Further Adventures of Rocketblog

a paean to summer life, as experienced on my couch

2009-07-10T10:34:00.000-04:00

Sitting next to the stereo, listening to the second side of Feel Good Lost vinyl backed with the birdsong out the window. Knitting a classic Zimmerman design with Socks That Rock yarn, yarn so good that every stitch is a joy. Every time I knit StR, it's on a deadline. I don't care; I'm loving my big ribbed slab of leg. Blake is at his last morning of summer Nature Camp and I'm taking the morning off after a week of housecleaning and errand running.

If I could bottle this kind of contentment, I would give myself tiny sips during the winter and ration it until the new summer.

busy like a fox

2009-07-09T10:28:00.003-04:00

Who would have thought that it would be harder to find writing time during summer vacation than when I was immersed in my job? It's a curious fact about teachers that we save up our tasks for what others consider our abundant leisure, storing jobs to last us through the slack time. Truth is, I've been busier in the last two weeks than I ever am at work. I work all day now, from the time I get up until I drop, exhausted & sore, into bed. I don't take my evenings off like I used with school on. The only difference is that if I want to spend the day in my cut offs, or if I want to spend a scant few minutes on knitting, I can. I'm happier.

I'm also much more sore. I've been struggling with my weight this year, and it got a lot worse this spring. I investigated the summer boot camp classes, figuring I could use the time off to reinvent myself (c. Burn After Reading), but they're all booked. I suppose I'm not the first teacher to have this idea. During our Canada Day bbq of the last entry, I looked at my brother, newly returned from tree planting in BC.

"Hey Nic. You're a personal trainer. Want to do a boot camp with me next week?"

"Sure. Fifty bones an hour."

Eep. There was some bargaining, some mention of the truck I rented on his behalf Easter Monday and the rental fee owed. The family card was played. I got him down to a hundred bucks for the week, and forgiveness of the U-Haul debt. Sweet. I wasn't sure that it would work, and there's something creepy about employing my brother as my trainer, but it's the cheapest option going while I'm between gyms.

I flaked out on Monday's session, as a visit to Palaver in the hospital entailed a 45 minute wait before we could bust him off the floor. (It was a wait both boring and funny: Schereazade, Mason & I played six games of Connect Four, we experimented with a Battleship game that was missing an astounding number of pieces, and we were in the middle of an inept dominoes tourney when Palaver was given permission to leave. Also, Scherezade & I were hit on by another patient. Good times.) Tuesday was my first session at O Brother, Where Art Thou Boot Camp.

It. Hurt.

It hurt to do, and it hurt to recover. My brother believes in old school Russian style exercises that use free weights to purge the decadence. The two things working in my favour are I enjoy spending time in my backyard, and I've been cleaning my house for three days in preparation for tonight* and thus I haven't had time to sit down and seize up. Yesterday hurt less, but it was more extreme and I sweat more. Today I got a reprieve when Nic called in sick. I sort of miss the endorphins.

Blake has been spending the week at the Humber Arboretum, a nature camp both my brother and I attended when we were the age for day camp. It's a pretty fantastic place to go, learn about Nature, sing songs, water fight and get incredibly, spectacularly dirty. Blake is already giving me the guilt trip about not having him in for longer than a week. I'm pretty sure that he likes camp better than school, and I can't say I blame him. It looks so fun from the outside that I'm wondering if I should exploit my Dorian Grey-like appearance of youth and sign up to be a teenaged camp counselor. I'm pretty sure that my cynicism will lead to my unmasking, but it will be a good ride while it lasts.

My brother also has positive memories of the place. We took him with us yesterday to pick up Blake, and the two of them ended up jogging through the woods like a couple of size-mismatched dogs while Mason & I picked our way gingerly through the paths, cursing our impractical/disintegrating footware. Those two dogs have a ridiculous amount of fun together.

And Blake has never been so happy, so tired, or returned to me so filthy, in his life. Yesterday his shirt, a casualty of raspberry snacks, looked eerily like the t-shirt his Uncle Nic wore to the GWAR show in the early nineties. Gross and triumphant, all at the same time.

Speaking of ridiculous amounts of fun, I started my Sock Museum contribution yesterday after picking up the pattern and yarn from Lettuce Knit. Ususally 2x2 ribbing rots my nuts after awhile, but this yarn (Socks that Rock, Treehugger) is so beautiful that I'm kept happy by the colour changes. That, and I don't get a lot of time to sit down with it, so it's always fresh to me. Can I finish two socks in two weeks? Maybe. I choose not to do the math to find out what I have to accomplish each day. Instead, I'm just giving'r. Zimmerman would be proud.

* Tonight I will be billeting high school students from Texas, who are coming to my church to perform Godspell. I figure that with my spare bed and working familiarity with today's modern teenager, I would have been a cad not to volunteer. This is why I've been cleaning the house for days, doing the deep down scrubbing that I've been avoiding since the change of the year. My house is/was messy. And now it's less so.

my canada

2009-07-01T19:55:00.000-04:00

Today was the first Canada Day since my grandmother died. Her birthday was July 1, so my mom always threw a Canada Day barbeque/birthday/pool party. It made my grandmother happy. Some years were good; others boring. I enjoyed being at concerts (as a teen) and StanFest (as a young married) instead of going. One more afternoon of small talk and potato salad, with a sheet cake at the end of it. Usually by the time that everybody was ready for fireworks, I was more than ready for some alone time.

This year I went to the party without my husband, without my boyfriend, without the birthday girl. It was pretty good, but every once in awhile I would look at the maple leaves and hit a pocket of sadness. The worst part was the birthday cake, which my grandfather brought. After we sang and all blew it out, I looked up to see him crying.

This spring has been a hard one for my garden. Flowers are late in appearing, seeds are hesitant to germinate. I have two rose bushes in my front garden that my grandmother planted, one on either side of the path going to my door. I've been cheering on the yellow bush, as it was choked in morning glories last year and never bloomed, and it's been doing well. Last week I noticed that my other bush seemed to be blooming in two colours. Mason figured out that it was two bushes, and it was only this week that I realized that my grandmother planted a modern bush next to an old bush, and the old bush has just now come back.

It's funny. I didn't think it was going to hit me hard. I thought her influence on me was minimal. I think I'm coping well. And then I see a rose, and I know by colour and shape that it isn't one my grandmother would buy. I look at a cheap Canada Day flag and get a knot in my chest. I wish for cabbage rolls in the dead of winter. I miss her, and I never thought I would.

oh, elgar. where are you when i need you?

2009-06-23T08:11:00.002-04:00

I'm finding it incredibly hard to focus this week. Good thing all of my real work is done, and I only have to worry about cleaning up and throwing away. I blame the light - when the sun doesn't set until after 9, it's hard to go to bed. Blake hasn't been sleeping well either, and we're all cranky in the morning. I can't wait until I can adjust everyone's wakeup time to "whenever the hell".

Blake graduated from kindergarten yesterday. As a professional cynic and misanthrope, I should be suspicious of such celebrations of non-events...but I have to say, it was awesome. The whole class participated, including the kids who would be staying in the class for another year (kids currently in what we used to call Junior Kindergarten). Blake has been practicing his songs all week, in between singing random Apostle of Hustle hooks. I've decided that it doesn't get any better than little kid performance art, especially when your child is cast as the Doctor in "Five Little Monkeys." I had no idea he was in pre-med!

Pictures to come, as soon as my camera/computer stop ignoring each other. I love my cam, but honestly...the little point and shoot was way less aggro than this little prima donna. I've got a slide show to produce! I've got downloads of "Pomp & Circumstance" to employ! Gimme my damn pictures, technology.

- medium large

The other cool thing about yesterday was that I started a new session of ATS with Valizan. It's still a fuck of a long way away for a dance class, but at least I get to drive in the daylight instead of hurling through the cold & snow & utter darkness of downtown Oakville. Also, Keeral and Jessamyn are taking the course, so I'm already having fun. I knew about Jess, but Keeral was a fun surprise. Soon my troupe will, once again, comprise more than half the class. We are herd.

