Post Christmas Apocalyptic Travel Nightmares

I need a fucking car. Right fucking now. A year of being an environmentalist has been enough.

Yesterday I took the acadian lines to New Glasgow to visit Nancy with Maddie. Cost for the entire trip: $103.50 (88.50 for the return tickets plus 15 bux for a damn cab after I JUST missed the number 9 downtown). Today bus back again (this time the bus was packed and we got the just-beside-the-bathroom seats.) Tried to get picked up to no avail... no one was answering. So we caught a crosstown bus... three big bags, a car seat, the kid and I. Tomorrow I get BACK onto a bus to go to sydney. I need my freakin head examined.

My head is aching and I'm tired. Hopefully the bus ain't smooshered tomorrow so I can kick back, read, listen to toonz and snooze. Luckily the princess will be back with daddy so I don't need to treat the trip like an adventure, just something to be got through.

Maybe I'll bring beer. :D

Capote

Funny how watching a movie about a writer, more specifically about a writer who is very engaged in the process of writing, makes one consciously seek precision in the way one regards the film. Accordingly, I felt that Capote was an engaging examination of the range that can be travelled between human being and consummate artist.

I guess in this instance, consummate artist is a pejorative term, without the grace added by the perspective of time; while one can admire, say, Milton's dedication to his art, can you imagine being his friend and going to him with your beefs about a neighbor? Even with your own thoughts about art? Think he'd be sympathetic? Think he'd be a cool guy to hang out with?

Capote answers that.

Baking

If I don't eat some real food soon I will be sick. I made mint brownies this afternoon and have Christmas Bread rising now and I've been picking all day. Sushi for brunch was a good choice, though.

Sean comes back tomorrow, hooray! I miss the days when my friends would come over to play games. But Heather and Dave won't be here, Lisa and Dave won't come in, everyone's busy with their own stuff.

Whoops I haven't cleaned yet.

Alcohol is a Depressant!

Remember in school when you learned that? And like me, you probably thought, yeah, right! Grown ups. Whatever!

IT'S TRUE!! fantastical. blows my mind.

blow my mind.

I'm fourteen and feel like writing poems with lots of blood and drama in them.

Toilet Paper and Politics

My daughter is mad at me about toilet paper. You see, two shopping trips ago, I found myself wandering down that paper products aisle I normally avoid because we were nearly out of tissue for the loo. Normally I buy Majesta, cause I'm not pansy enough to think that my lily-white ass needs "quilting" or "cashmere" softness or any other such nonsense. This time however, I found myself whistling that damn catchy jingle about 'less is more' from the Charmin commercials.

This appeals to me on two levels: less is more implies less paper product wasted, and more trees living happy longer lives; and I like to reward fine marketing work such as jingles that really stick (this is the reason I was a Casino Taxi girl for years). So I consciously chose to buy that brand, based on those reasons, plus the fact that the package came with a bonus "roll hanging extender" to help the extra large rolls fit on your regular TP dispenser.

So why is she mad? The rolls don't fit. The extender doesn't work. When the roll is new it is roughly the size of a hay bale and it just doesn't turn without tearing off the one small square you're holding. And while I don't believe in excess waste, anyone can tell you a square ain't enough. The protest in my bathroom has appeared in the form of the roll consistly being on the floor now, not on the wall. And Maddie growled at me once during a middle-of-the-night pee run.

What's the connection to Paul Martin's Liberals, you ask? Well, I give you a moment to make your own punchline here... ... but the connection is effective marketing. I've become addicted to Scott Feschuk's blog and am actually considering voting Liberal, despite having been an NDP all my life, solely on the basis of the party with the best sense of humour wins. Is it any less valid than their stand on gun control? It's more relevant to me!! And the NDP don't even HAVE a blog, that I can find (ok, we do have Rabble and that's something). Will marketing win out? Or sanity and reason? God help me if the Libs get a catchy jingle.

Holiday Procrastination!

I need to:

• Wrap
• Finish shopping
• Organize
• Clean
• Bake

What I have done this morning:

• made breakfast
• drank coffee
• read the Herald
• listened to CBC
• scored 118 on Tetris
• caught up on Locals.

Fa la la laaaa.

Christmas Party Fun

Our work open house was yesterday, which basically turned out to be about four hours of being "on", chatting, shmoozing, looking for opportunities to chat up programs and other staff. Yay. Funz.

Sean came, and was a real trooper, cause hanging around someone else's work / staff party for six hours can be a royal drag. All kinds of different people were here, and it was a great time. Lots of happy chatter. Happy chatter = happy funders = happy financial picture. I hope.

Two folks from Locals came in (Rod brought my Rocking the Stocking compilation, which I'm listening to now!), and Tony from Speedy, and other than that, I can't really trace any specific people to my invitations, but there was about 100 people, so it was ok anyway.

Best time chatting during the evening was with Andrew Safer, a friend of Nadine's, who is Buddhist and like so many other Buddhists I've met, has that wonderful centered gravity. Talking to him was like finding a quiet glade on a mountain and breathing in the still air. That sounds very odd, considering the hectic chatter throughout the room, but it's true. New Year's resolution: visit one of those Shambala Wednesday nights.

sad cat

in here bound
stuck to the ground
too heavy and full of kibble
and catfish

birds soar mockingly
flit with their light bones just
beyond the glass
across the grass

i could have caught them once
leaped like cousin panther high
but now i am fat
static, pat

dragged down by domesticity
and satisfaction
bleached of kitten colourful
antics by the hard sun of time

the warm carpet
is sad solace
i won't be ridiculous
and try

life's a beach

Started reading The Beach by Mark Garland this week. The one the DiCaprio movie is based on. So far, it's engaging. Reminiscent of Graham Greene's books, but that could be partly the setting.

I'm going to the Dominican again this spring. Apt timing. My first trip gave me the space to realize that I was sacrificing myself by staying married to Julian; not that Julian was a bad person, just that my tendency to subsume myself in a relationship would not allow a healthy resolution. The result was my divorce.

Julian just called to tell me he and Sharon will be marrying this spring, sometime around March. I go to the DR at the end of March. The circularity of life continues to amaze me, even while I know I should be used to it.

I think that Ourobouros tattoo I've been pondering for a few years is the appropriate way to celebrate.

Office space, leg wear, and the possibility of new digs

At lunch today I visited my old work place. They are renovating the hell out of it. I was somewhat bitter to note that my replacement now has an office. I developed that position to a place where it could be recognized as a job needing its own office. Seven years I put in, and now ... someone else reaps the benefit. Oh well. I still love my current job WAY more than that one.

