{saturday afternoon}

Fan Fare ended at 3. My shift at the Gala began at 3:15 in a different part of town. Tricky.

But I made it. Huffing and puffing and cramming a sandwich into my face. Bits of fruit snack stuck in my teeth, as per always. Hair simultaneously frizzing and sticking flat to my scalp, wrinkles in my tights. Looking crazy professional, like I do.

I was pretty nervous. All my previous duties this weekend were either as media, where I could basically just walk around in restricted areas taking pictures of and talking to important people, or as a social media correspondent with the Juno host committee (GGL), snapping pictures on my iPhone and Tweeting and just in general social media-ing my face off.

This job, however, was different.

There's this little boutique PR agency out of Toronto who was basically set to staff the Juno Week events; they needed more staff for the week, so they decided to hire PR students from the local university. One of those students forwarded the email she'd received from the company on to me, because she knew I'd probably be interested in that sort of thing, so I just casually showed up to the info session mentioned in the email pretending to be a PR student on the brink of graduating university but really not knowing a dang thing about anything.

The whole point was to give these students a taste of what they'd be encountering in the "Real PR World". I wasn't even that interested in entering the "Real PR World", but I thought it would at least be an educational and enlightening experience. Or I'd maybe discover a new field that I'd fall in love with and this whole thing would be the start of a great new career for me. Or I'd get to drive a golf cart backstage at the Junos.

Actually. That was pretty much all I wanted out of it. To drive a golf cart backstage at the Junos. Let's be real.

Anyway. So I went to this info meeting and got hired and they took my picture for my VIP badge and said they'd send me an information packet in the e-mail telling me how to dress and where to go and how not to be late under threat of death and all that. The girl who ran the meeting was super nice and laid back and she told us how some of us would be assigned to drive the golf carts backstage at the Junos. I fist-pumped under the table, but the PR students sitting around me looked unimpressed. They were dressed in black skirts and silk scarves. I was wearing ripped jeans and a toque because I hadn't washed my hair in four days. I am really, really bad at first impressions.

So that's the backstory. Fast forward to 3:15 pm, Saturday, April 20 and I'm standing in a small group of seriously classy women picking bits of lunch out of my teeth. A woman is run-walking over to us, calling out names and handing badges to their corresponding persons. "This way, ladies, we have lots to cover. This way. Please hurry. Have you all eaten?" (No pause) "We're going to be very, very busy. You."

Me.

"Me?"

"Yes. You... Uh... What's your name?" She's scanning her list even though I'm wearing a badge around my neck with my name on it, clearly printed in black block letters.

I pause. I'm about to say 'Suzy', because that's who I usually am. But, if you'll remember, my real actual name on my birth certificate and drivers' licence is 'Elena', and so that's what my VIP badge says too.

"Your name?" She raises an eyebrow and leans her head in as though she didn't hear me the first time, even though I know she knows I haven't said anything yet. It only takes, like, two seconds to make a bad impression on a woman like this. Especially when she's in a hurry.

"Elena."

"Emily?"

"Elena."

"Emily, yes, that's what I said." She's run-walking again. "Come with me. You'll be our media room host... Here." We've gone through several doors and past a guard who doesn't smile back, and she pauses at the entrance to a large room filled with tables and chairs. "Media should be arriving shortly. Make sure they're seated in their assigned spots --no trading spots around; it needs to be left as assigned, as stated on the seating chart-- and answer any questions they might have. The nominees will be down to answer questions after the gala has begun, with the first one arriving at 6:14. Here." She hands me a list of networks and their seating assignments and taps the top of it. "Some of these are wrong. Make sure the cards are in the right spots. You'll have to rearrange some of them. Do it quick before they get here." She rambles off a paragraph of "important things for me to know". I nod, dumbly. I have a million questions.

"Sorry, what was that you said about how some of these seat assignments are wrong--"

"That's a question for Chelsea."

I don't know who Chelsea is. I open my mouth to ask but she is already run-walking away down the hall. "The rest of you, follow me."

And just like that, I'm alone with my seating chart which is not completely accurate. I begin rearranging the place cards.

A familiar-looking reporter and her cameraman are approaching me. They want to know where to sit. I consult my seating chart. I seat them in row 8, at their place card. They want to know why they don't get to sit in row 1. I tell them that I'm just going by the seating chart. The reporter turns red, scanning the place cards on the tables ahead of her and whispers something to her cameraman. She turns to me. "I'm sure this isn't your fault," she says curtly, "But I don't understand why I have to sit way back here, when my network is much more important than several who are sitting in rows farther up than me."