This is the first proper dance class or, really, exercise session I've done since the Troubles this spring (yoga doesn't count). Hopefully this will do something to combat both my incredible lethargy and my passionate love for high quality cheeses and beer. At the very least, I can feel my shimmy coming back. I'd missed it.

squeaky wheel

2009-06-20T07:46:00.002-04:00

or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Label

My fandom for the BSS family/Arts & Crafts stable is becoming something of an in-joke among my non-afflicted friends. They no longer comment on how many times Mason or I will wear a band shirt instead of a real shirt, or that my living room art is band posters (which will change soon thanks to a wicked linen Book of Kells dishtowel I picked up last Saturday at the Brickworks. Looks so good with my old, clunky, dark, hand-me-down 70's furniture! But I digress.), or that I have a calendar in my study that I made for Mason's Christmas present that features band pictures for each month (June is K Drew). Although the "golden age" of the scene has long-since passed, this is still a good time to be a fan. Fandom has encouraged us to sample solo projects and enjoy a wide range of musical offerings from related bands like the Happiness Project or Apostle of Hustle. It's like going to a year-long music festival where every act is different and good but I get to use my own toilet.

Being older fans (as these things go) we also tend to take some things for granted. We're used to showing up at these things and being blessed beyond measure: not only really liking the performance but taking home a balloon or dancing with the band. So when we bought 5-day passes for NXNE to get into the launch party for This Book Is Broken, we expected to get into the launch party. We also expected all kinds of little bonuses. After all, we are the ones who show up to knit night at Lettuce and walk into book launches a half-dozen times a year. We come to craft and get free cupcakes and wine, or sushi and beer, or yarn door-prizes and lemon squares.

This is not the world in which I toiled when I was a teenager: bands were remote and suicidal, not mixing in the crowd. Authors sat in state at the end of 2-3 hour line-ups; you skipped school to spend the day at the World's Biggest Bookstore, dodged your grandparents who were there to get you a birthday present, and the author would graciously spend almost 4 words on your overwhelmed carcass. Free cupcakes were exclusively the province of birthday parties for younger siblings. Wine was gross. Free yarn was useless.

Like I said, Mason and I have been extraordinarily blessed, first to have so much access to art and then to have all of the unexpected access to the artists. It's a lovely thing to have given up on new music for almost 10 years, only to be so undeservedly rewarded when we plunged back into the fray. And we fully expected that when we pulled into Terroni's at 6:30 for a much-needed dinner after two-hours of terrible rainy driving, and saw at least four members of BSS at the front table, that we would be seeing them later that night. We had to give up on the free Apostle of Hustle show at MTV, due to a late doctor's appointment and the rain that made all the drivers angry and slow. But we were psyched to see everyone that night. It was going to be like the old days, the early days when all the family played together, one band bleeding into another.

Need I tell you that it didn't happen? That by the time we got out of the restaurant, the people in charge were no longer letting in 5-day pass holders?

Well. It didn't. We were left standing in the drizzle, our hopes of seeing the bands evaporating like our body heat. To make it even better, the woman in charge of telling us to go away whispered that the special secret guest was, in fact, Broken Social Scene. Mason was livid; so angry he couldn't talk. I felt like I had been punched. It had been so cold and rainy and such a crappy night to come down. My dinner had been expensive and disappointing. We had bought the 5-day passes just to see the acts that night. It was overwhelmingly disappointing. We went home and I spent the night in a freaked out state of anxiety; every time I woke up (which was every hour) I looked at the clock and told myself which band I was missing. I couldn't stop the Apostle song playing on an infinite loop in my head, gnawing at me when I tried to relax. I was certain that we were missing the best night ever, an unexpected return to an earlier time when everybody played all night and the final set blew everyone away.

We over-reacted. I see that now.

The next day, my disappointment had translated into anger. I got onto the message boards and vented. I made liberal use of swears. Then I tried to mark exams. The day passed: I would mark for an hour, then get up and checked the boards. If I'd had any sense, I would have avoided the new information and tried to calm down. But I didn't. I found out that not only had the special secret guest been BSS, but Feist had come out to play as well. Beautiful. I went back to marking. I listened to a band that wasn't in the family. I marked. And I made plans to show up again for the second night.

I decided that we had over-reacted, and that our disappointment was way, way out of proportion. I decided to redeem the purchase of a festival pass by seeing the new bands. Maybe I'd have a good time. I'd be going alone, as Mason had cut off his band the night before (at the same time as declaring his fervent desire to avoid BSS, Arts & Crafts or indeed, music itself, forever). That didn't necessarily bother me; I could knit through the boring and go home when I got tired. Being alone doesn't faze me, although this would be the first time I had been alone at a concert. Besides, maybe the other secret special guest would be cool. There were a lot of bands I liked on the label who didn't show up on Wednesday. Maybe I'd see one.

Mason came home, and though not happy, he didn't have much to say about me going out without him. He had, after all, decided never to like music ever again. I continued to putter around until I got an email from Remedios, the head of the record label. He had seen my vitriolic posts and offered to put me on the guest list with a +1, an overwhelmingly generous offer. I was both ashamed of my anger and sort of glad that I had complained so brattily. The entitlement train continues to roll, and I'm not 100% sure if that's a good thing. But it was enough to get Mason reconciled to the previous night's disappointment, and it was enough to return our band/label crush to previous levels. It was another unexpected blessing, another undeserved moment of grace. I just wish I didn't feel that our temper tantrums sullied the whole exercise. It's embarrassing to be shown up as less deserving, less faithful than we'd always assumed we were.

We went for a cheap, satisfying dinner at Burrito Boys, and then to C'est What for a beer so that Mason could wait for the line to build up. Someone was excited about front of line privileges. Turns out that there was no line. We were happy anyway. We bought some hard-to-find BSS vinyl and stowed it until later, then walked in and listened to Zeus. The Courthouse is a tiny, tiny venue and I can see why it filled up so fast the night before. The place was about half-full and we could still barely see Zeus through the press of bodies. We could see their mustaches, however. And we could hear, "That's All," their swampy, dirty Genesis cover, which turned a guilty pleasure into something one could blast from the car with pride. As they played, K Drew came in and greeted the people next to us. I tried to be cool and not eavesdrop. Stupid band crush! I'm too old for this crap!

Timber Timbre is a quiet, experimental act that was hard to hear over the chattery venue. It was a no-win situation for us: if we were close enough to hear, we would be jammed in with a hundred strangers and still unable to see the band because they were all sitting down; if we stayed in the back, we couldn't hear anything over people talking loudly to their neighbours. Eventually, Kevin came down to shush the crowd. They looked at him bovinely, then swung around and resumed talking at high volume. I felt my dormant work skills twitch, so I went over and offered to help. "I'm a highschool teacher. I can get them to be quiet."

He grinned. "No. They'll hate you. They already hate me."

"I'm a highschool teacher," I repeated. "I'm used to being hated."

I walked back to Mason. "What were you guys talking about?"

"I offered my skills to shut these guys up, but it didn't work out. And he gave my arm a scrunchy pat."

"Really?!"

Band crush, you run my life. So much for never listening to music ever again.

Kevin made a reappearance to introduce Still Life Still, the buzz band of the scene, and to chuck cameras at us so we could record it all. I got hit in the arm while shielding my (better) camera and didn't care. It was an indie rock wedding, and we were all invited to send them off. And, despite the fact that the band could have been writing exams for me this week and their fans were even younger, it was the most fun I've had in weeks. Bouncy, loud, fun rock, from kids who weren't all old enough to drink at the bar. We felt both ancient and elated.

We left after this, stopping outside to buttonhole Remedios and thank him for the passes. He was devilishly charming, and I felt even more remorseful for our ranting of the night before. He renewed our faith in the label, in the system, in the whole concert-going exercise. It was undeserved, but then all of our blessings are equally so.

"I was with a radio guy from Calgary, and I guess you're supposed to suck up to them? But I had to say, 'dude! Shut the fuck up! They're playing!'"
- remedios commiserating on the difficulties of hearing timber timbre.

a dozen years

2009-06-17T09:39:00.003-04:00

As the truly long-time readers will have noticed, Sunday marked my twelfth anniversary of keeping this journal online. Twelve years and no domain to call my own! To celebrate, I uploaded a funkload of pictures, correlating to the appropriate entry. Yesterday I made the first setting change since I added Blogger comments, which is that I disallowed anonymous posting. I've been noticing that when people want to tell me that Mason is creepy, they do so anonymously. Feel free to judge our attractiveness, just tag on a name from now on. Also, have you noticed how fat I'm getting lately? Discuss.

