The new neighbourhood

So, I'm all moved in. Pictures will follow soon. We've been here since the beginning of the month. The first weekend I moved all the stuff in with the help of two hired hands, and then headed to Vancouver to meet some online friends for the weekend. Had an amazing time and was happy to find that my long-time online friends were just as cool and interesting in person as they are in writing. I feel so fortunate to know such great women.

I stopped off at Ikea before heading back to the island and picked up a whole bunch of furniture since I'd ditched a whole ton of crappy student furniture when I left the old place and wanted a few things that actually looked good together. So, I hauled all that out (have the bruises all over my body to prove it) and put every piece together that night. Except for the chairs that go with the new dining room table. The next day I battled the Ikea instructions and put together one chair. I tried on following evenings to put together the others. So far, I've managed one more. The other two are slowly driving me insane. I have all the same kinds of pieces I had for the other chairs, and they're all the same size. I have my Alan Keys lined up, nuts and bolts and washers, etc, but they still won't work! It is so completely frustrating. Seriously, I feel like I'm dealing with a Rubix Cube here. I feel like sending Ikea a bill for the stay in the mad house I'm confident I'll wind up in as a result of these stupid chairs.

Fortunately my mom has the kid for the night because he's got some grandparent's event thing at his school tomorrow, so he's bringing her to class. I remembered I had some of BC's finest hidden away, so I had a few deep breaths and then went for a walk.

And that is what I needed to do. I felt immediately calm and happy and yet at the same time excited--hopeful. I feel like I'm living in the right place. This neighbourhood feels like the kind of place I want to be in. My son seems pretty happy so far and is adjusting well to the new space--he's discovered the joy of riding his scooter down the hill along narrow sidewalks--I chase after him shouting, "Watch that lady! Don't cross the streets! Wait for me!" It's a small nieghbourhood, but busy and bustling, and then there are quiet little side streets full of grand old Victorian houses with stained glass windows and chairs on the porches, craftsman bungalows with fairy lights on their decks, wildly colourful slightly rundown houses with toys in the yard, or small groups of people playing guitars on their decks or driveways with guys fixing their engines or painting. You know these are streets where people feel safe and have their friends and families near, but they've learned to ignore the occasional noisy party from next door or the occasional waft of marijuana outside their windows.

And the flowers! Everywhere, and trees and stars overhead, and scents that tickle your nose and change with every step--cherry blossoms, lavender, freesia, lemon, salt water, tar, oil, pot, roses--and the food! As you walk down the hill, first you smell that soapy herbal smell from the Natural Foods Store and then that starchy smell as you pass the laundromat, and then baked bread and rich spicy smells from the Ethiopian place, followed by that hunger-inducing spicy slightly greasy smell from the Thai cafe behind you, and grass and pine and beer and suncreen and coffee--lots of coffee.

The population here is diverse--young families, dogs dragging owners behind them, sports fans (a world cup party tonight in the fake British pub on the corner where my friend D tends bar), cats curled up in bookstore windows, hippies, hipsters, old couples, musicians, bikers, university students....lots of people sitting outside the cafes and people selling jewelry (and probably a few other things) outside the park. Everyone smiles or says hi around here. I lived in this neighbourhood a couple blocks up about 11 or 12 years ago with a series of insane roommates before I got one (Hi Carol!) who turned out to be a perfect roommate and a great friend. I have a lot of happy memories in this neighbourhood, and I am so excited about the prospect of making more.

For a long time I've had the urge to leave Victoria. I spent my twenties moving from town to town, province to province, and managed the occasional jaunt overseas. I am not good at staying in one place. I get depressed when I think of how much of the world I still haven't seen. I know I'll see a lot of it one day, but I've felt stuck here for some time now and it's been tough. Right now, though, I really can't think of any place I'd rather be, except in that dreamy, "Oh I'd like to be in the South of France eating grapes and bread and drinking wine and making love to an artist," kind of way.

I finally tracked down a copy of Nina Simone's The Blues on cd today. I've had it on tape since it came out in 91, but the tape has been played to the point of abuse. So I returned from my walk and sat back and closed my eyes and listened to the best Nina compilation EVER. I'm serious--I think I own 7 or 8 of her albums now, and listened to any other I could get my hands on, but The Blues is a perfect, perfect album.