She is joined by a tall, slender woman in a gold blazer who reaches out and touches my elbow. "Excuse me, there must be some mistake here. My company's name card is in row 7. I'm sure they would've wanted me closer to the front."

I shake my head politely. "I'm sorry--"

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

This is Chelsea. She is wearing a badge that says so. Chelsea has angry eyebrows.

"WHY DID YOU MOVE CBC TO ROW 5? THEY SHOULD BE IN ROW 1."

I show her the seating chart I've been given. The two news reporters slink off unhappily to their unfavourable seats.

She grabs the paper from me, examines it, groans. "This is all wrong! Who gave you this?"

"Um, I'm not sure. She had blonde hair. She said some of it was wrong but didn't tell me which parts--"

"Well obviously this row needs to stay the same! I told you that! I told you that this row needs to stay the same. Switch it back!"

I've only moved two place cards, and their respective attendees aren't even here yet, so the "damage" is pretty minimal. I scurry to put them back. I don't point out that not only had she not actually told me what she claimed she'd told me, but she'd not told me anything, ever. Because I'd never seen her before in my whole entire life and stuff.

She leaves the room with my seating chart and comes back with a corrected version. Media from all sorts of outlets come flooding in, as though informed that it is now, at least temporarily, safe to do so.

Global and CBC reporters, CTV camera people, Entertainment Tonight and ETalk hosts, Huffington Post bloggers, local music bloggers, some guy I recognize from the Strombo Show; they all enter with their sound equipment, their laptops, their official-looking folders. There are a hundred and two of them, (I count later on during the Gala when they're all seated), and all at once they have a million questions and concerns and seating issues and technological issues and a camera guy wants to be moved to the other side of the room because he doesn't get along with his reporters and two grown men need me to referee a fight over an ideal camera setup location and everyone wants to know why they're not in row 1.

CHILDREN! I want to yell. ALL I WANTED WAS TO DRIVE THE GOLF CART! YOU ARE ALL INSANE AND I DON'T LIKE YOU!

Instead, I smile. I nod. I answer in a little voice so that they won't yell so loud. I shake my head. I shrug my shoulders. I make up rules, because no one told me the real ones. I try to be stern and firm and friendly. I try not to slap the woman in the gold blazer. I succeed. And finally, it's 6:05 pm and Jian Ghomeshi is hosting the Gala and I'm standing against the side wall of the media room, and everyone is quiet, tapping away on laptops and adjusting camera settings and resigned to their spots even if unhappily, and I feel just a modicum of victory.

{saturday morning: gary*}

On Saturday morning, I had to be at the mall to take pictures of an event called JUNO Fan Fare (a glorified autograph session hosted by MuchMusic) for the host committee's social media sites. It was probably the event I was least excited about being a part of. I was supposed to Tweet and take pictures as though I actually cared about Anjulie and Victoria Duffield and Down With Webster. Running around, squeezing through, peering above, going deaf.

Stuck right in the middle of the Somebodies and the Nobodies again.

The Nobodies crying and yelling and fainting. The Somebodies too cool to even crack a smile at a teenager who has been waiting in line for five hours to meet them. Dumb.

So it was 12:30; my ears already hurt and I was leaning up against one of the security fences tweeting something about how Victoria Duffield was "waiting in the wings to come out and meet all of you adoring fans" when there was an excited tapping on my shoulder. Like a cross between a woodpecker and a jackhammer.

"HI!" said the excited voice attached to the hand which was vigorously knocking at my arm. "HI! I'm Gary. Hi. What's your name?"

He was probably 14 or 15, with the biggest smile you could possibly plaster on a face, shaking and shivering with pent-up excitement. He was dancing from one foot to the other. He was trying to make eye contact with every person in the room. He was maybe autistic, but I wasn't entirely sure. "What's your name? I'm Gary. There's my friend. And her name is Emily." He pointed at a middle-aged woman with short brown hair standing a couple feet away from us and she caught the gesture and smiled at me apologetically. I didn't want her to feel like she had to apologize for Gary. I liked him instantly.

"What's your name?" He asked again, patiently but earnestly, stretching out his trembling hand to shake mine.

I took it, smiling. "I'm Suzy," I said.

