The ABCs of 2017

In a few days, it'll be 2018, which is pretty crazy considering I still think of cars made in 2003 as being 'pretty new.' 2017, the year that seemingly began two seconds ago, is coming to a close. Time is weird. And stressful. Like one of those side-scroll video games where the screen moves forward whether you do or not. I hate those.

Anyway, 2017. It was a strange year. I know a lot of people who kind of live on the edge of their seat, expecting the world to end at any second, and in 2017 I became one of them. I just kept thinking, "This has got to be it this time." And then the world wouldn't end and I'd live to see another day and be much more surprised about it than I probably should have been. Every day this year felt exactly like the beginning of every single apocalyptic movie ever made. Some of the days felt like the middle of every single apocalyptic movie ever made. A couple of the days even felt like the beginning of the end of all those movies.

But here we are.

For now.

(I looked out the window in front of me expectantly for a long time after I wrote that. Nothing happened.)

In case I live to see this time next year (or even if I don't), I thought I'd do my 2017 ABCs. I did this last year too, inspired by a few Instagram friends who had done it. It was a fun little challenge, and it was cool this year to go back and read it. You should do one for yourself, even if you don't put it on the internet. Next Year You will thank This Year Me. If Next Year You exists.

A - Agent: I signed with Victoria Cappello at The Bent Agency and we began the process of editing my first novel together. I haven't written about the process since signing, but it has been aaaa-mazing and I can't say enough good things about her and her—as they call it in the book bizz—editorial eye. 

B - Began writing another book. Actually two. My brain is bursting with stuff; it's like the attic of a very old woman who went to too many garage sales back in the day.

C - Ceese got married. I was the maid of honour. Sullivan thought it was his wedding.

D - Donuts! I kind of inadvertently got swept up in the burgeoning #YQRdonutscene. I think I ate more donuts in 2017 than the rest of my life as a whole. And I'm glad.

E - Editing. This needs its own separate point because 2017 was the year I wrote the same book over and over and over, so that in the end it was unrecognizable—in a good way. At points this was insanely tedious and frustrating and overwhelming. Lots of times it was exciting and fun and satisfying. Sometimes it managed to be all of these things at the same time. But the thing that it was most of all, was necessary.

(And it ain't over yet.)

F - Forgot so many people's birthdays. I'm so sorry, everybody. I have the hardest time remembering birthdays. 

G - Got a hand-me-down espresso machine and made a jillion lattes. Drinkin one right now. Thanks, Jason.

H - Hung out with some really great people. 

I - Invested in the stock market! Just kidding; I don't know anything about the stock market.

J - Joined a book club; only finished one of the books on time so far. Will either do better next year or quit.

K - Kept on being a Tourism Regina Ambassador. Highlights included Winterruption, fine dining at The Willow, Regina Restaurant Week, Waskimo, Peter and the Wolf by the RSO, tons of live music, Highland Games, Musical Ride, Queen City Ex, Reginacadabra, Folk Fest, and Pulse Week.

L - Live music: Iskwe, Begonia, Elliott Brood, Fred Penner, Vanilla Ice, Salt n Pepa, Jimmy Eat World, Vertical Horizon, Everclear, Fastball, Bryan Adams, Our Lady Peace, The Zolas, July Talk, Tegan and Sara, Begonia again (I love her), Joe Bonamassa, Hawksley Workman.

M - Magic of Motherhood: The book I wrote with the ladies at C+C was published in April and it did really well. My friends here threw me a surprise book launch at The Artful Dodger because I couldn't attend the one in California and it was so incredibly special.

N - Never left the country once, this whole year. 

O - Often left the city, though.

P - Penpals: Sully and I became penpals with my grandma and grandpa, and it was the best. 

Q - Quick! Skip this letter!

R - Reading nook: We finished building the reading nook in the living room and it's my favourite thing. I have read many a book there already and have already filled all the shelves, which is probably a problem since I still have like 20,000,000 more books to buy.

S - Sullivan turned 3. We had so much fun together this year; it really does get better and better every year. But also, IF ANYONE KNOWS HOW TO STOP TIME PLEASE TELL ME NOW.

T - Three separate trips to the emergency room with Sullivan. He fell off a couch into a coffee table and had to get four stitches just below his eye which has healed into a pretty legit scar, then he fell on a stick and punctured the back of his throat, and then he got some random viral infection in his hip that crippled him for a short time. I hate going to the ER. He does too.

U - 'Unexpected' was The Word of 2017. I didn't go into this year with a lot of expectations, so maybe that was why every single thing that happened surprised the crap out of me. I enjoy surprises, in general, so this is mostly a positive thing, but if 2018 was a tad less surprising, if a few fewer unexpected things happened, I would probably be okay with that. Just, you know, for pacing. 

