Why I don't like my gynecologist/Why I'm frustrated with Birth Control

I had an appointment today with my gynecologist scheduled for 1:15pm. Since I won't be out of my apartment for the next few days (in lieu of essay cramming) I decided that I would also pick up an early graduation present for myself at my favourite woman-owned, women-run, women-friendly, women-centred sex shop, Libido. If you're ever in London, I highly recommend it. They only sell the best quality stuff, they'll talk to you for as long as you'd like and help you find the product that is best for you. All of their products are out on display so you can see and touch them and it's a generally very warm and friendly atmosphere. I've always left there with a smile, and I've never felt dirty and in need of a shower after walking away (unlike with some places, ahem, Stag Shop, fucking hell). In any case, I had a great chat with the owner for a while, we held some dildos together, then she wrapped up my new friend in wine-coloured tissue and placed it in a gold bag. I walked out a very happy woman as I headed for my appointment.

I got lost in the hospital hallways again looking for my doctor. When I finally got there I ended up sitting in the waiting room for an hour with ten other women watching television since he was late. It wasn't so bad, for a while the channel was on Antiques Roadshow, which is kickass. When the nurse called my name and led me into the next room (the one with the stirrups), where she ordered me to take off my pants, I told her that I wanted to get a chance to ask the doctor about birth control options since I am hoping to get off of hormonal birth control soon. I'd rather not have synthetic hormones going through my system (and producing chemical withdrawal bleeding instead of an actual period), and I'd like to talk about my options.

Fine, good. My pot-bellied doctor and his two young clean-shaven Med students walk in a few minutes later - the Med students lean against the wall, my doctor sits near my feet, and I, bare-assed on the table with my feat resting on the stirrups, start talking about birth control.

I explain to him that I'd rather not be on hormones anymore because I am concerned with what they are doing to my body. I went on them originally both because my periods were horrendous and because it seemed to be the easiest method of contraception when I became sexually active. Now I am concerned that these chemicals may be merely covering up what was causing my excessive bleeding and not fixing the (possibly serious) problem, and I have to believe that there must be some other form of preventing babies that won't wreck havoc on my body. I am, however, nervous because the pill has been so easy and effective in the whole no-baby department and it will be odd to go back to condoms when I am in a long-term monogamous relationship but just don't want kids right now. I'll likely get a diaphragm to use as back-up because I am paranoid, but I have also heard some things about IUD's (even though right now, they really kind of scare me).

"Have you had kids?"
"No"
"Oh, well then I wouldn't recommend an IUD - if you get an infection with one it could go into your ovaries and damage your ability to reproduce, so I wouldn't give it to someone whose fertility hadn't been tested."
"Oh, ok. Yeah, I was just kind of scared of that also b/c I've heard that the non-hormonal one can make you bleed even heavier on your period, and that's something I'd like to avoid".
"Yep"
"Also, my Mom got one put in before she had me and it ended up tearing through her womb, causing her to hemorrhage, and the doctors eventually found it after fishing through her intestines on the operating table".
"That's just weird".
"Is it? Alright, so I guess what you're saying is that my only choice outside of hormonal birth control are condoms and diaphragms?"
"Yep. (leans back and crosses arms) You also have to remember that condoms and diaphragms have about a 10% failure rate, while the pill has about a 1% failure rate, so that's also something you'd have to consider."
"But I don't want the hormones"
"Yes, well..."
"Coupling condoms and a diaphragm together though would help close that gap, though, right? Also, I was thinking of also using the Fertility Awareness Method in addition to the barrier methods"
"Yeah, the Catholics like that method because it has a 40% failure rate, hyuk hyuk".
"Hmm, alright (holding back tears of frustration). So, I guess, as far as the wacky menstrual cycle stuff goes then, I was planning on trying to balance it holistically with things like diet, exercise and vitamins/supplements, etc, so that should work alright, yes?"
"Yeah, lots of women go off the pill and they forget what their real periods were like, but then they soon go back on it again once they realize what they're up against (smirk)".
"(smile to hide depression, frustration and anger)"
"Oh, also - I think I have a tilted uterus, and ..."
"So?"
"So I'm worried about the effectiveness of the diaphragm with that"
"Nah, I wouldn't worry about that. It doesn't matter. I can get you fitted for a diaphragm here ..."
"I'm moving to Guelph next month"
"Oh, well then you can get it fitted in Guelph - any doctor there can do it, it's not that hard."
"Oh."