This morning's Herald featured an ad from Mills Brothers. Usually I don't read these ads because... well, because I don't like to have my low-caste roots thrown back at me I guess. Today it came home to me that I will never in my life spend $72 on a pair of tights. TIGHTS!! Sheesh. Even if I were a doctor, or lawyer, or had unlimited funding... I might spend it in that case, but not without a frisson of doing something illicit. $72. Tights.

The opportunity for a nearly ideal three bedroom flat has fallen into my lap. Washer, dryer, dishwasher, hardwood, near where I am now, friend living downstairs, still close enough to the school zone that to move would not jeopardize Maddie's staying there... AND the building's owner is a very good friend of mine. He is not advertising the place, will hold it till we can move in and is negotiable on price. And it's not in a basement.

Ask sincerely, and the universe will deliver. Hooray!

The newsletter is out!

The newsletter over which I have been sweating blood for lo these two weeks is DONE! Faithful readers or one-time blog jumpers, if the environment or design interest you and you want to have a look, check here. Am I still jealous that that Eco-Romulan Mark Butler is on Cable 10 for an hour? ... Not really. Well. Kind of. But why the Straight Goods? I know Brian Lee Crawley is an avid cyclist, but I would think that with AIMS' market focus, environment would be low on his priority list. But hey, the fed Green Party is right wing politically, why not?

Anyway, in other news, reading Dr. Andrew Weil, taking my St. John's Wort and Ginko and eating mostly very healthy wholesome food is definitely helping my energy, even while I'm not getting enough sleep this week. Monday set the tone for the week when I caught the late show IMAX version of Harry Potter. I have many comments which I will post another time, but I think the movie did a grand job of distilling a large, beautiful book. Of course, ideally it would be longer and more detailed... but then it would six hours long. Oh well.

Happy Birthday Roger Stone

Went to the Parade of Lights last night. 75,000 others had the same idea. Little crowded. You'd think with that many people it would have been warmer. It was a nice parade...long! But nice. Maddie enjoyed it from the comfort of her car seat. It struck me how funny it is that we all go with these portable seats and accoutrements. It's another way we developed country citizens maintain our territorial sense of personal space. As a defensive protective mom, I did some jostling with my neighbor to ensure my kid got the same access to curb as her three mini demons.

After dropping off Maddie for a Nana-Grampa sleepover, Sean and I took advantage of a seized free Saturday night by searching out the apparently ONLY bar in the city with no cover charge: O'Carroll's. Our selectivity paid off dearly: we wound up with a $55 bill for our three double drafts each and sauteed mushroom snack. Anyway, we settled in on arrival and enjoyed some joyful tribute music. We had a nice discussion about whether the dismissal of cover bands is a "youth" trait; when you get older, IMO, you develop a greater appreciation for hearing familiar music performed with delight and quality. Anyhow, Roger Stone and Dave Dobson ripped through a set with great songs like Sloop John B, Under the Boardwalk, Ring of Fire, Farewell to NS, etc. It was comfortable, warm, happy, not overly crowded... a nice evening. Plus, we got cake cause it was Roger Stone's birthday.

AND... the bathrooms at O'Carrolls are a dream. Sigh.

On Not Having a Car

A-I love being a passenger. Bus rides are fine by me.
B-I like the freedom of the bus pass.
C-it probably encourages me to not spend as much since I have to carry what I buy.

BUT
A-it sucks to slug home 10 pound bags of kitty litter
B-It sucks to have to schlep up to Clayton Park to get cat meds
C-I could pack more errands into a day on the weekend if the buses ran on week times or if I had a car.

Sigh.

On Public Washrooms, II

Stage Nine has really atrociously bad washrooms. Ok, all bars do, but I've been there most often recently, so let me catalogue the ways the ladies room at Stage 9 sucks:

• None of the doors lock properly
• At least one toilet is ALWAYS running... waste of water.
• There is no room at the sinks.
• Rarely is there soap
• The sign was off the door last time, leading to loads of confused newbies, debating while hopping from foot to foot: "Is this the women's washroom, do you think?"
• Tiny tiny stalls
• Dirty as a horseshit stall on the muckers' day off. Gross.
  

full moons and foggy days

bad mix. I feel some howling coming on.

down the tracks
softly walk
stalk the night
through tunnels dark
and into the light
carry on restless heart
your day will come

Ah the joy...

... that is the UTI. The sweet red taste of cranberry juice, leading to the sweet hot heartburn; the solid satisfaction of having to pee all the damn time. And let us not forget that crowd pleaser, the sulfa drug.

Ugh.

Macrobiotic diet, here I come. On the plus side, guzzling 2 litres of cranberry juice has served to keep me from getting hungry. There may be a diet in there. The cranberry juice fast.

My doctor is pretty cool. And he hooked me up with about $140 worth of birth control samples. Hooray!

Remembrance Day shows

At the One World last night, caught Gilbert Switzer, Jeff Coll 5 and Gary Flanagan. The air was thick with irony. Switzer are a charming trio; the girl (Meghan?) is cute as a button and one of those people other people like on site. The singer, "Uber", is dynamic, and I liked some of the parts where he was singing and not screaming. His blog features some very fine poetry. And the third guy... uh... "shaved head guy"... is a good foil for the other two. All three look like they genuinely enjoy what they're doing, and there is a really good, non-ironic vibe to a band who sticks around and enthusiastically supports the other bands playing.

But. Ah yes, but. They perform that kind of yelling punk for the most part that doesn't have much of an audience in the over 28 crowd. Which is to say, I felt very old watching them, which sort of soured me for a while.

Jeff Coll 5, however much irony Sean ascribes to them, are a tight, good musical unit. As previously at Gus', I was impressed with their updated 80s sensibilities and dance groove. Insane Jesus wasn't there, but the show didn't really lack without him. I love the three keyboards! Gosh, it feels like surfacing to a familiar island after a long time lost in the sea of guitar rock. There are such a pack of them (8 or so members?) that there's always something fun to watch. And Jeff Coll himself is such a Matthew Broderick / Ferris Bueller little thing, kind of funny and driven and very entertaining to watch in that indie white-guy-dancing kind of way.

Gary Flanagan was like a weird collision of Kevin Smith on slimfast, Gary Numan, and some guy that a friend of mine used to date--we called him "Mark the Doormat". He did a strange sort of entertainer / schtick / 80s tribute ironic melange that featured a sock puppet, the Dancing Robot, and sound samples from ABC and Styx among others. He did passable (and terribly ironic) covers of Depeche Mode, New Order and Talking Heads that left me confused over whether it was ok that I actually enjoyed the music or not. A highlight was catching the OW owner completed breaking out behind the counter to one of the covers... it made me feel like I was in high school for a brief moment.