V - Vindicated. A car drove past me very quickly in 2017, and the people inside sneered at me out the window as they went, because I was driving the speed limit or something. A few seconds later, a cop car with its lights on drove past me very quickly as well. A few seconds after that, even, I passed both the cop car and the first car, parked one in front of the other. 

W - Won NOTHING.

X - XXX (see Y)

Y - Yup, I turned 30. 

Z - Zoo visits: 0.

Your turn.

Hey! Remember This Great Christmas Playlist?

Hi! Did you think I was dead? I wasn't.

It's December, though, and I don't think I need to explain myself beyond that. Shopping. Partying. Planning. Trying to avoid Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas is You. And, as a card-carrying member of the adult set (the card I am referring to here is my driver's license, which says I am 30 even though I'm certainly not more than 22), all of that is piled on top of all the responsible adult things I was already doing before the Christmas season hit.

I have been extra responsible this year. I know Santa primarily concerns himself with 'naughty' and 'nice,' but maybe there's a bonus points system?

Although, and if you are my friend on Instagram you already know this, I kind of forgot to teach Sullivan about Santa. Like, at all. We saw a Santa Claus at a thing a few weeks ago and he yelled, "Oh hey! Is that a mountie?" And that was when it occurred to me that kids aren't born knowing this stuff, we responsible adults have to lie to them about it first.

So Santa might bypass our house altogether this year. And that's okay, because we just don't have room for more stuff in here. And Sully doesn't even want more toys; he only wants jazz brushes, which Barclay and I are buying for him, so thanks but no thanks, Mountie Santa.

Anyway.

Mostly, the reason I'm dropping in right now is to remind you about the playlist I made last year of really great Christmas songs that are not All I Want For Christmas is You.

I'm listening to it right now, and even added a few new songs this year (I forgot to include Hawksley Workman in last year's version and I feel extra bad about it now because I went and saw him at the Exchange last week and remembered how great and strange his Christmas album is... Thanks for the reminder, Folk Fest).

Someday, I'll have enough really great Christmas songs that are not All I Want For Christmas is You to last a whole Christmas party.

And then I'll have to throw a Christmas party.

And have so many people in my house.

Which I'll have to clean ahead of time.

And clean again afterward.

(Actually maybe I'll just play my playlist quietly to myself. If you do the same at the same time, it's almost like we're partying together. Well aren't we so spunky and fun?)

My Neck

I’m writing this from the couch, flat on my back, phone in the air. At some point, inevitably, I will fumble and drop it on my face. (This is a universally shared experience, I think. If it hasn’t happened to you yet, it’s most likely because I took your turn for you. I text from bed a lot.)

I’m on my back because it hurts to be any other way. I don’t know what happened while I was asleep last night, but my best guess is that a robber snuck into my house and, upon finding nothing of value to steal, karate-chopped my neck in frustration. I should’ve set my diamonds and gold out in a little bowl on my headboard with a Free Take One sign. You live, you learn.

Anyway, the point is: THE PAAAAAAAAINNNNN! Agonyagonyagony, etc. It's radiating from my neck down into my arm and across my back. It hurts so much I feel nauseous. I’ve taken plenty of extra-strength ibuprofen, rubbed peppermint oil on it, and am now applying yet another hot water bottle, but nothing really helps except complete and total immobility. It even hurts to raise my voice.

Sully is unsympathetic. He’s usually quite independent, but today he needs everything he can’t reach. As soon as I lay down, he needs me to stand up. I shut my eyes and he climbs on my head. Blinding pain. I try not to say to him, “WHY ARE YOU TORTURING ME?!” Sometimes it feels like kids do this stuff on purpose.

"Sulls,” I say, "can we just quietly read a book here on the couch?"

"Can we play cars actually?"

"No, Sully, I just need to lay here. It hurts to move."

He leans in and studies my face.

“Is it a heart murmur, Mom?” He is very concerned about everyone's hearts lately.

“No, it's my neck—”

“Well then can you please get up?”

Oh right, because moms don’t get to lie down, even when they are dying, unless it is a heart murmur. I’d forgotten that rule.

Now he’s stacking everything he owns in a pile in the middle of the living room, in silent protest of my stillness. Books. Lego. Blankets. Stuffed animals. And I’m letting him, because it’s silent. I hope it lasts for hours and hours; I hope our entire house ends up in a mountainous heap right here beside me. I hope the robber who messed up my neck comes back and gets him a snack and gets the toys down for him from his closet's top shelf and plays a round of Go Fish with him.

But the chances of that are very slim because, I have noticed, robbers are dreadfully inconsiderate.

The One With the Leeks

"Well here's a question: do you like eating? Then shut up!"

I was standing in front of the apples; the voice came from somewhere among the vegetables, loud and clear and shrill, like the question was for everyone in all of produce. I snuck a peek, and accidentally met eyes with its owner. I hate when that happens.