Soon he has me spreading my legs at the knees and he's shoved a speculum and a camera up inside me so his Med students can take a look at my cervix as well on the video screen. I can't watch. The procedure always hurts and I try to laugh with them at their jokes to get over the pain. They speak about my womb in medical terms I don't understand and ask me to close my legs. 'All done', the doctor says, throwing the bloody speculum in the waste bin.

"You know, they have a great Stag Shop right across from one of the hotels in Guelph, if you ever need to ... I mean not that I would know", he says with a grin and a laugh. Stunned silence. The Med students chuckle. "Oh, ha ha," I nervously let out a laugh, "is that right?" He and the rest of the doctors leave chuckling amongst themselves. The door closes and I pull up my pants.

I really need to get myself a female gynecologist (or at least someone who's not such a dick).

Charles Bukowski

A poem I came across today that really affected me, profoundly touched me, in a way that most writing hasn't been able to do in a long time. Please read:

the crunch

too much too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody.

laughter or
tears

haters
lovers

strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks

armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.

an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock

people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners

it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone

untouched
unspoken to

watering a plant.

people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about
it.

the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

too much
too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody

more haters than lovers.

people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.

meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.

there must be a way.

surely there must be a way that we have not yet
thought of.

who put this brain inside of me?

it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.

it will not say
"no."

from LOVE IS A DOG FROM HELL
©1977

Hillside Catchup

Yeah, so I'm behind on posting. The Hillside Festival was weeks ago and I just finished processing the few pictures I took. Go see them if you'd like. I didn't take so many this year, I took so many last year and they would have been pretty much the same except for maybe a few exceptions. Or, maybe I was just lazy this year. Next year there'll be more.

I don't have much to say, really. It was good, just really good. It felt different than last year somehow, but maybe that's simply because it was all so new to me last year and everything was a new discovery and a new experience. This year it all just seemed to go by too quickly and I don't know how. It was just different, Tudor and I agreed that it had a different vibe this year and we both didn't know how to explain it. A different crowd maybe. Not bad, just different. In any case, I had one hell of a lot of fun, especially with:

- the blazing hot sun to toast us all day
- learning about feeding dogs raw food instead of garbage kibble
- learning how to make hemp bracelets with Nicki and some disgruntled teenagers
- meeting with many friends and newlyweds for drinks and stories and music love
- naked babies
- corn on the cob
- the sun stage and women talking of abortions
- Hank & Lily and their pure awesomeness shouting 'I'd shave my balls for you' with deer antlers and gas masks
- women breastfeeding beside me
- Matt Mays pulling through a difficult performance despite jarring acoustics and dropped microphones
- organic lemonade and frozen yoghurt
- cuddling on blankets
- dancing in the grass, in the sun and in the moonlight, with the greatest partner I could ever ask for
- the lovely Sarah Harmer singing us to the end of the night.
- campfires with bartered wood.

There is more, but that's all I can remember now. It was good times, folks. I can't wait for next time. Next year I'm seriously thinking of running a workshop and I'm pretty excited about that, as well as everything else that'll likely be going on at Hillside.

Oh, and make sure to check out Tudor and Regan's excellent photos from the event as well. They can tell a story better than myself. Go seek! I'll see you all there again next year!

Greg and Larissa got married!

Yeah, I know I haven't posted in over a month but what better way to start again than to talk about a great wedding? Cue sappy wedding post:

Like Tudor, I was pretty nervous about the whole wedding thing. Being an occassional bartender for my Township means that I have gone to one heck of a lot of weddings - well, not the ceremony part, just the part where I serve everyone dinner and drinks until they're dancing, slurring, falling, fist-fighting, puking, and generally having a good time. I've seen a lot of weddings.

