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.