took a picture instead of running to ensure your safety. I'm not as cavalier as that makes me sound: your dad was there and I could see him running for you from the corner of my eye.)

We laughed about the differences between you two, and how you're really quite boring at the playground. You like to climb steps, mostly. Sometimes you pretend you're making a snack and you share nibbles with people. Your teacher laughed too and said that when they ask what you're doing when you're just sitting in your car, you yell, "I need gas!"

It's often hard to drag you away from daycare and the other day was no exception, especially with all those toys sitting out. The teachers were putting them away, and you immediately helped. You LOVE to help. I must confess to just a bit of parental pride when Neemum's mum cooed over you while you put things away, "Oh, you are SUCH a lovely boy! (And I like your speed.)"

You've been speaking in full sentences and coming out with some funny and interesting stuff. One day at a restaurant you pointed to a little girl, probably younger than you, maybe 18 months? And you said, "My noni day dat beebee mome!" (I want to take that baby home.) Your dad's response was not until you're 18. At another restaurant (um, yeah, we eat out once or twice a week) for lunch, I ordered you a kid's meal with egg, toast and potatoes. "No meat?" the server asked, and I said, "No, no meat." You eat meat at daycare and fish at home, but we don't eat red meat so I never order it.

"My DA mee!" you said. (I like meat!)

Oh. Well, ok then. So we ordered you some ham and you gobbled it up first. I love that you're getting more sophisticated in stating your preferences, and I like that you're able to have some control over some aspects of your life.

A few times you've announced either right before or right after your bath that you need to pee. You've said this before but rarely actually peed, so I just figured that to you, peeing just means sitting on the potty. But when you sat on the potty, you said, "Bee mummy dow! Bee mummy dow!" (Pee coming out!) And sure enough, when you stood, you'd peed. You were most pleased with yourself.

I think I'm going to stop these monthly letters. I keep seeing things I want to write about in the middle of the month but when the time comes around to write this letter, I've forgotten. And then I struggle to think of what to write to you about and I procrastinate and miss the 'deadline' and the letter I write never quite does justice to life with you. It feels like work, and I have enough of that in my life. Today, a friend showed me a quote in passing, and it really struck me, especially with this letter hanging over my head. It's by Annie Dillard from Write Till You Drop:

"One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water."

Don't worry, I'm still committed to writing you letters, but I will do it whenever the wish strikes me and not try to schedule it for a certain day of the month. I'm hoping that spontaneity will make for better, more authentic (and, ok, let's face it - easier!) letters.

Love Always and Forever,
Mum

snips and snails

2008-07-05T22:54:00.004-05:00

Friday night I dreamed that I had two more boys in such quick succession that I couldn't even blog about them. I was so guilt-ridden that my life had exploded and I hadn't even notified the blog. A few nights before I dreamed someone else I knew was pregnant with three boys.

Yesterday morning at the Farmer's Market, I met a man with two kids. He asked how old Swee'pea was, and I told him, then asked how old his two were. He thought for a moment, then started rhyming off ages: 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, and almost 4 (or something like that. I might have stuck an extra kid in there). He only had his oldest and his youngest with him.

"Wow," I said. "That must have been a BUSY five years."

"It was."

"It makes me shiver just to think about it... I found that infant year so hard, I can't imagine doing it over and over."

I think this may have been the wrong thing to say. I meant it is as praise and admiration, but I think I offended him.

"Oh really? We didn't find it bad. We had a lot of fun."

The conversation died.

I think I'm getting more and more PTSD about the whole infancy thing as time passes. And this is fucked up but I've drifted away from the friends who had their first baby when I had Swee'pea and who have since had a second child. I feel a little betrayed, to tell the truth, like they've gone to the Dark Side. And I don't know how to relate to the enormity of having a baby AND a toddler. It's stupid I know, but I think my memory of that first year might be getting worse as times goes on. My comment to the man at the market said nothing at all about the joy and love and miraculous expansion of my world.

Swee'pea woke up several times last night, upset and calling for me. The first time I'd just discovered Punk Rock Mommy's blog for the first time (too late) and my eyes were red and sore from crying. So I laid down next to Swee'pea, full of sadness for children who have lost their mothers far too soon, and for mothers not getting to see their children grow. And I did as she said and cuddled Swee'pea. I wrapped myself up in the simple beauty of his eyelashes resting on his soft pale cheek.

I ended up spending the night in his bed, and returned to my bed in daylight. Moments later he was crying for me again, and he came into our bed, where he continued to cry and kick and demand access to my belly. After the whole night at his service, I felt grumpy and claustrophobic and didn't do a very good job of "explaining" to him that I needed a break from his scrabbling hands. I always feel like a lousy mother in these moments, but I rationalize that it's important to learn to respect other people's boundaries.

I fell back to sleep after Sugar D got up with Swee'pea. My dreams were anxious and restless, full of wild dogs snarling and snapping to get at two young children who weren't mine but who I had to protect, burning cars, and angry and alienated people like a Mad Max movie, all in another country that looked remarkably like the landscape of my childhood. I'd become separated from Sugar D and there was no way we'd be able to catch the flight that would take us away from the chaos. I woke up with the realization that I was on my own and unable to get home.

* * *

This morning when I arrived at the Drop-In Centre, a boy was sleeping with his head on the table. The back of the centre with its computers and couches was closed because someone stuck playdough to the ceiling and didn't clean it up. The boy was all elbows and angles and the table couldn't have made a nice pillow. I'm quite certain he was well and truly asleep, not just dozing. I assumed he was sleeping off some excesses of last night. I try not to make assumptions about people here but I can't help my curiosity and eye for details, and some things are just a reality.

When he came up to the counter after he woke up his eyes looked kind of vacant, and occasionally his slow words slurred. It took him a long time to answer my "Do you want sugar in your coffee?" He had scrapes and scars on the backs of his hands and forearms that made me wonder if perhaps he used heroin. Once upon a time I would have thought that was impossible in this small quiet town, but not anymore.

Later, M came in. Last time I saw M he told me that he'd once been very close with the young woman whose dead body police found in a park a month or two ago. Her story had been in the paper: 29 years old, history of psychiatric problems and a conviction for possession of crack. When I read it, I figured at least a few people at the Drop-In Centre must have known her, but I wouldn't have thought it was M.

When he laid eyes on the formerly sleeping boy, M exclaimed and hugged him hard. "I'm just so glad you're still alive!"

Later still, the boy was sleeping at the table again. As I watched his eyelashes flutter lightly on his cheek, it struck me that he was someone's son. He was so young, it couldn't have been that long ago that someone had gazed at his eyelashes resting on chubby, unmarked cheeks like Swee'pea's. Or maybe it was. Maybe nobody's ever done that before... who knows.