I've seen the overly formal ones where everywhere is sickeningly decorated with flowers and the servers wear white gloves, everything's silver, the speeches last over an hour, and everyone's increasingly pressured up and pissed off but mask it under their formal wear, and there is little dancing, drinks, or merriment b/c it wasn't part of the perfect wedding plan, apparently. I've also seen ones where the bride wears an ill-fitting dress I swear she got in the Value Village costume section and a french braid in her hair, her two young daughters from her two former marriages are her bridesmaids, her husband has a fierce (spiked on top, bleached blond tips in the back) mullet - and to top it all off, it's country-themed and they're both wearing sequined cowboy boots and their wedding table is complete with a wooden split rail fence around its perimeter. I've also clapped with Elvis impersonators and seen people dance with pink flamingoes.

I was nervous about this one though because Greg and Larissa are my first set of friends, people I actually know and like to hang out with, getting married. It's scary. Greg and Larissa though, they're pretty cute and I'm happy as hell for them. I was excited to see it all happen!

That's why I was so sorry when Tudor and I, after braving Toronto traffic and changing our clothes in the parking lot, ran inside, then outside, the convention centre directly after Greg and Larissa had already become husband and wife. We had missed the ceremony. We had also missed picking up Sra on our way since she, fed up with waiting for over an hour, was already there to meet us. It was however, all alright - there really is no room for hard feelings at such a happy time.

Everything else about that evening seemed to pass by in one amazing and happy blur (and no, it wasn't just the alcohol - although that helped, thanks!). I met with people I hadn't seen in a long time like the always lovely Alysia, the wonderful Meredith, and all of you gems like Dave, Corwin, Amy, Regan, Sherry, Sra, Borelli, and Gobey (or maybe we didn't meet, just danced), among others. I also got to meet Borelli's girl, Megan, among other people at our table (whose names I can't remember) and she was pretty friggin' great. I remember speeches that made people laugh and cry, and heckling that made everyone stare at tables 12 (red wine) and 13 (white wine) with varying levels of approval. I remember stuffed animals in the basement, great food and beer, kids hyped up on sugar, and lots and lots of sweaty, happy, dancing.

Like I said, I've been to a lot of weddings, but Greg & Larissa's was one of the best I've been to, as I'm sure a lot of us there could agree. It went by so quickly because it was all just so much fun. It was laid back, warm and friendly, but still very classy and lovely. It was such a great celebration among friends, and it didn't come near to being like any of those stuffy and overly-formal weddings I've attended. It was just ... good. Everything about it was good, and relaxed, loving and joyful. It was what I'd like to think a wedding should be. A warm celebration. Except, you know, I think I'd need an Elvis impersonator at mine ;).

Thank you, Greg & Larissa for such an amazing time, and sincere congratulations on your marriage - I wish you two all the happiness you can get!

Also, (for those who don't already know) here are most all of the pictures, from everyone (I forgot my camera) so far.
Here's Corwin's entry.
Amy's entry.
Sra's entry.
Sherry's and Regan's(x2).
And Tudor's (x2) Good times.

How to Confuse Store Clerks

You've just come from the changing rooms at your local Zellers. You're happy because you've finally found exactly what you wanted: a black, one-piece swimsuit that's simple, functional, and doesn't make you feel self-conscious in the least. It actually made you smile when you put it on. And it's on sale.

You're staring blankly at the chewing gum, reminding yourself to buy toilet paper later, when the nice lady with the clipboard comes up beside you and asks if you're ready to check out. She's very smiley and so you nod 'yes' and throw your suit on the counter. She asks if you have your HBC Rewards card with you, you say 'no' and she asks if you'd like to sign up for one. Every cashier you've confronted at Zellers has asked you this, for years, and you've always turned them down without thinking. Today, though, you're in a good mood and this woman is just too smiley to turn down. 'Sure' you say, and she brings out the sign-up sheet.

