mathematical certainty

I can guarantee that you hate this layout. I'm sorry; I just need a change.

a girl's best friend

Maybe I shouldn’t be so open in the company of thieves and scoundrels, but I’ll just go ahead and say it: I’ve got a pair of big freakin’ diamonds adorning my lobes. They’re beautiful, and extravagant to the point of ostentatious (at least, for me). They were a present given to me on the second Sunday of this past May. Mother’s Day, otherwise known as: Dear-God-Where-Can-I-Get-A-Brunch-Reservation-This-Late-In-The-Day-And-Do-You-Think-She’ll-Disown-Me-If-I-Just-Bring-Her-Burnt-Toast-In-Bed? You can forget birthdays, anniversaries, and even skip Christmas once every couple of years, but Mother’s Day? MOTHER’S DAY? Forget to buy a Hallmark for this one and you forever more live in peril. Or you at least will have to wash your own underwear from then on.

I’ve learned long ago that when I want things from men, I have to ask for them. Be direct, and as clear as possible. (The worst they can say is no; which is fine, because half the time, I don't even really want what I'm asking for anyway. Complicated or just confused? Meh. No matter.)

Anyway, the point is that when it became apparent that the Babe was waiting to make his entrance into this Cruel and Beautiful World sometime in April, as opposed to the end of March when his train ticket had originally been reserved for, I seized the opportunity to finally rid myself of the latest pair of cheap and rusting Shopper’s Drug Mart studs ($8.99) to slowly give me lead poisoning. “You know,” I purred to Adoring and Wonderful Husband. “April is the diamond. Maybe someday I could get a pair of your first born son’s birthstones for my ears to commemorate the fact that I will soon go through the most excruciating pain in my life ALL FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR FAMILY NAME, hmmmm?” (Stage director’s note: Character bats eyelashes and pouts.)

It only took about four centimeters of dilation before Adoring and Wonderful Husband was on the line with The Official Jeweler of Jason Spezza, because DEAR GOD, DO YOU KNOW HOW LITTLE BABIES COME OUT? I wasn’t surprised when I came back into bed after a morning pee that Sunday in May to find a little blue box tucked beside Boh as he lay sleeping in his bassinet on my side of the bed. I was surprised by the size of my newly found heirlooms, though: I had specified small diamonds, which Adoring and Wonderful Husband took to mean, Rocks As Big As You Can(not) Afford.

But I was sincere when I told him I didn’t want anything too flashy, just something small and dainty to remind me of my Favourite Little Guy in the Whole Wide World; something to keep the holes in my ears that my Baba took me to get when I turned five from closing up. Why? Because I’m scared. Scared of losing the things in this world that mean anything to me. Scared that if I let myself get too attached, I will wake up one day to find that one of the backings has fallen away, and that I’ve lost my treasure forever. Scared that people who don’t like diamonds will judge me for putting value in them myself.

Scared that I’m not worth it.

Slowly (well, not so slowly) I got used to my first ever Mother’s Day gift, and I no longer compulsively check to make sure the earrings are still there. And when I’m scared that I’m not worth it, all I have to do is look in the mirror and be reminded that there are people in this world who think that I am.

Bling, bling baby.

cool because Vogue told me so

I wanted to believe it was Real. So much. So, so much. So much, in fact, that my heart hurt, quite possibly damaged forever. Everyone would ask me, Is that Real? Yes, I would reply. (Chirp, more like.) Cheap, but Real. Stolen, perhaps; but Real.

Sadly, I found out this weekend it wasn't. Real, that is. I know because it finally fell apart on me. The lining had been fraying, which should have been my first clue. All my pennies were trapped in the parallel purse universe, having slipped through black holes that tore faster than I could stitch them up. And yesterday? The clip that kept the guts of my bag from spilling out all over the floor broke off. I was able to deal with a ripped liner; But what good is a purse if you can't close it?

It's my own fault, really. I asked for this. Said to mom, When you go to New York, can you get me one of those knock off bags that you can buy on the street corner? She obliged, of course, because she is The. Best. Mom. Ever. Brought me back two, in fact.

