Gimme a Jay
And the winners in the category of being the first Torontonians to visit us here in Winnipeg (Tenille, the girl who travelled with Amy doesn't count as a visitor, she was a travelling companion) are... Wayne and Lisa Jay!
Lisa, who has currently commandeered Jordan's bed for the night, landed in town with Wayne yesterday. It's their first time in the Peg and I think, to date, they are relatively unimpressed. I think Winnipeg is kind of like a really sweet ugly guy. He won't take your breath away, but once you get to know him, you discover he's the marrying type.
Wayne's brother Ken (or Bubba, as he's called by his wife) and his wife Kati have been here for about two years. They took care of some things for us prior to our moving in, like picking up the keys and arranging for a cleaner for us. I'm very appreciative of how willing to help they have been.
It's weird; my friend Jenelle and her husband Jens just bought a house on Courcellette right across from the school where the Jay boys, Adam, Ryan and I spent many, many summer afternoons playing burbee (Wall Ball to some). It's like some sort of triangulation on my adolescence.
Maybe it's a lesson on not burning bridges. It's funny how life has a way of bringing you back to places you thought were behind you for good.
Vacuosity
Friday, November 29, 2002
Thursday, November 28, 2002
Where is Ignatius Reilly?
The main character (in a large cast of misfits) in the novel I am reading, A Confederacy of Dunces, is Ignatius J. Reilly. He is a supremely overweight, moustached gargantuan who, out of disgust and a sense of decency, refuses to participate in modern society. Instead, he spends most of his time writing a lengthy and pointed "indictment" of what he refers to as "assaults on his sensibilities and good taste".
Since this book celebrated its 20th anniversary in 2000 (though it was written well before that), I thought it a shame that poor Ignatius never had the opoportunity to witness the magnificent depths to which humanity has sunk. His delicate constitution (particularly the flatulence-producing valve) would surely have revolted at such effrontery.
I saw the movie Bowling for Columbine this evening, which turned out to be another strong work by Michael Moore, director, essayist, and social commentator. I have been a fan of his for several years, in particular for his quick response, in the days following the September 11th tragedy, as one of the few in the media not to pander a pantsload of self-pity. He actually pointed the finger where it belongs: a blissfully ignorant society ruled by decadence and greed, and a government that is in cohorts with big business and bent on world domination. His essay helped me to parse the events we had witnessed and resolve my mixed feelings about it.
What I like about Michael Moore is that his work derives from a genuine concern for people and a desire to educate and incite a lethargic society to action. He not not a rapid-fire verbal assult type like Rush Limbaugh, who hits the mark, but does so without regard and at a tidy profit. No, Moore is unchanged by his success; untainted. His demeanor is unassuming and his comportment, unpretentious.
He appears in the film, often scruffy or unshaven, a gargantuan in his own right. For those who will listen, his work represents Moore's own brand of indictment.
Ignatius, I have found you.
The auther of A Confederacy of Dunces, John K. Toole, never saw its publication. He committed suicide some time after its completion.
Witnessing truth has its consequences.
The main character (in a large cast of misfits) in the novel I am reading, A Confederacy of Dunces, is Ignatius J. Reilly. He is a supremely overweight, moustached gargantuan who, out of disgust and a sense of decency, refuses to participate in modern society. Instead, he spends most of his time writing a lengthy and pointed "indictment" of what he refers to as "assaults on his sensibilities and good taste".
Since this book celebrated its 20th anniversary in 2000 (though it was written well before that), I thought it a shame that poor Ignatius never had the opoportunity to witness the magnificent depths to which humanity has sunk. His delicate constitution (particularly the flatulence-producing valve) would surely have revolted at such effrontery.
• • •
I saw the movie Bowling for Columbine this evening, which turned out to be another strong work by Michael Moore, director, essayist, and social commentator. I have been a fan of his for several years, in particular for his quick response, in the days following the September 11th tragedy, as one of the few in the media not to pander a pantsload of self-pity. He actually pointed the finger where it belongs: a blissfully ignorant society ruled by decadence and greed, and a government that is in cohorts with big business and bent on world domination. His essay helped me to parse the events we had witnessed and resolve my mixed feelings about it.
What I like about Michael Moore is that his work derives from a genuine concern for people and a desire to educate and incite a lethargic society to action. He not not a rapid-fire verbal assult type like Rush Limbaugh, who hits the mark, but does so without regard and at a tidy profit. No, Moore is unchanged by his success; untainted. His demeanor is unassuming and his comportment, unpretentious.
He appears in the film, often scruffy or unshaven, a gargantuan in his own right. For those who will listen, his work represents Moore's own brand of indictment.
Ignatius, I have found you.
• • •
The auther of A Confederacy of Dunces, John K. Toole, never saw its publication. He committed suicide some time after its completion.
Witnessing truth has its consequences.
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
Deprivation psychosis
There's something that people do sometimes that relaxes and refreshes them; they call it sleep, I hear.
I'll have to try this thing. It might make me less irritable and help remove those deepening circles of darkness beneath my eyes. I'm worried that they've reached the point of no return; that no cold gel pack, cucumber ointment, or any amount of sleep will reverse it and I'll spend the rest of my adult life looking permanently tired and prematurely aged.
I thought of this (and a great many other things like it) in the truck on the way here. I was thinking that the trip, and the almost 4 days of being awake, was going to do permanent damage. My baggage tends to agree.
And it's no better now that we're here. I never seem to be able to make myself go to bed. I am so busy and/or involved with the baby that I never have a moment to myself until everyone has gone to bed. Once I have a little solitude I'm reluctant to give it up.