"SUZY!" He exclaimed in a rushy breath of exhaled air as though he'd been holding it since the first time he'd asked me my name. "Suzy. I am so happy to be here today, Suzy. I am going to meet Dean Brody today." When he said "Dean Brody", it was as though he'd reminded himself of something very exciting that he'd forgotten until that very second. He gave a stiff leap into the air and leaned over the fence toward me. "SUZY! DEAN BRODY! I AM GOING TO MEET HIM -- DEAN BRODY!" Little droplets of spit hit my face.

"Is Dean Brody your favourite musician?" I asked. Gary reminded me of my brother, TJ, who has Down Syndrome, and who is equally as passionate though not quite as vocal about meeting his musical heroes.

"YES!" shouted Gary enthusiastically. "But actually, Mariana's Trench is actually my favourite band. Actually. But their line was sold out when I got here." When Gary said "Mariana's Trench", it was as though he'd reminded himself of something exquisitely sad that he'd forgotten until that very second. He pulled at his oversized grey t-shirt and stared down at it sadly. "I was going to get Mariana's Trench to sign my t-shirt," he said. He was almost whispering now. The disappointment was like a tangible rain cloud above his precious head.

At this, I wanted to say, "Come with me, Gary!" and I wanted to part the crowd in front of me like the Red Sea, march him up to the front of the line for MT, past all the screaming girls, through the line of security guards and event volunteers, help him over the security fence and right up onto the stage.

Instead, I gave him a very hopeful smile. "Well I hope that still happens today for you. You never know, right?" I bit my lip as soon as I said it. I shouldn't be getting Gary's hopes up. I shouldn't be saying stuff like that. I should be saying stuff like, "Well, Dean Brody will be fun to meet, right?" But I'm not good at reality when I want something. And right then, I just wanted Gary to meet this crappy band that he loved so much.

He grinned. The raincloud dissipated rapidly. "You never know! You NEVER know. You never know." He looked at Emily, who was watching our conversation with growing interest. "EMILY! You never know." She hadn't been following this part of the conversation, so she just smiled and nodded.

With that, I guiltily told Gary I'd see him again but that I had to go do my job and slunk off, the sower of false hopes and dreams. I wondered who I could talk to to get Gary in the right line without a ticket.

The rest of the day wasn't so bad. I visited with the kids in the line-ups, rode the escalator a few times, wished I'd brought money for the food court. An hour or so passed. There were performances in between signings and I talked to yet more fans and took more pictures and tweeted more nonsense about this person and that person being "so excited to meet you" even though they probably weren't at all.

And every time I'd pass by line 3, there was Gary. He'd catch my eye and yell, "Hi, Suzy! I'm so excited! Look how close I am!" or, "Suzy! You never know!" and we'd high five.

I don't know what it was about the whole thing--if it was how much he reminded me of TJ or if it was just the way that he remembered my name and face and, in doing so, drew me into his own little bubble of dizzying excitement about the day and made me feel it too.

So when Gary got to the front of the line, I was there too and I watched as he shook Dean Brody's hand and got his shirt signed. The security guards were grinning and let him stay and visit a little longer than any of the other fans. I got the feeling that everyone on the event staff was sort of cheering for Gary.

And then he was through the line and standing with Emily, showing her his autographs and telling her all about how he'd talked to Dean Brody as though it had been an entire evening instead of just two minutes and he saw me and waved and pointed at his t-shirt and I gave him a thumbs up. But what he didn't see, that I did, was a conversation happening between a few security guards standing behind him. Some pointing. A few stray words that made it over to me above the undying dull roar of the eager crowd: Mariana's Trench... Gary... 

And I watched as one of the guards stepped up and tapped Gary on the shoulder and shouted something into his ear.

And I think everyone from Scarth Street to Saskatoon heard Gary scream then. No words or anything, just a straight-up hair-curling shriek. And then, as the guard led him away through the crowd with Emily in tow, he yelled to all of us, his new friends:

"I GET TO MEET MARIANA'S TRENCH!!!"

And I think Gary was the only person that the blue-haired, too-cool-for-this lead singer Josh Ramsay of the aforementioned band smiled at all weekend. I think Gary could make anybody smile.

*not his real name

{friday night: a fancy party and an awkward encounter}

I changed dresses five times and had a little spat with my full-length mirror before walking out the door on Friday night. I feel like, somewhere along the line, all of the other girls in the existence of the universe took secret evening classes on how to dress up for fancy events. How to get their hair right and how to make their faces look that way and all that stuff. Where was I?