From One World, we headed to Stage Nine where we caught a West African drum set by Fola, Benn Ross' Fabulous Band and some of Jenn Grant. Unfortunately I petered out before Down with the Butterfly, but got the chance at the door to give them kudos for the CBC story. The first two bands did a lot to eradicate the leftover bad feeling from the heavy dose of young and ironic at OW. Fola in particular proved so infectious I couldn't stand still. I was dazzled by three young ladies on the floor who had taken African Dance classes and were illustrating some of the rhythms. I was jealous of their uninhibitedness--once I too danced with abandon. But I need a supporting partner in crime usually for these forays, and I had no girlfriend with which to cut loose.

Benn Ross and Fola were entirely the antithesis of irony. I love that about Halifax. In one evening, we caught six bands, each very different from all the others. Cover for the night: seven dollars each. Sweet.

Reading

It's funny how lost I can become in reading. Five hours passed today as I finished Wally Lamb's "I Know This Much is True", and in that time I sat, immobile, transported and transfixed. Drank a coffee, and, near the end, finally got a bun to eat. Coming out of a book that immerses me that fully is a bit like a vacation re-entry. I need time to clear my mind of the book, to shake off the tendrils of emotion that were the characters', and not mine. Reading has always done this for me. Perhaps that's why I have favoured scifi books... pulp fiction is more like a shallow bath, easy to step out of and shake off, and less like a deep ocean dunk. Or perhaps more closely, a deep mud immersion. The feeling sticks for so long. Like travelling to a foreign country for a long journey, I come out of a good book with an accent, speaking with a tinge of the author's voice.

This isn't a book review. The book is fantastic, full of imagery of being trapped, of monkeys and rabbits and parallels; but it is all too new and jumbled in my mind to give a coherent reaction.

The Death of Marketing

Brazilian Street Cleaner advertisement

More and more advertisements are mini feel-good stories, or created on that Nike sensibility of building a vision of how things oughta be, with the theory that that vision becomes the brand. Not all brands are successful at tying their actual products or name to the ads, so instead the ads simply promote their feel good message.

So, has marketing co-opted the message... or has the message co-opted the ad?

addendum

In light of yesterday's tragic death of two young girls who were riding an ATV: it is very sad that that had to happen to make the government reconsider their pathetic spineless legislation. When things are legal and unregulated sometimes people think that means they aren't dangerous.

Dear ATV dad:

Dear dumbass who thinks it's a great thing that his son, aged three, rides a three wheel offroad vehicle:

Just because your parents plunked you on a skidoo at age 5, and probably gave you beer at age seven, doesn't give you the right to pass along pathological stupidity. Sound a little harsh? You fucking sell the machines, and you're USING your child to defend your right to sell em to any asshole with a couple grand. Harsh is too good for you.

I hope your comeuppance is not related to a tragedy. Instead I hope you get what you deserve... a snotty seventeen year old who tears up your mom's rose garden with his hog before barfing on your kitchen floor because he's been riding machines for years and has no respect for the earth, the machine, the law, safety or limits.

Unless... are you training him to help you sustainably harvest a woodlot?



Yeah, I thought not.

On Public Washrooms, I

So, why, when entering a stall and seeing usually an innocuous piece of tissue in clear water in the bowl, do people feel compelled to flush? Two possible reasons why it's there: the last person very genteely wiped the seat, or perhaps they wiped their nose after flushing.
What is accomplished by flushing, other than wasting water? Are the sophisticated cheeks of your ass too delicate to face anything but clear water? Will the tissue interfere somehow with the pristinity of your fecal matter or urine stream??

I mean, people, really. What is accomplished by flushing, other than to release a very fine spray of toilet water into the air, thus probably "germinating" your nether region more than it otherwise would be.

I know I'm feeling better when I'm feeling random rants come on. Stay tuned for a rant on stupid fucking asshole idiot parents who want their kids to ride ATVs.

still

Mostly it's the stillness I avoid

healing quiet
reveals the gaping hole
where i should be


The stillness creeps up on rainy days and when I sense it near I
dive for the remote the computer the phone
the noise will hide me

I can't abide
me.

I don't want to be
still.

Seitan and Country Gospel

Yesterday for lunch we went to the Wooden Monkey, on Maddie's vehement urging. As usual, she ordered ginger beer, and as usual, didn't drink it all ('too spicy'). But she enjoyed her quesadilla. Robie wasn't there for her to say hi to, and we thoroughly confused Alan by calling from the restaurant since someone from Nanny's had called us earlier.

Sean had a pizza which he quite enjoyed, and I finally got my first taste of seitan, after mulling over the potential pronunciations and mispronunciations, and finally just plunging in and saying it completely wrong. It was delish. Yet again I am certain that, had I a live-in chef, I could be slim, healthy and eat sustainably.

Of the three or four options that last night presented for entertainment, we wound up choosing the Stage Nine show on the strength of curiousity and some good reviews. We arrived toward the end of the first band's set, which I regret incredibly... the Sorrys were exactly the kind of 80s-inspired straight-on pop I love. The two catchy tunes we heard have convinced me to seek out another show by the band, asap. The next band was the hypnotic Sleepless Nights, who had that great drone-y sound that makes me feel relaxed and stoned. Not my favourite, but they were definitely enjoyable, especially the last tune with the extra jangly tambourine.

Third band of the evening were the SS Cardiacs (version 7.0, as announced by singer Jessica... stein?) They were brilliant, and since my brain works in Borg-like fashion, assimilating new experiences by tying them to the known, I am compelled to make very outside comparisons to the Weakerthans and Julie Doiron. But the singer had a unique voice, and the band had a great sound, and I look forward to seeing more and may in fact seek out their album to buy. (Should've gotten it last night... doh).

Jon-Rae and the River, the headlining act whose good reviews from sackville had bolstered our decision to go, was... meh. Definitely didn't enjoy them as much as the lead-up acts. They were interesting, but struck me as formulaic in a way, with each song having an outrageous premise (every second song seemed to prominently feature the word 'fuck')... this seemed like a contrived contrast to their "gospelly" sound and was a bit smug. And then, each song seemed to start off traditional style, guy / gal vocals to a standard pace and then kick into high gear about 2/3s through, which is effective when mixed up and used sparingly, but when used in every song is a bit boring. All of which sounds harsh, and is definitely more critical than it ought to be, since they did make my toe tap and made me smile. And they looked like they were having balls of fun, which is definitely worth something.

I was spoiled by the openers, I guess. Definitely looking forward to seeing the Cardiacs and the Sorrys again.

Tired

I wish I could find the magical combination of caffeine and slumber that would make me feel truly awake. I'm tired of this somnolent dragging about and lack of energy. I don't know if soporific stress, brain-fogging depression, or simple lack of sleep is to blame, but usually this time of year I have those great, "I feel so alive" moments after dark when I feel as if I could fly away on the sharp air toward the full moon, wafted on woodsmoke and the chill breeze.