I was speaking with Caleb a few days ago, explaining why I had to decline his invitaiton to enjoy a frothy libation. I told him that since Jordan was born I have been accumulating such a massive sleep debt that it is something akin to carrying a mortgage from a loan shark. I'm in so deep now that I'm only paying interest, and just enough, at that, to avoid having my throat slit.
If anyone can spare a few Zs, please forward them to Cathedral Avenue, Winnipeg. No donation too small.
There's something that people do sometimes that relaxes and refreshes them; they call it sleep, I hear.
I'll have to try this thing. It might make me less irritable and help remove those deepening circles of darkness beneath my eyes. I'm worried that they've reached the point of no return; that no cold gel pack, cucumber ointment, or any amount of sleep will reverse it and I'll spend the rest of my adult life looking permanently tired and prematurely aged.
I thought of this (and a great many other things like it) in the truck on the way here. I was thinking that the trip, and the almost 4 days of being awake, was going to do permanent damage. My baggage tends to agree.
And it's no better now that we're here. I never seem to be able to make myself go to bed. I am so busy and/or involved with the baby that I never have a moment to myself until everyone has gone to bed. Once I have a little solitude I'm reluctant to give it up.
I was speaking with Caleb a few days ago, explaining why I had to decline his invitaiton to enjoy a frothy libation. I told him that since Jordan was born I have been accumulating such a massive sleep debt that it is something akin to carrying a mortgage from a loan shark. I'm in so deep now that I'm only paying interest, and just enough, at that, to avoid having my throat slit.
If anyone can spare a few Zs, please forward them to Cathedral Avenue, Winnipeg. No donation too small.
Monday, November 25, 2002
Night and Day
One of the things we weren't fully prepared for in coming to Winnipeg is the difference the latitude makes to the days.
We've all heard about the Arctic seasons where it's light all day in summer and dark all day in winter. But that's way up there, not here, right?
Well, what escaped me is the fact that it's not just a hard switch from here to the land of the midnight sun. It's a gradual progression, so the closer you get to the North Pole, the more it's going to be like that.
When we visited in the summer time, we were suprised to find it still light at 10:30 at night; it was great. I don't even know how early the sun rose. But now that winter is here, the days are very short. It's fully dark by 5:30 at night already, which makes it seem like it's about 8 PM, and it doesn't get light until almost 8 AM.
If we wake up and it's light out, I know I'll be driving Jordan to school, because we've missed the bus.
Add one to the "Things To Get Used To" column.
Oh yeah, by the way, right now it's -17° C. Ouch.
One of the things we weren't fully prepared for in coming to Winnipeg is the difference the latitude makes to the days.
We've all heard about the Arctic seasons where it's light all day in summer and dark all day in winter. But that's way up there, not here, right?
Well, what escaped me is the fact that it's not just a hard switch from here to the land of the midnight sun. It's a gradual progression, so the closer you get to the North Pole, the more it's going to be like that.
When we visited in the summer time, we were suprised to find it still light at 10:30 at night; it was great. I don't even know how early the sun rose. But now that winter is here, the days are very short. It's fully dark by 5:30 at night already, which makes it seem like it's about 8 PM, and it doesn't get light until almost 8 AM.
If we wake up and it's light out, I know I'll be driving Jordan to school, because we've missed the bus.
Add one to the "Things To Get Used To" column.
Oh yeah, by the way, right now it's -17° C. Ouch.
Saturday, November 23, 2002
Winter wonderland
Today, I tasted childhood again. I had nothing urgent to take care of, Jaime was sleeping, and Jordan was home from school, so he and I went out to play in the snow. It wasn't even cold. There was no time and no responsibilities. Neither of us had any clue how long we'd been out there and neither did we care. We stayed out until we got called in almost two and a half hours later, not doing anything in particular, just playing.
I was thinking about how great that was, just playing and being absolutely carefree, when I said to Jordan, "That was a lot of fun, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," he said "especially here in Winnipeg with so much snow." There is really not much snow at all, but to a 6 year-old last winter was a lifetime ago and any snow is "so much".
"That's why we came here, you know," I said.
"For the snow?"
"Well, I meant more to be able to spend time together."
"Oh."
"So let's make sure we do, okay? We've got make sure we get outside and play alot."
"Yeah, we can build giant snow castles and have snow battles!"
Looking forward to a winter of ice skating, fort building and snowball fights with Jordan, his new friends, Jaimeson soon, and maybe even the girls once in a while, makes me happier than I've been in a long, long time.
Today, I tasted childhood again. I had nothing urgent to take care of, Jaime was sleeping, and Jordan was home from school, so he and I went out to play in the snow. It wasn't even cold. There was no time and no responsibilities. Neither of us had any clue how long we'd been out there and neither did we care. We stayed out until we got called in almost two and a half hours later, not doing anything in particular, just playing.
I was thinking about how great that was, just playing and being absolutely carefree, when I said to Jordan, "That was a lot of fun, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," he said "especially here in Winnipeg with so much snow." There is really not much snow at all, but to a 6 year-old last winter was a lifetime ago and any snow is "so much".
"That's why we came here, you know," I said.
"For the snow?"
"Well, I meant more to be able to spend time together."
"Oh."
"So let's make sure we do, okay? We've got make sure we get outside and play alot."
"Yeah, we can build giant snow castles and have snow battles!"
Looking forward to a winter of ice skating, fort building and snowball fights with Jordan, his new friends, Jaimeson soon, and maybe even the girls once in a while, makes me happier than I've been in a long, long time.
Thursday, November 21, 2002
No batter
When I was young, I wasn't good at any sport. I wasn't chosen last for teams, but I was a long way from being chosen first. My father never had the time to teach us any sports fundamentals; I don't think he knew any either. My big brother James was as inept as I when it came to technique. So there I was, helpless, hopeless.