She was tall and thin and she had permed brown hair and a quivering, hunched-over husband. He was staring sorrowfully at the leeks. I was not the only one looking at the lady, but I was the only one the lady was looking back at.

To my surprise, she smiled sweetly at me as though nothing were amiss. She looked like the kind of person who never yelled at anyone. The husband reached out and touched one of the leeks. Everyone went back to minding their own business.

I headed for the checkout.

On my way to the car, I passed a man in the parking lot who, I thought, looked quite down on his luck. He was a big guy, middle-aged, with greasy hair and a torn, dirty jacket that didn't look warm enough for the weather. He carried a white styrofoam cup. His face looked sad in kind of the same way as the husband in the store (the one with the leeks). He was walking slowly, a bit aimlessly, in his own world and he didn't notice me.

I carefully loaded my groceries into the passenger seat of my car and headed home.

As I sat stopped at a red light a block away, the man from the parking lot caught up to me. He pushed the pedestrian button and crossed in front of my car, still aimless and slow, still looking sad and lost. But halfway across the street, he did something surprising too: he reached into his styrofoam cup, pulled out a tiny wand, and blew, leaving a trail of soap bubbles streaming behind him.

The light turned green before he was all the way across, but he didn't seem to notice that he was holding up traffic.

Music Flu

I had the musical equivalent of a flu last week. 

You know when you're sick, and your skin becomes so sensitive to the touch that things you usually like—blankets, hugs, whatever—feel painful? And you roll around in your bed, trying to find a position where your stomach doesn't hurt, and where your feet aren't too hot but your arms aren't too cold, and you know you should eat or drink something but nothing is appealing and you can't get it to stay down anyway? 

My ears get like that sometimes, and I don't know why. I'll open Spotify or stand in front of my CD collection and just think, I can't stand the silence, but none of this is working right now. The jazz is too trumpety and the emo is too dramatic and the rock is too loud and everyone's voices are grating on me for no good reason...

So, anyway, I was sitting in front of my computer racking my brain when I recalled a song I loved a long time ago called "Doctor Blind" from Emily Haines & the Soft Skeleton's Knives Don't Have Your Back.

I have this bizarrely crystal clear memory of the first time I saw a physical copy of that album; I was in Saskatoon, killing a Thursday afternoon by myself. At that time, I lived on 9th and Lansdowne in a small, two-bedroom apartment with four other girls and we were all debt collectors who carpooled to work together—which is to say, I saw a lot of them. So, sometimes, we'd get home from work and I'd say See ya and walk up 9th to Broadway Ave. 

Sometimes I'd explore the little stores there, or go sit in a coffee shop with a book, or walk across Broadway Bridge to downtown, and it was on one of those outings that I found a second floor record store hidden at the top of a steep set of stairs. At first I remember not being sure if the record store was a record store or if it was someone's apartment, it was so poorly signed. And then I got in there and no one was around, not behind the counter or anywhere, and I thought maybe it was closed but the owner had forgotten to lock it. Nevertheless, I walked down one of the rows and began to flip through the records. 

And that was when I saw it. I pulled it out and looked at it; it was tan with black writing, no picture or any kind of artwork, but it stood out to me for some reason—enough, apparently, to remain in the front half of my mental picture catalogue.

I didn't buy it, though. I put it back and purchased Cake's Comfort Eagle instead (at some point in my good hour or so of music perusal, an employee materialized behind the counter). Good story, Suzy.

Why do brains hold on to this kind of thing? I don't have any recollection of the first time I actually heard the album, but I know I loved it and, subsequently, loved Emily Haine's Metric stuff too. It can't possibly be important for me to remember that day, or especially that moment, but I do. Vividly. 

Anyway. The point is not that. The point is, I remembered that song, the "Doctor Blind" one, and looked up Emily Haines on Spotify, only to find she put out new Soft Skeleton stuff in October, and it's the first Skeleton project she's done since Knives, since 2006, the year I lived in Saskatoon. What are the chances, even? I might have some kind of telepathic connection with Emily Haines, and maybe she wanted me to know about this new album. 

Probably. 

I'm glad, because it's pretty good. And my music flu is cured.

Fall 2017

The front door of my house was frozen shut this morning. My car door too. And my eyes, as well.

(I'm so tired, is what I'm saying.)

When I came into the kitchen, a full hour after Barclay and Sully woke up, Barclay said, "It's Charlie Brown snowing out there." This, of course, was in reference to the size and speed of the snowflakes falling from the sky. Big, slow, slightly cartoony. Sully, however, thought Barclay meant that it was snowing Charlie Browns. Which is a different thing entirely.

(And an amazing mental picture.)

So I guess it's winter in Saskatchewan now. Fall was nice; it was fast and full. Warm. Orange. I took it for granted, as always, and will spend the next few months feeling sad that I didn't take more walks while I still could.

