A month or so ago, while exiting the post office across the street from my apartment, I was stopped by a very handsome young man sitting on the front steps. He was eating a sub. He'd watched me go in, and said that he couldn't let me go on with my day without (effusively) complimenting me on my outfit. It made my day. Especially the part about the sub. I really love subs, so obviously the young man and I were kindred spirits. Which clearly makes him an expert in ridiculous outfits.
I can see the post office from here.
I can see that same young man from my balcony, at this very moment. He is sitting on the steps of the post office, reading a newspaper.
The young man clearly works at the post office.
I'm having a tough few days--post-vacation blues, and all that--and was seriously debating putting on an "outfit" and going to the post office...until I noticed that he was wearing long shorts. Like, manpris. Hmm. It puts his compliment into question.
But now that I've typed out the above, it occurs to me that I am inches away from becoming the woman who puts on red lipstick for the mailman. Sigh. Even when I'm busy, I have too much time on my brain.
I had Ringolos and Riesen candies for supper. I can't tell you what to eat anymore.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The Mayor of Non-Sequitur City
I had a dream the other night about a writer who I sometimes have a crush on. I hadn't thought about him in a while, so his appearance in my dream was a bit of a surprise. In the dream, he called me to tell me that he'd named both his television remote control and fantasy football team after me. I was very touched. When I awoke, crush somewhat reinstated, I emailed him for the first time in months and months to tell him of my dream. He wrote me back the next day to tell me that he thought it was a pretty great dream. I was drunk when I got his email, and responded perhaps a little too flirtatiously. I guess I was still feeling chuffed about the remote control. Regardless, I'm feeling a bit sheepish about all of it. But I'm probably going to name all my remote controls.
When I was a child, my mother built me a dollhouse that was an exact replica of the home we lived in while in Newfoundland (ages 1-6). I loved it. At the time that she built the house, I was obsessed with frogs (i remained so until my early teens, at which point i lost interest in animals until my late 20s, but that's another story). Instead of buying little dolls to fit in all the delicate, expensive, mail-ordered furniture, my mother spent weeks figuring out how to sew tiny frogs that would fit in the furniture. Rice left them too rigid, they couldn't settle into the tiny rocking chair or sit at the piano. In the end, she went with tapioca. They were more flexible, but still never got the hang of using the tiny knitting needles or enamelware cookset. Years later, my father hired a student to clean out the basement. I was living at home that summer, and came home one afternoon to find the student chopping the dollhouse to pieces with an axe, on my father's direction, in order to maximize space in the truck for the haul to the dump. There were only three frog dolls--these were in the days before my brother was on the scene, and now there's but one left. The father. Of course.
I'm returning to Toronto tomorrow, with incredibly mixed feelings. I have no idea what will happen in the next three months. My burn it down/build it up year off is drawing to a close, and I can't help but wish for the universe to intervene. I don't care what I do, I just want to be happy. That's not too much to ask, right?
When I was a child, my mother built me a dollhouse that was an exact replica of the home we lived in while in Newfoundland (ages 1-6). I loved it. At the time that she built the house, I was obsessed with frogs (i remained so until my early teens, at which point i lost interest in animals until my late 20s, but that's another story). Instead of buying little dolls to fit in all the delicate, expensive, mail-ordered furniture, my mother spent weeks figuring out how to sew tiny frogs that would fit in the furniture. Rice left them too rigid, they couldn't settle into the tiny rocking chair or sit at the piano. In the end, she went with tapioca. They were more flexible, but still never got the hang of using the tiny knitting needles or enamelware cookset. Years later, my father hired a student to clean out the basement. I was living at home that summer, and came home one afternoon to find the student chopping the dollhouse to pieces with an axe, on my father's direction, in order to maximize space in the truck for the haul to the dump. There were only three frog dolls--these were in the days before my brother was on the scene, and now there's but one left. The father. Of course.