The only equipment I had at all was a Nerf soccer ball that I bought with my own money when I was about eight. I didn't even learn to skate until I was in my teens, and I didn't make the cut on my junior high school baseball team. The only skills I have now are ones I taught myself or learned from friends in my adolescent and adult life.
I always swore that if I had a child, especially a boy, that I would be sure to teach him how to play sports. He didn't have to be the best; just have the fundamentals so he could hold his own and feel good about his game. Well I have that boy, so how did I do?
Yesterday, Jordan got his report card (first term, grade one). He did very well; he's working at or above his grade level in almost everything. One a scale of 1-4 he got about half 3's and half 4's (4 means working above his grade level), that is, except for gym. His gym mark was a 1. A one? What do you have to be doing wrong to get a one in grade one gym? I thought you just had to show up and you'd pass. One is the lowest possible mark he could get. Does he run into walls? Can he not jump at all? Does he hit himself with the equipment? How can you fail grade one gym?
Really, it's me who is failing. Two years ago I wanted to teach Jordan to skate. That was an abysmal flop. He cried to be let go to sit down while I towed him around the rink. Last year I think we went one time; that escapade lasted about ten minutes until he fell and cut his lip on his front tooth.
I've been so wrapped up in stuff, meaningless stuff, that I have hardly ever taken him out to play. It's hard, though, because Jordan doesn't like to try things, and gives up at the first sign of difficulty. I have to keep pushing him. But that just becomes a struggle of wills. I was so hard on him to learn to ride his bike that he hated it; he never wanted to ride it. It made me wonder who I was really doing it for. It was the same with the piano lessons. I had always wanted them and to this day still wish I could play.
So I laid off, stopped trying to fix my own childhood vicariously. But, obviously I've gone too far the other way in letting him set his own pace for learning physical skills. Jord's all brain and no body.
So, now I become the coach, complete with whistle and clipboard. Okay, not really, but I do have a meeting with his gym teacher tomorrow to see what I can do to help the boy out; maybe work on basic motor skills, run some drills, something. I can't let him fail gym.
I'm also building an ice rink in our huge yard as soon as the weather stays consistently below freezing. We're in Winterpeg and it's our duty to accept hockey into our lives. I've got to get to Canadian tire; there's a sale on pint-sized equipment.
After all, he's only just turned six; there's still hope.
When I was young, I wasn't good at any sport. I wasn't chosen last for teams, but I was a long way from being chosen first. My father never had the time to teach us any sports fundamentals; I don't think he knew any either. My big brother James was as inept as I when it came to technique. So there I was, helpless, hopeless.
The only equipment I had at all was a Nerf soccer ball that I bought with my own money when I was about eight. I didn't even learn to skate until I was in my teens, and I didn't make the cut on my junior high school baseball team. The only skills I have now are ones I taught myself or learned from friends in my adolescent and adult life.
I always swore that if I had a child, especially a boy, that I would be sure to teach him how to play sports. He didn't have to be the best; just have the fundamentals so he could hold his own and feel good about his game. Well I have that boy, so how did I do?
Yesterday, Jordan got his report card (first term, grade one). He did very well; he's working at or above his grade level in almost everything. One a scale of 1-4 he got about half 3's and half 4's (4 means working above his grade level), that is, except for gym. His gym mark was a 1. A one? What do you have to be doing wrong to get a one in grade one gym? I thought you just had to show up and you'd pass. One is the lowest possible mark he could get. Does he run into walls? Can he not jump at all? Does he hit himself with the equipment? How can you fail grade one gym?
Really, it's me who is failing. Two years ago I wanted to teach Jordan to skate. That was an abysmal flop. He cried to be let go to sit down while I towed him around the rink. Last year I think we went one time; that escapade lasted about ten minutes until he fell and cut his lip on his front tooth.
I've been so wrapped up in stuff, meaningless stuff, that I have hardly ever taken him out to play. It's hard, though, because Jordan doesn't like to try things, and gives up at the first sign of difficulty. I have to keep pushing him. But that just becomes a struggle of wills. I was so hard on him to learn to ride his bike that he hated it; he never wanted to ride it. It made me wonder who I was really doing it for. It was the same with the piano lessons. I had always wanted them and to this day still wish I could play.
So I laid off, stopped trying to fix my own childhood vicariously. But, obviously I've gone too far the other way in letting him set his own pace for learning physical skills. Jord's all brain and no body.
So, now I become the coach, complete with whistle and clipboard. Okay, not really, but I do have a meeting with his gym teacher tomorrow to see what I can do to help the boy out; maybe work on basic motor skills, run some drills, something. I can't let him fail gym.
I'm also building an ice rink in our huge yard as soon as the weather stays consistently below freezing. We're in Winterpeg and it's our duty to accept hockey into our lives. I've got to get to Canadian tire; there's a sale on pint-sized equipment.
After all, he's only just turned six; there's still hope.
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
Mighty ink
I was at Chapters again today. I've been at Chapters about 4 times in the past two weeks; it's becoming a bit of a fetish, I think. I truly love books too much. I just want to buy more, more, more. I buy far more books than I have time to read.
It's the cover designs and the richness of the textures that thrill me. And nothing compares to well-set type on a printed page. It's part passion for book design and part sublimation of my desire to write. What I really want is to be able to design, set and print my own novel. That would be incredible. Just to hold it, knowing that I created every piece of it.
I keep reading things and saying to myself, "I could have written that." The most recent example is a line of children's novels called A Series of Unfortunate Events, dark, wry stories about the terrible tragedies that befall three young orphans. The book are written in a particularly appealing tone that resonates with me. I felt a bit cheated, though, after finishing the first one, as if that book would have come from me had I been listening a little more closely to my muse.
I remember once reading Kim Stockwood comment on her songJerk and how her friend had written it, but she felt like she was so, so close to writing it herself, if only she had been channeling a little better.