Anyways, I'm happy. I've got Nina, I've got the neighbourhood, and the Ikea chairs can wait a few more days.

In an effort to shock Egan even further, I will post twice in ONE day!!!!

My son F just came into my office--the sitter (A) is downstairs asking his mom to pick him up, despite the fact that I've offered to drive him so he won't be here all fucking night--and whispered, "Mom, do we have any treats?" I tell him no, but maybe we can get one later. Then he looks at me suspiciously and says, "Please, just tell me where they are--I promise I'll share with A." I say, "F, there are no treats. We'll get some later." He says, "Well, can I just check and see where you're hiding the treats?" and I say again, emphatically, "F, there are NO treats. I'm not hiding anything!" He is totally exasperated and says, "Well, can I just check?!" and at this point I'm just about insane and I say, "F, you can't check for something that doesn't exist! I do not have treats. There is no point in checking for something when I say they aren't there. I am not lying--there are NONE." He lets out this huge sigh and says, "Ugh! It's like you're speaking a different language or something!!!"

What not to wear EVER.

This morning I saw a woman who looked as if she was vying for the front cover of Glamour Magazine's Annual "Don'ts" issue. I have never seen anything like this ensemble before. From top to bottom, every inch of her would have made Clinton and Stacey clutch each other in horror. So, let's start with the top.

Long brown hair with about 5 inches of roots where the blond dye had faded. A big chunk of that hair was gathered at the top of her head in a pink shiny scrunchy that had a trail of pink feathers hanging from it. The rest of the hair hung loose.

On her neck were many strands of genuine plastic colourful mardi gras style beads.

Her chest appeared to have magnets in it, since as she walked she seemed strangely led by her breasts. It was like her breasts had a mind of their own and were taking her somewhere whether she liked it or not. That's the only way to describe this walk. Like the breasts were on a mission and were dragging her along. She had them contained in a VERY low cut t-shirt with some kind of beer logo on it, and on top of that was a black "jacket" that hung to her knees and was made of some kind of mesh netting.

On her hind quarters she was wearing pedal pushers that appeared to be intended for someone at least 4 or 5 sizes smaller. Said pedal pushers were white and covered in huge blue cabbage roses--did I mention the VERY visible pantyline?

Underneath the pedal pushers were black fishnet stalkings. Yes. I'm not kidding.

It's possible her odd walk had a little to do with the shoes she was wearing. Black "leather-look" platforms with big chunky heels (at least 3 inches) on which she balanced precariously. A dainty "gold" ankle bracelet on one leg.

She kept dashing to the curb as if she was going to jump into traffic and waving furiously at cabdrivers whose mouths opened as they drove near--none of them stopped. The well-dressed man next to me at the crosswalk glanced my way and mouthed, "Oh. My. God."

I've never seen anything like it.

Oh God no.....

When I was growing up in a small town on Vancouver Island in the seventies, I used to dream of living somewhere that an ice cream truck would visit. We were too far out of the city--there were no ice cream trucks to be found in our neighbourhood. I had seen them on tv and knew that the ice cream from those trucks probably tasted better than ice cream from anywhere else in the world. I wanted to hear that truck music and grab some money from my mom, and run to the curb with all of the other neighbourhood kids and get myself an ice cream from the most magical truck ever. I grew up feeling ripped off--I should have had that perfect childhood experience--the joy of chasing that musical version of heaven on wheels after a day of sitting in the hot sun with my friends on the curb pretending we were Charlie's Angels and discussing our love for Shaun Cassidy. I resented my parents for making me live in the country on a safe no-thru road. The pleasures I was denied because of their selfish desire to raise us with good wholesome small town values! It was a travesty from which I am not certain I have ever fully recovered.

Now I live in a suburb in the city in a neighbourhood full of small children, who play outside all day and discuss important issues such as who has the most Yu-Gi-Oh cards while they run around and scrape their knees and climb trees in the summer. And yes...there is an ice cream truck. My son has not been denied his right to the most important aspect of an idyllic childhood. He and his friends chase the truck as it slowly rounds our neighbourhood several times every afternoon.