I'm glad the boy has someone who's glad he's still alive.

push and pull

2008-07-04T10:00:00.002-05:00

At Swee’pea’s daycare, when children are having trouble saying goodbye to their parents, the teachers suggest that the child push the parent out the door. Swee’pea loves the place so much (he cries when he goes home or on the days he doesn’t go), he’s only pushed me out the door a couple of times and usually only because he saw one of his friends do it. I have to say, I much prefer the hug and the kiss and leaving by myself to having my ass pushed out the door, so I don’t exactly encourage the push.

This morning, as we pulled into the parking lot, Swee’pea immediately noticed his friend Neema’s truck (the boy’s name is not actually Neema, but that’s Swee’pea’s pronunciation). Neema is an inveterate pusher, and I immediately wondered if I would have to get the push. We went in, Swee’pea took his shoes off, we dropped his stuff in his cubby, and I put his indoor shoes on. I moved a bit quicker than usual, hoping I could beat Neema’s dad to the door and avoid the push. I gave Swee’pea a hug, told him to have a good day, and he went to his latest passion: toy tools and the toy workbench. Just as I was about to leave, Swee’pea came running back to me: “Mommy!” he wailed.

I resigned myself to the push. But it seemed like he only wanted to show me his toy drill, then he got sidetracked by the melee at the sign-out table. I stood by the door for a moment, but he was still sidetracked, so I did what all the parenting books say not to. I slipped out. I mean, I’d already said goodbye and I hugged him twice, so it wasn’t *really* like leaving without saying goodbye.

As I got into the car, though, I looked at the daycare’s door. In the shaft of sunlight that pierced the lower window, I saw the back of Swee’pea’s fiery head and an adult hand leading his toddler paw away from the door.

I have no idea if he was upset or merely curious, and, logically, I’m sure that if he was upset he probably got over it reasonably quickly. Nevertheless, for the last few hours, I’ve been feeling a weight in my chest, that sense of something’s just not quite right in the world, and then I remember that sunlit hair and the sturdy little body turning away from my exit.

*****

Ever since we bought our new house (a whole three weeks ago), I’ve been fretting over whether to change Swee’pea’s daycare. I’ve got him on the list for the one right by my work, and apparently working in my building gives him some priority. If he gets in, I’ll be able to walk him in no more than 20 minutes, probably closer to 15, drop him off, and stroll next door to my office. It would allow us to live with only one car quite comfortably. (We have two cars right now, but we'll be giving the second on back to our friends when they return from Malawi.)

The daycare that Swee'pea currently goes to is downtown, about a five-minute walk from our house, but a good 40-minute walk from my work. The bus takes almost as long. And going from work to daycare and back to our (new) home would drive me nuts with all the inefficient doubling back and extra time taken. But he talks about his friends at daycare quite a lot, and he seriously loves the place, and I’m really hesitating about taking him away from that. Also, the new place is more expensive just by its daily rate AND they charge for five days when a kid only goes four days a week.

Last night at the playground, I recognized two sisters who are older than Swee’pea who I’ve seen at his daycare. I jumped on the opportunity to meet a local parent, and struck up a conversation with their mum. She was saying that she lives far away from downtown, much farther out than our new place, and she comes downtown every day. AND they don’t have a car. They either bus it, or on energetic days, they walk. I was flabbergasted. I suspect she left feeling relieved to get away from me and feeling like we had nothing in common. But *I* feel inspired. The city is improving its bus service this summer, next week I think, so I’m thinking seriously about sticking with the daycare we know, and just making the one car work.

And while I’m on the subject of alternative transportation, we also want to get a bike trailer and bike more often from the new place. To anyone with a bike trailer that converts to a stroller, what are your recommendations? What did you consider when you were deciding, and what did you end up getting? Would you get the same trailer again? Help please!

belly dance pics

2008-07-03T14:10:00.004-05:00

I posted some belly dance photos at peripheralvision, if you're interested. They're not available for sale, but they could be if you want one... just email me.

see ya!

2008-06-28T08:09:00.000-05:00

Off to the cottage for a few days... have a great weekend!

me no thinky

2008-06-26T11:19:00.008-05:00

Every once in a while I try to do a thinky post, and it just doesn't work. I'm just not a thinky blogger. So instead I'll just share a few random ruts my brain's been getting stuck in.

*********
It seems like not many rich people volunteer at the Drop-In Centre, except for people affiliated with a church. Catholics tend to actually volunteer, and I've seen people of a few other denominations bring in a pot of soup. Apparently, a few families at the local Seventh Day Adventist Church take turns making a pot of soup each week. Isn't that nice? But where are the rich agnostics and atheists (and by rich, I mean well above the poverty line, able to own or consider owning a home, perhaps a white-collar worker)?

I guess a lot of professionals volunteer on boards and stuff where they can build their network and enhance their careers. I suspect that serving coffee to people with low or no income is not particularly career-building. Mind you, there's also very little risk of it being career-limiting.

***********
Based on a sample of exactly two people, I have come to the conclusion that recovering drug addicts, early in their recovery, are high on sobriety. I wonder if those two will be able to maintain their commitment when the novelty wears off?

*************
I can be horribly judgmental. The other day I saw a brand shiny new Porsche Carrera (or something snazzy like that) with a license plate that said YASMINE. Is it unfair that immediately I didn't like the driver/owner?

My recoil wasn't quite as intense as a few weeks back when I saw a black SUV with the license, HOTT MD. Now THAT's a person I most definitely don't want to meet -- especially not in a doctor's office when I'm sick and vulnerable.

But the worst words I've seen on a car were on a bumper sticker that said "I wasn't born a bitch. Men like you made me this way." Another person I'm grateful I don't know...

***********
Yesterday, I watched an interesting multimedia project featuring 8 photographers in 9 countries shooting 30 people before and 4 months after starting anti-retro-viral treatment for AIDS. There are apparently 9 videos, but I only watched the one in South Africa. It gave me chills and made me cry, although it's not really sad. I just always get chills and cry whenever I hear South African music and think about all the shit that South African people have dealt with and yet still they sing, still they dance. And here we are, having a much easier time of it over in North America, and all we do is sit on our couches, watch tv, play video games, and surf the net. There's something seriously wrong with that picture. Please go check it out.

***********
Imagekind has another sale on: 25 percent off frames until July 7, if you're interested. Just remember to enter the promo code, JULY42008, when you check out. If you want to buy any of my work, whether cards or images, you can look through the work I have at peripheralvision.ca and click on the image you want to complete the purchase at Imagekind. I'm still donating 50 percent of the proceeds to the Stephen Lewis Foundation.

***********
I LOVED SYTYCD last night. I'm really digging Mark and Chelsie, which is a total surprise, and Joshua and Katie were just awesome. I also really liked Twitch and Kherrington and Kourtni and Matt. Oh! And Gev and Courtney are pretty cute too. What did you think?

musing on Myers Briggs

2008-06-24T12:12:00.000-05:00

Ever since Bea pronounced me an ENFP more than a year ago, I go through periodic obsessions with Myers Briggs Type Indicator. I'm in one right now.