Please allow me to clarify: The purse - obviously - was real. It existed. I know this because I put my wallet in it. A couple hard candies. A bomb the colour of Blackberry waiting to explode at the most inopportune time. Diapers, sometimes, depending on the task at hand. And pens. Many, many pens. But it wasn't a Prada. I knew it, but others didn't. People will see this purse, I thought, and think I'm fashionable. What a poser.

What a liar.

I threw out my lie yesterday afternoon. It wasn't worth salvaging, taking it in for repair. Because it would cost more to do that than to buy a new purse altogether.

Instead, I went shopping. And my new purse? Perfect. Exactly what I had in mind. It's yellow, and reminds me that Spring is just around the corner every time I look at it. There's room for Blackberries and diapers and pens and hard candies and more. And best of all, it's Real: Because it's not pretending to be something that it isn't.

At peace with myself and on the cutting edge of fashion for only $25.00 at Suzy Shier. Deal.

cheese, wine, and other imports

If I were a Dude, I would be all over French chicks. Especially ones named Annick. I have yet to meet an Annick I don't like. The woman who leads my Saturday morning gym class is Annick; a beautiful brunette with an imperfect tongue and an infectious smile and laugh: the pale and predictable prairie girl I am is pathetic next to her. She's a dream, and is one of the only ones who can coax me to count aloud squats with her (I don't chant with the others usually; I feel like a dumb ass). But for Annick? I'll even numerate en français.

One of the women I work closely with is a Francophone. Spending time with her in Whitehorse made me realize why I always pick up the phone when she calls my desk after 6 pm (I don't with everyone). She's always been a sweet thing; accommodating, understanding, and, most importantly, patient. These qualities were tested though, when at the Fancy Dancy Supper we were at, we walked into the room to discover an Assigned Seating Arrangement (party planners everywhere are gasping). We had planned to sit next to each other; the master list had us at opposite ends of the room. "I hate when people tell me where to sit," she hissed, unleashing her inner sovereigntist - personal, not political (although how can these two things ever be separate?) "I. Hate. It." Beowulf couldn't slay that dragon.

This is why I love them, those thorny roses who could care less if you'd prefer they not smoke in front of you. ("There's the door. Use it.") Because - piss on it - doesn't matter what you think. No one tells them where to sit. No one suggests to them when it's time to go home. No one writes their constitution for them.

Blow smoke rings in their faces because, well, piss on it. And that's the only reason. I dig it.

the dresser

This is the third time I've been made-over. Fourth, really; but one cannot really count the transfer of wealth from one generation to the next as "reinvention." At least, I cannot. True change requires a stripping of my soul; a new purpose. Ironic, how in each instance less of me remains, but my value increases. Funny, how a society of such gluttons - mass producers of Che images, collective individuality; insatiable consumers of artificially-flavoured breakfast shakes in the pursuit of health - should value me more now that I've been used, sanded down into something brittle: my purpose, questionable. Open to interpretation.

Do you chase the history of humanity through your desire of me, or do you crave the chemical lacquer that covers my wounds, now called "character?" Is it love, or do you like choking me? Starving out my oxygen with each coat of clear, just to see your own reflection in me better?

Does this really matter to me? Not quite. They're just questions I have. The truth is, you can never define yourself through me, and I think that deep down you already knew that, despite how you sit on the edge of your seat, waiting for my number to be called, so that you may frantically, casually, raise your paddle, assert your authority over me. I am just a cover for you; a facade. You will stuff me full of socks maybe; summer soles in winter. Guest linens. Yellowed letters of love, buried like treasure, but just paper, just words: everything and nothing simultaneously.

You will give me much more than the deed to your house, folded neatly in a lock box, the bottom shelf (because thieves are too lazy to bend over). You will surrender more than the stains that tattoo your outer shell, the pieces of cloth that you strip away each night: equalized.

The currency with which you purchase me is more valuable than the manifestations of Mammon you humans are so quick to shed blood for; and yet you do not value them at all. Your secrets. Your essence. Your measure of self-worth. The representations of your own image in your mind's eye. What you do not share with others in this earthly life, but leave for them to discover in your death, once it's too late.