Probably off in a corner reading books and eating lasagne.

Probably worth it at the time. Except for that now I'm an adult and I don't know how to dress myself or do my hair.

I'm usually ok with it. Because the kinds of parties I usually go to are full of close friends wearing jeans (or weird costumes, on special occasions), eating junk food and being generally chill. But this invitation-only party didn't seem like it was going to be that way. The email I received said, and I quote:

"The Canadian Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences hosts the 2013 JUNO Welcome Reception... The event will feature performances by 2013 JUNO Award nominees Colin James and Joel Stouffer (Dragonette), as well as appearances by special guests. This event is the official kick off to JUNO Weekend, welcoming 1200 artists, industry members and guests to enjoy sensational musical entertainment, cocktails and hors d'oeuvres."

So, no jeans or weird costumes, basically. CRAP. 

I've heard that black dresses are safe, so I ended up wearing one of those. I met the team at the RCMP Drill Hall (where the party was being held) at 5:30, checked in at the media desk, and we headed off to the bathroom to check our hair. Because that's one of the things girls learned to do at those secret beauty classes. I glanced briefly at my reflection. Whatever. At least I'm not wearing a weird costume. 

We didn't know what to do next, so we did another girl thing and took a picture of our feet. (I'm the one on the bottom, in the tan wedge sandals.)

Thankfully, the press was called soon, and we took our places at the green carpet to watch the important people come strutting through, pausing at points so that we could take their pictures. It was here, surrounded by flashing bulbs and the incessant pressing-in of bodies around me, that I noticed something interesting.
There were no fans here, because this was a press and VIP only event, so there was no cheering as nominees strode onto the carpet. Only the click and pop of cameras, the occasional shout ("Over here, Miss Duffield!" "Right here at this camera, guys!" "Fabulous!") from the media side, and the whispers in my ears every time a new person rounded the corner: "Is that anyone?"
What they meant, of course, was, "Is that anyone famous? Is that anyone important? Is that anyone I should know about? Should I take their picture?" But what they said was, "Is that anyone?" And someone else would reply in a loud hiss, "No, that's [so-and-so]'s fiance and her son," and down went the cameras and the Not-Anyones would hurry awkwardly down the green carpet and into the party and we would wait for the next Someones to come through.
Sometimes, a Not-Anyone would pause in front of the JUNO wall and strike a silly pose, joking, "Aren't you going to take my picture?" No one would respond, and the Not-Anyone would learn their lesson the embarrassing way: You are Not Someone. Worse yet: you are in the way of someone who is Someone.

Not that this is by any means something new to anyone, least of all me. It just hit me in a different way when I was standing in a group of Less-Thans clamouring to photograph the Someones and ignoring the Not-Anyones. This is ridiculous, I decided. I threw a genuine smile at a Not-Anyone as she hurried along the gauntlet and she smiled back. She held my gaze until she was safely out of the way.

This became the recurring theme of the weekend. More on that later.
Anyway, then the green carpet wrapped up and the party started. We walked it ourselves, sans awkward media line, and ended up in a room full of Someones and their dates and PR people and industry people and host committee people and waiters carrying silver platters containing drinks and tiny weird food.

I got separated from my group for a bit and kept running into people I only recognized from music videos and HMV posters. I took food from every silver tray that floated past. The music was so loud that I could feel it in my ribs. I felt completely anonymous and I loved it. Then I caught up with my girls and we played repeated games of Think of a Celebrity and Then Go Find Them and Eat AALLLLLLL the Hors D'Oeuvres. Hard games in high heels.
When I was completely full of cheese puffs and tiny meatballs and had had my share of sneaky celebrity encounters, I headed home to change into uniform for my next assignment: JUNOFest.

JUNOFest was a two-day festival featuring 100+ bands at something like 30 venues in and around the city. My job was to drive to each venue, tweet about how long the lineups were and take pictures of the bands for the JUNO host committee's Instagram account. Barclay and I teamed up for this part, which was pretty fun.

He'd drop me off at a venue, drive around the block while I got the pictures, and pick me up again when I was done. Parking would've been impossible otherwise.
At one point in the night, we split up for a tad longer so I could stay for some Two Hours Traffic and were going to meet up again on the corner of Vic and something-or-other. In front of that church. The white one.