To address an (anonymous) comment from the last entry: yes, I am surprised that the Boy has served the papers. His only action thus far has been to leave; I've been cleaning up the legalities ever since and have been paying the bills of nearly 3 grand. Perhaps in retrospect I should have expected that he would jump on the cheapest, easiest step…but I didn't. Be clear: I don't consider myself a victim here, but that doesn't mean that I can't acknowledge when things are done suddenly and without warning. It was a shock. Wondering why is not productive…although it may help to know that I dream of reconciliation 3 nights out of 5, and wake up feeling worse than ever. (Last night I dreamed of a Christian rockband that solved mysteries, so it's not always like that.)

A lost anecdote from Renfaire day:

On the way home, we discovered that Sage could "sing" "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," although it was a lot like listening to Frankenstein's monster & Tarzan sing holiday greetings. He skips words, syllables, lines…sometimes he'll produce 6 garbled sounds before awarding himself a flat "yaaaaaay."

It was far past his bedtime, and halfway through the long drive home he became incredibly tired and cranky. He started to produce the long, sustained crying that doesn't stop until a bed is produced…but if asked, he would still "sing". So we sang with him, over and over and over. Near the end of this litany, Blake turned to him and asked, in all seriousness, "Sage, do you know any other songs?"

Um. Stats? Of a sort.

So. I suppose that, except for waiting for my heart to numb during brief custody hand-overs, I can reasonably claim that my relationship with the Boy is now completely over. That means that I get to add another milestone to the journal stats, which is that I have written of the birth, the flowering, the withering and the death of my marriage, all in one series. Yee haw.
I have developed an interest in photography, and am starting to be able to (sometimes) produce the pictures I've visualized since I was a child.
My child has gone from a surprise union of two cells to a fully literate boy who dresses like Spiderman, demands his own copies of Neil Gaiman books, and sings hooks from Apostle of Hustle songs in the other room while I'm making dinner.
I have accepted my occasional nature, and stopped apologizing for it. To compensate, I make sure that my feed links are working, and I have Facebook trolling for notes as well.
I have redeveloped a love of music not really present since my earliest journal years, and spend much more time at concerts and listening to new music than I would have thought possible five years ago.
I have permanently lost touch with Poet (by his desire), Palaver is too sick to venture out much of the time and Preacher lives in another country. Of the three, I am closest with the one who lives farthest away, and our sons get along famously.
I have added a third person to my monogamy series. The first is getting married sometime soon; the second will be divorced from me in about three weeks.
I finally found a job I loved with friends, love, yarn, and mutual respect; these elements have disappeared or been co-opted so that I am more than ready to move on next year. And yet I can't imagine being anything but the World's Worst Teacher. (A label to which Blake strenuously objects, by the way. He thinks I should get it changed to World's Best. I already have the t-shirt, though.)

serves me right - get it? sigh

2009-06-13T20:37:00.002-04:00

Last night I had a plan. I would go home, get Blake ready for his weekend, and once he was safely dispatched I would run up to the bar near work, pick up Mason, and go to Drunken Knitting. This plan was fraught with small perils. First, that I had to go help do a dry run of DDR in the school caf to get ready for the Fun Fair on Monday. (Sigh. This – and telling 15 year olds who just consumed a box of Popeye's chicken in the 5 minutes it took to introduce today's lesson that I don't have napkins because I'm not a full-service eatery - is my life.) Second, that during the pick up, I would be seeing my mom for the first time since she bad-temperedly asked if I would be losing my job for co-habiting with Mason. Two days is a long time to build up invective, and I was spooked. Third, Blake's clothes were washed but not packed, leading to a frantic run-around that I've just about perfected at this point. Fourth, I had to ask for Blake an hour early on Sunday so I could help Jessamyn produce nudie photos (of her, natch.) But after that, I looked forward to smooth sailing all the way to a yarny harbour.

It was after I'd navigated all of these petty problems that the Boy pulled out a wad of papers to "serve me." The husband whose only decision in the past two years has been to leave half his crap behind has initiated a divorce. And just last week I was assuring Effie that he would never have the motivation to do this, as I was the one who had spent almost three thousand dollars on the separation agreement and mortgage re-titling. He was so passive that he didn't even get council for any of that. Ha ha ha, joke's on me.

So after I told my parents, called my lawyer, cried explosively for a few minutes, and ripped up one of his pictures while screaming invective, there was little left to do but go find a beer. Thank heaven for Drunken Knitting and my sympathetic ladies Soho, Mad Hattress and Needle Addict. Still, it would have been much better if I wasn't driving home. Then we'd truly see the meaning of the phrase "drunk and disorderly." (Usually when I drink we just see the meaning of "if she can't hold her liquor, you'll have to take her home sir." Sorry, Dav's wedding night.)

Last night and this morning I've been sleepily pondering the last thing the Boy said to me, a vague, "I'm sorry." The part of me that is truly the Queen of the Harpies is more than ready to compose a vicious list of all the things for which I am sorry, of which the mildest would have been, "that I assured you you were an adequate lover." But that's not really productive for either of us, and he wouldn't care anyway. I mean, that's why he moved out, right? So he didn't have to listen to my jive.

The following is a list of things for which I am truly sorry, not just because I'm mad.

I'm sorry that my beautiful son will never know the uncomplicated boredom of a stable marriage between his parents.
I'm sorry that I painted the bedroom a washed-out blue because it was his favourite.
I'm sorry that this breakup has made it impossible for me to truly believe that anyone will love me as long as I love them.
I'm sorry that I bought him all those expensive toys, because I could have used that money for retail therapy (I already bought a limited edition Neil Gaiman poster, and was glad to be going to a place last night where I couldn't do too much damage with the credit card.)
I'm sorry I spent so much time at my inlaws when being ignored by my husband and choked by dander and cigarette smoke to the point where I couldn't breathe.
I'm sorry it took me so many years to figure out that I would never have another child as long as he was involved in the decision-making process.
I'm sorry we lived in a shitty Etobicoke neighborhood, threatened and abused by our neighbours, so that we would be on the subway line for his university.
I'm sorry I submitted to the pain of living with my parents after having Blake instead of insisting that he man up and get a decent job.
I'm sorry he felt it necessary to deny that he ever loved me.
I'm sorry this list was neither coherent, funny or insightful.

ye olde outing

2009-06-11T16:11:00.004-04:00

This hasn't been a good week, and I'd like to write it off and try again. Can't, though. It started going downhill on Tuesday and hasn't really recovered. Or maybe it has, and I'm just sulking.

But! Saturday was awesome. Some months ago Souzan told me about a medieval fair to which she brought her K8 every year. Blake's obsessions include, in no particular order: knights, lego, dinosaurs, Rubbadubbers, the Tick, Batman, Spiderman, small animals, cooking, crafts and the jokes on the back of Chirp Magazine. Since his father had already taken him to Medieval Times, I figured this was my best chance to enjoy his hobby with him (bonus: I don't have to go to Medieval Times). So we went. And it was awesome. The drive was really long and we started quite late, but we made it by lunch time and were sufficiently distracted by the various goings-on that we didn't even stop for lunch for a solid hour. Sage was in an excellent mood, and Blake bounced from distraction to distraction with hardly any pause. It was an excellent way to spend a Saturday, and I didn't even think about the TTC Knitalong. Not having pegged myself as the renfaire type, this is high praise.

only those of honour bright shall click through for more...

On Monday I benefited from Stacy's amazing foresight with the chance to attend a Neil Gaiman reading at Luminato. When she asked a few months ago, I was typically vague, as my ability to make future plans is usually undercut by parenting or work (in that order). She went ahead and got a ticket anyway, which I was grateful for at the time but much more so when we were told in the introduction that the event had sold out in 3 minutes. I've heard Neil read before and I've stood in a signing line before, but never have I had such an intimate experience as this reading. Five hundred of the faithful filled the theatre and you could hear a pin drop (as evidenced by Stacy asking me to stop knitting because the clicking of my needles was disproportionately loud). I was glad that I'd finished my beer before the reading began. (Also: beer in a theatre? Where was the hotdog cannon? The Morpheus-themed plush mascot to get the crowd going? The scorecard? And most importantly, the collectible bubblegum cards? There is some money being left on the table here.)