My opinion of the ice cream truck, however, has changed over the years. I think it started the first time I took the kid to get an ice cream. The tinny repetitive jewelry box music that echoed through the streets still charmed me, and I couldn't wait to see how magical this experience would be for him. But the driver didn't look like the kind of guy I always imagined would drive the truck. He wasn't wearing a pink stripey hat. He didn't have an apron on. He wasn't super smiley. He had a big pot belly, a too-tight t-shirt and about 3 days worth of stubble on his face. And the cheapest ice cream in his truck was $4 and was barely frozen.

Realizing that I could buy a box of 6-8 ice cream treats for just a little more than the cost of one treat from the truck, I decided that visits to the ice cream truck would be reserved for very special occasions, like after a long day at the beach or something. But not all my neighbours have the same policy. It sucks to be that parent who says to her kid, "I'm not paying 4 bucks for a half-melted Fudgsicle from a truck when we have a whole box of treats in our own freezer," and then has to watch him as he stares mournfully at the chocolate-smeared faces and sticky fingers of the happy neighbourhood children whose parents aren't horrible stingy jerkfaces.

Summer is coming and with it comes the truck. Today I saw one of our neighbourhood rugrats licking some kind of caramel concoction off his fingers and wiping them on his t-shirt. I could hear the tinny truck music floating through the air. My son looked at me pleadingly and I shook my head. We have a box of ice cream sandwiches in our freezer. He glared at me and stomped inside the house.

I could still hear the music as the truck drew closer to our block and made it's tenth round in the hour...and it began to sound strangely like the theme to Jaws.

Did you ever have that nightmare...

where you suddenly realize you're one credit shy of graduating, one exam away from finishing a course...but you find this out well after you thought you were done? I mean, you've been going around living your life, thinking you were finished, celebrating the fact that you're all done, and then you find out that all along you were wrong?

I'm living that nightmare.

I just discovered that despite all of my careful checking and double checking and planning and everything else, I miscalculated the amount of senior credits I have. I am not finished after all. I am, to my surprise and dismay, one class away from graduating.

I celebrated finishing school last week. I started kicking back with magazines at night--finally able to enjoy a light read without feeling guilty that I should be doing something else instead. But wait! I SHOULD have been doing something else instead! Like actually taking the right number of courses!

The worst part about this is is the fact that I actually DROPPED a senior course last semester, thinking I had more than enough, because I didn't need the added stress. Ha!

And there are so few classes in the summer that I can take that will work around my job. My boss has been really patient so far about my being in school, but this might be the last straw.

So, today I registered for a month long third year poli-sci course about American politics. I know nothing about poli-sci. I know nothing about American politics apart from the fact that I hate George Bush and Karl Rove. The textbooks cost a fortune.

Am I crazy? Or should I audition for the music department and take a month long course about singing for the stage? I'm serious. Input is required friends. I know I've neglected the blog, but please, if you don't mind dusting away the cobwebs in here with me, I'd sure appreciate advice from anyone who has any poli-sci knowledge.

This is so depressing.

I love this.

Darth Tater

He rocks. I want to take him to Paris and photograph him in front of the Eiffel Tower, or take him to Washington and snap him in front of the White House, or New York in front of Lady Liberty...or, or, or...you get the idea. World domination by potato!

So, I promise to update soon. Had my last class ever at University last week, and once I get my last bloody essay done, I'll be finished school forever. Eeeek. I'm looking for a new place to live, my son turned 7 last weekend and we've had houseguests and all kinds of craziness around here, so I am flat-out tired. I had a terrible email mishap in which an intensely personal email of mine was--through my own ineptitude--accidentally sent to about 20 people in my address book (do not ask me what I did--I couldn't repeat it if I tried), so that's an embarrassment I'm struggling to recover from right now. Ah well. Such is life.

See you soon.

Potatoes Unite!

What is it about my face?

I got on the bus today and recognized the bus driver. He's the friendly guy. He knows my name. He knows everyone's name. He can talk down a pissed-off passenger. He's nice to crazy old people. He smiles and thanks everyone when they get off the bus. When he asks you how your day is going, it seems like he's actually interested. Sometimes he's very chatty with me, which is nice, except it means that I get stuck standing at the front of the bus talking to him while he goes on and on about his kids. Still, he's friendly and he has one hell of a hard job, and we all need a little civility on this planet, I think, so what's the harm in standing for 15 minutes, right?