I had a sudden epiphany a few weeks ago, that when I butt heads with someone or don't understand at all where they're coming from or why they're in a twist about something, it's probably because they're an SJ. It started to become a bit of a dirty word for me, and I started to assume that if I disliked someone they must be an SJ. Last week, I discovered two of my cube-mates are SJs... Eek! I'm surrounded by them! Of course, I quite like my cube-mates, so this was surprising and enlightening. It was also humbling and rather amusing that I thought my type sounded so awesome and how lucky was I to be considered one of them, and my SJ colleague jumped to my denfence: "That's not very nice," she said when she read a description of ENFP, "Sometimes procrastinates?" Like procrastination is one of the worst things someone could do.

"Oh yeah..." I replied, utterly unconcerned. "I'm a total procrastinator."

The same description said that ENFPs work best on a time with a couple of Js to keep us in line. So it's a good thing I'm surrounded by SJs at work.

me so sleepy

2008-06-23T15:17:00.004-05:00

I think I'm suffering exhaustion. I'm definitely feeling better than I was on the weekend, but I'm still very very tired.

The sold sign went up outside our house on Friday, exactly two weeks after we signed to buy the new place, and three weeks after we first laid eyes on it. Crazy. We're still finalizing the closing dates, but fingers crossed we'll get to enjoy a bit of summer in the new place.

Swee'pea hasn't been sleeping well and he's been coughing a lot. I took him to the doctor this afternoon and she said his ears have fluid in them, so could either be starting an ear infection or on the tail end. Now I feel even worse for not being particularly sympathetic when he had trouble sleeping Saturday night.

invincible youth

2008-06-19T14:13:00.010-05:00

When we sorted through all the boxes in our basement, we did a quick triage. Books? We edited our book collection last fall so just stack those boxes to go straight to the movers. Baby stuff? Ditto. I thought we'd edited all our stuff down there, but as we got deeper into the piles of boxes, I realized that we had not. This afternoon I went through a box that clearly hadn't been unpacked or even looked at since we moved into this house five years ago.

On the top were old bills and bank account statements that hadn't even been opened, clearly tossed into the box in a last-minute moving panic. Those will be shredded. Deeper down, there was evidence of mouse activity, and envelopes and albums and smaller boxes of photos. So many photos. I will hold onto every single one. As I went through them, I couldn't help but conjure up adult children and grandchildren sorting through them when I'm dead. I'll have to start writing on the backs of them so they know who, when, and what they are.

There's my brother's second gallery, the one that was like a bowling alley, and there are his paintings, photo after photo after photo of his paintings. There's my niece and nephew at the lake, the day we went up to Petroglyphs Park and stopped at a small empty beach to cool down. There's my Grandpa Jack being presented with a birthday cake that holds the number 88, back before they moved into their retirement home, and the painting that now hangs over our guest bed hangs behind him. There's my Grandma Ruth looking absolutely tickled at her first two great-grandchildren, then an infant and toddler, now about to turn 10 and 8. It's the same look I saw almost every time she looked at me, and my chest ached and my eyes pricked that Swee'pea will never see that look, except stilled in this black and white picture.

There's me looking all fresh-faced and thin, wearing my mom's old horn-rimmed, tortoise shell glasses. There's Sugar D and I at my parent's farm and my bony hand, which looks far more graceful than I ever remember it being, holds a cigarette! (Oh yeah, I used to smoke, and not that long ago.) There's us at his graduation, and then his citizenship ceremony. There's the envelope of pictures from the roll of film that started it all; there are the pictures of Sugar D on his balcony at the time that made me think he'd rushed through the last frames just to get to see me again. There's the polaroid of Sugar D with Lala and Po (the Teletubbies) that was taken the day before our first date, the one that made me think he was a pretty cool guy since most guys my age ran from all things children-related. There's Sugar D back in South Africa with his cousins and granny and uncles. There's him again in a picture I've never seen before, and judging from the snow shovel he's holding like in American Gothic with not a single flake of snow to be seen, he must have just arrived in Canada, and his mom must have taken the shot with the intention of sending it back to the summer in South Africa. They arrived in winter and on his first walk to the grocery store his eyelashes froze together. That's never happened to me.

There is the box of runes that I made myself and consulted frequently for romantic advice for a few years. I was about to toss them, but somehow I can't quite. Like they still contain magic, and the magic is one of the threads that hold Sugar D and I together. He also made his own set of runes before we met, and that seemed so significant once upon a time, although I think he lost those long ago.

And of course there's envelope after envelope of boring yet pretentious photographs of brick walls and windows. What was I thinking?!? I guess all those pictures I have on my website will mortify me one day too.

What a treasure of memories this box is, and I feel guilty for all the bends and creases and stuck-together pictures. I guess when I ~~threw stuff in~~ packed that box, I must have intended to sort through it sooner than later. Or maybe not. Back then my grandparents were still alive, although they'd moved out of their apartment, and maybe I thought I was somehow immune to the passage of time, that my memories didn't need photographs to prod them and keep them alive.

When I found those binders last week, I was about to throw a second one out, just like the blue one. But it was my grade 11 English binder and I was sad to throw away my thoughts on Piggy and Ralph and MacBeth, and then I came upon a journal entry on Halloween. Apparently the task was to write about my most memorable Halloween. Now, nearly 15 years after I wrote that, I would say my most memorable Halloween was probably that year or maybe the one before, our last year trick or treating and the first time I tried a cigarette. But the journal entry was about my grade 1 or 2 Halloween, and now I have absolutely no recollection of it. Memory is such a vulnerable and precious thing, and when I packed that box, I had no idea.

ding dong the witch is dead

2008-06-18T06:44:00.003-05:00

Ding Dong! The Witch is dead. Which old Witch? The Wicked Witch!
Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch is dead.

For some reason I woke up with that song in my head. I suspect it's related to selling our house last night (well mostly -- still a couple of conditions to waive by Friday), even though I don't think of our house as a witch at all.

Yesterday, I started to wonder if we really wanted to do this, to leave our home and neighbourhood, but of course the decision's already made. The deal on the new house is totally firm, so there's no going back.

And that's ok, really.

In unrelated news, it appears that bloglines has been wonky, so all of a sudden bloggers are showing up with 5 and 10 posts at once. And then I realize that I haven't seen them pop up in a while. So if you've missed me, that's why.

Letter to Swee'pea: 28 months

2008-06-15T18:49:00.010-05:00

Dear Swee'pea:

A week and a day ago you turned 28 months. It's been a crazy week and a half, during which time we've bought a new house and put our current house on the market. I don't think you understand all this, of course, but when we went through the new house, you ran all over it, and when I asked you if you liked it, you replied with an enthusiastic, "YEAH!"