It was dark and getting late and I was walking quickly, texting Barclay that I was on my way, trying to bypass a rowdy group of tipsy adults, when a figure loomed out of the shadows and I stopped short to avoid running into it. The man, who also appeared to be texting someone, didn't seem to see me--until his phone slipped from his fingers and smashed to the ground at my feet.

He dropped to a knee to gather the pieces, muttering and swearing under his breath, shaking his head. And then he saw my toe, and then he saw my knee, and then he stood up suddenly, clutching his broken phone and breathing quite hard, and I was face to red, out-of-breath face with Michael Buble.

The extravagant SUV limousine parked to my right should've been the first giveaway that a celebrity was in the vicinity, I guess.

He didn't smile, so I didn't smile back. And he didn't say anything, so I didn't say anything back. We had a hilarious awkward silence. I'm not a fan, so I didn't feel the need to gush or lose my mind or anything. I don't know why I didn't just step around him and let him go on his way. I don't know why he didn't just step around me and let me go on my way. We waited but I didn't know what we were waiting for. And then I found out what we were waiting for.

He looked confused. He opened his mouth, staring hard at me, and said, "I'm Michael Buble." 

Not, "Hey, I'm Michael." Not like an introduction. Not in a friendly tone, or with a question mark at the end so that I could say my name next. Just, "I'm Michael Buble." He said it in that tone of voice that you use when you're saying something that you think is obvious to someone that you think is dumb. He said it with a frown. As though he didn't know why I wasn't falling at his feet or screaming or crying or something. As though I were taking this golden opportunity for granted.

So then I stopped waiting because if that was what we were waiting for, we would've been there a long time. I'd had it up to here (I'm holding my hand at eye level) with the whole Someone Not-Anyone Less-Than thing. I stepped around him and found Barclay waiting in the car a block away. I flung open the passenger door and burst out laughing.

"I just ran into Michael Buble," I said.

"You're sure it was Michael Buble?" Barclay asked.

"Oh yes," I said. "He made sure I knew it."

{friday morning}

On Friday morning, I left the house twice, as is my custom on days such as this: The first time I go, I go with great anticipation, slight trepidation, probably something stuck in my teeth. The second time I go, I go with all of the important things that I forgot to bring with me the first time. (On this particular day, it was my media badge and a jacket.)

During this process, I always imagine that the neighbour across the street (who is kind of a busybody; don't tell her I said that) is sitting in her front window judging me and remarking to her cat, "That girl is forgetful and unreliable." And I imagine the cat nodding and having a thought bubble above its head which reads "Airhead."

In any case, I arrived on time (9 AM SHARP) at the Brandt Centre which, for those of you not familiar with my city, was where the Juno Awards were going to be taking place on Sunday. Today was the soundcheck and stage unveiling for a small group of media of which I somehow managed to be a part through my work at Rage. The lobby was full of camera crews and men with earpieces and women with very high heels and overly oversized microphones. I made a beeline for the first familiar face I saw (a girl from CBC whom I'd met a few days before) and successfully infiltrated a conversation between her and someone else regarding static electricity and its effect on women's dress clothing.

A very official-looking person with a clipboard began rounding us up and explaining how the morning was going to happen and asking us to follow her backstage. I looked around at the reporters and cameramen around me; they all looked very serious and professional. I tried to look serious and professional, even though I am mostly never either.

We followed the woman into the stadium where Hannah Georgas was rehearsing her song Robotic. We watched her rehearse it four times and moved around the seats to take our pictures. I felt hilariously out of place with my little camera and all my unprofessional smiling, but I didn't mind it because it didn't matter. I propped my feet up on the seat in front of me and rested my chin in my hands.
They took us out into the hallway then, to talk to a few of the people behind the stage design and the camera work and all that, and then we chatted with Hannah Georgas a little too, scrum-style. There are a few hilarious videos on YouTube where I'm standing right in the back of someone's video of these interviews, trying to look all serious, like I belong in a media scrum.

Ha.

{thursday}

First off, I just have to thank those of you who congratulated me on my Juno Award. It meant a lot to me that you took the time to send me a sweet note or a comment, or even just to google "suzy krause juno award?" (and thank you, google analytics). Unfortunately for all of us, I did not win a Juno Award. That picture on Instagram is me holding someone else's Juno Award. Sorry for the confusion. (And in the event that I do ever actually win a Juno, I will remember your kindness and thank you from the stage for your super-beforehand compliments.)