She asks if you have any credit cards - 'nope' - she lists them all - 'nope, nope, nope' - any other store cards? - 'nope'. Alright, well, let's start filling out this form then: 'Eby', that's a cute name, she says and starts giggling. Now, your address? OK, you start filling out the address of the apartment you're subletting until August. Postal Code? 'Sorry, I have no idea what my postal code might be". She asks why not, and you try to explain. 'That's alright, now just fill in your phone number', she says, 'I don't have one', you say. She raises an eyebrow, 'cellphone?' she asks, 'nope', you reply, and she shakes her head. She asks if you can fill in the section for your permanent address - 'err, I don't have one at the moment' - and she now makes a deep sigh and shakes her head again. Employer? - 'well, I was sort of a Teaching Assistant' - 'Oh, so you teach part-time then?' - 'No, not really, not at the moment. I'm finishing up my degree and taking a summer course, then I'll be moving to another city' - 'You're moving again?' - 'uh, yeah' - she smiles politely - 'So, you're unemployed?' - 'Well, not rea--' - 'Then how are you payi--' - 'with debit'. She stares at you blankly, looks down at the nearly empty form and shakes her head again. Smiles.

After she puts down the form and gives you your temporary card she continues smiling and tells you about how 'oh you young people' and how you're lucky you can be so transient now and you won't be able to once you start having kids. You smile right back at her, take your new swimsuit in your hands, and be pretty darn content about that 10% discount you've just received. A few minutes later, walking out of the next store with 12 new rolls of no name toilet paper you start to think that planting flowers in the wilderness won't be all that bad. You'd have to bring that toilet paper with you, though, of course.

Today is my Happy Day

Altogether now, everyone wish the Bloomsday girl a Happy Birthday!
Yay!

I'm 24 today and I'll be gorging myself on Indian food and listening to my friend play music at Chaucer's Pub tonight. It's a good day! A very good Bloomsday indeed!

puppies and garfunkel sundays

My parents and my sister came to visit yesterday. Yay! They even brought the dog! Yay, yay, yay! Every time I see my family I realize more and more that they are the most absolutely insane and wonderful people I know. Gosh, I love 'em.

They took me plant/mop&broom shopping since there are certain things that I just don't feel confident carrying on my bike or even on the bus. I purchased over seventy dollars worth of stuff at Home Depot yesterday on various things and I still don't quite know why. I did resist buying case upon case of their blow-out-sale bottled water, contrary to everyone else in the store it seemed. Seriously, those people were stocking up like the wells had dried up, and I wanted to yell out 'IT COMES FROM YOUR TAP, PEOPLE, WATER IS FREE! FREE! PASS IT ON, YUPPIES!!' but I resisted.

I did, however, get myself an over-the-railing plant holder (that does not, however, fit over my current railing) which I've made into my new Urban Herb Garden: parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, along with spearmint, lavender, basil, oregano and more. Hanging over my herb garden is also a lovely flowering nasturtium, the lovely edible peppery plant. My balcony is now colourful, smelly, and awesome with plant life! Now I just hope I don't kill them.

Oh! Oh! And Casey (the dog, see above) got to stay for a sleepover! She's currently passed out soundly on the floor, in front of the oscillating fan. She's been wonderful and well-behaved and hasn't shit/pissed/puked on my floor once! She's the most awesomest dog ever and I forgot how much I missed her sweetness. We go for walks around the neighbourhood, proudly, and she follows me everywhere, slobbering, and cuddles and snuggles and WOW, wow wow I need a freaking dog NOW!

How to Eat Breakfast Alone

Wake up early with a slight headache partially caused by your upstairs neighbour's sub-woofer-fueled hip-hop party last night and partial residual effects from your House binge/marathon two nights' previous and your last night's Ab Fab and Fellini tribute. Your love partner is away in Toronto this weekend. He's visiting old friends, making new ones, touring Doors Open, getting naked on beaches, and you've stayed home; claiming exhaustion. Wuss. And so, instead of waking up next to your lover this morning, you wake up next to your self-pleasure instruments and press the snooze button as many times as possible until your head finally agrees to unattach itself from your sweat and drool-soaked pillow with enough time to check your email, shower, dress, and grab some orange juice before you have to meet your friend for breakfast.