Vitamins? Wiccan ritual? Exercise? Danceable tunes? What will be the prince's kiss to waken me?

Two hours later, since this post wouldn't upload:

Naps are magical. I'm not quite at the toe-tapping, get-down stage yet, but I feel alive again. Although two hours is a tiny bit indulgent...

Last Night's Cinematic Pick: Sahara
Saw the movie Sahara last night, after reading the book a few months ago. Cussler is one of my new favourite flavours of pulp. Although McConnaughey is quite delicious, I actually slept through pieces of the movie. Movie compared to novel ratio of interesting was ... um.. nothing. I have a theory that to make the movie they wrote on little slips of paper fifteen things from the book, put them in a hat, stirred them around and plucked them out at random, then strung them together with an entirely new narrative, written by the janitor after the creative team was fired. Or something.

I really don't much like Penelope Cruz at all. Steve Zahn, however, had some dorkishly brilliant moments.

so the plan was...

Go to New Glasgow. In exchange for use of company car, work for free doing NG Community Swap. Sure thing. Must have put in at least three hours planning for this by now. Booked the car.

It's my sister's birthday.

But then... the other car has to go in to the shop.
No, wait... never mind. It can wait.
But we need that car to do audits!!

Rent a car? No authorization.
Take a bus? Too expensive, plus the ordeal of transporting display stuff by bus.

No, wait, the audits tomorrow are taken care of. Take the car.

I have had no lunch.

But! There's an audit tonight!

well... you could...

or....

CANCEL THE DAMN TRIP IS WHAT I CAN DO.

Fuck the works.

I forgot my wallet. I have to steal a ticket to get home on the bus.

I miss the ferry.

My head aches. I can't get high. There just ain't no drug out there.

i can't fight your demons mine are winning

right behind you
swinging wildly
tending
your wounds
soothing
your beasts
fighting
your battles

a thousand tiny spears pierce my back
and the poison seeps in.

the writer dreams on a barefoot wakeful evening

Every word
Dripped onto page:
Rises,
Dusts herself off and leaps into
Reader-engaging, charming,
Heart-wrenching, heat-inducing, endearing
action,
dance giggle wink shake embrace weep laugh fascinate

in a slow-growing dervish whirl, a plot is
woven a
heart is broken
a cat yowls in the dark night
and the denouement--

the denouement washes down like warm sweet tea.
Peace and a dark screen.

And then, the writer pads upstairs, back to
bed back to
warm back soft breath
snuggle and sleep.

Split Crow food

Last night we had supper at ye olde Split Crow, that venerable Halifax institution. It was wing night, but I forgot and ordered shark. I've had the shark there before and it has invariably been good... i'd had a good low fat eating day to that point so I felt pretty virtuous about my shark and rice.

The shark tasted like it had been soaked in perm solution. Really. It was the most horribly nasty taste imaginable, and I'm just that stupid that I had three bites to be SURE I wasn't just imagining it. I flagged down our curly mopped waitress and sent it right back, remembering the Wing Night as I did, so I asked for six wings instead (I had tucked away my rice before sending the shark back).

The wings were pasty and ickily non-crispy. Who makes soft wings?? WTF? Altogether, a disappointing evening at what used to be one of my favourite places, back in the day.

On the other hand, the night before, Sean and I ducked into YFM to escape the rain, and discovered it was burger night, where the second burger platter ordered was only 2 bucks. Their veggie burger was not dry, it was tasty, and their fries were supremo (not quite Nail & Kneecap, but then, that's asking a bit much).

Am I eating out too often? Yes, indubitably, but in my defense, Sean's dad was down and we were eating out to entertain him. Honest.

Working from Home

A somewhat productive morning despite the sick kid underfoot. Today is mostly an up day so far. I'll celebrate at noon in case it changes. Best part of working from home: making healthy lunches. Today's menu: Brown Rice with sauteed Italian vegetables. Yum. (we'll see what the kid says).

another wasted night looking at my computer monitor

At least I got the dishes done.

Should I look at the MACT program again? Something to consider.

Now I'm off to see if a bath will fix what red wine didn't.

Morosity

Is that a word? I wish I could shake these blues.

grey cloud descends and it's
a good day to
stare

dark windows
look back

I can't do anything right
but curl up in a blanket
and just
sleep.


Today I took two wrong turns trying to find the exit to the Valley and managed thus to drive for almost an hour and never leave the HRM. I am too incompetent to be an adult. I am too incompetent to be. I am too incompetent.

HPX - Mock Explosion @ Gus'

I have a bunch of things to get done, but first a long blog post is definitely in order.

Last night S and I rocked the Mock Explosion at Gus'. An early show, full of the Local brand of Scene Attendees (as a social observer, it piques my interest at events like that to try to put the face to the avatar as it were. It's kind of like bird watching). I'm sure there's a whole post on the social science and protocols of your virtual and real worlds colliding, but this is about the music.

Mark Black had some kind of speed hard punk thrash metal sumpin sumpin to start off the evening. I've read his blog on occasion, and been impressed with some of his insight and passion around the CBC strike, so I would have expected a more lyrical and reflective music style, had I thought about it ahead of time. However, Die Broke or whatever they were called, were too loud, too guitary, had no discernible vocals, and made my ears bleed. They made me want to seek out a Signal Hill show.

Luckily I had previewed online tunes by the next two bands so I didn't despair. I plugged my ears, watched the very pretty M. Catano et al eat cookies, and bided my time. I also took a moment to admire some of the skin art around... a nice big-ball bowling tatt on a lovely young lady with a cool hair cut caught my eye.

The Jeff Coll 5, apparently a reunion of some sort that featured members of various other scene bands (DBN is the only one I can remember off hand), was up next. Awesome edgy dancy pop: singers were a deranged jesus sort and a clean cut looking young fella who reminded me of Steve Miller the SMU bootlegger. The Steve Miller guy ripped up the floor dancing when the other guy was singing, like a boy gogo dancer on speed. The band also featured none other than the gypsy hippie gal whose dancing I've admired at so many sloco shows. Wearing jeans she seems more down to earth, but still is an embodiment of joy and grace. A somewhat creepy skinny girl was hitting on her later, next to me on the dance floor. "No sullying the gypsy!" thought I, inwardly... but minded my own business.