So now that we're all clear on what I did not do this weekend, I'm going to fill you in on what did happen. Because it was kind of a crazy time, and not at all what I expected, and I learned a bunch from it and also am kind of wondering if my arm is maybe broken because it's starting to turn all blue and swell up more. And there were fun and funny things, too.


THURSDAY
I'd gotten an email on Tuesday about a private event being held at a local high school (the school was being given a huge grant for their music program and the Tenors were coming to sing at the ceremony). I was hanging out with Karlie, who loves the Tenors, and asked her if she wanted to go and she was all over it. So I RSVPd that I'd be coming with my partner (who I 'hired' for the day so that she could come too) and Thursday morning found us sitting in the front row VIP seats along with the mayor of Regina and the president of the Juno Awards and a few other media outlet reps. We had a press kit and a tall guy named Mike who was assigned specifically to us to help us "get what we needed" and it was all very nice.

So we watched the show from the floor at The Tenors' feet with some lady from CKRM who was also taking pictures, because we could. Because Tall Mike said we could. Tall Mike was the best.

After the show, I cornered a girl named Nicole who'd just been awarded some pretty sweet musical instruments for her school's band program because I wanted to ask her some questions for my article. Tall Mike appeared just as we were getting started and motioned at me. "You'll have to wrap this up," he said. "We've gotta go." Already? I thought. Tall Mike is the worst. 

So I smiled at Nicole and wrapped up the interview and gathered my folder and my iPhone that I was using as a recorder and Karlie and I followed Tall Mike through the crowd, presumably towards the exit.

And then without very much warning at all I was standing in front of Clifton Murray, of the Tenors, and Tall Mike was saying, "Okay, Clifton, we got one more interview here. You got five minutes. This is Suzy. Take it away."

And I don't think I've ever been more caught off guard in all my life, but I automatically shoved my iPhone recorder in that guy's face and started grilling him like I was Jian Ghomeshi. But a smaller, whiter, girlier, much worse, much less prepared version of Jian Ghomeshi, though. And as I was asking questions about The Tenors' involvement in MusiCounts and the importance of music programs in high schools I was thinking, "Good graish, is my voice, like, ten octaves higher than normal or what?"

Clifton didn't seem to notice though. He liked talking into my iPhone. We talked for the whole five minutes with no awkward pauses. I looked at him. He reminded me of an eagle; an eagle with too much hair gel. Tall Mike showed up right on time and took him away to get his picture taken, and I breathed for the first time in five minutes, exactly. Being prepared is definitely ideal, usually.


Anyway. The rest of Thursday was largely uneventful, work-wise, but good. I dropped Karlie off at home and ran over to the Juno office to pick up my media badge so that I could get into the rest of the week's events. Barclay took me to a live taping of Q (of which the aforementioned Jian Ghomeshi is the host), which was fantastic and wonderful and everything I'd ever hoped and dreamed it would be.

Oh AND. Speaking of Jian Ghomeshi, I ran into him later that night. He had his entourage with him and they were speed-walking through the crowd because they apparently needed to be somewhere very soon. But as he passed me, he slid to a stop, doubled back, and grabbed me by my shoulders. "OH HEY!" He shouted. "How are you?"

Because we are best friends. Because life is beautiful.

To be continued.

{i love you, monday}

The week was a blur of live music, ridiculous midnight encounters, angry boss ladies, stupidly huge pieces of cheesecake, several cases of mistaken identity, fancy parties, hours and hours without bathroom breaks, media scrums and screaming crowds; my arm is wrecked and the right side of my body is bruised from an unfortunate incident on Saturday night, and I have no desire to do anything today but go back to bed with a hot water bottle and maybe eat through an entire box of Gushers (on sale at Liquidation World right now for $1.25).

I have never been so happy to see Monday morning in my life.

{JUNO Playlist & Ramblings}

I'm on my way to cover an afternoon Tenors show, but got distracted over my morning coffee by the long and fantastic list of JUNO nominees--so many sweet bands! So much buzz! Probably, partly, too much caffeine!

I'm getting increasingly excited for the weekend, even if I still feel a tiny bit terrified. There have been confirmation emails flying in right and left and last minute assignment and schedule changes and I'm running over to the Brandt Centre at some point this afternoon between piano lessons to pick up my media badge.