It was probably good that the theatre was so focused, as nobody noticed me grey out when he announced that he and Amanda Palmer were dating, had, in fact, been dating for almost a year. Since I don't regularly read his blog, excellent though it is, I assumed that everyone else knew. Turns out that this only broke in a national way on Saturday, so I'm still on some part of the curve and not behind it yet. I don't have an opinion of the Dresden Dolls, really, but it's probably not fair that my first impression of Amanda is "try not to hate her because she is a) dating the hottest author ever and b) the innocent beneficiary of a breakdown of a marriage in whose solidity I had taken an apparently fatuous solace." That can't bode well for an unbiased listening, although she gets points for writing an upbeat song about abortion.

The signing afterward was long, but nothing close to what you can reasonably expect at another Gaiman gig. I'll have to look this up, but the first time I waitied in line I was seven months pregnant and it took the better part of the afternoon. The second time, the Boy & I went home when it became obvious that we were never going to see the front of the line before the two of us crashed (that night's signing is reported to have lasted until 2:30am). This past experience makes it seem that 1 1/2 hours in line is a positive treat, a zip through the signing autobahn. It was so comfortable that I didn't even get nervous when I got up there, and was able to tell the story of Blake demanding a personalized book without stuttering or getting weird. (We have a copy of "Wolves in the Walls" that is signed to "Sprout." Blake takes exception to this, as he denies ever having been a Sprout. "You should get it signed 'to Blake,'" he insists, and last night I got a copy of "The Graveyard Book" inscribed to appease him.)

The other neat thing about the book line was bellowing a conversation across the loop to Amy, who was patiently waiting for her first encounter with The Neil. I spent a good deal of my stay in line making up for lost auditorium time by knitting my February Lady sweater, which is huge and unweildy and if I want to knit it standing up I have to wad up the sleeves and yoke and keep it in my armpit while I work the bottom section. A few knitters in the crowd asked me about the pattern and the yarn, then showed me their own knitting projects which were all small and discrete. By the time Amy and I were within shouting distance, I had worked up a good head of steam and was more than ready to talk and knit and stand and wait at the same time.

Now. Amy has...this item. It is a rare and beautiful item that was a generous gift from some wise marketers who clearly know the value of viral, grassroots marketing. Amy is a wonderful person, a fabulous knitter, a fun lady, a smart cookie, and more than generous in her own right. But when I found out, via her blog, that she had received a box of antique doll-making props used by the Other Mother in Coraline...well, I had to iris-shut my heart like an airlock. I refuse to covet what is my sister's. I refuse to curse the fate that made her the receiver of such a present. I turn my back on generations of my relatives who would, at the very least, gossip about her shoe choices (impeccable, by the way). I was so sure that I had this under control that I was even willing to let myself ask to see it, to open such a fetishistic delight and gently touch the scissors, sure that I wasn't going to burst into tears or snatch it and run away to start a new life in Venezuela. I had not thought about what it would mean to uncover such a thing in the middle of people who have been waiting for going on two hours to see the author that invented Coraline. People who had run out of things to say to their companions. People who were trying not to think about how late it all was. Bored, focused people.

There was a tiny little riot.

I shooed them away by hurriedly closing up the box, my pleasure evaporated in a mist of "oh God I promised her I wouldn't hurt it what if they break the box??". Photographers sighed, frustrated. People began to question Amy, and a knitter came out of the woodwork and started a conversation about Fetching. I was suddenly relieved that I was not in charge of The Box. Too much responsibility for a girl of my temperament.

it was new, it was love, it was cheap

2009-06-05T16:35:00.003-04:00

I've been - uncharacteristically - working my ass off this week, which slows down the usual sporadic journal entries. As of today I have 7 days of school left, and my perpetual goal is to have all the term work marked before exams, so I can 1) give the kids an honest term mark 2) not feel like a complete failure as a teacher and 3) have nothing to do but knit while supervising an exam. I'm currently 10 essays + two class sets away from this goal, which is a good place. If I mark on my lunch hour, I'll only have to stay inside on Sunday afternoon and not my entire weekend! Shiny!

This extra ass-working is important, for I have been breaking my usual default rules for June and enjoying myself on weekends. Last weekend (which was technically May, I know) was busy and fun and not very responsible. This weekend is the TTC Knitalong, but I'm ditching to go to a renfaire. Yeah. I'm not sure if I'm making this decision because I want to give Blake a wonderful day with one of his hobbies, or because I've never been to something like this and want to play with my camera, or because I'll be weekend mommying Mason's kid as well and if I go knit, I'll be ditching three boys rather than just sending Blake to Camp Grampa for the afternoon. That, and it's always hard to make decisions that are purely about my pleasure when there's a wholesome, educational (cheap) family alternative. Oh, and I shouldn't neglect the possibility that I'm trying to out-fun the Boy, who took Blake to "Up" last weekend and apparently has also treated Blake to Medieval Times sometime in the past year. I'm in a parental affection arms race here, and a trip to a renfaire should balance out all of the time I'm a hardass and make Blake sit at the table until he finishes his vegetables. (There's an hour on Tuesday I'm never getting back.)

Last weekend was a kid-free weekend, which should have meant marking but didn't. Instead I went to an Apostle of Hustle concert on Friday, gardened on Saturday and went to the zoo on Sunday. The concert was terrific: another gig in the Music Gallery, which is rapidly replacing the Tranzac as my favourite Toronto venue. Wayne Petti (the opening act) joked that he loved playing in a church because he's uncomfortable and so is his audience. Little does he know that I habitually spend chunks of time in church, and I'm not at all shy about acting out when I'm in one. It's part of that lovable irreverence that will one day get me excommunicated, I'm sure (although, not being Catholic or even a head of state in the Renaissance, I don't worry about excommunication all that much).

The Apostle show was excellent, which was somewhat surprising. I like "National Anthem of Nowhere" but I'm more into Whitey as a BSS'r than as the Apostle; Mason bought the tickets and I was along for the ride. I hadn't counted on the impressive musicianship, or the effect of all the ass-shaking music in a sweaty, crowded venue. Sure, Mason & I were the only ones dancing (considerately off to one side, we're Canadian), but I could tell that other people wanted to. I just wish that the kind of wild whirling energy of the last Geoff Berner show had been there in the Apostle crowd, and then there would have been a conga line snaking through the pews. (As there was the night before, at the school dance. I have conga lines on the brain, apparently.)

"You'll have to talk longer; I just rocked the fuck out of that last song." Julian Brown changes a string.

On Sunday we went to the annual cystic fibrosis walk at the zoo. Blake & I were invited by one of the original six Baby Clubbers, and we've been doing this since his first year. Last year was a fucking disaster, and it took some faith to muster the courage for this year. I'm glad I did, though, because it was pretty wonderful. Blake loves it more every year, and the weather was perfect: cool & windy & sunny. We walked for six hours before calling it quits - a personal best. As much as I want another baby, I have to admit that if I was like everyone else in Baby Club and in charge of one or more younger sibs, I wouldn't have been able to go as long or see as much as we did. Plus, I wouldn't have been able to sit on the couch afterwards, reading a book to myself while Blake read himself drowsy with a picture book. The life with a literate tot, she can be sweet.

(As always, click through for more.)

aaand another sick day. beautiful.

2009-05-27T20:27:00.003-04:00

Another sick day. This has been quite the year for staying at home, wrapping myself in sweaters and seeing how long I can go without combing my hair. I've been feeling crummy since Sunday, but I'd decided to attribute it to allergies. I wasn't sure how that worked exactly, since I wasn't exposed to anything that I know is a trigger, but I'm starting to suspect that I've developed some undiagnosed greenery sensitivities that kick in around spring, so it was easy to ignore. I mean, I was on a heavy schedule of cake-eating and party-hat wearing; I fully expected to feel turned inside out by the end of it. (Taking 3 tabs of 24-hour Claritin probably didn't help, either.)

On Monday, when I couldn't think straight, I was willing to admit that I had a cold. Yesterday, when I couldn't think straight and I had a weak little cough and walking any distance exhausted me and made my head pound, I was willing to admit that I couldn't work through it.

Plus, I promised Teija, the other staff sponsor, that I wouldn't abandon her tomorrow. We have a barbecue, the first school dance in four years and the first ever student election tomorrow. Clearly, I need to be there.

So here I am, snuggled in my new shrug, with lips that could finish woodwork.

a ribbon of parties

2009-05-25T20:20:00.005-04:00

I'm all stuffed up today. I had a lot of marking to do this weekend, but when I got tired last night at 7:30, I decided to put it off until this morning. Gah. I am not suited to waking up at 5, no matter what the motivation. I've been sniffly and sneezy all day, which I hope will be cured when I go to bed early tonight. My biggest problem is that I already go to bed at nine; if I want to push my bedtime back, eventually I'm going to have to start taking my pj's to work.

