Friday, March 24, 2017

Oh, Child

I'm alone in the kitchen right now. It's nice. Sully and Barclay are in the basement playing music—Barclay on electric, Sully on drums. I just went down there to see when they wanted supper, and as soon as Sully heard my feet on the stairs I heard him yell, "Oh no! Mom's coming!"

Ooh, the anticipation.

I poked my head around the corner and smiled at them. Sully did not smile back. He pointed behind me, back up the stairs and said patronizingly, "Mom, this is gonna be really loud. You need to go back to the kitchen."

Oh, child. 
Child of mine, child I birthed, 
Who do you think gave you your thirst for noise?
Your appetite for volume, 
Your hunger for bass in your spine 
And the high-pitched scream in your ears 
Long after the last note has died away?

IT WAS IIIIIIIII!

I, your mother,
Whom you have sent to the kitchen
To mash potatoes
And grate cheese
And also my knuckles
Accidentally.

(Also, yeah, we're working on the whole respect and manners thing. Three year olds are super condescending, has anyone else noticed this?)

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

The Spring of Nostalgia

I discovered recently that I have a superpower, and it's the best superpower, besides flight and mind reading and shapeshifting and superhuman strength:

I can summon music. I'm the Music Summoner. My cape has the Bandsintown app symbol on it, and I only use my powers for the good of all humankind (but only the humankind that dwells in my immediate vicinity).

So, okay, I was on Twitter one day and I said something like (but not necessarily): "I love 90s music so much, it's so great, I'd marry it, etc."

That was all it took. It was like the magic horn (like a bugle, but richer) in the Narnia series that Father Christmas gave to Susan, with the instruction that she should blow it in emergencies and some kind of help would come to her. Twitter is my magic horn, and musical emergencies are a real thing. Don't call me crazy behind my back; I have evidence. 

Concerts coming to Saskatchewan this spring, all announced around the time I sent my Tweet off:

The Tea Party   (Casino Regina, March 18)

Weezer   (Sasktel Centre, March 31)

Vanilla Ice, Color Me Badd, Young MC, Rob Base, Salt-N-Pepa   (Brandt Centre, April 1/Sasktel Centre, April 2)

Prozzak   (Saskatoon Event Centre, April 6)

Jimmy Eat World   (O'Brians, April 30)

Everclear, Vertical Horizon, Fastball   (O'Brians, May 17/Casino Regina, May 18)

And those are just the ones I can think of right now. Are you crazy impressed? 

This is going to be the best spring ever. For someone who hated my high school years, I sure am pumped about reliving the musical part of them—maybe because music is often the best part of anything? Probably.

Thursday, March 09, 2017

My Reading Nook

House goals as a 10-year-old: 

- A reading nook
- ...in a library (not a little library; I mean one with a ladder and several floors)
- Secret passageways and rooms
- A turret
- A slide somewhere
- An elevator
- A windy staircase
- Skeleton keys for all the door locks
- Secret passageways that anyone who knows about the other secret passageways doesn't know about
- trampoline floors
- swimming pool right off (pretty much inside) the bedroom (so I could jump out of bed into the pool)

House goals as a 29-year-old:

- Like, the same, but now I have common sense and know I can't have almost any of those things. Except the reading nook and a massively scaled-back library.

All this to say: I finally got my reading nook. *Jazz hands*

Here's a picture of what our living room looked like about three years ago (come to think of it, I took this picture the day Sully was born). Since that time, most of this stuff has been sold on Varage Sale.


We hit up Ikea for cheap book and CD cases, and Barclay made a fake wall so they would appear to be built in (does that count as a secret room? There's space back there enough for, like, five people). I got that green bench for cheap from the Sears outlet store (it opens up; we keep Sully's toys in there) and the window mirrors off Varage. The twinkle lights are bright enough to read by at night. 

Voila: the reading nook of my 10-year-old dreams, surrounded by the library of my 29-year-old dreams (all of my CDs fit too!), arranged by genre, but not by the Dewey Decimal System. I've already logged many hours of reading time in there. It's cozy. It looks tiny, but it's not—Barclay and I can both fit in there comfortably.