I suppose that means that you won't have any memory of this house, which is ok I guess, though a little sad. You weren't born in this house, although we had everything ready in case we decided to go with a home birth. We did bring you here when you were three days old though, after a harrowing drive home and a traumatic diaper change, I swear you looked around our living room and thought, "Ahh. I'm home now. I know this place," and I thought that was pretty amazing. I've heard that babies in utero can sense the smells of the mother's world through the amniotic fluid.

We cleaned up the whole house over the last week, and did the most dramatic work while you were at daycare one day. When you came home, our real estate agent met us here, and you took her around the house. When you entered your clean room and saw your bed made, probably for the first time ever, you sat on it very proudly and proclaimed, "My bed!" It seems like you say everything with an exclamation mark these days. Speaking of which, you've developed a most annoying habit at mealtimes. You play and don't eat while your dad and I eat, and then when we're done and ready to do something else, you exclaim, "I'M NOT ALL DONE!" (No my aw dah!) But then you just sit there, still not eating, and when we try to prod you into eating or leaving the table you bellow again, "I'M NOT ALL DONE!!!" I've tried to explain that if you're not eating, that means you ARE all done, but you're not having any truck with that. I suppose it's your way of exerting control over mealtimes.

(These jeans had a very small rip in the knee until you decided to expand it, er, up your thigh. What are you, 16???)

Right now, your dad is putting you to bed and I can hear you talking about the thunder rumbling around us. "NuhNO, nuhno dah dye." (Thunder, thunder's outside.) Our first thunderstorm this year took place while I was at belly dance and your dad was putting you to bed. Apparently you were scared and held onto your dad very, very tightly. Since then, I've made sure to put on a happy face when thunder comes and I tell you it's exciting and it makes lots of noise. You seem less concerned about it now.

The other day, a thunderstorm rolled over us in the morning, minutes before our alarm was set to go off. It was actually quite nice. Instead of the blazing morning sun, it was soft overcast light that came in our windows, and instead of your usual, "Up! Up, Mama!" (Bah, bah mama!) and bouncing out of bed, we cuddled and talked and listened to the lazy thunder. It was so energizing to lay there together, our whole family right there in that comfy, comfy bed.

Your imagination is really growing and you crack us up all the time. One day you said grandpa was here. And when I asked where, you pointed to a little dot on a book, and said "Right there!" (Dye doh) and you picked poor, miniature, invisible to the naked eye grandpa up in your hand, and held him out to me like he was one of your pretend snacks that you're always cooking. The snacks that you tease us with holding your pots out all inviting-like but when we reach in for a taste, you yell, "NOT READY YET!" while you wear an expression of shock and horror.

This morning, you said your tractor had a flat tire and you had to fix it, so you took a cup and held it to the tire and made a buzzing sound just like you hear at a mechanic's and we were so amazed and surprised, wondering where did you get that from? It's a little scary the things you pick up on sometimes.

After dinner, we usually go for a walk to the park. We start in the stroller and let you run on the soccer fields, where you say all the chalk lines are choo choo trains. I think you're actually saying that the lines are train tracks and you're the choo choo train because you run along the lines over across the lines, yelling, "Choo choo train!" On the way home, you always ask to get out of the stroller and walk, and we make you wait until we turn the corner onto our street, at which you demand loudly, "MY WALK! MY WALK!" until we let you out to walk the rest of the way.

Tonight at dinner, after the first round of "NO MY AW DAH!" and before our walk, a sudden loud toot reverberated from your chair. You burst out laughing and so did we. Your mirth was hilarious. And then came the punchline: "No my toot. Mommy tooted!"

"Oh," said your father between gales of laughter. "You're definitely one of your mom's family." (Your grandpa and uncle are well known for their flatulence and subsequent denials.)

Lately, when I'm putting you to bed, you always want more books than I have the energy to read. So I've started to tell you stories about a girl named Kate because then I can close my eyes. You love them. I tell you about how she rode horses, and I tell you about some of the horses, and I tell you about her dog, Merlin (although I haven't yet told you about a horse kicked him in the head or how he got hit by a car and survived it all), and life on the farm. I figured you just thought Kate was a neat kid, but you've very quickly figured out it's me. When I told you about she grew up and had a baby boy named Ezra, you knew I was talking about you, and you pointed to me and said, "Kate!" (Day!) Now when I put you to bed you ask for stories about her, saying, "Day! Day!" The only way I appease you is to say I'm thinking of a story and I need quiet until I think of one. Many times you fall asleep before I think of another one.

You seem to love music, or at least you love the tape player that's at your level. You know how to insert and remove tapes and press play. Then when the music comes on you start to groove. You bounce on your knees. You move your firsts around in circles like you're stirring the pot, or up and down like you're mashing potatoes. You twist your hips and move your arms up and twist your hands like I do when I'm belly dancing. It's really cute.

Today is Father's Day, and your daycare helped you make him a sexist card and a placemat with your footprints on it. He loved it all, even though he has no interest in most of the activities mentioned on the card (things like golf and baseball and hockey). The last month has been a lot of fun with the mild evenings and gorgeous days. I know your dad is loving being able to kick the soccer ball around with you, and I love the way you watch him so closely and mimic, in your own clumsy way, his ball handling.

It seems like we can't help but project. When you're pretending to cook, we think you're going to be a chef. When you're kicking the ball, you'll be a soccer star. When you recognize the letter E, we peg you for a writer like your grandpa. When you bring home paintings or draw, your use of colour convinces us you will be an artist. Today, when you and I were dancing in the kitchen, I wondered if you'd be a dancer. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing to do this, to put the world at your feet. But it's irresistible, and a product of the joy and excitement we feel at every single thing you do, whether it's peeing on the potty -- which you did once -- or saying you're poopy, or kicking a ball.

Love Always and Forever,
Mum

Cuba shots

2008-06-13T11:56:00.002-05:00

Just wanted to let you know that the best (IMHO) of my Cuba photos are finally up at peripheralvision. You'll also see the final selection of Lunenburg parking meters, if you're interested.

our house

2008-06-12T12:07:00.008-05:00

Our house is now the cleanest and least cluttered I think any living space of ours has ever been or will ever be. We have worked our tails off, along with a few paid professionals, and we now have a house that I think is more than just presentable. It looks bright and airy and clean. I'd even buy this place. Oh yeah, I already did.

Last night, I started to feel the need to honour our home and the work we put into it; I felt a little like I was abandoning some small loved thing (nothing like a child, maybe a hamster?). This morning, my mom was all, "It looks so nice I bet you don't want to sell it now," but no. I still want to move, I just want to take a moment to honour the memories this house has watched unfold.

We've put a lot of work into this house. Our blood, sweat and tears literally line its floors. Mostly the front hall floor. I remember when we bought a coworker made fun of me for picking the ugliest house we could find. She was right. I was embarrassed to be buying a house at the age of 26, and I fancied myself a home renovator. I was wrong.