And! Jian Ghomeshi is in town! However, I promised everyone around me that my creepy aiport days are completely over. They are. I learned an important lesson last time, about how Jian Ghomeshi is just human and stuff and NO MORE STALKING FAMOUS PEOPLE AT AIRPORTS.

But then: Surprise! Got an email from my supervisor this week, and it turns out that one of my assignments this weekend is to go to the airport and tweet about famous people arriving. This is called irony, and I love it. I am so prepared for this job. Plus, I'll be wearing ID that says it's okay for me to be doing this. Which is something I need to remember for next time.

I'm working for three separate companies this weekend and have vastly different roles and levels of access with each, so I think that's going to be interesting. When I first heard the JUNOS were coming to town, I was like, "Neat. Get me some of that hype!" So I applied for a bunch of random jobs and media opportunities and volunteer positions, thinking that if I even got one, that'd be cool. And then I got all of them, and had to turn some down in the end. Three is enough.

Anyway. I'm going to go drink a gallon of water to ward off a looming cold and then head off to this Tenor thing (people keep gaping at me when I admit that I've never heard of them. Have you heard of them? Apparently even the queen has heard of them. I'm major out of the loop).

 

{becky}

I have all kinds of friends. I have practical ones and motherly ones and hilarious ones and beautiful ones and crazy ones and crafty ones and ones who call me on it when I'm being a brat and ones who pretend that I'm perfect all the time because they hate confrontation and ones who write me sweet letters and ones who like to try new things and ones who go out for coffee with me every week so that we can get all nostalgic and talk about how we were when we were 16 and ones who are still friends even though we don't keep in very good touch and adventurous ones and comforting ones and other ones, too.

Becky is one of the ones. I like our kind of friendship because she lives down the street from me and I can walk over to her house and say something like, "Let's go," and she'll come, and we won't worry about if it, whatever it is, will be fun or boring or weird or scary or lame; we'll find something good about it and it will become one of those memories that you like thinking about a lot later. 

We explore our city together. We have coffee at the airport and watch the planes come in. We go to music festivals and shows together and we meet strange people and walk down side streets and downtown and into art galleries and pretty much wherever we feel like, and have long and good conversations. 

Last night we were feeling cold and storm-stayed, so we built a blanket fort out of some chairs and a clothes drying rack, and we made caramel popcorn and took a record player and a Byrds record and an Andy Shauf record into our shelter and we sat and talked for two hours.

It warmed me right up. What would I do without a blanket fort friend?

{things}

It's the calm before the storm over here today.

Well. 

It's the slightly frenetic and assiduous before the storm. 

I'm getting ready for the JUNOS; researching for interviews, emailing PR people, organizing schedules and meetings, making notes and shuffling papers and, every eight hours or so, laying flat on my back to count the ceiling tiles and eat pickles.

The one thing I haven't been doing is blogging. I've wanted to; I've missed it. And I've tried, even. I'd wake up in the morning and grab a coffee and open my laptop...but then I'd remember that email I had to send, or have to take off to a meeting, or just get fed up by the stack of dishes in the sink. 

And honestly, I felt weird writing/talking about what I've been up to. 2013 has been a little bit surreal so far, and a lot of fun, and I'm getting to meet so many interesting people and try so many new and random things that I never imagined I'd get to try, or even thought I'd want to try. Silly things, and little things, and scary things. I've hinted at some of them, mentioned some briefly, but others I've kept under my hat. IRL and on the blog. 

I guess I was scared you'd think I take myself too seriously when I'm just having fun and trying new things. I was scared you'd think the things I'm filling my days with are stupid and unimportant. I was scared you'd judge my motives or mistake my excitement for self-importance. I was scared you'd call me pretentious behind my back and tune me out when I talk, like I did to that one girl I sat with at a wedding reception last year who wouldn't quit talking about her blossoming acting/singing career. (That wasn't very nice of me.)

And so it was that I pretty well stopped blogging. Because my time has been taken almost entirely up by things that I didn't want to blog about.

But last night as I was eating pickles and counting ceiling tiles, I decided that it's okay for me to be excited about silly things, and to talk about them with my friends and to write about them on here. Because, for me anyway, the best part of any experience is the part afterward where you put everything into your own words and share it. And if people don't want to hear about it, then that's ok too. They're probably not the ones reading this anyway.

Anyway. For now, I need to go do things. 