This is my thrilled face (I'm smiling, I promise).

Wednesday, March 08, 2017

The Blonde Girl in the Business Suit


I'm sitting in a coffee shop right now—the Brewed Awakening on Dewdney, the one they [the cool people] call Brewedney. It's 2:01, which is normally not a time I'd usually find myself in a coffee shop all alone, but Barclay has the day off (as soon as Sullivan found out his dad wasn't going to work today, he asked if the two of them could go to the guitar store together this afternoon, and why would I discourage that?).

I got here about fifteen minutes ago. I snagged the last available table, which felt lucky, and as I sat down and opened my laptop, I glanced over and noticed the woman at the table next to me—a blonde in a business suit and thick-rimmed glasses sitting with a group of men in business suits and thick-rimmed glasses. At first I thought she caught my eye because she bears a striking resemblance to Scarlett Johansson, but suddenly I realized that I recognized her from real life, too. I only had to think for a few seconds more before I came up with it: she was one of the actual PR students from that time I pretended to be a PR student so I could get backstage at the Junos. I was running the media room and she was driving the winners around backstage in a go-cart. We both had arm injuries (I'd sustained mine the night before, when two drunk men were hugging each other and fell on top of me—please tell me you remember all of this?*) and we were both stressed to the max because the whole thing was a lot more intense than we'd anticipated (especially me, being a complete and total imposter—I wonder if she knew?). We bonded over our shared stress, our shared injuries, and our shared Michael Buble experiences (he was the host that year). I haven't seen her since. I should go over and say hi. I probably won't.

Seeing her makes me feel all happy and wistful and nostalgic. That weekend was funny. I used to think about it all the time, but now it feels like it happened to someone else, in a TV show I saw once a long time ago. Probably because it happened pre-Sullivan, when I was living in the Village and getting up to all kinds of shenanigans, things I have neither time nor energy nor babysitting money for these days.

But there she is. She still exists in this city. She's gotten a little older (about four years older, by my estimation), and she looks very professional and happy. She's, like...I'm trying to put my finger on it...proof that that other version of myself still exists too. Does that make sense? (I don't make sense, sometimes.)

I really should say hi. But it'll be weird if she doesn't remember me. A compromise: if I catch her eye, I'll smile at her.

Nevermind, she's gone now. Left while I had my head down.

Oh well, she's still out there. Maybe I'll see her again in another four years, and maybe then she'll remind me of this quiet afternoon, writing in a coffee shop, and I'll feel all happy and wistful and nostalgic over it.



PS: Right as I hit Publish, another familiar person walked in: my manager from when I was a cashier at Staples. I do not feel any level of nostalgia or wistfulness over that.

*In case you don't, click here.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

SAFS

I went to the Saskatchewan African Fashion Show on Saturday night—my friend Iryn was one of the organizers and invited me as her plus one. I'd never been to a real fashion show before, but I've seen every single episode of America's Next Top Model, so I think it was high time.

I admit that I Googled WHAT DO PEOPLE WEAR TO FASHION SHOWS THESE DAYS? Several sources seemed to agree: don't wear all black, but don't go crazy. Wear a statement piece. Wear your crazy tall heels. Carry an expensive designer purse.

Okay, I said to Google. Noted. And then I went to my closet and noticed that I don't have crazy tall heels, or an expensive designer purse, or a statement piece (what even in the heck). I do have lots of black. So. I wore the exact opposite of what one is supposed to wear to a fashion show. LUCKILY, I live in Regina, not New York. So I hoisted my $16 purse to my shoulder and pasted on my most fashion-forward smile—and had, might I add, a completely lovely time.

There were some solid musical interludes (courtesy of Scott Richmond) and the emcee was one of those people you want to find afterward and become friends with LIKE NOW. Plus—and this was the whole point—it was so fun to see these beautiful African-inspired pieces and the people who created them.

If you're in Regina, you should come to next year's and sit with me. (And help me dress myself beforehand because I just...)