One of these years, I'm going to do autumn right. I'm going to go for at least one walk every day, lay on the sidewalk in front of my house and stare at the red leaves for hours on end, take a bath in a vat of pumpkin spice whatever. This year, however, it's officially too late. It's Charlie Brown snowing out there.

RIP, Fall 2017. Here's a playlist of the songs I will remember you by:

Product Placement

Are you familiar with What's in my Bag? It started, I'm pretty sure, back in the early days of blogging. Women would empty their purses and photograph the contents, put the whole thing up on their blog for everyone to see. No one paid them to do it, it was just a funny little blog game. Yet another example of humanity's weird obsession with the mundane details of everyone else's lives.

I always liked it, even if I didn't participate (my bag was not blog-worthy). It reminded me of this assignment our Grade 9 social studies teacher gave us once when we were learning about archaeology. He picked one of the students' lockers at random and we went through the contents, layer by layer, and someone stood at the chalkboard and wrote down the things we learned about that person based on the stuff they kept in their locker and based on the order in which we found it (Grade 9 student, likes pb & j, male, listens to rap, math binder buried at the bottom of the locker underneath moldy, unidentifiable food, so math probably isn't his favourite subject, etc).

(In hindsight, that whole assignment was a gross invasion of that poor student's property and privacy. Buuuuut we're talking about a teacher who fake-kidnapped a student at knife-point (she didn't know she was being fake-kidnapped but she was aware of the knife) at the beginning of a Law 30 class so we could do a mock trial. This is the kind of stuff teachers can get away with in small town schools and still be everyone's favourite. I am majorly digressing here.)

Anyway, I was scrolling through Instagram the other day and I came across a post by a popular blogger, one of the ones who makes a living being an "Influencer." It was a picture of her and her kid, the contents of her purse strewn on the couch beside her. It looked sweet and candid, but when you read the caption you realized it was actually an ad for a wallet. It was like What's in my Bag, except sponsored, and the average smart person would know that that wallet was likely only there because some brand put it there, not because the blogger was a die-hard That Wallet Fan.

Brands hey? They've caught on to our collective fascination with what strangers are carrying in their bags and what they're doing at all times and what they're eating and reading and listening to and where they're shopping and what they bought. And it's not even all that original.

I'm just gonna leave this here:

The Truman Show is happening now and EVERYONE IS TRUMAN.

Book Club

Rejoice with me, I'm part of a book club now.

I've always wanted to be part of one, but I didn't know how you go about finding those things. More importantly, I didn't know how, after you'd found one, you became part of it. It seemed too much like hunting down and inviting myself to a party, something I'd never do in a million years. I'm not an invitation solicitor. I'm not even an invitation hinter. Or, I don't mean to be. I do it accidentally sometimes.

(This one time, I was talking to a friend who, unbeknownst to me, was having a party at her house that night—'party' was probably the wrong word for it, it was so small. It was slightly bigger than a double date, but much smaller than a party. What's that called? A 'thing?' Like, "I'm having a thing at my place tonight"? Sure.

So, okay, I was talking to this friend and I mentioned in passing that I didn't have any plans that weekend and was feeling preemptively bored and a little mopey about it. She said, bless her well-meaning heart, "Oh, well, I'm having a party at my house; you should come."

Ah. The I Invited All the People I Actually Want There Four Weeks Ago But You Can Come Too If It Will Make You Feel Better About Your Life invite.

So then I had to go because I had already said I had no other plans, and I figured I'd be able to blend in pretty well because I'm good at blending in at parties. But when I arrived I saw that it was actually a thing, not a party, and I was not able to blend, like, at all. The whole time I was there, I felt like I shouldn't be. I felt like everyone else at the thing was thinking, "I thought this was going to be a thing, not a party. Why is there this extra person here?"

At least it was a one-time engagement and not a recurring obligation—like, say, a book club.)

So, anyway, I did not want to invite myself into a book club. Besides, what if, after all the emotional expense of finding an existing book club and getting myself in somehow, I didn't end up liking the group? What if they only wanted to read books about horses or vampires? What if there was a particularly snooty, extremely well-read person who took over the discussion and made the rest of us feel like idiots? What if they wanted to meet biweekly? After inviting myself in, or hinting myself in, or whatever, I couldn't very well quit, could I?

But a few months ago, a friend mentioned a book club she was in and invited me to come along It was that easy—as is almost always the case when it comes to things I've overthought to death. So far, we haven't read any books involving horses or vampires, everyone is very smart but no one is snooty, and we meet once every few months, which is very doable.

We met just last night, in fact. We read the book My Grandmother Sends Her Regards and Apologises by Fredrik Backman. I loved it—we all agreed that the first six chapters are ones you have to sludge through a bit, but the ending is worth it. We discussed the heck out of that book and picked a new one for December. I was pleased with the experience.