So today he starts telling me about his best friend who happens to be a woman, and how she did something years ago that really pissed him off, but he never told her what it was. He walked around carrying this anger at her and resenting her for it, and the whole time she was totally unaware that he was even upset about this. I have no idea why he decided to unload all this on me--we only have a superficial "how's your day going?" kind of relationship. But he obviously needed to tell someone, so I listened while he went on about how she was so surprised that he'd been angry with her and she asked him why he never said anything, and then he realized if only he'd communicated this to her, he could have stopped walking around with all this anger. Which is great--good for him. He and his friend are now back on track and he's asked her to forgive him for not trusting her enough to let her know he was upset with her. But still...kind of a weird thing to tell a passenger, right?

Ok, though. He's probably bored. All he does is drive around all day and talk to strangers and many of them probably act like he doesn't exist, even though they put their lives in his hands once a day. Again, no skin off my back if he wants to unload a bit on me.

Then he starts telling me about his kids and how he and his wife home-school them. That's cool. Not my bag, but then again, I don't have a partner at home who could give me this option for my son. Still, it's all interesting--he's really into it. He tells me all about the bible stories he and his kids read together and how it's great because the kids learn to read, but they also learn a "moral lesson" based on "factual events" that they can draw on when they run into problems in life.

Um, ok. Again...so NOT my bag, but he's a nice guy. Obviously he loves his kids and is proud of them, and who am I to judge?

So I make the mistake of telling him I'm not religious. Because I'm a moron.

Then I have to listen to him explain how it's not about religion. It's about spirituality and values and God's love. Again, hey man, that's cool for you. Good on ya and all that jazz. I so don't want to be discussing this on a bus, but whatever. He seems really happy to be talking to me. And that's good for him. I'm glad to help, even though I'm becoming a little uncomfortable.

I try and steer him off the spirituality talk and back to the homeschool stuff because I figure that's safer territory and I can more easily feign interest in that. I ask about field trips. He gets excited and tells me about all the cool stuff they do, and I have to say, it does sound fun. They go on nature hikes, fishing, they visit fire stations. So I tell him about how I've heard the recycling depot does field trip tours for schools, and he is psyched about the idea and how it would really stand out in his kids' minds and make them understand how important it is to recycle. And I'm pleased that he's so excited to learn about this. And we're at my stop at the university, where the buses sit for several minutes.

So, I'm at the exit of the bus right next to him, ready to run and get a coffee before I head to class, and he tells me about his friend who owns a cafe and they run a fair-trade coffee co-op. Very cool. I'm into that. And he says he's really into supporting small business, especially those that respect cultures and make an effort like those that sell fair trade coffee. Again, right on. I'm down with that.

Then he says he doesn't like these big businesses like Starbucks. I nod. Lots of people don't like Starbucks. I'll admit to buying a cafe mocha there here and there, but generally, I do make an effort to buy coffee from independent places that sell fair trade brands, so I have no issues with what he's saying. It's all good. Nice guy, smiley friendly bus driver. Loves his kids and supports small businesses. Good for him. And he says, "I don't like the kind of lifestyle Starbucks promotes."

And I think, "Yeah, a lot of people feel that way. Big business, squeezing out the moms and pops, popping up on every corner of our ever-growing consumeristic more more now now bigger better culture. It's not a great lifestyle to promote, I guess. I should be more aware of this stuff. I should be more determined to think about what I consume." So I keep nodding and smiling. I'm thinking about running to the independent coffee place on campus right now actually, but he's talking into the short time I have between departing the bus stop and class.

Again he says, "I don't like the lifestyle Starbucks promotes," and I nod and smile and step towards the door again, hoping he'll take a breath for a second so I can say, "nice talking to you, I've got to run!" but he keeps going. "I might be overstepping my bounds," he says, so happy to have a kindred spirit in me, "but gay marriage is wrong. A child needs a mother and a father--a boy without a dad will not grow up to be masculine. A girl without a mom will not be feminine. That's a fact. That's the kind of lifestyle Starbucks promotes."