One of our first tasks was ripping up the ugly linoleum in the front hall and dining room, and ugly pissed-on 50-year-old-if-it-was-a-day carpet in the living room. The carpet was easy, and so was the first layer of linoleum, but then we found another layer. And this one was laminated onto chipboard sheets, which had clearly been nailed down by someone with a fancy-schmancy, brand spanking new, can't use it too much nailgun. In other words, the perimeter of each sheet had two nails per inch all the way around.

We started to work at it, but the chipboard just chipped off. It was right around this time that Sugar D and I nearly broke up. We freaked out, he went for a walk and I cried on the stairs, feeling trapped and solely reponsible for it, and wondering if he would come back. He did, we calmed down, and decided that even if we were just going to turn around and sell the house tomorrow, we had to just get through that damn floor. It took days of chipping every fucking square inch of that damn floor off. We tried different crowbars, and anything else we could think of. Eventually we figured out that pitch forks worked the best. But still it was slow, slow work. Nails pierced our shoes. It was July, and hot. We dripped with sweat and still had energy to bicker and argue about how to proceed.

We discovered that only the front hall had hardwood underneath, and the other rooms had this weird sort of masonite tiles floor. Once we got all the chipboard up we spent another full day or so pulling the leftover nails or hammering them in if we couldn't get them out. By that time we'd had enough of ripping out floors and decided just to live with the strange dirty flooring. Upstairs, the situation was a bit better. The stairs and hallway had the same ugly 50-year-old doggy carpet as the living room, and it came up not too badly. The pine floors underneath were painted, probably with lead paint. Another room had a couple of layers of linoleum, but they were only stapled down so they came up easily enough. Once refinished, the floors came up beautifully.

We also did work in the kitchen, which had ugly fake wood panelling half way up the walls. People warned me not to be too ambitious with taking that off, because it's usually up there to hide things. Um, yeah, they were right. Underneath the fake wood panelling was fake tile panelling, which was almost the same colour of green I'd picked out for the walls and actually kind of cute, except for the large areas of some black, tarry, paint-like substance. So we pulled that down, and it pulled large areas of the plaster down with it, except for the areas where the toxic adhesive remained all gluey-like. Yum. Long, long story short, we somehow removed the glue and paid someone to replaster the walls. Two years later, we painted them.

Unfortunately, if unsurprising, my before pictures are all packed away and I have no idea which box they're in. So I can only give you some of the afters, taken last night:

(eventually we covered the strange flooring with laminate)

(our bedroom doesn't look nearly so fancy in real life, although the lack of dirty laundry strewn on the floor does wonders for it)

(our backyard is suddenly much, much tidier than it was a few short days ago)

Sorry for the boredom... I tend to obsess about this shit. Plus, our house looks way better than I could have imagined.

PS Just got off the phone. Our listing just went up this morning and we already have our first viewing tonight. Woohoo!

things that make me go GRRRR

2008-06-10T07:52:00.004-05:00

[we now interrupt your regularly scheduled frantic decluttering and touch-up painting for the following rant]

The other night I was flipping aimlessly around the boob tube and came across a movie that I felt like watching for a few seconds. It went to one of those non-commercial intermissions where people talk about things that they try to relate to the movie but really it's totally irrelevant filler. It was a self-esteem girls' slumber party sponsored by Dove and a facilitator started talking in this blank white room with a bunch of tween girls around her about negative self-talk and some of the words women use to come down on themselves. The girls immediately came up with ugly, fat and stupid, in that order I'm fairly sure. The facilitator asked what words we could replace those mean words with and one of the first responses was caring.

"Caring," approved the facilitator, "That's a great word for girls." WTF??? Last time I checked, caring was a good word for human beings to aspire to, not just girls.

I flipped away, enraged at the myriad ways we indoctrinate our children with gender.

Then this morning as I was driving to work, I got the celebrity update on the radio. "Tori Spelling has whelped again," the female DJ said. She said the name, the fact that it's the second child between Spelling and her partner Dean somebody, who "Tori stole from Canadian actress Mary Jo Eustice [or something]." The DJ's voice seethed with venom over the word stole, then she went on along the lines of, "Tori is despicable. I'm sorry but I'm still siding with Mary Jo on this one... You're building a career as an actress, handsome husband, and one day you come home to find that Tori Spelling has stolen your husband." She tried to make a joke of it, that it could happen to anyone, but this line of thinking drives me nuts. I'm not saying I would feel very friendly towards someone who slept with my husband, but excuse me - Tori Spelling did not make and break vows till death do them part to Mary Jo. The husband did.

I hate the idea that these scheming nasty women just bewitch these poor hapless men who just get swept innocently away.

knee deep in (de)clutter

2008-06-08T21:19:00.003-05:00

We've been working all weekend and house looks much, much worse.

I'm trying to throw away things that have no real function and aren't easy to store, but it's hard for some things. So, I'm taking a picture.

Behold, one of my binders from grade 9 probably:

Just in case you can't read it, a number of my favourite bad pop songs from the time are featured, including "Everybody, everybody," "Wiggle It," and "Do Me." I also declared my love for Johnny Depp in the corner.

And from a couple years earlier, one of my first shop projects from grade 7:

Dusty was my first horse. She's been dead for more than 10 years. I felt like I should hold onto this to honour her but our new house has no basement, and it's not like I'm going to hang it on the wall. So a picture is perfect.

Our real estate agent just told us today that the market is neutralizing, becoming less of a seller's market. Now that we've just gone from buyer to seller, this is not a good thing to hear. Why couldn't she have told us this a couple of days ago???

My monthly letter to Swee'pea will need to wait a few days or a week so I do it justice.

We got it!!!!

2008-06-06T08:36:00.003-05:00

As of 8:40 this morning, the house is ours, totally firm, done deal.

[insert buyer's remorse here - still waiting for it to hit]

Schedule housewarming for early October when the leaves on all the trees in the backyard are bright colours but it's still (hopefully) warm enough for a barbecue. Or, if not, we'll just hang in front of the enormous living room windows to the backyard and enjoy a wood fire.

Now bring on the cleaning, decluttering, weeding, and lawn-mowing at our current house so we can get it sold asap. We were aiming to get the house on the market by next Friday, but I just looked on my calendar and saw that it's Friday the 13th, and I'm sorry but I just can't do that. So Thursday it is.

Eek!

2008-06-05T11:44:00.000-05:00

The other buyer didn't sign... they're counter-offering, but this opens up a new window for us to sweeten our offer, which I think we will do.

pre-SYTYCD wallow

2008-06-04T18:43:00.006-05:00

The problem with the whole everything happens for a reason and whatever is meant to be will be line of thinking, especially with regard to real estate, is that it makes me spend an inordinate amount of time and energy seeking and finding significance in the world. Sometimes, everything is a sign to me, everything. These times make me wonder if perhaps I'm bipolar and in a manic phase.