(When I was leaving the house, Sully asked where I was going. I told him I was going to my book club and he scrunched his little face up and said, "Book club? Is that a joke?"

I said, "No, it's not a joke. Why would it be a joke?"

He said, "Well, okay. Everyone's going to be real surprised to see you there."

What can that mean?)

Snapshots from This Week

Sully and I are cleaning the house and he finds an old baby toy that sings Twinkle Twinkle Little Star obnoxiously loud when you push the button. He lets it play a few times, listening intently, and then he goes, "Wow. This really takes me back."

***

My messages app isn't working on my iPhone, so I take it to Sasktel in the Southland to get it fixed. The guy's like, "You probably just need to install the new update."

I tell him, "Well, I tried that already a few times, my phone will download it but then it just freezes without actually installing it."

He says, "I'll do it for you. It'll take forty minutes."

I say, "Fine."

It downloads, which does indeed take forty minutes, and then it freezes. He's like, "Weird. Maybe take this to the Jump at Cornwall."

I say, "Fine."

***

It's Saturday night, and Barclay and I are at the Joe Bonamassa concert. I got tickets through Tourism Regina, and if Barclay didn't love me before I got them, he sure loves me now (there is evidence to suggest he also loved me before, though). He's a big Joe fan. The crowd is amazing; everyone is downright giddy to be here. They are exactly the kind of crowd you'd expect to find at the guitar event of the year.

Bonamassa's band is unreal. He's at that stage in his career where he can handpick the best of the best from the music industry for his tour; they've all played with people like Mick Jaggar and Miles Davis and Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash—not just people like that, but those exact actual people.

He's like a king, gathering whoever he wants from wherever he wants. His background vocalists are from Australia, he sourced his drummer from David Letterman's house band in New York, and he got his bass guitarist from Nashville. My favourite is his keyboard player, Reese Wynans, who used to play with Stevie Ray Vaughan. He's an old guy with a big white beard, and the music just seems to fall out of his fingers. Is it against the rules to go to a Joe Bonamassa concert and like the keyboard player the best?

***

I take my phone to the Jump at Cornwall and tell the woman there my problem. She says, "You probably just need to install the new update."

I'm like, "I tried that already a few times, my phone will download it but then it just freezes at the installation point. I took it to the Sasktel in the Southland and he tried it too but it didn't work for him either."

She's like, "Weird. Well I'll try do it for you. It'll take forty minutes."

I'm like, "Fine."

It downloads, which takes almost an hour this time, and then it freezes. She's like, "Weird. You'll have to come back another day and see a technician."

I'm like, "Fine."

***

At the breakfast table, Sully stares into his cereal bowl, unblinking. He says, "My Cheerios are my parents now."

***

I take my phone to the Jump in the east end. I tell the guy my problem, and he says, "You probably just need to install the new update."

I say, "I've had two Sasktel people try that already, the last girl said I just need to see a technician."

He says, "Oh, I'm not sure why she would tell you that. I'll just download the update here. It'll take about--"

And I say, "I'd actually rather you didn't." Sasktel is helping me to be a more assertive person. I feel proud of myself. "I've tried to download that update so many times, and each time I do, I feel like my phone gets slower and more apps stop working It won't back up to the iCloud. I have some important things on there that I don't want to lose, and I'm scared it's going to crash and lose everything completely."

He gives me a very condescending look, which will teach me not to be assertive in the future. He says, "It'll take forty minutes. And then we'll see."

And I say, "Fine."

When the forty minutes are up, he doesn't look smug anymore. He says, apologetically, "I think I wrecked your phone. I downloaded the update, and then it crashed, and now it won't start anymore. I'm really, really sorry. We'll need to send it to a technician. I can't guarantee we can save the data that was on there before."

I say, "Okay, thanks anyway."

***

I've been watching Gilmore Girls while I wait for my manuscript to come back. I hate all of the characters, but I love the show. I don't understand people who are Team Jess, or Team Dean, or Team Rory or Lorelei. They all kind of suck, don't they? I like Kirk and Emily though. I'm team Kirk and Emily.

I've also been reading Fredrik Backman's My Grandmother Sends her Regards and Apologises and listening to alt-J.

***

I take my phone to the Jump in Cornwall again, to see a technician. They tell me to leave it and wait for an hour and they'll call me on my loaner phone when they're done. I wander the mall for two. I get in my car, pay for parking, then they call and tell me it'll be done in an hour. I go home. I come back in a hour. I get my phone; it's fixed. I go home. I try to text Barclay. An error message flashes at me: No SIM card.

I go back to Sasktel. I say, "Hi, my SIM card is, apparently, here somewhere."

The lady behind the desk doesn't know what I'm talking about. The people who were working on my phone before have left for the day. At last she says, "Well...I guess I could look for it?"