I am much more than slabs of wood precisely nailed together; a whole of parts, constructed, reconstructed, until, inevitably, deconstructed, used for kindling for the Christmas fire, memories of dressers past forgotten against the prospect of the new Dustbuster under the tree (so much cleaner, don't you think?)

Me? I am Your Protector.

what, me bully?

I call it a "grace deficit." Dad? He calls it "rammy." Whatever it is, it's true: I am a bully. It finally hit me last night, as strong a thump as when I'm walking down a hallway and run right smack into a doorframe. Suddenly, without warning, I veer to the left, causing a hip hematoma the size of a grapefruit. Grace deficit? Nah. I claimed for bankrupcy a long, long time ago.

My ramminess causes me to hemorrage words as well. Sitting last night in the hotel bar with the only colleague I have here who doesn’t consider me a spy, I interrogated him: How old are you? Where do you live? How old is your financee? How did you meet? Where do you see yourself in five years? Where do you come from? These rapid fire questions held him against the wall not ten minutes after he’d complained about the nosiness of a woman at the airport, who’d come up to him to ask him why he was so moody. “You look stressed,” he said she’d said. “What’s wrong? You can tell me.”

He’d thought her odd, and rightfully so. Who was she to probe him for such personal information? What gave her right to lay claim to his secrets? I agreed, and noticed no irony in my own line of questioning later on, until I’d tucked myself under the covers, thinking about how I’d asked him to expose himself through response.

He’s 37. He lives in a condo in the Market. His financee is 10 years his junior. He met her a lawyer party. (Um, isn’t that an oxymoron?) He’s not sure where he wants to be in five years. He comes from London, Ontario.

Aha! My mind’s lightbulb flashed bright as I clicked off the bedside lamp. That’s the difference between him and I. I am too open, too honest, a consequence of my Western Canadian immigrant heritage, maybe, ghosts within me recalling their wait in the line at Pier 21, answering The Man With The Stamp: Where do I come from? How old am I? Where do I want to be in five years? These answers pour out of me; my heart leaks onto the table. Which is fine for me, but maybe not so much for the person I’m confessing to, who is left to clean the table up.

And for him? Gentrified sensibilities of proper tea times past cause him to get his back up when the questions start coming. Ontarians like to keep themselves corseted. And while I have the ability to draw them out, like a naïve farmer harvesting friendship, I have to remind myself of my grace deficit before people start to feel like I’m pushing them into the doorframe as well.

Besides, generalization like that above is what keeps this country great.

traitor

It's a small country. Plane mates on the Vancouver to WHITEHORSE stint (yes, I'm in Whitehorse; which, I guess, is better than finding out mid-flight that you're going to Winnipeg, or something) included two dudes with whom I used to work with in Saskatchewan. Been almost four years since I've seen them, and save for a few grey hairs on their heads (not mine, of course), they are the exact same friendly, down to earth guys they've always been. I felt transported back in time for 2 hours and 18 minutes, until the plane touched down, and the various passengers scattered to form groups of colours around the baggage conveyor belt: red, Ontario; blue, I don't know who; black, well, you get the point. I drifted to the reds, who were hanging out with the colourless (because we can't pick favourites, now can we), and watched from afar as all the green plaids hugged, chatting happily with each other. The reds and colourless? We all checked our Blackberries, confirming that there is indeed no wireless service (THANK. GOD.)

I miss my green plaid peeps, even if their fashion sense is questionable.

4:12 am

Dear Fate,

You have perfect timing. Shortly you're to ring on my door, and carry me away for 96 hours. To a place where maybe Blackberries work; maybe they don't. Don't count on anything. Don't take anything for granted.

A good book, and two solid days to read.

No computer, green light flashing "on"; siren song of escape, and confinement.