With the last house, I thought it was going to be our destiny to live there. I had asked my coworker how she came to move to her current house, and she had told me a story about how her son, who was two at the time, was sick one day and she stayed home with him. Not being able to get out, she started checking out mls and saw a house that looked nice. Then she decided to pack her son into the car and drive by that house, just to see what it was like, and she thought it looked even nicer. They looked at a few houses, still liked the first one, which was still on the market, and bought it without a second thought.

It just so happened that last February, Swee'pea was sick one day, a few days after I heard this story, and I started checking out the mls listings. And I saw a house that looked nice, and packed Swee'pea into the car and drove over to it, just to see what it was like, and I thought it looked even nicer. Then we looked at the inside of it a couple of times, and that was supposed to be it. We were supposed to buy it without a second thought. But we didn't get it. (And, at the time, I was pretty relieved, and took the relief to mean that it wasn't meant to be our house.)

Right now, I'm feeling some pretty intense regret. This latest house was really something special and for all our obsessing about the fact that it was not walking distance to downtown, I didn't place proper priority on the fact that it IS walking distance to my work, and would therefore support a single-car lifestyle much more easily than a downtown house would. Living downtown would pretty much not support single-car living at all, unless Sugar D found a job here in town. Sadly, this realization didn't come to me until after we found out we didn't get the house.

I'm also intensely regretting not removing the condition of sale this morning. We had such a long closing date that it would have been very low risk (unlike the last house, which had a closing date that pretty much guaranteed at least some bridge financing), especially in this seller's market. We would have had four months to sell our house. Sadly, this realization didn't come to me until after we found out that we didn't get the house, and that it went to another conditional offer, a conditional offer with a reasonably short timeframe to waive the conditions.

When Sugar D came home, I asked him if he was sad about it. He said, "Enh... not really. It just wasn't meant to be."

And I said, "Well I KNOW that but I'm still sad that it wasn't meant to be."

Most of me figures, well we've learned something. The first time we were so gung-ho, we threw caution to the wind. The second time we were too cautious. So the third time we should get it just right, right?

But there's another part of me that believes that if I'm feeling this much intense regret, surely that house is meant to be ours? Surely it means that something will fall through in the other offer and we'll end up getting it, right?

Where a few hours ago, I wanted the possibilities to go away and leave me with some certainty, now, I'm clinging to that thread of hope, still wanting to believe that we'll end up in that house and someday laugh about how it almost never was.

0 for 2

2008-06-04T11:43:00.006-05:00

I was all set not to blog about the house offer we made, having seen some bloggers not only make an offer without blogging about it, but have the offer accepted, sell their other house, and MOVE, before blogging about it. I do not believe I'm capable of that kind of withholding. Even though I know it's boring (except to the few people I'm keeping up to date by email), I must blog about this.

We made an offer on another house today. And so did someone else. So once again, we're in a multiple offer situation. Only this time, we're more experienced. After the intense relief of not getting the last place with an unconditional offer, we have learned that we are not comfortable with removing conditions, especially not sale of property conditions. So we didn't.

We still haven't heard officially, but it's not looking good. I believe the sellers are negotiating with the other buyer. If that falls through, we still have a chance, but it's really not looking good.

And I'm feeling a lot more disappointed than I did with the last place. I'm trying to be all fatalistic, but it's not really working. This was a really nice, unique house. All on one floor, fairly open concept, enormous windows out to the most gorgeous backyard you've ever laid eyes on, enough vintagey quirks to keep us from feeling all out of place or like we're living in a model home...

I hate this shit. It feels like dating, like unrequited love all over again. You go to a house and notice all its flaws but then you notice all its special bits and you start to envision your future with all those special bits and even with the flaws and you think it looks like a pretty nice future. Until he never calls or he says it's not you it's me, and you wish you'd never imagined that future in the first place. The problem is, this time around, I'm not really in a position to comfort myself with booze, cigarettes, and bitter poetry. And instead of keeping myself from calling a guy and hanging up (or not), I have to keep myself from going on the virtual home tour - again.

Edited to add: Ugh. We didn't get it, but there are still two glimmers of hope: 1) the buyer doesn't sign the amended agreement by noon tomorrow, and 2) the conditions of the offer don't get fulfilled within a week of signing. I'm not sure which is more frustrating: that we didn't get it or that there's still a glimmer of hope. I hate uncertainty.

go ahead, make my day

2008-06-02T17:28:00.007-05:00

I was in a very big grump yesterday. It's possible I was PMS-ing. But don't quote me on that.

Anyways, I was very grumpy when I was at the drop-in centre. Some of the usual volunteers weren't there. Mostly it was people who aren't actually volunteering - they're doing community service as part of a sentence. Don't get me wrong, they're perfectly nice folks... they just aren't choosing to be there. So they commented on the cute girls moving across the street and muttered that one of the regulars was fucked! in a way that suggested italics and an exclamation mark. It just didn't make me feel comfortable, and I started to feel stupid or something. Plus, I still didn't see the book guy or my first (hopefully!) subject, or some other regulars I've made friends with. I even started to consider not coming back. I was THAT grumpy.

For some reason though I started talking to this woman I'd love to photograph, and she's into art too. She seems interested in participating in some kind of photographic collaboration but wants to see some of my prints first. I spoke to her just before I left. Afterwards, as I was getting ready to leave, Sister Christine thanked me. I said, oh no problem.

And she said, "And thank you for talking to N."

"OH!" I said, surprised. "It was... my pleasure!"

And she said, "well that's really good. Thank you."

It totally made my day, that Sister Christine sort of validated me.

And then, as I was going towards the door and saying bye and have a nice week to the regulars, a woman I'd not seen before yesterday made eye contact. She looked a bit rough; between the way she looked and a half conversation I overheard, I suspected she was struggling with addiction. Anyways, she said thank you too! Just for being there, not for serving her anything in particular, but for just contributing.

And that made my day even more.

When I got home, suddenly much, much more optimistic, I worked on my photos during Swee'pea's nap. I'd been putting off working on this particular shot, because I wanted to process it well, and I thought it had potential to be pretty exciting. It's my favourite I think. What do you think?

And it's available at Imagekind (you can click through directly from the image), which just happens to have free ground shipping in the US until June 16. Just make sure to enter the promo code, DAD2008, when you check out.

signs of the times

2008-06-01T19:21:00.003-05:00

It's been a very long time since I had a good ole grammar grump. This one I've been sitting on for more than six weeks, waiting for a time when I remembered AND was sitting near the computer.

When I shot this, there was a man in a yellow hard hat mixing cement in front, and I deliberately avoided looking at him so I wouldn't see the what a weirdo look.

This one doesn't really have any incorrect grammar but it also tickled my funny bone -- from the bathroom of the Nova Scotia inn I stayed at not long ago:

And finally, another treat from Nova Scotia, with many thanks to Mad for telling me about it:

we are ugly but we have the music

2008-05-29T12:16:00.007-05:00

Ever since Andrea expressed her change of heart about privacy, and Mad commented that her daughter may be more mortified by what she says about herself than what she says about her daughter, I've been thinking about some of my old flashback fridays. On the one hand, there probably aren't (m)any appropriate occasions for discussing one's sexual history with one's children - certainly not the details - but I do remember asking my mom, and feeling a little let down that she was a virgin when she married my dad. My friend's mom was much cooler: not only did she smoke (and let us smoke around her) but she had had love affairs before she married my friend's dad.