The reason I was so tired was because I planned too much this weekend, which isn't at all typical of me except on days that start with S. During the week I'm as slack as a sack; it's only on weekends that I try to transform into a superachieving hero. This was the first weekend of the Brickworks, so we planned to start the vegetable garden on Saturday with all of our new seedlings. But after the glorious return to the market, a quick trip to the Distillery District, and a few stops on Queen West, we were all burnt out. Instead of planting, we spent Saturday afternoon recovering...which is sort of ironic, when you consider that this set us up for a Sunday of extrabusyness.

It was a good morning, though. There is actual food at the market, which is a wondrous change from a long winter of dwindling root vegetable supplies and various preserves. In addition to a bunch of seedlings, we got lettuce, buns and wild leeks for a glorious burger barbeque. Blake made friends with every dog he saw, and he was overjoyed to see the Cloud 9 soap lady again (we've been counting the baths until he gets to buy his favourite soap.) She was so impressed with his enthusiasm that she gave him a free bath bomb with his honey ginger soap; a lovely transaction and I was proud of him. I didn't really mean for him to spend his treat money on soap when I would have bought it for him, but they were both so pleased with themselves that I thought it churlish to interfere.

Also notable: Blake discovered that he likes empanadas. This was supposed to be a depth of field shot, but while I was taking it he went after the empanada like a land shark.

There was also a book table, which greatly simplified my birthday party shopping for the weekend. (Hey, I'm a nerd. I give nerd gifts so as to propagate my species.) As much as it could be simplified, I mean: our first party was for a girl I didn't know, and when asked, Blake told me she wanted a donkey toy. What? No further sense could be extracted from Blake. Imagine my surprise when the book table included cute wooden animal toys. We got our donkey, Blake got a new kids' cookbook with illustrations by Jay Stephens, and our birthday girls got beautifully illustrated books on seeds. Blake took his book to a table to read, meanwhile, Mason & I spent many happy minutes seriously considering which seedlings to buy. We left loaded up, just as the place started to get uncomfortably crowded.

We stopped by the Distillery so that Mason could give a bartender friend of his some of the beer we'd bought in Watertown. As the Distillery was in the middle of a craft fair, this turned into a longer visit than we'd expected. Blake made friends with a crafter who admired his knit Tick; he then thought it was hilarious to run away and go talk to her while Mason & I fanned out and tried not to panic. I suppose since her business card is pinned on his bulletin board, this counts as his first pick-up.

After this, the day got progressively less fun by degrees. We went to Fresh Collective for a new shrug; while I sorted through the various offerings, Blake (emboldened by his romantic success) dived under the sewing table in the back and flirted shamelessly while Mason tried to keep him from making a mess. Next was a disappointing trip to Rotate This for the new Apostle of Hustle & Years albums, which meant a detour to Soundscapes (buying music has become more complicated since we decided we preferred vinyl.) And then one more stop for yarn to fix the sweater Blake ripped last week, and we were on our way home. Once there, we discovered that the shed key was missing, meaning our plants would be staying in flats for at least a night.

I think we gave up then. Dinner was lovely, but tired. I decided to plant in the morning, before the first of the two parties. It didn't seem likely, but it was worth a shot.

Imagine my surprise when I was up at 7:30 the next morning, and ready to plant by 8. We got all the seedlings in the ground and started a few of the seed packets (there are still about a half dozen packs to be planted). Blake helped as best he could (i.e. when he remembered what he was doing) and my dad was there to drill holes in my stump. I've got this stump in my front yard, and this year I got the crazy idea that I would make it into a rock garden. The only thing was, the wood wasn't co-operating. I had envisioned a rough, pocketed surface, but my dad kept bringing in power tools that weren't very precise, and he kept forgetting that I didn't want the whole centre removed. Tempers frayed. I can't remember whose idea it was to bring rocks from the back and pile them on the stump, but it was brilliant. I added compost and my sad, dried out little rock garden plants. Voila! Instant rock garden. I just wish I'd thought of it before all the chipping and sawing and yelling.

I cleaned up and changed myself and Blake, and we were on our way to party #1. It was a small party, just a half dozen kids and that many adults. I'm pretty shy, so I hadn't expected to talk to anyone but Mason, but I surprised myself by being really outgoing and having a blast. Blake also had a blast, running around, playing with his new car toy (a bingo prize) and telling secrets.

Blake: "Daddy moved out because Mommy was mad at him all the time."
Me: "Hey! You don't have to tell everyone that. Just say that he moved out because he hated birthday parties."

Everything moved along quickly and soon it was time to go to party #2. We thanked our hosts profusely and walked back through to the park on the way home. Our second party was in the city, so after grabbing the second present, we were off to see Gamers, Former Gamers and Gamers v2.0. Sometimes I wish I didn't only see this crowd at birthday parties, but I suppose I should be grateful that I see anyone at all, stuck in the suburbs as I am.

Eaten: two hotdogs, two burgers, three allergy pills, three Diet Cokes, two pieces of birthday cake, various chips and snacks. Will my stomach ever recover? Maybe…but today I have a craving for pink streamers and pointy hats that mere food won't satisfy.

(As always, click through the pictures for more.)

why are you always f-ing ghosts?

2009-05-16T09:10:00.003-04:00

I'm home from work today, as last night I realized that my glands were so swollen that I couldn't blow my nose without feeling them. Scary. (This may or may not have had something to do with the hour of garden time before dinner, in which I pulled enough weeds to choke several horses.) I feel better today, but I'll be going to the doctor's later; if nothing else than to get a legitimizing note. Getting sick the day before the Victoria Day weekend is just a little too convenient to be believed.

"Hey you! Get out of the…uh…mayor's office!"
- Quimby yells at an itinerant steel drum player, who has wandered into the shot.

On the upside, I've finally achieved this week's goal of not working. On Tuesday I wanted to spend the day with my camera. On Wednesday I wanted to spend the day with my copy of This Book is Broken (about which, more later). Yesterday I had no real draw, I just wanted to stay home. And today I'm in the study with a lukewarm Diet Coke and glands that elevate my already-thick-to-begin-with neck to comedy status.

Before I got sick, though, there was Knit Night. Mason & I continued our bizarrely blessed knitting life by wandering into a book launch (free cupcakes!!) and were encouraged to start drinking before we had a chance to eat supper. This may have been why my credit card got a workout: I bought teal yarn for a February Lady (the It sweater of the moment), Mason bought supplies for a fair isle baby sweater, and together we bought a copy of Vintage Baby Knits, the book launched that night. It probably wasn't the beer, though. Spring makes me manic, and when confronted with a book of vintage baby patterns (and the teeny samples hung everywhere) I am likely to go a little nutty.

As you can see by the above, we also got a chance to play with the new camera, which saved Mason from concentrating on the fact that, until his finger heals, he won't be knitting his new yarn. How did he hurt his finger? Chasing a gorgeous shot, he tripped up the stairs and went down protecting the camera. This is the second time this year he's broken a digit protecting something precious while on a staircase, which is two times too many if you ask me. Still, the camera must be protected. Always.

Last night Mason made dinner while I whined piteously about my throat and tried to do soothing things. My vow to leave my new yarn alone until I'd finished my other projects went out the window, and I cast on for the F-Lady while reading Berman's opus.

(For those who don't know my real name, you should know that the guy who wrote the book on Broken Social Scene was my Arts editor at the Varsity in 97-98. My strongest memory of him is from the day that Lady Godiva wanted to seduce him and we ended up feeding cheesecake to a random writer whom I later married. Archives? There we go.)

I've been looking forward to this book, and much of it is the kind of late-night party reminisces of the Old Days that I craved. No punches are pulled about who was fucking whom, which is something they've been coy about putting on the record before, and this makes it an impossibly intimate book. I loved that. I loved all the details about the making of the records, and how terribly screwed up the last record was to make.

But, there are a few bones to pick.