The books are perfect. Both elegantly written, and beautifully designed. The illustrations are haunting, gothic creations that echo the books' tone well. They are released only in hardcover, with a thick textured fabric with an inlayed illustration and glossy varnish. The text pages are untrimmed on the fore-edge to lend that old-styled traditional book-making feel to its aura of foreboding. The books, in every way, are a delight. Even the pseudo-author Lemony Snicket is a perfect addition. This fictitious character has also released the so-called Unauthorized Autobiography.
Yes, I am jealous. That's okay, though. I try to think of it as an impetus to get writing again. It's time for another course, I think. U of M, know anything about plot structure?
I was at Chapters again today. I've been at Chapters about 4 times in the past two weeks; it's becoming a bit of a fetish, I think. I truly love books too much. I just want to buy more, more, more. I buy far more books than I have time to read.
It's the cover designs and the richness of the textures that thrill me. And nothing compares to well-set type on a printed page. It's part passion for book design and part sublimation of my desire to write. What I really want is to be able to design, set and print my own novel. That would be incredible. Just to hold it, knowing that I created every piece of it.
I keep reading things and saying to myself, "I could have written that." The most recent example is a line of children's novels called A Series of Unfortunate Events, dark, wry stories about the terrible tragedies that befall three young orphans. The book are written in a particularly appealing tone that resonates with me. I felt a bit cheated, though, after finishing the first one, as if that book would have come from me had I been listening a little more closely to my muse.
I remember once reading Kim Stockwood comment on her song
The books are perfect. Both elegantly written, and beautifully designed. The illustrations are haunting, gothic creations that echo the books' tone well. They are released only in hardcover, with a thick textured fabric with an inlayed illustration and glossy varnish. The text pages are untrimmed on the fore-edge to lend that old-styled traditional book-making feel to its aura of foreboding. The books, in every way, are a delight. Even the pseudo-author Lemony Snicket is a perfect addition. This fictitious character has also released the so-called Unauthorized Autobiography.
Yes, I am jealous. That's okay, though. I try to think of it as an impetus to get writing again. It's time for another course, I think. U of M, know anything about plot structure?
Big stink
To those of you concerned about any malodorous scent lingering in the bathroom upon your departure:
Shutting the door, without some sort of alternative ventilation such as a fan or an open window, does nothing but trap that foulness and keep it lying in wait for the next unsuspecting soul who happens along.
At the very least, leave the door open so it can dissipate.
To those of you concerned about any malodorous scent lingering in the bathroom upon your departure:
Shutting the door, without some sort of alternative ventilation such as a fan or an open window, does nothing but trap that foulness and keep it lying in wait for the next unsuspecting soul who happens along.
At the very least, leave the door open so it can dissipate.
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Baby steps
The one thing that was omitted from that We-Didn't-Start-the-Fire-styled entry, mainly because it is significant enough that it deserves its own, is the fact that Jaimeson has started to walk on her own. On Friday (Nov. 15th) she took her first willingly-solo steps. I had forced her to take a few steps on her own, by stranding her in the middle of the floor somewhere, so she would lunge toward some safe habour, like the couch or the closest person. But these steps were genuine.
Believe you me, she was proud of herself. She was laughing and clapping, as if she couldn't believe it. She would do it then look around at everyone with that "Did you see me? Did you see me?" face. Something else. And just a few weeks behind Jordan.
But for all her being advanced (and smart!), there's always something to keep the pride in check. I was reading today in What to Expect the First Year (the absolute must-have for any new parent) about what skills she should have by now. It was broken down into "Should be able to..." "Can probably..." "Might be able to..." and "Might even be able to...". Jaimeson could do every single one one them... except one: sit up. Apparently if she can't sit up on her own yet that warrants a trip to the pediatrician to find out what's wrong. I won't bother though because it's no mystery. If I had a belly proportionate to hers, I wouldn't be able to sit up either.
She's started doing something funny today. She's begun to pick things op of the floor and give them to me. She always picked stuff up; that's nothing new. But it seems like she's picking them up just to get them off the floor, like she knows they shouldn't be there and she's cleaning up. That's one trait she certainly did not inherit from her mother, who is more likely to be the one responsible for whatever's on the floor. At present her coat and bag are on the kitchen floor, her socks are on the living room floor, and any number of unmentionables are on the bedroom floor. Let's not discuss the bathroom.
I have given up all hope of retraining the older one and have abandoned the idea to focus on the younger. Is it against the law to grow your own maid?
The one thing that was omitted from that We-Didn't-Start-the-Fire-styled entry, mainly because it is significant enough that it deserves its own, is the fact that Jaimeson has started to walk on her own. On Friday (Nov. 15th) she took her first willingly-solo steps. I had forced her to take a few steps on her own, by stranding her in the middle of the floor somewhere, so she would lunge toward some safe habour, like the couch or the closest person. But these steps were genuine.
Believe you me, she was proud of herself. She was laughing and clapping, as if she couldn't believe it. She would do it then look around at everyone with that "Did you see me? Did you see me?" face. Something else. And just a few weeks behind Jordan.
But for all her being advanced (and smart!), there's always something to keep the pride in check. I was reading today in What to Expect the First Year (the absolute must-have for any new parent) about what skills she should have by now. It was broken down into "Should be able to..." "Can probably..." "Might be able to..." and "Might even be able to...". Jaimeson could do every single one one them... except one: sit up. Apparently if she can't sit up on her own yet that warrants a trip to the pediatrician to find out what's wrong. I won't bother though because it's no mystery. If I had a belly proportionate to hers, I wouldn't be able to sit up either.
