Monday, August 14, 2017

A Trip to the ER, A Wedding, and RFF2017


On Wednesday, Sullivan accidentally stabbed himself in the throat with a stick and we had to go to the Emergency Room (because no matter how many times you yell, "Don't run with that!" kids will, indeed, still run with whatever 'that' may be). (He has, quite possibly and I hope, learned his lesson now.) (And yes, I do have awful flashbacks every time he picks up a drumstick.)

He's fine now. I look in his mouth with a flashlight every night before bed and we have him on antibiotics, which we have to hide in his yogurt because he thinks they taste bad (meanwhile, I remember wanting to drink the whole bottle as a kid).

Throats are very important. I'm thankful his is okay.

After the incident, we headed off to Frontier, Saskatchewan for my little sister's wedding. It was a beautiful day and Elise looked really happy about everything.


The ceremony was at 10:30 in the morning and she had an early afternoon reception, so we left Frontier around 6 and were back in Regina around 10:30 PM. I thought, "Oh hey. Tegan and Sara and are on at 10:50. I could still make it!" And I did.


I also made it to the free stages on Sunday afternoon, just in time for Begonia's set with Charly Hustle, Vox Sambou, and Como Mamas. Sitting on the grass in Vic Park listening to live music is one of my favourite things; it's almost just a bonus when the music is mind-blowing. 

And the music was mind-blowing.


Then Barclay and Sully joined me and we did a little wandering, grabbed sandwiches from the free grilled cheese stand, and sat under a tree while De Temps Antan started their set on the main stage. It was such a perfect afternoon—the sun was bright but not too hot, the people were happy, and the music covered all the bases.


We stuck around for a few acts and then took Sully home to bed, and my heart sank with the sun as I realized that yet another Folk Fest has come and gone and I have to wait all the way until 2018 to know the lineup for next year.

Friday, August 04, 2017

On Going To Concerts Alone

The Zolas opened for July Talk at the Queen City Ex last night. I only found out about the show on Monday or Tuesday, but I already had a pass for the Ex, so the decision was made. I told Barclay I wanted to go and he asked who I was planning on going with and I smiled and said, "Myself."


I usually put in a pretty good effort to find a person to go to a show with, but lately I've been wondering why I try so hard. Why do any of us? I mean, sure, going to a show with someone who values music (or at least the band playing that night) the exact same amount as you is great. It can even be so much as amazing or fantastic. I've got a few friends who are really fun to take to shows. (Don't worry, Those Friends, I'm not going to stop inviting you to shows with me.)

But what I mean is, if you can't find someone to go with, so what? Why is it so dang important not to be there alone?


And there's the other side of the coin, too, to consider. I'm sure anyone who loves live music has had that experience where, somehow, they end up at a show with someone who doesn't love live music as much as they do, and that person talks through all the great songs and complains a lot about standing for so long and wants to leave early. (For some shows, it should be noted, it's fine. MC Hammer? Stay for U Can't Touch This and get outta there. Talk through Elliot Brood's whole set, it's really okay. I went to Bryan Adams with some friends recently and, to be honest, we were mostly there to hang out with each other. But, say, Death Cab? UNACCEPTABLE—no talking, no whining, and we are not leaving until Ben G is literally on an airplane to his next gig.)

It's like going to a seafood restaurant with someone who hates seafood (me) and is just going to sit across from you and make grossed out faces at your plate the whole time. Either find someone who likes fish, or go by yourself. Right?

(No. You can't go to restaurants by yourself either—who makes these weird rules?)


Anyway. With that level of failure as a looming possibility, combined with the freedom to come and go when you choose and the sweet, sweet anonymity of standing in a mosh pit full of strangers...why do people have such a strange attitude towards concert-going solo? Why would you compromise your enjoyment of the show simply for the sake of being there with someone you know? Why is it so imperative that we arrive and stand and leave with someone? And why isn't going alone more often a first choice instead of a last resort?


The lineup last night was significant in kind of a silly little way that wouldn't make sense to you at this point in time (I'll explain later), and as soon as I heard about it I decided I wanted to experience it by myself. Rules schmules. And I did and it rocked. So I'm here to say: let's all start going to more shows alone, together.


After the show was over, I wandered the fair grounds for a while. There's something so eerie about fair grounds after dark. It's great.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

This Week

Oh, it's summer.
Oh, summer's half over.

Well.

Barclay said I should write a blog post. He said it's been over a month. I checked. I said, "Oh, it's summer."

And then, "Oh, summer's half over."

And then, "Well."

It got away on me, because, to be honest, it's been a time of great...hm...I don't know, Stuff. Stuff going down. Working on Stuff. Stuffy stuff stuff.

And that is exactly why I haven't been writing on here. I have lost the ability to articulate what is going on in my life. Let me try a metaphor instead:

2017 is neon green, with racing stripes and an obnoxious-sounding engine and I'm the unfortunate pedestrian who was texting while crossing the street and didn't see 2017 headed straight for me.

It struck me, is what I'm saying. And I flew into the air and, for a considerable amount of time, was floating somewhere in outer space still trying to send that darn text and wondering why I didn't have any bars on my cellphone.

And then (now), I realized that the year was half over (yes, it is), and a bunch of stuff had happened (oh, so much stuff), and I've done a terrible job of recording it on my web log (pushes glasses up nose nerdily). Still in outer space, but aware of it now. Will come down in 2018. Meh-beh.