After JC5, Tom Fun were up. Pipes, guitars, fiddle, stand up bass... I was already dancing to their set up and didn't rest till they stopped. They were fan-freaking-tastic. There was no sense of, "this is a chance for me to show off my guitar skills," or what have you. They were tight, all about the songs, all about the crowd and the energy coming off them could blow the roof off. I loved every second... how Ian's Tom Waits growl played counterpoint to the Yellow gal's interpretation of Carmen Townsend's vocals; how Lachie Macdonald was rocking the mandolin like I've never seen one rocked before... how there were three guitars and yet guitar did not dominate. No one thing dominated, in fact, so the music won out. That's pretty visceral and I'm not sure I can explain any better, but they were Rawlins Cross for a new generation, Broken Social Scene of the east coast, and they owned.

And then, the cap to the evening: a special top secret appearance by one of the stars of the Pop Explosion who were most officially NOT Japanther but may in fact have been very very much like them. Wicked two person dance punk (I guess that's what you'd call it)... it was fresh and different and they had pink telephone microphones which unduly impressed me.

Outside it rained and stormed, and inside, we danced. Gus' shook.

We skipped down to the Seahorse after where they served me coffee, and for our six dollar entry fee, we watched that testostorone-laden fool Epworth do about four or five songs. Also got to see Victor have a little hissy fit at two very busy bartenders because he couldn't find chalk for his pool game. "Never mind those customers, I NEED POOL CHALK." And so, the mighty Vic strives to tear down another rock institution in Halifax by bending it to his needs. Never mind that, I know not of what I speak, only that's what I perceive.

The new Seahorse ambience was not conducive to continuing our groove, so we headed home to finish grooving in private.

Hooray for Pumpkins

I've spent the last few weeks really focussed on trying to pare down my clutter and clean up the apartment. Tomorrow S and parents come for Thanksgiving dinner which may explain partly my haste. I'm pretty happy with where it's at so far... not done, of course, but my life isn't a TLC show.
I was going to buy the stuff to make a pumpkin pie today, but then I realized I could just buy a pie for $3.00. I guess mom's spirit has loosened its hold on me, cause it didn't bother me at all.
I finished getting the dining room wrangled into position and planning a menu. Nothing too fancy. I'll roast the potatoes with the turkey, make bread stuffing, cranberry sauce, green beans, and maybe some sweet potatoes/carrots, and of course, gravy. Should be ok.
I'm tired as heck. Wish I wasn't. Rainy days always get me down. (Mondays too, sometimes).
Think I'll make some coffee and keep trying to get Maddie to go for a walk with me to have a look at where the flats are in the West End.

accountability rant

I've been reflecting the last few days on the dazzling stupidity of "accountability" as it is currently interpreted. There is so much damned emphasis on measuring and measuring, and goddamn baselines, that nothing can ever get done.

Baseline measures take forever; and in the meantime, we don't want to start anything, by god, cause if we do, we might adversely affect the baseline measure and then we'll have to start again. So we wait and wait and try to get a perfect measure in an imperfect world, and in the meantime... students don't learn, greenhouse gases ruin our atmosphere, our government wastes dollar after dollar on studies to study the results of the studies.

Ugh. Rant, rant.

Time keeps on slippin...

It seems like time keeps getting away from me, and not enough gets accomplished, but my progress on "clean sweeping" my apartment at least is coming apace. I have only a few trouble spots left to tackle and I've moved out massive amounts of garbage and unneeded items.

Today Maddie and I sorted her room, including all the tiny toys, and let me tell you... whoever invented Polly Pocket was an evil, devious, demented human. I mean that.

Crazy medical problems

I guess it's not surprising that shortly after my 35th birthday, I suddenly start to fall apart in myriad strange ways. I have some kind of weird infection in my ankle (after wearing bad shoes and having an achilles-located blister burst). My ankle is puffed out, red, and sore and I've been walking like an 80 year old with a bad hip. Also I have some sort of lower abdominal thing that feels like my ovaries are bruised.

Other than that, I'm feeling a bit uninspired and insipid. I'm sleeping mostly today.

things I hate

hate seems to be the theme of today's vitriole. Here's my top five du jour:

1. Stupid fat white men who, by dint of propiniquity have become "somebodies" in their little tiny corner of the universe and who thus think they are justified to patronize intelligent non-blonde younger women... ie, me. You dumb napoleonic complex moron, a blog is not a technology anyone is selling you.

2. Not having a personal chef

3. Gaining weight and then having my five year old tell me that my "butt is getting bigger".

4. Obnoxious fatcat corporations who have tonnes of money and who "consult with their stakeholder groups" and then make their CESR commitment to "charities that help children"... ie, charities that allow them to have their CEO on tv with frail darling little bald cancer victim kids. In other words, the PR matters to them, not the cause (don't get on me, I weep for sick kids as much as the next person). Guess what--protecting the environment sure as hell isn't HURTING kids, ya dumb arse.

5. Being tired all the time and not having time to exercise. See no 3.

Still time for drinks!

Well, it's happened, September has sprung and, as predicted, work is absolutely manic, Maddie has started school, church is starting up again and everything is going berserk. But there's still time for a chill Saturday night, little tequila, little illegal smilin'--no Big Brother, though... damn you, tennis!!

The tequila is working the kinks out of my spine right now.

Going out to catch Carmen Townsend and Slowcoaster tonight, but not JSB cause they S-U-C-K. Working on my honorary doctorate in Being a Caper. I really enjoy Carmen's voice... it's a little raspy, a little rough, a little Bonnie Raitt and very genuine. Looking forward to the show... and of course, Sloco, a guaranteed good time.

Spent some time today daydreaming what I'd do if I won 8 mil in the lottery... a house for me and Maddie with lots of room for S too of course (but nothing too ostentatious, no pillar palace)... trust fund for maddie, charitable trust to fund environmental and social justice causes, another house that I'd let my friends live in, trip to peru, trip around the world, and I'd pay off the ex's mortgage, cause it would be good for maddie and I'd SOOOOooo never again hear about my student loan "his inheritance" paid off.

I am being swarmed by fruit flies. Send medics.

Ranting offsite

I've been getting most of my rants out on a local messageboard lately. To summarize:

1. To the guy who said CBC employees should just be grateful for the jobs they have and shut up and go back to work (essentially)... Same argument was made to textile workers in the late 19th century, to coal miners breathing black dust with a life expectancy of 35-40, to teachers bullied and often living in what amounted to indentured servitude to the Trustees. Just think, we could be living sunshiney, happy, union-free existences if they had listened. The beneficient government would be caring for us with free medical... oh wait, no, that was partly the union's doing... ok, but we'd have better paid and less stressful jobs... oh no, wait.. yeah... uh...