I'm returning to Toronto tomorrow, with incredibly mixed feelings. I have no idea what will happen in the next three months. My burn it down/build it up year off is drawing to a close, and I can't help but wish for the universe to intervene. I don't care what I do, I just want to be happy. That's not too much to ask, right?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
(over the course of an email exchange yesterday, i remembered something: i used to beg for finger sandwiches as a child, having seen them on Another World, but was always denied by my mother. the reason, according to her? much like the peel of apples, the healthiest part of the sandwich was the crust. if only i'd more strictly adhered to her recommended diet of lobster legs and bread crusts, i might have actually become a fully functioning adult. hindsight, wha?)
time moves differently, here. or i suppose, more colloquially, diffurntly. i dropped a chip on the floor today and finished all the other ones in my hand before picking up (and eating) the one from the floor. a 75 (or so) second rule.
i could watch hummingbirds fight all day. i love the sound of their tiny hollow bodies thwocking together, their squeaky spring chittering, their unflagging energy....i like birds.
time moves differently, here. or i suppose, more colloquially, diffurntly. i dropped a chip on the floor today and finished all the other ones in my hand before picking up (and eating) the one from the floor. a 75 (or so) second rule.
i could watch hummingbirds fight all day. i love the sound of their tiny hollow bodies thwocking together, their squeaky spring chittering, their unflagging energy....i like birds.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Lobstereality
Growing up, there were two things I could count on happening every year:
1) The brown paper and twine-wrapped shoebox of "irregular" Ganong chocolates purchased for Christmas at the Main street Irving. It was always a gamble. Sometimes, you got lucky, and the box would be filled with dented caramels, coconut cups and buttercreams. Sometimes, you got unlucky, and wound up with a baseball-sized lump of orange creams and a leaky, sticky mass of crushed cherry chocolates. 5lbs of chocolate, heaped unceremoniously in a box. Good luck!
2) A lobster feed, usually in July. I never really 'got' lobster as a kid. I really enjoyed setting them up for races on the kitchen floor, determining who was going to land in the pot first (the loser, naturally). I really, really enjoyed tossing them into the giant pot reserved strictly for the yearly lobster boil. But eating them was, as far as I could tell, a lot of work with little reward. It seemed to me that lobster was little more than a butter-delivery system, and I always ended up having a peanut butter sandwich after a lobster dinner because I could never get enough to eat otherwise.
I never complained about the lack of food though, because my my selfless and generous mother always, ALWAYS gave me ALL the legs. They were, according to her, the best part, and they were just for me. I would intensely suck and work away at the legs while my mother would very slowly nibble on the claws. If I was particularly hungry, sometimes she'd give me a thumb. And then, because "raccoons would just get into the bags if we put the shells out in the trash before garbage day", my mother would get up and put them in the fridge.
If you've ever had lobster, you're probably asking yourself, "Wait, wait! Back up! What about the tails?"
Yes. What ABOUT the tails?
Well, according to my mother, the tails were the opposite of the legs. They were not just the worst part of the lobster, but they were actually UNPLEASANT to eat. She often backed up this argument with the following example: "Of COURSE McDonald's has the McLobster*. It's made with TAIL MEAT. Like how the McNuggets are all ground up leftover stuff..."
And then she'd pull a dismissive face.
And then she'd throw the shells into the fridge.
And later, while we slept, she ate lobster tails. Plural.
I didn't figure this out until I was 28. It was a revelation. I still start with the legs, though.
(*yes, there is such a thing as McLobster in the Maritime provinces. i know. seriously.)
1) The brown paper and twine-wrapped shoebox of "irregular" Ganong chocolates purchased for Christmas at the Main street Irving. It was always a gamble. Sometimes, you got lucky, and the box would be filled with dented caramels, coconut cups and buttercreams. Sometimes, you got unlucky, and wound up with a baseball-sized lump of orange creams and a leaky, sticky mass of crushed cherry chocolates. 5lbs of chocolate, heaped unceremoniously in a box. Good luck!
2) A lobster feed, usually in July. I never really 'got' lobster as a kid. I really enjoyed setting them up for races on the kitchen floor, determining who was going to land in the pot first (the loser, naturally). I really, really enjoyed tossing them into the giant pot reserved strictly for the yearly lobster boil. But eating them was, as far as I could tell, a lot of work with little reward. It seemed to me that lobster was little more than a butter-delivery system, and I always ended up having a peanut butter sandwich after a lobster dinner because I could never get enough to eat otherwise.
I never complained about the lack of food though, because my my selfless and generous mother always, ALWAYS gave me ALL the legs. They were, according to her, the best part, and they were just for me. I would intensely suck and work away at the legs while my mother would very slowly nibble on the claws. If I was particularly hungry, sometimes she'd give me a thumb. And then, because "raccoons would just get into the bags if we put the shells out in the trash before garbage day", my mother would get up and put them in the fridge.