Remedios gets way too much space to talk about how awesome his record label is, which is an important topic but not as important as he seems to believe.
Most of the narrative weight is on the band's formation and early days, which, to be fair, is what Stuart is most versed on having been there the whole ride. I wanted much more about the successful period, but other than "everything sucked, everybody was breaking up" there wasn't much. To be fair, this perception may be because I read the first few chapters over a couple of days, whenever I could get a minute, and the last half all at once while sick, knitting all the while. This may have artificially speeded up the timeline for me.
Dave Bookman needs to stop making snide remarks about 90's alternative fans, who have been allowing him to avoid real work for over ten years. It's not the fault of 15-year-old Nirvana fans (circa 1991) that CFNY sold out to corporate obnoxious crap.

My biggest issue isn't so much a complaint as a plaintive wail. This book makes you nostalgic for Torontopia, a time when I was too far away in Nova Gothic or consumed with staying alive in my stupid job to care about music. I missed it, as most of us did, and that's the problem with rock in general: you're always made to feel false nostalgia about a golden age, a perfect show or a watershed moment that you could never have known about. Knowing Stuart makes it worse; why was he allowed to live this cool life while I put aside my university days and went on with the next (boring) part of my life? I feel like I was just close enough to have really and truly missed out, and I don't know if that is the rock n' roll trope or my own sense of frustration.

Or, as Ophelia once said after a night of watching her boyfriend reminisce with a friend from home as they lit match after match…

"There is nothing more deadly than listening to stories about the Old Days when you weren't there." – march 17, 1997.

But how can you argue with a book that closes with a photo of Ohad's kid reaching out to Charles' while the parents look on proudly?

and when you knit it you ask for nothing, why don't you share it?

2009-05-12T06:52:00.001-04:00

Today dawned so sunny & lovely that I was sorely tempted to skip work and spent the day taking pictures. I didn't. But I really really wanted to.

I've finally come back up to speed on the crafting I dropped this spring. I was so deep in a hole from February onward that I not only didn't craft, I didn't want to. Yarn hung around patiently, waiting for me to notice. I left all of my unfinished objects alone, deciding to focus on anything but the sense of guilt and obligation. I waited, too.

Last week I started knitting again. This weekend, I almost ran out of projects. Truly, I am back.

nothing a pair of scissors can't fix

2009-05-11T21:22:00.002-04:00

I ♥ my new camera. We will be getting matching tattoos and having lots of babies.

More if you click through…

While I'm all about the love, I should say that the other new thing that stuck its claws into my brain, locked into my pleasure centre & shakes it these days is DIG! LAZARUS DIG!! Mason & I went to the concert last October, and even not knowing the new songs, I remember being surprised by how much it all rocked. I can take or leave the ballads he does; some are brilliant and some put me to sleep, and judging from the concerts I've been to since the late 90's, I'd expected this concert to have a healthy dose of quiet piano work.

This album is loud and frenetic and wild. He does things with his vocals that I haven't heard since the early Bad Seeds, or the Birthday Party. Every song on that disc is a different soundtrack to fuel my supercool daydreams in which I drive really fast, lay waste to hearts, smoke unfiltered cigarettes and never have to stop to do laundry for a small boy who finds it more convenient to use his shirt than find a napkin. Each song is a different flavour of manic, overlain with the threat of crushing sadness.

Despite the smoking hotness of "Let Love In" era Cave, I think I even prefer watching balding, mustachioed "Lazarus" Cave. He's putting out the best music of his life, he still dances like a spaz, and he's funnier than ever. I never dreamed there was an album like this left in him.

spelling america with a 'k'

2009-05-10T19:52:00.004-04:00

Spent the weekend in Watertown. Now that it's over, I'm having trouble remembering how it all fit together. I've had a cold for a week, which isn't too serious but comes with a runny nose and perpetual headache, both of which slow my thinking and scrub my memory.

I know it started with a dead mouse. When I came home from work on Friday, I found a mouse in the kitchen trap, its back half hanging out the side. Awesome, I thought. (You wouldn't be sentimental either if you knew that they were using your son's highchair to get to the counter or if you had to wash shit out of your pots every time you wanted to cook.) For some non-psychotic reason, I wanted to take a picture (vindictiveness?) which was when I discovered that my autofocus was busted and my latest point n' shoot was useless right before a vacation.

This was not the worst part, though. That came a few minutes later, when I emptied the trap in the park right behind my house as a gift to the scavengers and it started to twitch. Traumatic. I watched in horror as its convulsive twitching brought it a centimeter from where it was dropped; then my courage broke and I fled to the house, locking the gate behind me. Mason ended up using a garden shovel to put it out of my misery, which surprised me because I was the one who had to deal with the skinned squirrel that appeared in the backyard last summer.

Getting out of the city was a hassle. Mason couldn't find his passport, I had That Headache, and what with anxiety and irritation the packing took twice as long. We didn't get out of town until 6:15, which sucks when you have a four hour drive ahead of you. But we were fed, watered and walked, so we were able to go straight through. We got there at 10:30 or so, Blake sleeping in back and the two adults singing along to the radio to stay awake.

Preacher & Martha were waiting up for us, and we quickly initiated Mason into the Watertown diet, which relies heavily, if not exclusively, on beer and cigarettes. The only downside to the diet is that, by the time we were all ready to pack it in, it was unconscionably late for two sets of adults with very young boys. Blake proved this to be true just before 6 the next morning, when he arrived at my side, wet and repentant from soaking the bed. I let him dress himself, which was amusing, and it was about 10 before I was able to drag myself out of an allergy-swollen sleep to join the party.

It was Saturday morning, showing Mason the newly-restored historic downtown with the boys in a wagon, that I noticed Preacher & Martha's boss camera. I got my tax return last week, and after the car repairs got whacked off and I decided to put off a tattoo yet again, I found in me a deep desire for a spanking new camera. Preacher explained the awesome pictures that could be taken with this model; Martha poured fuel on the fire by extolling the bargains to be found at Sam's Club, and it didn't take much convincing before I resolved to take the plunge.

As we brought Mason from site to site and I looked at the ready-to-go wrought iron fountain, the still-crumbling Masonic lodge (my future home) and the Tiffany stained glass window that was completely blocked off before the library's restoration, I found myself calculating the views as one who would soon return with an awesome camera. Watertown's epic combination of the glorious and the crumbling are the photographic subjects of the gods, the exact thing to make my heart go pitter patter with voyeuristic lust.

Lunch was at the Crystal, where Mason confirmed my faith in him by falling as deeply in love with it as I. But poor Blake was sleep-deprived from his late-night arrival and early morning bedwetting, and a chocolate milk to one unused to such luxuries was not the best balm to his spirit. When he ran out before the food arrived, he demanded another, and by the time my tuna melt had arrived he'd had a little meltdown of his own. I spent a fair amount of time at lunch trying to coax him back inside the restaurant, asking him to sit down, reminding him to eat, hugging him when he cried and fending off his attempts to relieve his bruised feelings by throttling me. Preacher made a big deal about how slowly I finished my sandwich which earned him a caustic reply softened by a smirk; yes, I'm a slow eater, but if anyone else at the table wanted to hug Blake and risk the sudden choking, I didn't see any hands go in the air.

It was at some point at lunch when the subject of my mouse-ridden house came up. Preacher & Martha offered me their cat, a sweet tempered blue who has been unhappy ever since the puppy moved in. At first this was a joke: ha ha, an allergic couple is bringing a cat across the border! Then Martha offered a new litter box and the chance to return her in a month if it didn't work out. "Ok," I said cautiously, "but if I want to give her back, I don't want to hear any sassmouth."

"With us there's always sassmouth," Preacher replied. He picked up the cheque, and the deal was sealed.

Our gorgeous morning turned grey as we ate, and we hurried home to avoid the rain. Martha & I left the various boys to their various devices & went off to buy a camera. At Sam's, the only D60 left was the display. Not being particularly snobby about getting a product pre-smirched by little fingers, I asked about a discount. What they knocked off the sticker price was enough to pay for a carrying case & a smoking memory card. I was ecstatic. I floated through the rest of our errands, buying sheets and allergy meds but dying to get to an outlet and begin The Charging. After The Charging would follow The Insertion of the Memory Card and then! The Taking of Many Pictures.

But. My beautiful new (slightly sticky) camera would only take two half-pictures before the shutter quit completely. I was crushed. I walked out to the backyard, where Preacher and Mason were in the early stages of a bbq.

"My camera is defective," I announced. "I need a beer and a cigarette."