2. To the guy who said we shouldn't be thinking about helping the USA cause they're rich enough to do it themselves and they're killing iraqis: Two points for being right about them, and a big demerit for being wrong about us. The country is run by a warmonger, yes. Does that mean that all the millions of people who live in the USA are benefitting from his protection of oil interests? Well, I think the answer is clearly no for anyone who's seen Geraldo crying waving around the poor black babies of the poor black folks who are not allowed to leave the toxic waste area that was New Orleans. Their crime: not skipping out for Club Med when the first warning went up. What were they thinking?
My point is that these people shouldn't be held responsible for the sins of Bush and his cronies. Canadians gotta help those in need. That's who we are. Just because they are callous, calculating warmongerers, we don't have to be. So there, George W. Just cause YOU won't help your poor folks, we're gonna honour our neighbors and help 'em in spite of you. And if you think any of those folks are gonna check off a ballot with BUSH on it ever again... it's not likely!
Oh wait... those folks don't usually get to vote anyway, right? I forgot.

In other news... my hamster just made a weird weird loud noise like he was crying in his sleep...!

September Crashing in

I'm starting to get overwhelmed with the amount of things I have to do / want to do / need to do over the next four weeks, between work and here.
Work aside, I want two or three days to gut this place out. Clean Sweep crew, where are you when I need you? And Maddie starts school next week. Cool. Exciting. I was at the Mount today for a meeting... and I SOOOO wanted to go back to school. I started thinking about how I could probably get a student loan now.... ohhhh dangerous thinking.

One year journalism...? Masters of... sthing? Environmental Studies? So many things to learn in the world. Ah.

Anyway, refocus refocus. Keep the real estate vision alive. Buy a house, learn when you're old.

too much internet...

...is a bit like bleeding bandwidth from your life. Too much time and attention focussed on the virtual strips you of time to focus on the real. Life is here. Where your attention and intention are focussed is where you live, and lately I've been living too much in no man's land.

Focus, focus.

love and then

love and then
swimming swifter hard current and then
nails bitten back of theater scared by the happy ending

love and then
floating floating floating past the inner peace
wrong door wrong words song titles describing the heaviness of the air

love and then
hearth warm hold me on your heart
skunk stamping warning kicked into lost meadows with kisses kisses kisses
good bye

love and then
after and onward.

to craig madigan wherever he may be

I want a big green fuzzy sweater
To wrap myself away from trouble

No more ego, no more pride
Just one big sweater, soft and wide.

Where life can't follow, nor can love
No nagging thoughts I'm weary of.

If i ever find my soft secure home
I'll stay right there, no more I'll roam.

--cmb 1985

martinis and minx night

Erin decided to take me out for my birthday for supper and pottery painting. We met at Scotia Square and it was pouring. Since she was convinced the clay place was still on Barrington we started wandering looking for food. We ended up at the Bitter End (where else would one end up). We had salads and dessert, along with fancy drinks... two martinis each, after which I realized my alcohol tolerance has nearly resumed its university level. NOT a good thing. Alicia was walking by and stopped to give us the dish from the BB6 live feeds. Very funny to see little Alicia of the innocent face standing on Argyle quoting, "Jerk me off! I mean it, jerk me off!" Teehee.

After supper, we headed south searching for clay, but no dice. As I had initially suspected, the clay place moved to Quinpool. Erin still was not convinced and thought it might be up by Freak Lunchbox, which gave us an excuse to head back down Barrington and shop for some fun snax.

On a sidenote, while there, I asked the salesgirl about Bar Six (impossible to get but they're trying) and Zigzag bars, which she says were really called Wigwag bars. No way!! I lived in a store from age 2-6, I DISTINCTLY remember them being called Zigzags. My world is shaken. Anyway, they now make something called a Curly Wurly which is very similar. Yum.

After the Lunchbox, we went to Hilltribe, and peeped in the new Peepshow place, and then Erin finally admitted there was no clay place on Barrington. At this point it was about 8:00 or so, so we wandered into United Books and then finally headed across the street to the bus stop. We heard cartoons... MIGHTY MOUSE cartoons from in the Khyber, so in we went.

Stephen Cooke, a local journalist, was screening bits from his apparently endless collection of TV detritus. Commercials, training films, cartoons, shorts... it was bold, novel, weird. Erin insisted on sitting right in front, and we laughed like giddy school girls throughout. There was a roomful of Bright Young Things and in some ways it was like sitting in on a Macluhan lecture. One got the sense of a respected professor holding a room in thrall.

Cooke reminds me (naturally enough) of Ian Johnston, in some ways. S suspects me of base motives, no matter how much I protest. He doesn't get that in many ways I'm simply envious of his extended circle of influence and broad knowledge of pop culture, the area where I always ruled until I got married and somehow gave up half my brain—even divorce hasn't totally brought it back. I miss being the one who knows stuff, and the centre of a group.

Yellow Wood

After Sunday night's disappointment with the not-really-a-retro-dance-night, a malaise of deep blue settled on me. At work, the finance officer had a bit of a teasing fit at us for trying to brainstorm a creative way to invite businesses to the breakfast. She didn't take the time to assess where we were coming from, or ask what our thought process was, and ended up making Kari & I feel a bit like crap.

At the same time, I started noticing subtle cues from the environment that I ought to think about my age; little things like silly threads on the messageboards I frequent, Hey Nineteen on the radio, etc... ended up in a bit of a crisis of "what am I doing, what should I be doing, what the hell."

Anyway!! Went down to Stage 9 again last night to see the Museum Pieces... generally a good prescription for the blues. But can I just say, I wish to FUCK that when shows are advertised to start at 9:30 they fucking would start sometime BEFORE 11??? Jesus. Not easy on the working stiffs!

As S and I were partaking of some refreshment beside the bar, Steve, the guitarist of Yellow Wood joined us, sharing with us some of Windsor's smoother fineness. We discovered, to my chagrin, that YW were playing first... we had expected the other way round since come-from-aways are generally headliners (well, so it seems).

Anyway, we toddled in and settled down for Yellow Wood who were really REALLY incredible. They produced some of those wacky space-rock sounds that I LOVE in lots of old 70s rock. (At one point, during a particularly climactic point, S leaned in and whispered, "I think a space dolphin was just born" and I nearly fell off my seat laughing. VERY APT)

By the time Tyler et al got going, no amount of wondering about sexual orientation of various band members nor admiration of dapper bass-player-blazer could keep my eyes open. I practically slept through the last two songs, with S finally poking me to get up and go home.

Snoozy day at work today. Zzzzzzz. Damn you Messick.

Stayner's Bobble Head Waiter

Went to Stayner's last night for a chill, early evening. The Hopping Penguins were playing, and the appys were calling. Sweet ska & carbs with dip.... mmmmm.

So the waiter appears out of thin air, whipping menus down and asking drink orders. With a momentary brain seizure, I can't remember whether they have Propellor or Garrison on tap. I start to ask (somewhat unfocussed), "I don't remember, do you have on tap Propellor or Garris..."