I say, "Sure?"

She searches high and low, and finally finds my SIM card somewhere in the back.

I feel happy. I never want to come back to Sasktel again. I have a working phone! I am no longer cut off from society!

A day passes, two. My friends are strangely quiet. I text one of them this morning. She texts back, "Suzy! Hey! I was wondering why you weren't answering any of my texts yesterday."

So. I don't know. If you try to text me and I don't answer, it's because I've completely given up on technology and have decided to go back to snail mail. 

Vague and Inane Things

It's 7:22 am and I'm at the Brewed Awakening on Hill. I drove here through the park, by the lake, and the sun had just come up so everything was extra golden. I'm at a spot by the window, facing the door. Everyone who comes through it is, at first, face to face with me. I'm like the coffee shop greeter. I don't hate it; everyone so far has been very sleepy but very happy and some of them smile and say hello to me as they pass. The music playing over the sound system is bland but not unbearable radio-friendly folk rock. I have coffee, a given.

I haven't been getting my Wednesday morning writing sessions in lately. I've got a good excuse or two, but still, I've missed it. Hopefully I'll be able to get back into a rhythm again.

I thought typing out a little blog post before getting to work would help get the words moving around my head, like the agitator in a washing machine—that's pretty solely the purpose of this blog at the moment, to be honest. Word agitator.

So then, what to write about? That's always the hard part. You can't run the washing machine without clothes inside (I mean you probably could, but...). It's not even that there hasn't been anything going on in the month since I last wrote here; I've got lots of proverbial clothes for the machine. In fact, I'd go so far as to make that good old, slightly histrionic claim that my world has recently been turned upside down, or at least tipped over on its side—it's nothing bad, at all, just nothing I can blog about right now. In fact, that's probably the main reason I've been so quiet here and on Instagram lately. I haven't wanted to be vague and annoying (I guess I all of a sudden don't care about that, oops), but I also wasn't sure I could talk around this thing at first, which is...how to describe it...a teensy bit all-consuming. So I thought maybe I could acknowledge it without naming it and that would be cathartic and then I'd be able to write about other things and post pictures of my shoes on Instagram again.

I know, I know. This is all pretty ridiculous but, like, oh well. You can email me if you're just dyyyyying to know what's up, how's that? I like when people email me.

Anyway, that's that. I'm getting used to the new sideways world, and feel like I could probably come back here and start documenting the inane details of my life again. Aren't you so excited?

Let's begin:

I'm working on a second book right now. My first one is coming to the end of its editing process (it's sitting in my agent's inbox at the moment) and will soon be ready to send out to publishers, which is incredibly nerve-wracking, but in a good way, I think. I get a cramp in my leg when I think about it, isn't that weird? This is next-level excitement; I actually try not to give it too much thought because it's so physically uncomfortable.

I'm going to hang some wallpaper in the living room. It's blue and white. I initially found it on Etsy, where a single roll cost over $200. I was sad about not being able to afford it. Then, the next day, I was walking through Winners and there it was and I got all I needed for a grand total of $15. It felt like a gift from whoever's monitoring my internet search history. Blessings on them.

I'm going to get a haircut! Just a trim.

Barclay and I celebrated our 8th anniversary yesterday. 8 years! We bought each other the Snarky Puppy DVD We Like it Here and went out for supper at our favourite restaurant, where we have officially achieved Regulars status (we have a favourite burger there and whenever we go, one of us orders that one and the other orders one we haven't tried yet and we cut both in half and share and judge the new one against the old one and the old one always wins. We have the same waiter every time and he knew last night to bring us a knife to split our burgers without us even asking, which made me happy. I feel like we should bring him a Christmas present this year).

Okay. I should probably do what I came here to do. Later, as they say, Gator. 

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.

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.

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.

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."

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?

Fastball, Vertical Horizon, and Everclear

This is my friend Robyn. She's from the 90s, like me. 

I mean. We were both born in the 80s, but that really doesn't make a person an 80s child. We were 80s babies, but we became teenagers in the era of tattoo chokers and sunflowers and skinny eyebrows and bleached tips and over-sized plaid shirts and little, tiny, colour-tinted sunglasses. It was a time of questionable fashion choices, terrible internet connections and fantastic music. 

When I found out Vertical Horizon, Everclear, and Fastball were all coming to Regina, I asked Robyn if she remembered any of them. In response, she showed me her grade 9 yearbook: Robyn Barbour, Favourite Band: Vertical Horizon. 

So obviously, she came with me to the show last night. I wore plaid, and a choker necklace, and purple lipstick, which was already gone by the time we took our first picture. I'm terrible at wearing lipstick.