Fight with your stolen internet connection. Try and force it to submit to your will, despite it not being your own and despite its own insistence on being the most precarious and unpredictable stolen internet connection imaginable. You've agreed to a breakfast date with Suz but you haven't heard a response in a while. You need to check your mail to confirm that there's actually a reason for your getting out of bed so early this morning. No luck. After fighting with the connection until 7:50AM you finally reach an empty Inbox and are left with no time for either that much needed shower or that kick-starting orange juice you craved before the 8AM usual breakfast date. You put some talcum powder in your hair and slip on your favourite knit navy v-neck that used to be your father's before he 'had three kids' and your new long, white, frilly skirt that, in the right light, shows the distinct silhouette of your distinctly stout legs. Decide to wear a slip underneath of it. Slip on your sandals and head to the pub down the street where they offer cheap breakfasts and great coffee. Despite the lack of affirming correspondence, you're not one to stand-up a friend for a date.

The pub is closed. It won't open for nearly another hour. Saturday hours are a bitch. Decide to wait it out. Pick up a free copy of 'The Scene' from the dirty news box in front of you and start reading it in efforts to both pass the time and to ignore the aggressive man waiting at the bus-stop, heading off to cook breakfast for '60 people' at his restaurant downtown and whose 'steak & caesar' breakfast is apparently much better than the breakfast you're proposing to eat. Ignore him for long enough that he gives up and starts advertising to the young man reading a copy of 'The Record' beside you.

Once the steak & caesar guy has gone, spend some time in the corner store where you've become fascinated by the fact that there is a new person behind the counter everytime you have walked through their door. Peruse their collection of dusty kitchen gadgets, chat with the friendly lady behind the counter (each counter-person being uncommonly friendly) about the price of popsicles and recall your childhood by buying yourself some Betty & Veronica for toilet reading. You haven't had a good shit in days thanks to sphincter-shyness from sharing a one bedroom apartment with a polite classmate 3 days out of the week. Reading those books have always helped. Thank the lady and go back outside to keep reading your copy of 'The Scene'. Discover that Fred Penner is coming to a church in London in June.

When the pub finally opens, there are already people seated inside. You have no idea how they got in, but you don't feel obliged to ask; you just sit yourself down at the table closest to the door and facing the street where the sun glares in your eyes everytime you lift your head and where you'll continue to hold out hope for Suz to appear. Order coffee.

Ten minutes have passed and you've given up hope of anyone eating their breakfast across from you (where they would also be conveniently blocking the sun). Decide to have someone else cook breakfast for you anyways, and order your eggs scrambled and your toast brown. More coffee. Listen to the conversations of the diners around you: the family of three whose daughter just got a full-time job in town and is discussing furniture placement at her new place, and the man with the grey mustache and mesh-back hat apologizing for not bringing snacks and feeding his tiny (grand-?)daughter pieces of his eggs and hashbrowns from his plate. Everyone in the restaurant has ordered the same thing, with variations on the eggs and toast. CNN is playing in the background.

More coffee. A young couple sits down at the table behind you, replacing the mother-daughter-father trio from earlier, and the blonde requests that she sit 'out of the sun'. They talk about the big party last night. Get more coffee. Read more of 'The Scene' and decide to see a cheap movie by yourself soon and maybe check out a concert or two. Fred Penner is on the top of that list. Get the bill. Pay the waitress. She was nice, had overplucked eyebrows, and her ass was big and perky. Give her a good tip. Leave the pub with a full belly and a satisfied grin. Burp a little bit once you get outside.

Before heading home, hop into the friendly market next door to pick up a fresh loaf of your favourite whole-wheat and sesame seed bread. There is an old man straddling one of the seats by the window, smacking his gums and holding his styrofoam cup of coffee tightly. The young man with the curly hair, apron and glasses, greets you as you walk in and head straight to the back of the store - passing the coffees and biscottis at the front, the ten thousand jams and chutneys lining the walls, the cakes and pastries in the display, and the freshly-made complete meal sets on the side. You love the smell of that place, and you feel pretty lucky to have a market like this so close to your apartment. Get the boy behind the counter to slice your bread for you as you gaze at their pastries and wander around the store, staring at the old man every once in a while who is, in turn, staring out the window to the street. As the boy is ringing in your bill, get him to put a single slice of cheesecake in a box for you as well. It's for after dinner tonight. You deserve it. You always do.