I'm stunned. I stand there, literally speechless. What is it about my face that makes someone think that I might possibly agree with that? Why on earth would he say something like that to someone he barely knows? What do I say?


Nothing. I said nothing. I was so tired. I had to get to class. I didn't know what to say. I thought about the fact that I'm a single mom whose son doesn't have a man and a woman raising him together. I thought about the fact that I have more gay friends than straight, and they deal with shit like this all the time. I got off the bus and felt sad and defeated. I waved to my former favourite bus driver, who smiled happily at me and shouted, "It was great talking to you, Katie!"

I bought a coffee from the independent coffee seller on campus and told the cute coffee guy about it, and we shook our heads and rolled our eyes at each other.... then I wandered across campus to my queer film studies class feeling totally disturbed and angry at myself for not speaking up.

It's safe to hit the "Next Blog" button if you:

• Are hoping to buy a motorized wheel chair
• Really into purchasing large amounts of fertilizer
• Are intensely interested in hearing why Mary-Jo and all of her neighbours in their trailer park in Wichita think that abortion is murder.
• Are into Spanish cartoon porn.
• Really want to increase your website traffic and don’t mind having your blog covered with crap from advertisers.
• Love America. I mean, REALLY, REALLY love it. Like you love it so much you want to marry it.
• Know what “Diem dam chinh thuc lop Tin 04b1” means.
• Want to improve your spanking techniques.
• Don’t mind that your computer will freeze for half an hour when you stumble upon a 13 year old Japanese girl’s tribute to Hello Kitty!

Geek Girl Breaks Down

Hi, my name is Katie, and I'm an internet geek.

I've been posting on various chat boards for over 7 years. I'm addicted to Alias and Veronica Mars and can spend hours online snarking about the hilarity that is America's Next Top Model (who here thinks Jade's makeover served her right?).

I used to have a myspace page and actually own cds by bands who asked me to put them on my "friends list."

I once pitched in with a bunch of people at TWoP to send a plane and banner over the Big Brother 2 House in order to drive houseguest/professional cook Nicole even more insane than she already was.

I collect Pez dispensers.

When internet neophytes send me annoying chain e-mail that suggests something tragic might happen to me if I don't pass it along to 5 of my closest friends, or when they send me stuff about kidnapped children from Wisconsin, I immediately send them a nasty note containing a link to About.com's Urban Legends page. It never stops them, by the way.

But last night, I broke down, and purchased the ULTIMATE in Net Geek Chic--I bought the unofficial Snakes on a Plane t-shirt!

I love that there are already unofficial t-shirts for a movie that isn't out yet. I love that a movie with a premise this stupid is actually being made. I love that it's being made by people who seem gleeful about their involvement in this movie precisely because the premise IS so stupid. I love that it stars Samuel-there ain't a damn thing you can do about it-Jackson. I love the stories behind this movie.

I love my t-shirt.

There's no elegant way to end a hiatus

Unless of course your life is written by the same people behind Arrested Development or something, because damn, those guys came back from a hiatus every few weeks with such panache! It's intimidating.

Alas, you fine folks have me, and I have not felt like writing at all lately. I'm finishing the last two months of the degree that I started way back in 2000 or 2001--it's been so long I can't remember when I began. I am so not into school at all anymore. I've stopped caring about grades, I've stopped participating in discussions, and I've even stopped checking out my male classmates, because yes, there's no getting around it--they're all way too young for me. I've sworn off men who don't know what Schoolhouse Rock or ABC Afterschool Specials were. That rule includes men my age--if you don't know what those things are, you were probably raised on a commune or in some weird religious community, and we'd be doomed anyway. I need a man who knows the words to "Conjunction Junction." A girl has to have some standards, right?

You know what sucks about getting writer's block? You think people might miss your blog, but what happens is that all of the people who regularly check it get sick of waiting between posts for weeks and they stop checking. And who can blame them, really? But it's going to take me a while to get back in the swing of things again....so come by! Check! Send me notes like Anna did, and yell at me to get my shit together and write something. I need the pressure. Without you, I'm nothing. Ok, that's not entirely true....without you, my BLOG is nothing. You are the wind beneath my wings, guys.

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.