She's started doing something funny today. She's begun to pick things op of the floor and give them to me. She always picked stuff up; that's nothing new. But it seems like she's picking them up just to get them off the floor, like she knows they shouldn't be there and she's cleaning up. That's one trait she certainly did not inherit from her mother, who is more likely to be the one responsible for whatever's on the floor. At present her coat and bag are on the kitchen floor, her socks are on the living room floor, and any number of unmentionables are on the bedroom floor. Let's not discuss the bathroom.
I have given up all hope of retraining the older one and have abandoned the idea to focus on the younger. Is it against the law to grow your own maid?
Sunday, November 17, 2002
Gripe Session
Okay, well, I've missed to many days and too much to try to capture it all, at least in any detail.
What follows is a dry repetition of the week's events, to bring you up to speed on the Winnipeg Experience.
Girls went out with Caleb on Tuesday, had a large man's share of pints, came home. Two friends of Jordan's from school came over to play. Utter mayhem ensued, shouting, running, wrestling, boy fun. Computer dies, completely. David stays up all night, can't fix it, goes to bed. Finally re-installs, we have email again. Jordan and I have a cold. Thank goodness for Buckley's. Finally complete the project I was doing for Subway, a small flyer, and email it to print. Can't get proof without a fax machine. Go buy one in a mad dash, get home, set it up. Rep's gone home. Out of cough syrup, fitful night of coughing. A day of fighting between Julia and Amy. Amy ceases to be a partner in our little venture. Bought more Buckley's. Going to bed.
This is far more exhausting than it was ever supposed to be.
Okay, well, I've missed to many days and too much to try to capture it all, at least in any detail.
What follows is a dry repetition of the week's events, to bring you up to speed on the Winnipeg Experience.
Girls went out with Caleb on Tuesday, had a large man's share of pints, came home. Two friends of Jordan's from school came over to play. Utter mayhem ensued, shouting, running, wrestling, boy fun. Computer dies, completely. David stays up all night, can't fix it, goes to bed. Finally re-installs, we have email again. Jordan and I have a cold. Thank goodness for Buckley's. Finally complete the project I was doing for Subway, a small flyer, and email it to print. Can't get proof without a fax machine. Go buy one in a mad dash, get home, set it up. Rep's gone home. Out of cough syrup, fitful night of coughing. A day of fighting between Julia and Amy. Amy ceases to be a partner in our little venture. Bought more Buckley's. Going to bed.
This is far more exhausting than it was ever supposed to be.
Monday, November 11, 2002
Sleepy time
There's seems to be no end to the kindness and hospitality here in Winnipeg. We were invited to another family's house for dinner this evening, which was truly enjoyable. It was mostly a family affair, but a friendly, inviting family with whom it was easy to feel comfortable.
The funniest was the grandmother, a sixty-something mother of five, who got more and more talkative as the evening wore on. She was a feisty character, who enjoyed her bits of naughtiness. She kept us in stitches by the unexpected things that flew from her lips. I actually caught the phrase "pussy-whipped", though I don't know to whom it referred.
Lots of good wine, turkey dinner, and laughs ease the pain of the five inches of snow that fell this weekend.
There's seems to be no end to the kindness and hospitality here in Winnipeg. We were invited to another family's house for dinner this evening, which was truly enjoyable. It was mostly a family affair, but a friendly, inviting family with whom it was easy to feel comfortable.
The funniest was the grandmother, a sixty-something mother of five, who got more and more talkative as the evening wore on. She was a feisty character, who enjoyed her bits of naughtiness. She kept us in stitches by the unexpected things that flew from her lips. I actually caught the phrase "pussy-whipped", though I don't know to whom it referred.
Lots of good wine, turkey dinner, and laughs ease the pain of the five inches of snow that fell this weekend.
Quick process
Caleb and I went to see "One Hour Photo" this evening. It was good; I liked it. It was a refreshing moment of quality in a glutted suspense film market. Slightly twisty, not ingeniously so, but enough to make it interesting.
One thing that was interesting about the film, as Caleb noted, was how much of the story was told by what you saw, rather than by what actually happened. The director followed the Hollywood mantra "Show, don't tell" in its purest sense, by crediting the audience with the intelligence not to need to be hand-held through it.
It was a carefully crafted film visually, for the sake of the story, which is rare. Often film makers are caught up in what happens, the characters and the story, the action sequence or the dialogue. Or sometimes the director focuses so much on imagery that the plot is almost irrelevant, or at best a poorly constructed vehicle for assembling the images (the movie Dark City comes to mind). But here, the director used the medium to its fullest potential as a storytelling mechanism.
That being said, it wasn't a terribly good-looking film. No high-budget crane shots, or helicopter pans. Not a lot of interesting shots to speak of at all, except where they related to the story.
A decent performance by Robin Williams makes it worth your while, too. But don't feel bad if you've missed your chance already (I caught it at the local second run theatre), you won't lose anything by watching it on DVD.
Caleb and I went to see "One Hour Photo" this evening. It was good; I liked it. It was a refreshing moment of quality in a glutted suspense film market. Slightly twisty, not ingeniously so, but enough to make it interesting.
One thing that was interesting about the film, as Caleb noted, was how much of the story was told by what you saw, rather than by what actually happened. The director followed the Hollywood mantra "Show, don't tell" in its purest sense, by crediting the audience with the intelligence not to need to be hand-held through it.
It was a carefully crafted film visually, for the sake of the story, which is rare. Often film makers are caught up in what happens, the characters and the story, the action sequence or the dialogue. Or sometimes the director focuses so much on imagery that the plot is almost irrelevant, or at best a poorly constructed vehicle for assembling the images (the movie Dark City comes to mind). But here, the director used the medium to its fullest potential as a storytelling mechanism.
That being said, it wasn't a terribly good-looking film. No high-budget crane shots, or helicopter pans. Not a lot of interesting shots to speak of at all, except where they related to the story.