If you've ever had lobster, you're probably asking yourself, "Wait, wait! Back up! What about the tails?"
Yes. What ABOUT the tails?
Well, according to my mother, the tails were the opposite of the legs. They were not just the worst part of the lobster, but they were actually UNPLEASANT to eat. She often backed up this argument with the following example: "Of COURSE McDonald's has the McLobster*. It's made with TAIL MEAT. Like how the McNuggets are all ground up leftover stuff..."
And then she'd pull a dismissive face.
And then she'd throw the shells into the fridge.
And later, while we slept, she ate lobster tails. Plural.
I didn't figure this out until I was 28. It was a revelation. I still start with the legs, though.
(*yes, there is such a thing as McLobster in the Maritime provinces. i know. seriously.)
Friday, August 13, 2010
Freddy Beach aka Day 2
Mike Doherty coined the term "Saussagio". I forgot about that. So, there's that.
Day 2: I wrote, puttered, and wandered to King's Place, a terrible mall in downtown "Freddy Beach".
When I was in high school, 'Freddy Beach' was a popular nickname for Fredericton. It was cheesy, but their rugby shirts were cheaper than the Roots rugby shirts which were hugely in fashion at the time (we'd just gotten our first Roots store. fredericton still doesn't have a GAP, to my knowledge). The Freddy Beach store was at King's Place, and briefly provided the sad sack mall a resurgence. I bought anti-histamines, deodorant, and toothpaste. I hope my purchases keep King's Place alive, giving the retired men wearing G-Sus and FBI hats a place to drink.
I ran into an old friend at the mall. It's hard to know how to feel when you see people you haven't seen in nearly 20 years. I've been gone as long as I've been "away". We don't look the same. We don't know each other. We had to say 'hello'.
I am not good at small talk, and I don't know how I would have managed any of this without Facebook. Seriously. I feel blessed to have been able to say, "Oh, you work with X! I saw that on the Facebook! How lovely!", or "You got married! Crazy!". I think I might make it through / enjoy this trip solely BECAUSE of Facebook. I hate giving Facebook positive credit. Ugh.
That night, I saw that friend again, along with several others, at a local "must-see" weekly live music night. I said presumptuous things about his marriage, and drunkenly gloated when I was proved correct. Later, I ran into a couple of my first boyfriend's closest friends. The chats were lovely, and absent of the thing that had coloured the bulk of our interactions over the last 15 or so years. And...I got this soundbite, "You look hot. Seriously. I don't remember your hair being so shiny."
Day 2 was a success, I suppose.
Day 2: I wrote, puttered, and wandered to King's Place, a terrible mall in downtown "Freddy Beach".
When I was in high school, 'Freddy Beach' was a popular nickname for Fredericton. It was cheesy, but their rugby shirts were cheaper than the Roots rugby shirts which were hugely in fashion at the time (we'd just gotten our first Roots store. fredericton still doesn't have a GAP, to my knowledge). The Freddy Beach store was at King's Place, and briefly provided the sad sack mall a resurgence. I bought anti-histamines, deodorant, and toothpaste. I hope my purchases keep King's Place alive, giving the retired men wearing G-Sus and FBI hats a place to drink.
I ran into an old friend at the mall. It's hard to know how to feel when you see people you haven't seen in nearly 20 years. I've been gone as long as I've been "away". We don't look the same. We don't know each other. We had to say 'hello'.
I am not good at small talk, and I don't know how I would have managed any of this without Facebook. Seriously. I feel blessed to have been able to say, "Oh, you work with X! I saw that on the Facebook! How lovely!", or "You got married! Crazy!". I think I might make it through / enjoy this trip solely BECAUSE of Facebook. I hate giving Facebook positive credit. Ugh.
That night, I saw that friend again, along with several others, at a local "must-see" weekly live music night. I said presumptuous things about his marriage, and drunkenly gloated when I was proved correct. Later, I ran into a couple of my first boyfriend's closest friends. The chats were lovely, and absent of the thing that had coloured the bulk of our interactions over the last 15 or so years. And...I got this soundbite, "You look hot. Seriously. I don't remember your hair being so shiny."