Just me and, quite possibly, a pickled thumb.*

-----

*No, I guess that's Dawson City, not Yellowknife. At least, that's what Google says.

sending in my $1.99 plus shipping and handling

By now you will agree I've never been a normal girl. I've tried; oh, how I've tried. I've made the requisite list of Teen Beat, Teen Street and Seventeen and told my Dad I neeeeeded them, could he just pleeeasse pick them up on his way home for me? And, perfect papa he is, he did. They never really did anything for me, though. Kirk Cameron was kind of a weirdo. (Although Joey was always sooo much better than Jordan; maybe I was just drawn to him though because he was a December baby like myself. Though he was technically a Capricorn, that was close enough for this narcissistic Sagittarius.)

I flipped through the flimsy pages, passing easily the advertisements promising a one-on-one conversation with whatever heart throb my little heart desired. Nah. Not interested. I pored over the advice columns, solely for the smirk factor. What kind of self-respecting person cares about what her best friend thinks of her new shoes? Just go tell her to $@#& herself! Leo DiCaprio full face centre-fold? Pshht. (Though maybe I'd put that up on my wall now.)

The one page I could never get past? Usually, it was in the last two, maybe three, pages of the magazine. The ones where they advertised packages of sea monkeys and t-shirts with your boyfriend's name on them and pen pals? Yeah. I wanted a pen pal.

introducing the dank

Dear Uncle Chris,

Daddy is taking an on-line real estate course right now, so he needed a couple hours of "Boh-free time" to study on Saturday afternoon. So Mommy took me to Irene's, because where else to take a baby on a sunny weekend afternoon whilst Winterlude is keeping our Nation's Capital aglow and abuzz but an ill-lit stinky pub with greasy burgers, cheap Blue on tap, and the names of patrons past carved into your table? We think we saw your picture on the wall...

Uncle D. had rented out the basement to host a jam session with Uncles B. and S. The girls ate greasy fries and showed Mommy their wares from a morning of spending too much money.

Mommy said she missed the days of disposable income. The only thing disposable in her purse now are diapers, Size 3.

It was open mike, and some regulars got up to play a few tunes. The last song they played was a Neil Young cover, Rockin' in the Free World. I was getting fidgety, so Mommy and I got up and danced. (Funny that; Irene's has no highchairs.)

It was my first live band. Mommy said it reminded her of Paris, and the night she danced with Carlos, a Mexican who could not speak a lick of English but for Elvis Presley lyrics. The band then played Can't Help Falling in Love, and Mommy took Carlos by the hand to a small spot by the stage to dance.

Carlos glowed.

The band yesterday didn't look much different than the band from the restaurant in Paris (pictured below). Except, you know, they were English, so the flare was relatively muted.

But it was still a good day.

Love, Boh

XOX

saturday night

Epic – Faith No More
Your Woman – White Town
Tom’s Diner - Suzanne Vega
Fast Car – Tracy Chapman
Smoke Baby – Hawksley Workman
Mind Flood – Sam Roberts
Let Go – Frou Frou
Missing – Everything But The Girl
Only Happy When It Rains – Garbage
Papa Was A Rolling Stone – The Temptations
She’s So Cold – The Rolling Stones
Freedom! ’90 – George Michael
Lola – The Kinks
Somewhere Over The Rainbow – Ab Orchestra

memories

O. was apparently married this past Christmas. Good for her. I Googled her name one day for the fun of it, and saw her engagement photo. She looked happy (and thin). (And if you're wondering, yes, I've probably Googled your name at some point too. But don't worry. I must not have come up with anything too incriminating, otherwise it would have been posted on this blog.) I don't know that O. was happy in high school; I doubt that she was. I wasn't. And even though we could never be considered close enough friends for me to firmly establish that fact, I think we had a connection: I'm a bit sad, trying to be happy, shall we hang out once in a while? And so we did. We did the Brewster's trivia thing on Monday nights. My code name was Zyma. I don't remember what hers was. We both drank Wheat Beer and had the obligatory order of 10 cent wings.