But, guys, I felt so young. I mean, I know I'm young now, but I felt so young. Extra young. When Fastball played "The Way," I was 11 again, cruising down the highway in the back of my best friend's mom's minivan, singing at the top of my lungs and feeling so happy about my new platform shoes, which I felt certain made me look just a little bit more like a Spice Girl.

But when I opened my eyes and looked at Fastball...I felt older. Extra older. Because Fastball is older. (At first, when I typed that, I thought, Should I type that? Is that rude? What if Fastball reads this? But I mean, I think Fastball knows they've gotten older.) 

They still put on a good show though.

Vertical Horizon played next, and killed it. Nostalgia City. It was a different kind of nostalgia than the Jimmy Eat World variety, though. Where Jimmy Eat World reminds me of exceptional moments from my teen/young adult years, Vertical Horizon reminds me of all the ordinary ones, because I mostly heard them on the radio during ordinary moments. Riding the school bus. Shopping for a new vacuum cleaner with my mom. Walking through the mall with my friends. 

Here are too many pictures of Vertical Horizon:

And then Everclear. So great. The guitarist gave me a pick. And then he saw me give it to a screaming, crying girl standing beside me. She screamed a swear word in my face. She was so happy. He gave me another pick. He held his guitar down in front of me so I could strum it, but it was kind of awkward because I was holding my phone and had sweaty hands and have never strummed a guitar from that angle before. And then he wanted to shake hands even though I don't like shaking hands, especially with sweaty people. He was really sweaty. But I was really sweaty too. I guess we're friends. 

Their set was really great, especially "Wonderful," which was dedicated to the memory of Chris Cornell.

And after the show, as we were leaving, we heard someone yelling at us. It was the guitarist from Vertical Horizon who had come to say hi and give Robyn a pick. He offered me a dirty earplug, but I declined, and tried not to take it as an insult. We took a picture together and discussed geography and parenthood. Then me and Robyn went home, happy about our old nostalgia and new friends. 

I miss the 90s.

The End.

News, Kind Of

Big, important moments in life are so weird, because they come right after and right before little, normal ones. Like, I remember the night I had Sullivan. It was 12 something in the morning and I woke up and, suddenly, I was in labour. I thought, how funny. I wasn't in labour, and now I really, really, really am. Just all of a sudden. I told someone afterward that I'd felt surprised to be in labour, and she said, "Well, did you expect to stay pregnant forever?" I guess I kind of did, in a way.

I had a moment like that last week—I mean, not like that. Not like being in labour. I just mean a moment that was important and surprising and surreal even though I knew in the back of my mind that it was a moment that could happen.

I was in bed; it was early in the morning. Barclay was on his way out the door for an early shift at work and Sullivan was stirring in his room. I grabbed my phone off the headboard and scrolled through my email inbox (a super effective way to wake up, bless that blue light), and saw the email. It was from a literary agent in New York who had my manuscript, and she said she loved it, and she said she wanted to talk on the phone.

And then I was airborne. Like a cartoon cat whose tail had been stepped on. Straight up in the air, hair splaying out in all directions. Eyes like dinner plates.

And there was a siren. Am ambulance? A fire truck? Police?

No, just me. I was screaming.

"BARCLAY, WAAAAAAAIT!"

I flew to him, through the air and through the walls I guess, because I don't remember turning corners or stepping on toys. I handed him my phone and said, "Does this say these words? Because I am still sleeping."

He was, as Barclay always is, so much more composed than me. He smiled, widely but calmly and sincerely, and said, "Wow. That's really great. I'm not surprised at all." Bless his heart.

I spoke with the agent the next morning, and accepted her offer of representation yesterday. So, as of then, I'm represented by the incredible Victoria Cappello at The Bent Agency. I won't blog about the submission process here, but I thought it would be fun to let you know it's happening, since the people who have read here over the years have played a big part in me writing anything at all—which sounds like a kind of cheesy and insincere thing to say but I do mean it. I'm so indebted to the weird world of blogging. I owe you, you crazy internet strangers. Thanks for everything.

Okay. So that, as they say, is that. 

OH It's a Trilogy Now! Today, We Learn About Hyperbole

I put some green stuff on your plate
And you are instantly irate
You grunt just like a bull would do,
Eat this; it is good for you

Your mouth is closed shut like a door
That shall not open, evermore
It isn’t poison, mud, or poo
Eat this; it is good for you

The tiny list of things you’ll eat
Does not include veggies or meat
Now what am I supposed to do?
Eat this; it is good for you

More stubborn than a bull would be
(This is, perhaps, hyperbole)
But you won’t touch, or taste, or chew
Eat this; it is good for you

Here's A Sequel No One Asked for About Dirty Shoes in the House, in Which We Also Learn About Similes

It is spring and it is wet
And wow! How dirty your shoes get!
Don’t cover my floors in that scuzz
Please leave the ground there where it was

You track the whole earth through this place
A happy smile on your face
I says and sizz and sazz and suzz,
“Please leave the ground there where it was!”