Officially, I was a late bloomer. I didn't have my first date and first kiss (on different days) until I was 17 and almost all of my friends had already lost their virginity. I didn't actually lose my virginity until I was 19, an old hag by any standards, as far as I was concerned. But still my mom made moralizing noises about anything she caught wind of, and I didn't much care for that disapproval.

When I was in high school, right around that time of my first love (the first date, first kiss guy), we listened to a lot of Leonard Cohen. I've probably written this before but my friend and her boyfriend had built a cabin in the woods, complete with dugout beer cellar, hammock, and battery-operated stereo. It was great, and we spent a lot of time drinking, talking, and listening to Leonard Cohen, among others, there. I had his Best Of tape, with So Long Maryanne (it so happened that one of our friends was named Maryanne and the night before she moved out west we sang it loudly, badly, and repeatedly), Suzanne, Sisters of Mercy (which I found faintly shocking at the time), Famous Blue Raincoat, and Chelsea Hotel No. 2, which everyone said was about Janis Joplin, so I always picture Janis and Leonard on an unmade bed high above the city some short time before she died when I hear it. We all fancied ourselves poets, and Leonard had the perfect mix of poetry, melancholy, and blatant sex for us.

In my early twenties, I became a one-woman political movement. I wanted to prove that the teen magazine view of female sexuality was all wrong, that women could have sex without love, could do it without wounds. I may have had a wound I was trying to heal, but if anything I blame the magazines for that wound.

Through high school I pored over teen magazines. Apart from my friends' boyfriends, they were my only way to learn about boys so I sopped up the advice columns and the quizzes and the feature articles about how to please your guy. I read all about how if a guy really loves you he won't pressure you for sex, that any guy who pushes for sex is an asshole, that all guys want sex with anyone, any time, anywhere, and all girls need time to be comfortable and firmly in love before sex is an option. I really hate that stereotype, that guys only want sex and women only want love. So I set out to prove it wrong, at least to myself.

Now that I'm on the other side of that experiment, I feel like my silence is a weapon. Like all us married women whisper behind our hands or comment on my blog that yes we had casual sex too but shhh... we don't want to admit anything other than this staid, settled, married front. And I really don't think that's helpful to our daughters. Sometimes I catch myself feeling like that experiment was a mistake, another misguided hiccup of youth, like the time I got into a car driven by a drunk driver who pulled from the 26-er of whiskey riding down the highway in the middle of the blizzard. But was it really? Or did I learn important things about myself?

At the bloggy weekend, the same one Bon left early to see Mr. Cohen himself, I asked around the room, how will you discuss your sexual history with your kids. I think that's the one thing I want to do differently from my mom. In some ways I'm proud of my brazenness, proud of not letting my Amazon-ness prevent me from discovering my sexuality, proud of the work I've done to enjoy and accept my body. Mad wondered if in fact I'd had any good experiences, because my Flashback Fridays are mostly ... shit I can't remember the word she used but it was quite apt... something along the lines of damaging or troubled. This tells me I still have stories to tell, even if I find it difficult or embarrassing. I have the good stories to tell still, and yes there were some.

At this point, I think I have to send you over to Bon and Sage for their discussion of Leonard Cohen's songs and his portrayal of female sexuality, if you haven't read them already. They're that good, and much more articulate than I could ever be.

This afternoon, I decided to listen to him again, for old time's sake, and I picked Chelsea Hotel No. 2 first. As I listened to it, and then commented at Sage's place, I realized he had influenced my own sexuality. I think I was trying to become the woman at the Chelsea Hotel No. 2, from the "I never once heard you say, I need you, I don't need you, I need you, I don't need you And all of that jiving around" to the "clenching your fist for the ones like us, Who are oppressed by the figures of beauty, You fixed yourself, you said, "well never mind, We are ugly but we have the music" to the "I don't mean to suggest that i loved you the best, I can't keep track of each fallen robin. I remember you well in the chelsea hotel, That's all, i don't even think of you that often."

2008-05-27T06:01:00.005-05:00

[updated for an ugly morning]

You wouldn't think a warm night has a sound but it does. It blows in on the sweet fresh air as you push open the heavy window. It's like a hum but that's not the right word. Too loud. A buzz is too electric. I think it's really of distant cars and factories beating the air. Every once in a while a car drives over the sound and fills my dark room. I feel so rested this morning, after a full night of quiet sounds like an ocean and all of my personal space intact.

OMG I wrote WAY too soon! As soon as I hit publish Swee'pea started whining this pathetic gulping sound and couldn't put his angst into words. He eventually ate some breakfast and seemed happier but then freaked about putting clothes on. I was such a ball of anger by the time we got in the car that I was actually kind of pissed that he just skipped into school happy as can be. I feel like I was run over by a train after a sleepless night. Off to get another cup of tea!

comings and goings

2008-05-25T12:14:00.010-05:00

People come and people go at the Drop In Centre. There seems to be a core population of regulars, but others come and go. Whenever I meet someone new to me who intrigues me, I always worry they'll stop coming before I have a chance to learn more.

Several weeks ago now, I met one of those intriguing people. He was at the shelter, and when he asked for a coffee, he was a holding a paperback: Michael Ondaatje's Anil's Ghost. I mentioned that In the Skin of a Lion was one of my top 5 favourite books of all time. He said he reads a lot of Booker Prize winners but he doesn't know if that's good or bad... sometimes they can be - he searched for the right word - "a bit head up their ass?" I supplied. That caught him by surprise and he laughed. "Well that's one way of putting it," he chuckled. I haven't read a Booker Prize winner since university.

He has a posh British accent and every time I see him he's very clean shaven. He wears white button-down shirts, the kind that the bureaucrats I work with during the week wear. He looks like he could be working there right now. He doesn't have the rough look of an addict or the medicated look of someone mentally ill. One can't help but notice a certain similarity among the people who come to the Drop In Centre. In particular, men staying at the shelter have a weathered and guarded look, a metaphoric hunching of their soul's shoulders and collars against the elements; their skin is necessarily and obviously tough. But not this man. His cheeks are smooth and have a healthy pink look about them, free of ruptured capillaries or grooves of exposure. At one point, I suspect his life must have been pretty easy, and yet he has none of the arrogance of one who feels s/he doesn't belong here.