Day 2 was a success, I suppose.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Saussagio
The first thing you need to know is that the Fredericton Airport only has one gate: Gate 3.
The second thing you need to know is that I have lived in absolute fear of visiting Fredericton since I left for good over a decade ago. So, for the most part, I haven’t. My last time in the province was two years ago. I went for dinner exactly once, and spent the entire meal looking over my shoulder. I spent the two nights hiding at my friend T’s house. Though I had a lovely time with T, the whole experience was akin to being way too high. Minutes were hours were days and when was this gonna be over, man?
Mostly, it’s all because I’ve become really spoiled by the anonymity of big-city living, and feel incredibly put-upon when expected to provide personal information to, essentially, strangers, knowing all the while the judgments they will pass. Our family was ‘from away’, so maybe I just wasn’t bred for Maritime small talk. Who knows?
Anyway, I landed at Gate 3 yesterday.
My friend C (she’s ‘home’ from Toronto for a visit, too) picked me up at the airport, with her delightful baby in tow. We spent the afternoon in and out of C’s in-laws’ pool. At some point, C’s sister-in-law notified us that she would be rather late, and could we cook the sausages in the fridge?
C started the BBQ. Giant flames shot up everywhere. We put the flames out. Once everyone else was safely indoors, I put ten chicken and mozzarella sausages on the BBQ, closed the lid, and walked away for 2 minutes, per the instructions. I should mention at this point that I only had a giant BBQ fork for a utensil.
When I opened the lid two minutes later, all ten sausages were alternately squirting 20-30cm arcs of grease and molten cheese. Some were spinning around like Catherine Wheels (the firework, not the band, though that would have been interesting). It was like the water show at the Bellagio in Vegas. Only, again, with hot grease and molten cheese. Saussagio, if you will. Within seconds, giant flames were again leaping from the grill. Blinded by smoke, I grabbed the BBQ fork to get the sausages off the grill. You see where this is going, yes? I poked huge holes in the sausages. One sausage managed to propel itself off the fork by harnessing the power of a jet of grease and cheese. I got a painful burn on my arm. On the upside, my favourite shirt didn’t get splattered, and I later went for $3 pints with probably the coolest people in town. Day one. Done.
The second thing you need to know is that I have lived in absolute fear of visiting Fredericton since I left for good over a decade ago. So, for the most part, I haven’t. My last time in the province was two years ago. I went for dinner exactly once, and spent the entire meal looking over my shoulder. I spent the two nights hiding at my friend T’s house. Though I had a lovely time with T, the whole experience was akin to being way too high. Minutes were hours were days and when was this gonna be over, man?
Mostly, it’s all because I’ve become really spoiled by the anonymity of big-city living, and feel incredibly put-upon when expected to provide personal information to, essentially, strangers, knowing all the while the judgments they will pass. Our family was ‘from away’, so maybe I just wasn’t bred for Maritime small talk. Who knows?
Anyway, I landed at Gate 3 yesterday.
My friend C (she’s ‘home’ from Toronto for a visit, too) picked me up at the airport, with her delightful baby in tow. We spent the afternoon in and out of C’s in-laws’ pool. At some point, C’s sister-in-law notified us that she would be rather late, and could we cook the sausages in the fridge?
C started the BBQ. Giant flames shot up everywhere. We put the flames out. Once everyone else was safely indoors, I put ten chicken and mozzarella sausages on the BBQ, closed the lid, and walked away for 2 minutes, per the instructions. I should mention at this point that I only had a giant BBQ fork for a utensil.
When I opened the lid two minutes later, all ten sausages were alternately squirting 20-30cm arcs of grease and molten cheese. Some were spinning around like Catherine Wheels (the firework, not the band, though that would have been interesting). It was like the water show at the Bellagio in Vegas. Only, again, with hot grease and molten cheese. Saussagio, if you will. Within seconds, giant flames were again leaping from the grill. Blinded by smoke, I grabbed the BBQ fork to get the sausages off the grill. You see where this is going, yes? I poked huge holes in the sausages. One sausage managed to propel itself off the fork by harnessing the power of a jet of grease and cheese. I got a painful burn on my arm. On the upside, my favourite shirt didn’t get splattered, and I later went for $3 pints with probably the coolest people in town. Day one. Done.
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