There were many consoling hugs, and promises that it would all get sorted out tomorrow after church. We decided that I would do a straight-up return/refund; later Martha offered to check out the Sam's Club near her church. These things being tomorrow's problem, I shoved aside the disappointment and we concentrated on getting supper into the boys with a minimum of spray, crumbs, dawdling and breakaways to fetch small toys. After dinner we piled into the cars and went to Sackett Harbour for ice cream cones, the final element in my comfort triumvirate (tri-comfor-ate?). And also, when the boys were put to bed, I had the added joy of the fire pit, a perpetual memorial to Preacher's mom that, not un-coincidentally, gives light, heat & primal soothing.

The next morning, still vaguely smelling of woodsmoke, Mason, Blake & I got ready for church. My original plan had been to walk, but it was cold and wet and Mason appeared to have sprained his ankle the day before. I didn't push it. Since we were a half-hour early, we decided to drive around and see if we could find any more fun features of Watertown. We managed to stumble across Thompson Park, which was worth it (if terribly chilly), and got to church – ta da! – two minutes late. Blake consented to visit Sunday School (which I thought terribly brave), and this was the best Mother's Day gift I could get, as it freed me to sit next to Mason and soak up Preacher's rather uncharacteristically casual sermon in peace. Breaking the usual rule of polite distance, I found us some kickass seats near the front and I could laugh, snort and gesticulate in response to Preacher's storytelling. I caught hell for it during the Peace, of course.

"Don't ever laugh at my sermon again," he warned me as we hugged.

"I was laughing with you!" I protested. (And I'm sure he wouldn't be able to handle complete humility from a girl who once went after the wafer with not so much as a by-your-leave.)

After church (and the obligatory snacks), I went off to return my first camera. We met back at the house, all of us more than ready for a late diner lunch at Sh(hhh)orty's (I told Blake & Good Hank that the extra 'sh' is to remind you to be quiet; this isn't Yellington's, you know.) I packed as quickly as possible, knowing that we'd still have to come back for the cat. Preacher and Sally looked at each other, clearly figuring out who was going to break the news. Uh-oh, I thought. They've finally decided to stop letting us come visit. But it was the cat; they'd had a moment with her the night before and decided to keep her. I was both relieved and crushed: no worries about allergies, but who was going to chase my vermin? It's probably better this way. I guess.

At the diner Blake managed to soil two shirts with his spaghetti & meatballs, and was taken to Best Buy with a hand-knit wool sweater zipped up to his neck. My new camera was the next model down, as it was on sale and still more expensive than my pre-smirched Sam's Club special. I resolved to be patient and not think about how long it would be until I was home and my battery charged up.

It wasn't until we were home, catless and yet laden down with much NY pale ale, new sheets, Ontario fudge and enough dirty clothes to choke a fish, that I realized my lovely new camera case (and my even lovelier unused memory card) were still in Watertown. And I cried.

Still, I hear that cases can be mailed, memory cards can be purchased locally, and Watertown will still be there when I have all my ducks in a row. It was a wonderful weekend, full of old favourites and the joy of introducing them to a new love. It was a rollercoaster of camera elation and crushing camera disappointment. It was Blake's joy in a new pet, and then the reality of saying goodbye to a cat we'd never really had.

Good thing the kids have tomorrow off; I'm just not ready to lead the youth of today in useful pursuits. As I said in September when I pulled in the parking lot on the first day of school, "I'm just coming here to come down."

we got love and hate; it's the only way

2009-04-30T19:29:00.002-04:00

Hey, look at me: not dead. I've felt sick even unto death for a good long while, which put a serious crimp into my extracurricular activities, but I'm better now. My getting-better started with a long doctor's appointment on the 20th, and the very next day everything was at least 300% better (despite struggling to get my reports in a day late, with all the stress that implies. Stupid double-damned report cards, from the fires of hell I stab at thee.)

The next week was devoted to the nature problem in my house, which started with the fact that I haven't felt well enough to do chores since February. Everything took a sharp turn for the worse when I discovered mouse leavings in my kitchen cupboards at the beginning of April but was too nauseous to deal with it until after the 20th. I still haven't cleaned out all of my cupboards and my cutlery is on the counter, but I'm pleased to report we caught a big fat mouse in the crawlspace and that may be the end of the problem.

Oh, and a determined skunk has been ripping up my lawn all spring in search of grubs. One night I watched the skunk fight off a raccoon and another skunk - apparently I have quite the delicious lawn grubs. Dealing with this has involved lots of cayenne pepper, but not a lot of results. So I'm mad at my house right now.

I'm continuing to surf the ups and downs of medication withdrawal. I'm discovered the rather unpleasant fact that all of the work I thought I'd done on myself and my dead marriage was apparently contingent on chemicals. Now that I'm on the other side, I'm angry, sad & anxious once more. Clearly I need to revisit this, but I'm not going back to my counselor. It's not his fault that the marriage counseling didn't take - I know that - but as a solo counselor he didn't inspire much confidence either. The problem is that, unless I get a prescription from an MD, I have to go through my employee program, and I've already burned through two out of their three pet docs. I'm not all that certain that the third will be any more useful than the first two.

Yesterday, while I was home from work, I ran a few long-overdue errands, including paying off both of my lawyers. Now I'm wondering if my separation lawyer can give me a counseling referral; she did, after all, like the black linen scarf I made her, and she must know a few counselors in her line of work. I can't be the only separated chick who needs her head shrunk.

i want kids with safety bricks

2009-04-05T17:06:00.002-04:00

It's Sunday afternoon, and I'm bemused to report that I've spent nearly all the weekend lying down. Again. I'm of the fidgety sort, the kind who can't choose to spend the day in bed. Even if I'm sick, I still shift around, move rooms, etc. So when I have the chance to stay in bed, and I seem to want to sleep an inordinate amount, I trust that natural restlessness to get me out sooner or later. This backfired (?) yesterday, when I went to bed at 9 on Friday and got out of bed at 2:30 on Saturday. And of course, this surfeit of sleep didn't refresh me so much as set the tone for a day of lying down. It was pretty much a full day of feeling weak, nauseous & bored, although there were bright spots. Mason spent part of the day cleaning the basement, a task I've admitted as hopeless for months. Also, he traveled a great distance for burritos and cupcakes for our supper. I just wish I'd felt better, or even recovering. Stacy prefers the term "cocooning" to "hiding," as the implication is of renewal or regeneration. I'm still waiting for my wings to unfurl.

It seems unfair that my lax publishing schedule should leave everyone with the impression that Blake has been an unrelenting torment for weeks (unlike my stomach, which truly has). His return from his March Break visit to Casa Nova was rocky, but his anger has smoothed out. I'd like to believe that the root of this improvement is because I'm going out of my way in the mornings to snuggle with him, going to him because he's too knackered to come to me (and this from the boy who saved me from setting an alarm clock for the first two years of my return to the working world, a kid we had to bargain with if we wanted to sleep past 5 a.m.). But I'm afraid that the real reason may be that my dad has begun to supply Blake with the Lego sets he misses from his father. (If my dad wants to compete, he's going to lose. Not only does the Boy have a head start, but his parents have started to get in on the act, while I refuse to participate.)

(On a bitter little tangent…I feel a little ripped off that Blake comes home from weekends away with story after story of museum, play centre, fast food restaurant and family visits; not because I begrudge Blake an afternoon of doing something other than playing outside while his mother reclines weakly on the couch (cough*cough), but because the last few years of life with the Boy were an endless wave of resentment whenever he was asked to leave the house on weekends. I had to plan everything if we were to do anything; the fact that he is suddenly able to initiate and follow through on something other than sitting at a computer screen makes me feel a little ripped off. But my bitterness, as with many other things, is more about me than the Blake.)

The point, as was lost somewhere, is that Blake is doing better than he was, and therefore I am doing better than I was. Except that I can't get off the couch, I'm pleased.

lost a week there

2009-03-28T19:59:00.002-04:00

In solidarity with the Harlot, I appear to have lost a week. Possible culprits include coming to the end of my last antidepressant prescription, a constant stomach ache that has sapped my energy and robbed me of sleep and simply returning to work after a week of Do As I Please (Sort Of). I remember ditching a dancing outing to go to knit night on Wednesday, and how good that sweet potato burrito went down (although I didn't knit a thing and went home after a mere hour and a half). I remember Parents' Night on Thursday, and how I started a tonne of marking right before (embarrassingly, breaking the seal on my marking procrastination that has been in effect since the start of the semester). That was the night that my stomach pain was at its worst, and I barely slept at all, spending Friday in a state of glassy-eyed exhaustion. I remember waves of deep despair washing over me, sapping my desire to do even the most rudimentary cleaning up after Blake and myself. I remember grimly fighting against those waves, trying to tell myself that they were just the rebound effect of 15 months on a powerful drug that kept me together when I needed it the most. I remember the stomach pain that underlay every moment of hunger, satiety and sleep, a twinge of nausea that kept me away from greasy comfort foods and tight jeans. I remember reading story after story to Blake, and how relieved I was every time his bedtime rolled around as it is the one thing he never fights. I remember Mason's own insomnia, and how hard it was to keep trying to convince him that it was worthwhile getting out of bed in the morning.