I sweep and mop and then repeat
Ugh, leave the puddles on the street
I ask you ‘do,’ son, so please does—
Do leave the ground there where it was

I am like a bumblebee
(This is, of course, a simile)
My voice is an annoying buzz,
“Pleazzzzzzze...leave the ground there where it wazzzzz.”

Here, I Wrote a Children's Book About Putting Toys Away

A lego left there by the chair

Sends me flying through the air

With a screeching, howling roar:

"NOTHING'S PLACE IS ON THE FLOOR!"

I'm sorry that I made that sound,

This should not have been on the ground

This is what your hands are for,

NOTHING'S PLACE IS ON THE FLOOR!

When he has friends over to play

And they don't put the cars away

This is it, boys, this is war,

NOTHING'S PLACE IS ON THE FLOOR!

I do not like to step on stuff

This is it; I've had enough

I am mother, hear me roar,

"NOTHING'S PLACE IS ON THE FLOOR!"

Yes, I am a dinosaur,

(This is, of course, a metaphor)

But I will still say it once more, 

NOTHING'S 

PLACE 

IS 

ON 

THE 

FLOOR!!!

Stay tuned for the sequel: NOTHING'S PLACE IS IN THE BATHROOM, in which I am a full-on dragon.

This Post is About Jimmy Eat World

 

My mom calls me Elise sometimes (that's my sister's name). Sometimes she calls me Elaine (that's her sister's name). It's a common enough thing to look right at someone you know very well, whose name you know very well, and call them a name that doesn't belong to them. 

I'm not sure how common it is to call your husband Jimmy Eat World when his name is Barclay, but that happened once. This should give you a hint about how much I like/listen to Jimmy Eat World, which makes it the perfect way to open a post about how I finally, finally, finally got to see them live. 

Here's a picture of me and Elise right before the show (it's a funny picture, because if you look at it quickly, it looks like she's a toddler and I'm holding her on my hip). 

We got there super early, along with a small handful of other die-hard Jimmy fans (doors were at 7, show at 8, and this picture was taken at 6:15ish). We made friends with a couple from Regina and spent the whole show with them (I use the term 'friends' loosely though, because they didn't ask for our Instagram handles afterward. If someone doesn't ask you for your Instagram handle after you spend five-ish hours with them, WHAT DOES IT MEAN? Did I have bad mosh pit etiquette? Did I smell? Were my dance moves out of date? They should've been. I was there for Clarity-era Jimmy, first and foremost). Anyway. They were really nice, and very enthusiastic, which was helpful. I hate standing beside unenthusiastic people at shows.

You might think that being there so early would be a drag but it wasn't, because Jimmy Eat World's sound guy, Dennis of Ten Foot Pole, came out and played some of his band's songs for us while we waited. He had the little keener crowd sing gang vocals and it was like a pre-show sidewalk party. I now believe this should be standard practice for all concert experiences. Thank you, Dennis, and also: you did a lovely job behind the sound board last night. 

OKAY. THE MAIN EVENT. 

The show was at O'Brians in Saskatoon, which is a tiny venue—I think it holds up to maybe 1000 people—and it wasn't sold out. It's kind of incredible to be able to see one of your all-time favourite bands in a setting like that. 

They haven't had anything in the way of mainstream radio hits lately, which meant the crowd was a little older and much more, you know, invested. I've been to shows where a band has had a recent hit, and the audience is all 18-year-olds who only know that song and sing along to it obnoxiously and then talk loudly through the rest of the set or leave. The crowd last night, in contrast, was phenomenal. Everyone knew all the songs from all the albums, from Clarity to Futures to Integrity Blues. Jimmy Eat World picked their set-list accordingly—they played stuff from every era of their career, graciously catering to us precious, weepy, nostalgic people. I mean, I loved Integrity Blues, but I was s-t-o-k-e-d when they played "Lucky Denver Mint." 

It must be kind of cool to get to a place in your musical career where you basically show up to your shows to facilitate giant, sentimental sing-alongs with hundreds of people who now associate your music and lyrics with intense, personal experiences and emotions. 

It really was everything I could've hoped for. Not a lot of inane chit-chat between songs, the set list was perfect, the band seemed humble and happy to be there, and the opener (Beach Slang) was fantastic. 

Also, at one point I held up my hand and a signed pick was pressed into it from the stage. 16-year-old me would've been much more thrilled about this than 29-year-old me, but 29-year-old me decided, just for last night, to be thrilled about it on my own behalf. I mean, these are just people playing music, but whatever. This music has been the soundtrack to a lot of my life. So. I feel like I reserve the right to be a little ridiculous about it.

If you don't have something to be ridiculous about, you should get something to be ridiculous about. Being ridiculous is fun.