I'm dying to know what made him end up in a shelter. I keep thinking I'll ask him, because he has a sweetness and humility about him that make me think he wouldn't mind answering, but then he doesn't come until we're just serving lunch and it's too busy to chat. So we can only exchange a quick "what are you reading this week?" (He seemed quite taken aback at the week I was reading a book of essays by 30 Canadian mothers. "Oh. ... Are you preparing for uh...?" he gestured at my belly. He was surprised to learn I'm already a mother... it made me wonder if perhaps we'd been flirting. Even though he's quite a bit older, maybe I'm a bit attracted to him, in a harmless I'm married but not dead kind of way.) The last time I saw him I said I wouldn't be here the following week but I would be the next and I'd try to dig out my copy of In the Skin of a Lion. "Ok," he said. "I'll be... here," shrugging kind of helplessly. Like where else could he go? Even though I suspect he'll be relatively quick to find himself a place and get on welfare and start the rest of rebuilding, it was like he couldn't see that at all.

But this week he wasn't there. I was all set to ask him if I could photograph him. I wasn't going to chicken out. But he wasn't there so I couldn't ask. I'm hoping he's just enjoying the gorgeous weather today and I'll see him next week.

I do, however, have my first subject. And he's turning out to be a great first subject. He's challenging me to think and direct when what I really just want to do is just catch. He's making me decide what locations will help make whatever point I want to make (what point DO I want to make?? I DO want to make a point, but I want it to come out organically rather than me contriving to make it) rather than telling me where he'd like to be photographed. I still haven't taken my camera out, but I'm looking forward to more conversations with him and hopefully others.

***

Two men approach the counter together. They both want coffee. One pays his quarter, the other says he's at the shelter. His friend pipes up that people at the shelter get free coffee. I already know this. The man at the shelter says to the man who paid, "You haven't haven't lost your pride... you don't know how good it is to pay for your own coffee."

***

A boy says he's diabetic and has to watch his sugar. He lives on the streets and when I ask how he manages his diabetes on the streets, it comes out that he doesn't really. He lost his health card and moved before a new one reached him. They won't see him at the clinic. He hitchhiked down here from Thunder Bay when he heard that a girl he dated all through high school had cancer and maybe wouldn't be released from the hospital. I suspect he's feeding me a line, but it doesn't matter. We give him some buns with peanut butter so he doesn't have to eat the fresh donuts that came. He starts selling cell phones out of his bag and it seems like suddenly the place is all atinkle with ring tones.

***

Another man asks me and another volunteer what people like us are doing at the Drop In Centre. Why aren't we in our 8000-square foot houses, fully furnished? At first I take him at face value, then I realize he's kind of mocking us. Even though I've never seen that man engage in a coherent conversation and I know he's kind of nuts, I feel like he's onto me, that he knows I'm a fraud, some kind of pompous do-gooder with a silver spoon in her mouth who uses people for playthings; who once a week sinks down from her $5-pineapple plenty to play in the slums before her Sunday brunch slot. In that moment, I don't have a decent answer to his question.

"This is the place for derelicts and murderers and rapists and..." he goes on and on at some length detailing the worst of humanity. "Everybody here hates Jesus Christ," he ends. I have nothing to say to this because I don't think that's true. I've seen quite a few crosses around necks here.

Later, over brunch, when I tell Sugar D about this man's mild outburst and doubt my motives, he reminds me that I do know why I'm there, because I get to meet people, interesting people, and get out of the house. I suppose that's as good a reason as any, probably the reason most of the people come there. I go because the counter is just a counter, not some line between the do-gooders and the done-good-unto, the rich and the poor. It's just a counter that anyone can choose which side they want to stand on today, whether they want to serve or be served on any given day.

unveiling Lunenburg's parking meters

2008-05-22T15:16:00.003-05:00

I wish I could figure out how to embed a slide show here, because I'm betting that the idea of Lunenburg's parking meters is not compelling enough to get you to click away and then come back again and give me your opinion. Ah well... for the small minority of you who are curious, check it out here.

So??? What do you think?

Send them to the recycle bin or put them up for sale?

true neurotic

2008-05-20T10:18:00.005-05:00

I am SO done with flying for a while. Though I AM kinda pleased to be able to say I’ve been to two UNESCO World Heritage sites in two different countries within about three weeks of each other. Last night I was dog tired, but I couldn’t fall asleep for all the words circling around my head… the many, many conversations of the weekend, cringing over the stupid shit I said and wishing I could have just listened to the inner voice that was yelling shut the fuck up! and figuring out what I wanted to say here about the weekend. The beds were so comfortable where we stayed that coming home to my own bed wasn’t even its usual sigh of relief.

This morning I saw that Dani is a True Neurotic, so of course I had to take the test, even though I felt like this weekend was the weekend of My Great Neurosis. Seriously, I wish I could have shut the fuck up about myself. As I went through the test, I thought my answers were coming out very laid-back. The test was going to miss my neuroses! And poor Dani was going to be the only Truly Neurotic Blogger. But no. I am the True Neurotic too. So I wasn’t just fibbing with the blog’er folks.

Favourite moments:

Kate reading Bon’s post aloud in the very same room of screaming prints, like the macbook was a ghetto blaster at a high school campfire and our loud comfy chairs were logs.

Checking out the beach at twilight under a full moon.

The many moments when Bea pulled out her paint chips, especially after a particularly victorious placemat purchase.

Bon giving me the finger as she licked yet another dessert off her middle finger (photo to come?)

Disappointments:

Losing my appetite for most of the weekend even though delicious food was nonstop.

Feeling totally obnoxious with my camera, and expecting to come home with tons and tons of great photos of everyone but getting home to discover that I barely took any and the ones I did mostly have peoples’ eyes closed. I had no idea people BLINK so much! I barely have any photos of the women I spent the weekend with but tons and tons of photos of Lunenburg’s parking meters. When I told Sugar D about all the parking meters I shot, he asked if they looked different in Lunenburg. But they don’t. I just like parking meters. (I actually really like the parking meter shots… I’ll share them once I’ve edited them.)

And with many apologies to the unnamed condiment-phobe, I simply must take a poll. Please, please share your opinion. (Oh crap. It seems the poll broke my site... would you mind clicking here please?)

Guess what?

2008-05-15T06:15:00.006-05:00

I trimmed Swee'pea's fingernails for the first time last time. No blood, and I think he actually liked it! Next up: toenails.

Also, I'm going away to Halifax this weekend -- without Swee'pea or Sugar D! And I'm flying to get there. I'm not sure which is more scary: leaving Swee'pea for three whole nights or flying without Sugar D's hand to squeeze the life out of or a certain blogger spending the night at my house tonight so we can catch the plane in the morning. Not much I can do about the first, but I've got my lorazepam all lined up for the second. As for the third... well I've got some SERIOUS cleaning (and packing) to do.

And a long lost high school friend of mine has a blog too. Actually, she's got two, one for children's book reviews and one more personal.

Also, I'm getting lonely over at peripheralvision. I want to keep my photography blogging over there, but it's not nearly as friendly as this space and it's hard to keep writing when nobody's reading. No obligation of course, but if you're interested in that stuff, I'd love to see you there.