I'm pretty sure I wore clothes most, if not all of the time. I know that Blake ate meals on a regular schedule. Other than that, no details are certain.

Today I slept until near noon, then took Blake (who played on his own all morning) for a diner breakfast. This afternoon we have been outdoors, and I have spent a good deal of time on the couch. I can't believe that after 16 hours of sleep, I still feel dizzy when I walk.

terror of tiny town

2009-03-21T19:56:00.002-04:00

I started my marking backlog today. Ugh. I can believe that I used to have the patience to do this stuff for more than 10 hours straight. It took me hours just to mark on set of tests. Of course, I used to be able to spend all day with a novel, and those days aren't coming back any time soon. My laser-like focus is refracted these days.

Blake continues to be the terror of tiny town. He feels the need to fight every transition, no matter how much warning I give. And the need to run off immediately is getting pretty old too. The kid weighs over 40 pounds. I can't haul him over my shoulder like a sack of grain.

It's not a happy thing when our best moments consist of the immediate aftermath of fighting. I don't want to start getting rid of his stuff, but nothing makes him listen faster than the prospect of bidding his toys goodbye forever. Of course, this just fuels his desire to be in the Lego-rich Casa Nova. And where did he get these sets? His daddy made a chart, and gave him set after set when he returned weeks of positive reports (despite his teacher writing that the only thing he cared about was the report, and he has been known to haul off and sock a kid as soon as a positive report is entered in his log. Charming).

Yes, I've tried talking to the Boy about the stunning lack of success we're having with reward-centred behaviour modification. He doesn't seem to listen, or just thinks that ignoring my parenting concerns is another benefit of moving out. I feel like I'm struggling against a rip tide of Blake's misbehaviour, like I can't go a single day without a huge knock-down tantrum over something as simple as getting out of bed in the morning or going into the bath. This is wearing me out, and it's hard not to let grey despair overwhelm me when my co-parent is orbiting the moons of Saturn and my patience is held together with rags and staples. Mason is helping as much as he can, but I still feel like it's my responsibility to deal with this little beast myself. I just hope he grows out of this before I leave him to the squirrels in the back yard.

unfunky!

2009-03-19T20:00:00.002-04:00

Rough day today, my first full day back with Blake. I'm trying to tail off the medication I've been taking for more than a year, and the kid just will not stop talking about how much he'd rather be at his dad's place. Without another adult around, his little voice just bounces off my insecurities and the echoes are monstrous. I tried to explain to him that he was hurting my feelings, but he doesn't seem able to stop. I haven't been this ambivalent about mothering since the days he use to smile and gouge big nail tracks down my face, apropos of nothing.

When I wasn't completely losing my stuff and crying bitter tears, I was throwing myself into rehabilitating my upstairs bathroom. I don't usually do a full clean when I wash the bathrooms; I clean the high traffic area and call it good. Yesterday, as I was getting ready to host my troupe, I realized that the bathroom had slid beyond disreputable to wholly degraded. The shower curtain sheltered mildew and hung unevenly from a half-dozen surviving rings. The ring around the bathtub had established squatter's rights and occasionally ordered in a pizza. There was some weird reddish stuff on the tub. The windowsill was caked with soap and what I hoped was dirt from the other side of the screen. Sometime in the last few weeks, I managed to knock toilet paper dispenser right off the wall, and it hung around on the back of the toilet. There was some sticky orange stuff gunked onto the green bathmat. The sink stopper did its job too well and refused to drain. Everything was dank.

And, except for the sink stopper, I've fixed everything. The whole shower area is clean, including the shower curtain, which has been spruced up with new rings. The windowsill has been cleared of shampoo and soap, which is in a newfangled shower caddy. Toilet paper proceeds orderly from its old perch on the wall, and there's even a new storage thingee under it to hold new rolls. Everything is clean. I just need to pry up the sink plug before the accumulating toothpaste scum spoils my feeling of accomplishment.

festering, quietly

2009-03-14T19:57:00.000-04:00

Today is the first day of March Break. It has been a very quiet beginning; this morning we skipped the market and slept instead, and we've spent the day watching a movie, reading and knitting. Now Mason is gone back to his place for the night and I can't believe how lonely I am. Blake has been with his dad for over 24 hours and I'm going a bit feral. Must remember to shower tomorrow.

happiness is love

2009-03-12T15:43:00.001-04:00

Last night I went to see the Happiness Project at the Music Gallery (which is a fancy Anglican church on weekends). We were lured by the brief snippets played at BSS shows, and the fact that Laura Barrett was the opening act (!) So for over an hour, we watched experimental dialogue-songs played by some of the finest musicians I've seen in months. Seeing the Happiness Project left me oddly deflated, as I sometimes feel after a Friendly Rich show: worn out with wonder and dragging to return to a world of sub-trained players making noise masquerading as music.

I think my favourite part of the night (other than my front-row vantage and yet another opportunity to catch backstage glimpses of musicians) was seeing how many neighbourhood people made it out to the show. The album is built around the voices of the people in his neighbourhood, and a good many star voices were there to hear themselves transformed in public. Mrs. Morris, a voice that's lived in my head since August, was sitting two rows behind us. Vittoria was blushing directly behind us. And when the show was done, no hipster shuffle to the front; instead a mob of neighbours rushed up to hug Charles and congratulate him. It was grassroots in the best possible way: an elevation of the normal into the sublime and a beautiful gathering of music fans, Toronto scenesters and people who like to hang out on their porches. I felt happy & privileged to be there, watching it all with a huge grin on my face.

Laura also blew everything away, but I've come to expect that from her. If you don't like Laura Barrett then I'm not sure how I can relate to you. She's so innocent and sweet and winsome that I fell in love all over again, and the best thing was that Mason was right next to me, loving her just as much.

In less transcendent news, two of my students from last semester just got charged with over 200 crimes in connection with a crime spree. A crime SPREE! You'd think I'd have noticed something at the exam.

nope. not me.

2009-03-05T13:05:00.002-05:00

Last night four of my troupe were standing around in my kitchen, drinking tea and chatting before we started to practice our newest choreography. Juuki and Jessamyn linked arms, and one asked the other if they would tell them. I immediately began to wildly speculate. Jess took a deep breath.

"I'm not pregnant, but the person on my right is."

Immediately I hear thumping feet, as Mason runs in from the livingroom. "Calm down," I hollered. "I'm nowhere near her."

Later, when we were slow-dancing in my study to Patsy Cline, I thought back to this moment and giggled. "You were in a huge panic to see who it was." He grinned.

"'Somebody next to me is pregnant'? I didn't know Jess had that kind of power."

i refuse to make amends

2009-03-04T13:08:00.003-05:00

My vaague stomach cramps have gone away. Having a wussy illness sucks: you're not well enough to do anything but not sick enough to get any sympathy. I spent a day sleeping and keeping Blake away from my belly (he knows it bugs me, the devil) and a day gingerly trying food. At least we can exorcise the spectre of pregnancy, which would be awkwardly timed at best.

My health has cleared up just in time for my first knitting-free staff meeting. Having just finished Clarissa Dickson Wright's autobiography with all the AA content, I'm starting to wonder if She Who Must Be Obeyed woulf like me to admit that my knitting is out of control and I need to give myself to a higher power. One that isn't Elizabeth Zimmerman, one assumes.

zzz

2009-03-03T13:05:00.001-05:00

I'm starting to feel as if my spirit is rooted to the ground. I had a sick day yesterday (stomach cramps) and here I am, back on duty but completely unwilling to do anything. Yesterday I fell asleep at 1, got up at 5 to greet Blake and see him into bed, and was back in bed by 8. I am glutted with sleep, and all I can think of is lying down again. There's a part of me that regrets missing last night's dance class (only two more!) but that part is easily drowned out by waves of lethargy.