That's where we decided that we would go to BC for a week before class started up again in September. We pinky swore, O., J. and I. It'll never happen, I thought. I'm not even really friends with these people. But it happened. An hour or so outside Regina they asked, "Do you really have to smoke?" and I said, "My van; I'll smoke if I want." So I did. And that was just the confirmation I needed to prove that I didn't know these people, and they didn't know me - and they surely to God didn't know smokers. That's why we offer to drive. That's why we'll host you at our house instead of asking to mess up yours. It's so we can smoke when we want, as much as we want, without feeling guilty or stinky - it's that simple.

Despite my best intentions, I actually enjoyed my week with O. and J. We met up with J.'s artistically tormented cousin on the Island for a couple days (or at least that's how I liked to think of him), and spent a night off-roading somewhere-only-God-knows, only to set up camp on a pristine beach in the middle of nowhere, drinking beer and placing bets on whose crayfish would make it back down to the water first (Irving lost; he died before becoming the true champion I know he was in my heart). I don't know whose house it was, but another black void was enjoyed on the patio of a 1500-sq foot house overlooking the Pacific (the only ocean I can claim to be mine, despite that I'm a prairie girl - - I miss you Auntie Denise!).

I remember the clean, crisp freshwater air while eating a sandwich in front of Lake Louise. The blue burned into my brain. I remember the chill of the campground of Salmon Arm when the conservation officer pulled up to tell us to put our fire out (stupid girls!), we weren't allowed to have one in the dead of summer. I remember the grogginess after waking up to O. putting on her runners for an early morning sprint through the streets of Victoria ("Crazy," I thought, laying my hung-over head back down for another hour of sleep (Need. Greasy. Sausages, I thought, but now I wish I'd have went with her).

And I remember the slime on the crayfish that gave his life to me, so that one day I would have the memory, the memory I share with you today. It was cold, and felt the same way on my fingers as when I'm sick and blow my nose too hard. You know. When it goes through the tissue.

Thanks, Irving. Thanks for the memory.

evicted

My Summer Off? With three babies, a night-time serving job, and the general insanity that must come with living near the in-laws (just kidding Grandma and Grandpa!), I can understand the lack of time to blog. No hard feelings.

But Longings of Youth? LONGINGS OF YOUTH? There is no excuse. For shame, B. FOR SHAME. (Um, unless you're planning to do The Trials and Tribulations of a LavaLife Junkie thing. I am so into the peep show that would be.)

scraping the bowels

He walked out of the tiniest bathroom of the tiniest bachelor apartment I had ever squished my parched self and a six-pack of Stella into, and nodded to D.: "I like the reading you keep in the office. You can tell a lot about a man by what he keeps on the toilet tank." And that's how Adoring and Wonderful Husband decided that D., previously a mystery, was, in fact, a cool dude: he laid out an Uncle John's Ultimate Bathroom Reader for the viewing pleasure of his guests. (So much more practical than a coffee table book of sea shells.)

Had a couple runny eggs for breakfast? The resultant five-minute trip to the throne could yield you fodder for your next date about how the average human foot has about 20,000 sweat glands, and can produce as much as half a cup of sweat per day. (Okay, a bad date.) Two too many Guinnesses the night before (and maybe a shot of Prairie Fire thrown in for kicks?) The necessary half-hour stay in Loo-Land is an Uncle John's PhD equivalent; three-pages about the biggest ever fire in London in 1666 keeps your mind off your own ring of fire, if you know what I mean.

My own toilet tank inventory tonight yielded interesting results. We normally prefer the latest Economist because of its short, crisp articles that one can get through in just a pee (though there often is a 14-page special report to entertain on those nights when the meat was just a smidgen undercooked). Our subscription to that great trumpet of the trickle-down theory was sadly out of reach earlier when I was, well, trickling-down, and instead I found a trusty old stand-by that Adoring and Wonderful Husband often pulls out in cases of emergency, Just Give'r, A Handguide by Terry and Dean (a signed copy no less; Dave D. would be so proud). Also, the February 2007 edition of Today's Parent (free from the doctor's office), an early January Maclean's swiped from my parent's house (cover story: "Why do we let our daughters dress like skanks?" Uhh, because if we do, MACLEAN'S WILL PUT THEM ON ITS COVER IN A DESPERATE EFFORT TO SELL MORE MAGAZINES, MAYBE??), and, finally, The Running Room Magazine, January/February 2007, featuring cross-Canada images from the Santa Shuffle. Who knew you could experience the runs in more ways than one?

better than paper napkins

"Maybe as a special treat we can get one of these tomorrow?"