Which I will tell you about later, if you promise not to call me names and tune me out.

{lippy kids}

I was on my way home from a friend's house the other day, driving carefully down a heavily rutted street lined with bony-branched trees and massive snow banks. It was almost dark and it was snowing, again. Because it's always, always snowing.

And I was looking up at the sky through the trees and at the snowbanks which looked like couches and coffee tables beneath dusty white slipcovers in an old, abandoned house, and I turned the radio up as loud as I could stand it and this song was playing.

Do they know these days are golden? 
Build a rocket boys! Build a rocket boys!

{the danks}

This was probably the funniest interview of the week. Not funny ha-ha, so much, but funny in that other way that things can be funny. Funny in the way that I'm glad it was Jared who was asking all the questions and all I had to do was hold the camera.

They're called The Danks and it's one guy who used to be in Two Hours Traffic (who you should also look up if you haven't heard of them) and a dude named Brohan who got kicked out of some other band. Throughout the whole interview, Alec banged on the wall behind him with his elbows and mumbled and looked exceedingly bored, and Brohan constantly looked as though he were posing for 80's metal band posters and maybe had a cold. They smiled exactly once each and liked to give mostly short, vague answers. I guess they didn't like Jared. (Sorry, Jared.)

That said, their music is sweet and I like them a lot.

You can download the first song in the video for free HERE.

{free-falling}

It's supposed to get up to -2 degrees C today and I'm excited out of my brains about it. I just have a project that is taking for-ev-er that I have to finish before I can go out and enjoy the sun and fresh air. In the meantime, I'm gulping down window sunlight and letting the anticipation of a good spring walk spur me on. (But procrastinating a little, too, by writing this post.)

I woke up yesterday and it was April. Did that happen to anyone else? I can't believe how fast this year is going already. And the snow on my front lawn is still taller than I am, which doesn't exactly scream, "SPRING!" to me. It's confusing, a little bit.

But April's going to be huge around here because the Junos are happening at the end of it and I'm going to be hanging a sweet media badge around my neck and trucking off to those. I also got invited to work with the host committee, running the social media sites and interviewing the nominees (Rush! Metric! Stars!) in the weeks leading up to the actual awards ceremony, which is terrifying and fun in much the same way as that theme park ride where you shoot straight up in the air and then free-fall 170 feet. I have no idea how I got here. I'm so entirely, completely under-qualified for this. I have a perpetual nervous gut-ache and butterflies. I love it.

{april fools}

The fire alarm went off at 4:30 this morning.

The fire alarm usually only goes off every time I cook. So this was weird. I was not cooking at 4:30AM.

I was sleeping. Maybe I was dreaming about cooking? Or maybe the house was on fire.

I felt Barclay jerk awake beside me and scramble out of bed, but I couldn't be bothered. I rolled over and pulled a pillow over my face. Fires usually die down on their own, eventually. Right?

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP
{Barclay clomping up the stairs.}

The beeping cut out. The house was quiet.

THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP

Except for Barclay clomping back down the stairs.

"Is our house on fire?" I asked, just in case.

"No," he said. "I don't know what that was about."

"Okay, Good," I said. I smiled at him in the dark. Because it is always a comforting thing to be told that your house is not on fire. Especially when you're very tired and don't feel like evacuating your warm bed to stand on the front lawn in waist-deep snow and watch all your earthly possessions burn to the ground along with your hopes and dreams.

Barclay crawled back into the bed, huffing a little from the sudden midnight sprint. He laid back down, kissed my forehead, put his head on the pillow, and---

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

--Jumped straight up in the air again. The first time, it had been fear. This time it was rage.

THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP

BARCLAY ANGRY.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

And now I was wide awake and dreaming up horror stories about a psycho killer in our house lighting matches beneath the smoke alarm to lure us upstairs where he could psycho kill us. Because in my world, the only rational explanation to EVERYTHING is a psycho killer. Smoke alarm goes off? Fire? NO. PSYCHO KILLER.



So anyway. The smoke alarm went off three times. We don't really know why. At first I thought that maybe the psycho killer gave up and went home. But then I remembered that it was April 1. Maybe he was just playing an April Fools prank on us. Like, "Oh no! Your house is on fire! Haha, just kidding. Oh! Now it's actually on fire! Haha, just kidding. Oh! This time I'm serious! Haha, just kidding."

Probably.