My head is turned away when I start, and at this point, I turn my head toward the very tall waiter's waist, only he's bent down and his head is startlingly close: "GARRISON, YOU SAID?"

GAH! As soon as he disappears to get the order I'm in hysterics. It is very startling to turn one's head and discover a face where you didn't expect one. I can't explain exactly what struck me so particularly funny, but for the rest of the night, the waiter, like the fog, came on little cat feet, and kept appearing silently and unexpectedly, sending me into fresh fits of hysterics.

Trip back in time

I should post so much about my vacation weekend. The darling dollhouse of a cottage with all the cunning storage, watching Danny Deckchair on a little tv, the joyous realization that sometimes it's just nice to be surrounded by wild tangly weeds and rural fields, the relaxed reassurance that in a house of four adults I am not solely responsible for the well being of my little girl.

But I'll focus on Louisburg. For some reason, I wasn't really able to "get into" it as much as I wanted to... I love period costumes in general so it was strange. I guess unlike Ross Farm and Black Creek Pioneer Village I didn't get drawn into tableaux or activities... that may have been an effect of our approach more so than the way the fort is run. But then, on the map they gave us going in, there was no description of "buffet supper laid out for 4 here", or "forge demo at 3:30" or whatever. Maybe we were just off in our timing. And of course, there was the food issue. First of all, sampling the food is an essential part of any experience in my mind... and secondly, if I don't have a regular meal when I expect to, I'm not a happy camper. So just having dry bread and an apple turnover for lunch=cranky Candy.

Honestly, you'd think I was a starvation survivor... if you've seen me, you know that AIN'T the case!!

Anyhow, in the few moments I was able to focus on trying to imagine life in the 1700s, I really enjoyed it. No power, no cars. Life short, riskier, less sterile. In that little community, living on top of each other, confronted more closely with all the realities we try to sanitize today: poverty, dirt, stink, shit, disease, death. Were their lives worse? I won't romanticize too much. Naturally! They were 'nasty brutish and short.' But... worse? I don't know. It seems likely they packed as much feeling into their short lives as we do.

Off today for four days in rural Cape Breton... ah vacation. Still tired even though I wimped out and came home early last night. Have to remember to take the Big Brother tape to watch!!

Just need to finish packing now. I hate packing.

Happy Birthday to me!

By the age of 35 I was supposed to have a novel written and published. Hm. Well, November is coming.

Big Brother II

NoooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooo
oooooooooooooooooooooOOOoOOOOOOO
oooooooOOOoOOOOOOOOOOOooo.

Is all I'm sayin. There is a smell of evil in this place. All you Amurricans best be voted for the big K-Hottay.

Long Sleeves and Cologne

Item the first:
What the HELL is wrong with people who insist on wearing long sleeves and ties in 32 degree heat? HuH? Or, perhaps more to the point, what the hell is with people who insist their employees do so? This is the reason offices have to be kept frigid with AC, to accommodate the wool-suit wearing wonderpants. As was recently pointed out in the Globe and Mail, this leads to the women... dressed sensibly albeit fashionably in lightweight dresses... to crank up space heaters in the dead heat of summer. So we're entering a period of escalating power prices, fossil fuel resource depletion and we're doing what again... ? Oh that's right, burying our toque-wearing heads in some nicely air-conditioned sand.

Item the second:
I've often wondered who in Nova Scotia keeps the fragrance counters running, when so many public spaces are scent-free. Today I uncovered a nest of 'em in Scotia Square. I entered the mall walking in a slime trail of scent from a long-sleeve and tie-clad (see above) man who had clearly just exited his air-conditioned SUV, since he was pristinely non-sweaty despite the muggy heat. He had a perfectly gel-spiked coiffure and was carrying a disposable coffee cup, and exuded that certain ambience that says "finance". Really, all he needed was Bambi's head hanging out of his leather briefcase to ENTIRELY encapsulate the perfect opposite of my ideal man.

Come to find out, he's not a lone wolf. Entire herds of this species were roaming free in the confines of the downtown mall. Colognial territory markers reminded me vaguely of high school and the golden days of Polo and Drakkar. Oily hair gleamed from every corridor.

Open call to all you hunting hippie Amazons out there: join me, the game is here! It's fresh and abundant for anyone with a bow and a travel mug of patchouli. And really, it's like clubbing seals... it's got to be done for the good of the prey. After all, what do these animals chase? Money. And if we don't cull the herd, they'll take it all.

Don't worry about staying downwind.

Big Brother Nominations.

Go Howie! "Strategical"... lol. I love this show. It makes my summer.

to the Sean Desmond lookalike at last night's sloco show

Like Gypsy, you seemed to be alone, drinking water, and grooving in your own plane (whilst occasionally taking out passersby). You delighted and amused me too, but for entirely different reasons. Good job working that groove.

An Open Letter to the Gypsy

You appear at Slowcoaster shows usually unaccompanied, wearing a floor length hippie skirt and an apron top both of which look custom-made or at least not mass-produced. You don't drink (that I've noticed) You head on to the dance floor with your face shining with delight, kick off your shoes and proceed to put all the other dancers to shame. You personify grace. I think you have dance training, including perhaps belly dance training, but you never appear to be dancing for the sake of dancing or being noticed. You just seem to channel the music.

I wanted to say, thank you. You raise a bar band gig out of the ordinary. Sloco's music is the most danceable thing I've heard live in a while, and you demonstrate sheer joy in your movements. Ever since I first noticed you at the Planet almost two years ago, I've called you Gypsy in my mind. Sometimes when being downtown seems sordid or I've just gotten to the point where I'm disgusted at the "meat parade" and the juvenility and squalor, I think of you. It helps.

Good Folk and Big Brother

Caught the Jenny Whiteley show at Stayner's Wednesday (well, most of it... the spirit was willing but the flesh had to work early). Arrival was rocky ... we got there just in time for them to start charging cover--although they retro-collected around the tables after--and the lovely but totally scattered bird at the door asked if we were there for the Laura Whitley show.

However, a tasty feed of inexpensive but yummy and filling appetizers lightened our mood again, and then the Whiteley-Wrights took the stage and it didn't matter. For some reason for the first three songs or so it seemed like Jenny was holding back to make her beloved sound better, but maybe that's just my overly analytical mind. By the time she was into great tunes like the female stalker song and Banjo Girl, both partners were cookin'.

A great evening that ameliorates somewhat the fact that I'm not getting to Lunenburg :-(.