A decent performance by Robin Williams makes it worth your while, too. But don't feel bad if you've missed your chance already (I caught it at the local second run theatre), you won't lose anything by watching it on DVD.
Saturday, November 09, 2002
Doggie shame
Have you ever noticed how foolish men look in films when they're humping? They're all hunched over and pathetic, trying to see if everything is going okay. I can only imagine that it stands true for real life too. I'm glad there's no mirror in our bedroom.
Women don't look like that. Women look great in bed, regardless of how they're positioned, the angle, whatever. It's great, all of it. It kind of explains why men want the light on, but the women keep it off.
"Yeah, honey...uuuhh, if you plan on visiting my side of the Seally tonight, lose the lamps. Okay?"
Have you ever noticed how foolish men look in films when they're humping? They're all hunched over and pathetic, trying to see if everything is going okay. I can only imagine that it stands true for real life too. I'm glad there's no mirror in our bedroom.
Women don't look like that. Women look great in bed, regardless of how they're positioned, the angle, whatever. It's great, all of it. It kind of explains why men want the light on, but the women keep it off.
"Yeah, honey...uuuhh, if you plan on visiting my side of the Seally tonight, lose the lamps. Okay?"
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
City of grace
In the book of Matthew, verse 14 of chapter 22 (that's, like, in the bible you atheists) says, depending on your translation, "For many are called, but few are chosen."
Today Brad Nance, the incredible agent who helped me so much, dropped by to officially welcome us to the neighborhood. He brought so many gifts I was ashamed that I hadn't contacted him before now. He brought some homemade granola, homemade salsa, a handmade bean soup, a gift certificate for a local restaurant, and a hand-painted wooden plaque. The plaque carried a local version of the above-quoted scripture, that's remarkably apropos.
It reads: "Winnipeg - many are cold, but few are frozen."
Funny, Brad. I've hung it already.
In the book of Matthew, verse 14 of chapter 22 (that's, like, in the bible you atheists) says, depending on your translation, "For many are called, but few are chosen."
Today Brad Nance, the incredible agent who helped me so much, dropped by to officially welcome us to the neighborhood. He brought so many gifts I was ashamed that I hadn't contacted him before now. He brought some homemade granola, homemade salsa, a handmade bean soup, a gift certificate for a local restaurant, and a hand-painted wooden plaque. The plaque carried a local version of the above-quoted scripture, that's remarkably apropos.
It reads: "Winnipeg - many are cold, but few are frozen."
Funny, Brad. I've hung it already.
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
Sour grapes
So I just found out from my good friend Jenelle that wine actually can go bad. We didn't just make that up as an excuse for getting sick the other day. Jenelle is the only person I know who knows anything about wine, so she's my resident expert. When I asked if there was any truth to our theory that the wine was bad last week, she responded as follows:
"Yes...wine can go bad. If it isn't corked properly when it's aging, air can get inside the bottle - sometimes causing bacteria to form. So you aren't imagining it. If ever you think it doesn't smell quite right - then it's probably off. You can also tell sometimes just by looking at and smelling the cork."
So here's my question: are we smart for having figured that out, or stupid for having drunk it in the first place?
So I just found out from my good friend Jenelle that wine actually can go bad. We didn't just make that up as an excuse for getting sick the other day. Jenelle is the only person I know who knows anything about wine, so she's my resident expert. When I asked if there was any truth to our theory that the wine was bad last week, she responded as follows:
"Yes...wine can go bad. If it isn't corked properly when it's aging, air can get inside the bottle - sometimes causing bacteria to form. So you aren't imagining it. If ever you think it doesn't smell quite right - then it's probably off. You can also tell sometimes just by looking at and smelling the cork."
So here's my question: are we smart for having figured that out, or stupid for having drunk it in the first place?
Monday, November 04, 2002
Sticky money
I bought something yesterday that I've wanted for years, but never had a place for. Now, a large, mostly empty basement is more than enough space for a 60 lb. heavy bag. It's great. I can wail away on it all I want, punching and kicking to my heart's content. My knuckles are bruised and swollen and my back is sore, but Jordan, who watched me beat on it, says that I must be the best kickboxer ever. Having your son think you are a hero is worth a few aches.
When I was about twelve, and my mother, my sister and I had just moved out on our own. We didn't have much money. My mother, just re-entering the work force, earned a ridiculous 18 K or something like that. It wasn't much to house and feed two kids.
My mother tried her best to still give us treats when she could. That summer we still allowed ourselves the luxury of going the the C.N.E. I don't rememer whether we went on rides or not, but it wasn't important; the point was that we were there, and the atmoshpere was what mattered.
We had played a couple games in the midway; very few since they burned money so easily. My favourite game had always been the basket toss. I could often win and this one was cheap, only 25 cents per ball. I had played and won a small, stuffed heart and so had my mother. My sister, Elizabeth, had played but hadn't won.
We had gone off to do other things and eventually spent whatever money we had. It was near time to go and we thought we'd let Liz have one more shot at her little, red heart with Mom's last quarter. She didn't make it. Mom had nothing left but a single dime in her wallet.
We all went to the washroom before getting on the streetcar home and while I was in there I saw that someone had thrown some change into the urinal I was using. The person before me hadn't flushed and there was a sick-coloured orange foam in the bottom but there they were: one dime and one nickel.
I hated doing it, but I grabbed them and washed them really well. Right then it was important to me that Liz have her heart too; it was only fair and I think maybe it represented a balance and unity that we needed just then. Those hearts meant that we were still a family, still loving, despite the upheaval of my parents' separation.