There. That about sums it up.

But, to appease my husband, I will write a blog post. I will call it 'This Week,' and in it, I will list a few things about, you guessed it, this week.

My, what a lot of preamble.

Okay, so this week:

Monday: Finished a round of book edits, sent them to my agent, brain promptly crumbled up into a pile of dust. Swept brain into garbage, added "Brain" to shopping list on fridge.

Tuesday: I don't have a clue. What even was Tuesday? I think I went to Giant Tiger. I don't even know why. I vaguely remember trying on a pair of jeans and a pair of shorts and four t-shirts, and deciding to buy them all, and not buying any of them. I'm sure I did something else, but what? If you saw me yesterday, if we hung out or texted, can you just give me a call and help me remember what happened in that black abysm of my memory?

Wednesday: It's Wednesday now, isn't it? Which means I actually have to go. I need to hit up the Evraz Place Admin Office and pick up my media packet for the Queen City Ex (woo!), and then I need to get some stuff for my sister's bachelorette party on the weekend.

Oh, before I go, in kind of the same vein (the Tourism Regina one and also the things happening this week one): Reginacadabra is starting tonight and running until Sunday. IT'S A MAGIC FESTIVAL. LET'S ALL GO. I'm so nerdy about magic; I love it. One of the magicians performing fooled Penn and Teller twice. If you know what that means, I love you.

Okay. I'm out. What a marvellously coherent post. I am out of practise.

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Toadie

Sully and I were walking home from the park this morning when he stopped, crouched, and pointed at the ground. He was excited.

"I think I see A TOADIE HOLE!"

I said, "A what?"

and he said, "A TOADIE HOLE! TOADIES LIVE IN THOSE!"

I said, "What's a Toadie?"

He was still crouched over the hole, which probably belonged to a gopher, but he looked up at me with a big smile on his face. "Well," he said, because that's how he begins most of his sentences these days because, honestly, that's how I begin most of my sentences when I'm talking to him. He made big gestures with his little arms as he spoke. "A Toadie  has mouth-es but no eyes. It has cheeks and arms and legs and all those things. And it lives in a very, veeeery, very-very small hole. I saw one."

I always treat these conversations carefully, like I'm a conversation archaeologist. I can tell there's more in there, that he's thought about this at length, but if I ask the wrong question he'll just shut down.

Like, one time he was telling me a story about his imaginary friend, Raligi, and I asked him a leading question and he just stared at me, suspiciously, like he understood that I was mining the conversation for gold to send to his grandparents in a text message later that afternoon, which I was, because I learned from Art Linkletter exactly how to make Kids Say the Darndest Things, and he said, "I'm not talking about Raligi anymore."

So, you know, I have to be careful.

I looked away from him, indicating a moderate level of interest in the conversation, and said, "What did it do?"

"It jumped out of the hole!" he cried. "It poked me in the eyes! It gave me lots of money to buy toys with!"

I wondered how it knew where his eyes were if it didn't have eyes itself. I wondered if it poked him in the eyes because it didn't have any eyes of its own—and was this a matter of jealousy? Resentment? Or just curiosity? "How big was it?" I asked, still trying to play it cool.

"It was like a big man," he said. "But a really, reeeeally big man."

"But if it was like a big man, how did it get down into that veeeeery small hole?"

"It used the stairs. I'm not going to talk about Toadie anymore."

Sunday, June 04, 2017

The Poop

It's Sunday night. We got home from a picnic in the park about half an hour ago and Sully's sleeping already. Barclay and I are sitting on the couch staring over each others' shoulders at the walls. I could go to bed right now and fall asleep instantly, but it's a matter of principle for me to pretend like I'm a night owl at all times.

I'm not thirty yet! I'm a spring chicken! I'm going to crank The Beta Band and stay up until 10:15!

Barclay's like, "I could go to bed right now and fall asleep instantly."

I'm like, "It's only 8. We're young. Lets live it up."

He's like, "Well, what are you going to do?"

And I'm like, "I'm going to read this book."

So he gets out his guitar and I curl up on the couch with my headphones and a latte and Funny Girl by Nick Hornby. I read three paragraphs. I'm totally into the story, but all of a sudden I'm not reading anymore, just staring out the open window at the quiet street in front of my house. The sky is peach. The breeze is warm. The car is parked out there and it has bird poop on the hood.

Sully is completely fascinated by the poop. We were coming out of the grocery store yesterday and he saw it and he gasped and gaped and pointed at it; he thought it was paint. I told him what it was.

He can't get over it.

It's just the most ludicrous thing to him that a living thing would poop on our car. In public. He kept asking me to verify that the offending bird did, indeed, poop on our car in a parking lot in front of everyone. Unbelievable!

And not only that: The Poop is white. White poop. What will they think of next? "Mom!" he said to me as I was tucking him into bed last night. "Birds have white poop! Do you know why?"

And I admitted that I didn't.

And he said, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Because that's what's in their butts. White poop." He said it with all the awe and innocent amazement you could hope for.

Children are wonderful.

Anyway. I don't think I'm going to last until 10:15, Beta Band or no Beta Band. I do turn 30 later this month; maybe the effects of aging aren't constrained to a certain day?