Last night's Big Brother intro'd the newest twist (or at least brought back a favourite twist from past seasons) of bringing back an exiled houseguest. The two obvious contenders are Eric (fuckin' 'Cappy') and Kaysar. Kaysar is a graphic designer, and better looking to boot, which naturally predisposes my sympathies. About time the devious mind of the designer was recognized! But the set up is very interesting, and makes me wonder if the producers are dabbling in some political research: the righteous, indignant family man Eric, a firefighter with a 9/11 connection, versus Kaysar, a Muslim with a devious mind for strategy. A set up?

I'm very bitter that Canucks can't vote. Don't blanket us with your dumbass pop culture and then not let us participate! Jerks. :P

What the HELL is with the talking babies?

Ok, I've had enough of the current commercial trend of babies talking with not-even-cute adult voices. SOMEBODY MAKE IT FREAKIN' STOP!!

the breeze of death passing near

Just heard that the owner of my favourite breakfast spot/coolest café in Downtown Dartmouth took his own life this weekend. I am floored and chilled.

Blood will tell

It is frightening for the child of an alcoholic to admit the last few times downtown I have gotten a tad too tipsy. The first time I brilliantly accosted Mike Campbell (Remember me?? You let me use one of your pictures one time!! --my equivalent of "I carried a watermelon??") at Ginger's and sadly didn't retain nearly enough of a fantastic Stephen Poltz set.

Last night I was at the Al Tuck Quintet show, completely digging the feeling that in that room I was at most two degrees of separation away from just about anyone of note on the Hali music scene. I <3 Gus's. Tuck was in great form, and the dream band were on (although it strikes me that Benn Ross is a bit wasted in this kind of situation).

BUT... sadly I had spent the day babysitting my best friend's two kids and facing up to my UTTER LACK of motherly patience. How has my own child survived this long? I am not fit. Anyway, I wound up the longest seven hours of my life with a ripping headache, so threw on a good cleavage dress and headed down, tossing back a bottle of beer in about 5 minutes and then ridiculously and mistakenly agreeing to split a pitcher with my SO. Bad. BAD idea. Monumentally bad. Had to leave before midnight lest I truly embarrass myself, so missed Plaskett taking the stage to lead a few.

Wandered up North enjoying the fresh air and the detachment of being drunk. Tottered over to Willow to discover where this cache of artists with a crawl space gallery might be located (but being by church, I was actually up too far, so didn't see the house). Made it safely home to SO's apartment (recklessly unzipping my dress under my cardigan about a block before getting there) and passed out, although I was woken later both by his return home and by his loud ass neighbors having a backyard party at 4:30 am.

Debating whether to brave the gallery show opening tonight, to try to overcome the feeling that it is really just for people they know and I'd be intruding. Meh. If it was actually not in a house... I dunno!!

Commercials should have internal logic

At issue: the stupid Cadbury ad with that handsome boy who looks like Joel Plaskett. Why do the two girls go into the chocolate shop? When he offers them chocolate they quickly demure... "Oh no! The beach!" Why the HELL are you dumb bunnies in a chocolate store if you don't want chocolate? It's not like they are acting like he is a friend of theirs with whom they simply had to share the news. And it's not like they seem the type to find him that attractive that they had to stop in even with no intention of buying anything.

There is no internal logic and it freakin drives me NUTS!

Sexism & Liquor

HIM [12:06:12 PM]: the use of 'cheers' as i was discussing recently is definitely linked to the same social manouveuring as the drinking of clancy's and now rickard's
HIM [12:07:12 PM]: it's a desire to seem cultured and well-traveled--to be the proverbial 'man about town'
ME [12:07:36 PM]: it's always about a man
ME [12:07:40 PM]: whatever!
ME [12:07:53 PM]: what is the term for a "woman about town"?
ME [12:07:55 PM]: a whore
ME [12:08:02 PM]: you men and your world domination
ME [12:08:10 PM]: and another thing!!
ME [12:08:19 PM]: !!!
ME [12:08:25 PM]: blah blah rant rant
HIM [12:08:40 PM]: *fetal position*
ME [12:08:58 PM]: lol
ME [12:09:00 PM]: j/k
HIM [12:09:08 PM]: you can't touch this dun dun dun dun
HIM [12:09:11 PM]: my my my hammertime
ME [12:09:20 PM]: clancy, rickard, keith... where is the beer named after a woman??
HIM [12:09:38 PM]: don't forget bud
ME [12:09:50 PM]: EXACTLY!!
HIM [12:11:10 PM]: but you women got a whole GROUP of drinks: wine.
HIM [12:11:12 PM]: WINE
HIM [12:11:26 PM]: i knew i'd think of a joke eventually
ME [12:11:33 PM]: argh.

the perilous life of a freelancer

First of all, it was a nightmare job. I was only supposed to be editing for her, and it's bad enough she can't string together a coherent sentence. How does one suppose they can run a magazine if they can't write? You sure as hell don't deserve the title, "Editor".

So after the first issue, the panicked call: "You're a designer too, right?" 36 hours flat out over one weekend starting Saturday at 10 am, and I have the mess I've been given put together into something resembling a magazine so that her regular designer can "massage" it... regular designer having been really busy, don't you know. Working full time myself, along with the half time mother gig, I am a bit stretched as well. However, I needed the $500, and while by design standards it was way underpaid, for a weekend's work it's not bad.

The next issue it was more. "We have longer". Same old disorganized shit, "Here's a pile of paper with some pertinent stuff in with the trash, here are some disks that may or may not have what you are looking for, I'll send you some emails and no direction about what goes where. Voila! work your magic!"

So this last issue, the whole shmozzle was mine, cover and all. An escalated nightmare. I told her how much time I had to work on it, and what I would do if I got all the pieces from her in time, which naturally I didn't. So I broke up wiht her... last issue. That's it.

Six months later, still waiting for the paltry $1500 that was supposed to compensate me for three weeks of spending every evening with her shit, editing, designing, re-writing and illustrating. And I'm getting the old "money is coming... cheque's in the mail... try to get you something this week."

And naturally, my SO is also getting screwed over since I dragged him in for extra editing. Sorry honey!

SO... anyone know anything about collection agencies or small claims court?

Women's Pajamas

What is with the cartoon characters on ladies' pajamas? I just perused the selection at the local Hell-Mart a few days ago, thinking it would be nice to have some new lighter PJs... and there is nothing, NOTHING in department storeville that doesn't feature kids' cartoon characters. Does anyone else find this disturbing?
It's even infiltrated speciality stores... the local La Senza, which I count on for low-key vamp clothes, now features racks of "cute" cartoony items.
We've got seven-year-old girls looking for low rider jeans and belly shirts and forty-year-old women sleeping in Spongebob Squarepants boxers.... wtf is with that?
The juvenilization of women is alive and well--and living on your Winnie-the-Pooh nightshirt.