I asked my mother for her last dime, telling her that I had found some money in the washroom. I had one ball, one shot to win it for her. I held that softball for I don't know how long, concentrating, knowing I had to get it just right. Finally, I tossed it and it stayed in. I had won her heart for her.
I never told them what I had to do to get that money. A little while later, when a family friend was moving away, Elizabeth gave that stuffed heart to her. It annoyed me that she didn't understand its significance. When I was older, I realized that she had only wanted to make some gesture in whatever way she could and that the heart had taken on a new significance.
Somewhere out there is an ass who thought it would be funny to make someone reach into his piss for a bit of change. I'm still thankful for that.
I bought something yesterday that I've wanted for years, but never had a place for. Now, a large, mostly empty basement is more than enough space for a 60 lb. heavy bag. It's great. I can wail away on it all I want, punching and kicking to my heart's content. My knuckles are bruised and swollen and my back is sore, but Jordan, who watched me beat on it, says that I must be the best kickboxer ever. Having your son think you are a hero is worth a few aches.
• • •
When I was about twelve, and my mother, my sister and I had just moved out on our own. We didn't have much money. My mother, just re-entering the work force, earned a ridiculous 18 K or something like that. It wasn't much to house and feed two kids.
My mother tried her best to still give us treats when she could. That summer we still allowed ourselves the luxury of going the the C.N.E. I don't rememer whether we went on rides or not, but it wasn't important; the point was that we were there, and the atmoshpere was what mattered.
We had played a couple games in the midway; very few since they burned money so easily. My favourite game had always been the basket toss. I could often win and this one was cheap, only 25 cents per ball. I had played and won a small, stuffed heart and so had my mother. My sister, Elizabeth, had played but hadn't won.
We had gone off to do other things and eventually spent whatever money we had. It was near time to go and we thought we'd let Liz have one more shot at her little, red heart with Mom's last quarter. She didn't make it. Mom had nothing left but a single dime in her wallet.
We all went to the washroom before getting on the streetcar home and while I was in there I saw that someone had thrown some change into the urinal I was using. The person before me hadn't flushed and there was a sick-coloured orange foam in the bottom but there they were: one dime and one nickel.
I hated doing it, but I grabbed them and washed them really well. Right then it was important to me that Liz have her heart too; it was only fair and I think maybe it represented a balance and unity that we needed just then. Those hearts meant that we were still a family, still loving, despite the upheaval of my parents' separation.
I asked my mother for her last dime, telling her that I had found some money in the washroom. I had one ball, one shot to win it for her. I held that softball for I don't know how long, concentrating, knowing I had to get it just right. Finally, I tossed it and it stayed in. I had won her heart for her.
I never told them what I had to do to get that money. A little while later, when a family friend was moving away, Elizabeth gave that stuffed heart to her. It annoyed me that she didn't understand its significance. When I was older, I realized that she had only wanted to make some gesture in whatever way she could and that the heart had taken on a new significance.
Somewhere out there is an ass who thought it would be funny to make someone reach into his piss for a bit of change. I'm still thankful for that.
Sunday, November 03, 2002
Both ends
Too much of anything is not a good thing. For me, today, it's too much time indoors, too much work on Julia's course components, too much baby time, and too much caffeine.
I love the time with Jaime; it's good for both of us, but it's exhausting and not very stimulating. Well, if it's stimulation you're after, why not enjoy a few hours pouring over the marketing component of the business plan? Thanks, I'd rather not. Oh, but you must! Yes, I must; it is partly my business after all, and I need to make sure it's done well. Obsess much?
Yes, actually, but it's not even that. It's just that it's really too much work for one person to do in the few, short weeks we have to complete it. Also, this sort of thing is not Julia's strong point. She's great at compiling data, then doing a 'brain dump' to get things mostly in the right places, but, by her own admission, needs someone to come along afterwards and fine-tune it. Sometimes more than fine-tune; rewrite. And spending four hours of my Saturday working on it was not what I had planned.
Right now, the girls are at a movie with Caleb. Jaimeson, who had been sleeping, has woken up and now won't let me put her down. She kept waking up to check if I was still there. Leaving her alone the first time was a dirty trick she won't let me play again. Now she is sitting happily at the keyboard, smacking away, delighted at the unpredictable flashings on the screen that result. She very nearly lost this post. As I lean back in my chair, this view is one I won't soon forget: Jaimeson's sturdy silhouette, complete with toussled bed-head, framed by the bright blue outline of the screen. She sits with her back ramrod straight and is terribly proud of herself.
Why am I at home while the girls are out with some guy we've really only just met? Well, Caleb's a good guy; the girl's are safe with him. And after hours of straight baby, then hours of straight biz plan work, I was too burnt and too grumpy to go anywhere.
That's that. End of day. There are only four more weeks of Julia's classes, which is a great relief. I think every one of us in the house who can talk expressed some degree of hatred for the work we're doing right now. It's oppressive. After that, we'll be able to spent time on the sort of work we're anxious to get to, setting up the office, buying equipment, and going after clients. I'm sure that in retrospect it will all seem worthwhile, I'm also sure that it will not seem so until it can be viewed retrospectively.
Too much of anything is not a good thing. For me, today, it's too much time indoors, too much work on Julia's course components, too much baby time, and too much caffeine.
I love the time with Jaime; it's good for both of us, but it's exhausting and not very stimulating. Well, if it's stimulation you're after, why not enjoy a few hours pouring over the marketing component of the business plan? Thanks, I'd rather not. Oh, but you must! Yes, I must; it is partly my business after all, and I need to make sure it's done well. Obsess much?
Yes, actually, but it's not even that. It's just that it's really too much work for one person to do in the few, short weeks we have to complete it. Also, this sort of thing is not Julia's strong point. She's great at compiling data, then doing a 'brain dump' to get things mostly in the right places, but, by her own admission, needs someone to come along afterwards and fine-tune it. Sometimes more than fine-tune; rewrite. And spending four hours of my Saturday working on it was not what I had planned.