[Looking at the Chocolate Dipped Strawberry Blizzard feature-of-the-month advertisement in my Hotmail]: "What? What's this? Winter! Do you get these emailed to you?"

"Yes."

"And they're personalized. You. Are. Ridiculous!"

But he still didn't answer my question.

quick on the draw

Squatting gives one time to think. "Prolly shouldn't have ate that chili before I got here" and "Shoulda titled that blog post 'Kinda the same thing as sitting in line overnight in -20 weather for front row seat tickets to Metallica and then getting a real desk job two weeks later and being too scared to ask for the morning off (but not really)'" are just two things that come to mind. I thought I might have time to change the title of my previous entry without anyone knowing, but you already read the last post (at least some of you did), so you would know that I am neurotic enough to go back and rework something so inconsequential as a blog post, when there is laundry to be done, gall-darnit! Couldn't expose myself like that, now could I? It would be on par with pretending that I didn't smell anything in a BodyPump class full of women ("It wasn't me!") when I know in my heart that the female persuasion is simply just way too discerning when it comes to the subtleties of bodily function, now aren't we girls?

Best just to suck it up.

poop

Life's Little Instruction Book is decidedly less clear about how to handle this situation:

Hi, Winter:

Thank you for your email to CBC News Sunday. We appreciate you taking the time out and sending us your thoughts on our program.

While we regularly ask viewers permission to use a portion of their email on our show, in this case we would be interested in finding out whether you would be interested in coming into the nearest CBC studio and read a portion of your email message that will be taped and included in the feedback segment of our Sunday morning show.

Write back and I would love to hear back from you with a contact number so that we can work out the logistics of the shoot. Thank you so much.

What would you do?

101 things to do before you die

#78: Write a letter to the editor at least once a year. (Does an email to CBC Sunday Morning count?)

"Tony Merchant's legal tactics are admittedly obnoxious. That said, I wonder if the same criticism for his role in settling residential school claims would be heaped on a firm more politically palatable to Central Canadian political interests, such as Ogilvy Renault? Somehow I doubt it."

[Edit: Not from "101 Things To Do Before You Die", but from "Life's Little Lessons." Mea culpa.]

going to Hell

It's a different world than it was 10 years ago, my friends. I now ask Google what Peter Mansbridge is like in real life - as if the G.-man had beer with him after work last Friday or something - and this is the first hit that spits back out at me. I didn't write it, but I feel that The Big Man is frowning on me just for having pointed it out to you.

But on the Peter issue: Seriously, who knows whether or not he is an ass in real life? Let's dish. (Also, he is TOTALLY tapping that Claire who does the weather, no?)

buried in three feet of snow

You need something to read. Obviously. I still do this with B.'s blog, and G.'s, and D.'s, check back compulsively, that is, even though I know it's more miss than hit. (Though D. is slightly better at the update - only slightly. And while we're at it, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GRACE US WITH A 2007 POST C., HMMMM?) So if I haven't the time to write anything good, I'm going to let you in on my dirty little secrets: indulgence blogs, even if they're not featured prominently on the sidebar. Why aren't they there, you ask? Simple, really. They're like the chocolate I like to leave at the back of the freezer, or the fudge that Adoring and Wonderful Husband's co-worker N. made for us just before Christmas. I'll sit back at 10:00 pm with a nice cup of tea and suddenly remember them, Chocolate! Sucre à la crème! Both at the back of the freezer! Making me so, so happy, hitting the spot. Hereforth, I give you:

inspiredbycarriebradshaw

and

Blog-O-Licious

My prairie peeps. Happy shovelling.

(PS: Forget the social and economic union. French-Canadian dessert is really the reason we need a united Canada.)