Right now, the girls are at a movie with Caleb. Jaimeson, who had been sleeping, has woken up and now won't let me put her down. She kept waking up to check if I was still there. Leaving her alone the first time was a dirty trick she won't let me play again. Now she is sitting happily at the keyboard, smacking away, delighted at the unpredictable flashings on the screen that result. She very nearly lost this post. As I lean back in my chair, this view is one I won't soon forget: Jaimeson's sturdy silhouette, complete with toussled bed-head, framed by the bright blue outline of the screen. She sits with her back ramrod straight and is terribly proud of herself.
Why am I at home while the girls are out with some guy we've really only just met? Well, Caleb's a good guy; the girl's are safe with him. And after hours of straight baby, then hours of straight biz plan work, I was too burnt and too grumpy to go anywhere.
That's that. End of day. There are only four more weeks of Julia's classes, which is a great relief. I think every one of us in the house who can talk expressed some degree of hatred for the work we're doing right now. It's oppressive. After that, we'll be able to spent time on the sort of work we're anxious to get to, setting up the office, buying equipment, and going after clients. I'm sure that in retrospect it will all seem worthwhile, I'm also sure that it will not seem so until it can be viewed retrospectively.
Saturday, November 02, 2002
Brute charm
Jaimeson is changing so much lately, and so quickly.
She's on the verge of walking; the only thing really preventing her is fear. She can walk around holding on to things, but prefers to have a finger instead. It's tiring to walk her constantly, and sore on the back; although it's better since she's now satisfied with only one hand instead of two. She needs a finger pretty much only for comfort, and the occasional wobble.
It's interesting, too, to see her will develop. She decides things now, wants things and tries to make them happen. When we walk, we let her decide where to go. She meanders from place to place, pursuing whatever catches her interest.
Shortly after we arrived in Winnipeg, she started doing this thing to get your attention, or direct it where she wants. If you're holding her, she'll grab your face and forcibly turn it where whe wants you to look. I was surprised to see her behave so aggressively. It was funny at first, but it's getting out of hand. It's a little annoying though to have her wrench your head to the side at a whim. She's not gentle about it.
Books are a new thing for her. She is beginning to take an interest now. A Teletubbies book is one of her favourites ever since she saw the show. She'll choose one, hold up, looking pleadingly and grunting until you read it to her. The only problem is that she doesn't understand the words at all; she just likes the pictures, so no one book will hold her attention cover to cover. She always switches halfway through.
She's far more aggressive than Jordan ever was. He was a much gentler baby. I jokingly told him before she was born that she would start to beat him up as soon as she could walk. Now I'm wondering if that's actually going to be true. She's rough-and-tumble in a way he never was. She's stronger than he was at this age and she'll play ball; something Jordan wouldn't do for years. I told Julia that she may just turn out to be the boy I always wanted.
Truth be known, I think there's a pretty good chance she'll be the girl I always wanted: the kind of girl that can smack a wicked fastball and slide hard into second; the kind girl to bait her own hook, the kind of girl to take on a boy half as big again as her, and win. I want her to be the sort of girl who prefers jeans, but can wear a dress. The kind of girl who doesn't mind getting dirty, but cleans up well. She'll come camping with Jordan and me, and look just as good without makeup as when she wears it. She'll believe that it's okay to cry, but most of the time won't need to. She'll know that toughness isn't exclusive of femininity.
At least that's what I hope. And if I do my job well, it just might be.
Jaimeson is changing so much lately, and so quickly.
She's on the verge of walking; the only thing really preventing her is fear. She can walk around holding on to things, but prefers to have a finger instead. It's tiring to walk her constantly, and sore on the back; although it's better since she's now satisfied with only one hand instead of two. She needs a finger pretty much only for comfort, and the occasional wobble.
It's interesting, too, to see her will develop. She decides things now, wants things and tries to make them happen. When we walk, we let her decide where to go. She meanders from place to place, pursuing whatever catches her interest.
Shortly after we arrived in Winnipeg, she started doing this thing to get your attention, or direct it where she wants. If you're holding her, she'll grab your face and forcibly turn it where whe wants you to look. I was surprised to see her behave so aggressively. It was funny at first, but it's getting out of hand. It's a little annoying though to have her wrench your head to the side at a whim. She's not gentle about it.
Books are a new thing for her. She is beginning to take an interest now. A Teletubbies book is one of her favourites ever since she saw the show. She'll choose one, hold up, looking pleadingly and grunting until you read it to her. The only problem is that she doesn't understand the words at all; she just likes the pictures, so no one book will hold her attention cover to cover. She always switches halfway through.
She's far more aggressive than Jordan ever was. He was a much gentler baby. I jokingly told him before she was born that she would start to beat him up as soon as she could walk. Now I'm wondering if that's actually going to be true. She's rough-and-tumble in a way he never was. She's stronger than he was at this age and she'll play ball; something Jordan wouldn't do for years. I told Julia that she may just turn out to be the boy I always wanted.
Truth be known, I think there's a pretty good chance she'll be the girl I always wanted: the kind of girl that can smack a wicked fastball and slide hard into second; the kind girl to bait her own hook, the kind of girl to take on a boy half as big again as her, and win. I want her to be the sort of girl who prefers jeans, but can wear a dress. The kind of girl who doesn't mind getting dirty, but cleans up well. She'll come camping with Jordan and me, and look just as good without makeup as when she wears it. She'll believe that it's okay to cry, but most of the time won't need to. She'll know that toughness isn't exclusive of femininity.
At least that's what I hope. And if I do my job well, it just might be.
It's not word, but it's a state of mind.
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