Say goodbye and skip to your bike with bread and cakes in your hands. Place your purchases in your basket and walk home with your bike at your side: you don't want the bumps to damage your dessert and, besides that, it's a gorgeous and sunny day. Walk home in the sunshine, passing by numerous ogglers who make you realize that your under-skirt slip is possibly substantially lacking in length. Smile right back at them. Breathe in deeply and get a good wiff of the lilacs still blooming in your neighbourhood.Remember what the boy at the market said when he handed you your things: "Have a great morning!" he said. Thanks. I will, and I have.

How was yours?

BYOB and RSVP

Who: you and everyone you know.

What: my Birthday.

Where: my apartment (1231 Richmond St., #110), London*.

When: Friday, June 16th.

Why: it's my freaking birthday! I will also have various meat products cooking on my BBQ for you upon arrival (unless you prefer that soy crap). There will be BEERS (if you bring them) on my balcony, GAMES in my livingroom (and in the park), and PIES in the oven. BYOB. Breakfast, on Saturday morning, will be served at Christina's Pub (cheap and delicious) down the street. Come! Come! You know you want to!

Email (laura dot eby at gmail dot com) for more.

* I have neither a phone nor a buzzer. You'll have to email me to tell me when you'll be coming and I'll let you into my lovely little home.

wanna know why my canvas is still blank?

I have so much to write about: the first, being essays and crap like that, and the rest being much more exciting things like moving into a new place, projects, kisses and railroad bridges; but I have to start by telling you that I haven't been able to stop laughing at this for the past few days. I go back, read it again, and then pee my pants. That, and the first season of 'House' I rented have been occupying those other parts of my brain not used in essay-writing or blogging. Updates and such shortly, including queries like 'what's up, Hillside?' and 'hey, you wanna come to my Birthday party?'. We'll talk soon.

One Long and Very Unnecessary Post

A Few Reasons Why My Weekend Was (possibly) Better Than Your Weekend:

Friday
- Girl Date with Meredith - who is, by the way, one of the most singularly interesting women I've ever met - started with milkshakes and blog-talk, had an Irish pub, free beers, and book-talk in the middle, and ended with hugs and smiles and biking in the rain. She's pretty great, that one. She even has pictures of a teenaged Greg Smith rocking out in a Marilyn Manson t-shirt.
- I biked up the hill to my house, wet from the rain and slightly drunk from the beer (that's right, two drinks - woo hoo!), to see a familiar vehicle parked in the driveway. I increased my pace and threw my bike in the mudroom to confirm that there was, indeed, a naked Romanian waiting (with Spring flowers!) to leap out of my bedroom to greet me. Built-up sexual tension from weeks without seeing one another combined with a little alcohol makes for quite the (ahem) potent evening.

Saturday:
- woke up in the arms of the greatest and most wonderful man ever in the whole wide world and spent the rest of the morning cuddling under the covers and smoochin' over bacon and coffee.
- the afternoon involved a quick trip to school to steal some books and a long trip to 'Michael's' craft store for inspiration, calligraphy pens, and a muffin pan that makes delightful and delicious flower-shaped muffins.
- hugs and kisses in the parking lot later, and I was back home pretending to mark papers but watching 'Spice World' on television and several episodes of 'House' on my computer instead.

Sunday:
- a lovely and unproductive day that started with flower-shaped banana muffins baking in the oven and ended with a drunken Marking Party on the diningroom table with Sherry and Alysia.

Since Then I've Been:
- stressing the hell out over my next essay and moving out of this house; both of which I have to complete by Monday.

What I Haven't Been Doing:
- sleeping
- packing
- writing an essay.

Latest Purchases:
- honey-flavoured lip balm, two cloth headbands, and a rock crystal deodorant (chemical anti-perspirants are evil) thing from a great fair trade store downtown owned by the sweetest little lady.
- a lavendar scented deodarant bar from the health food store today because, while anti-perspirants are still bad and natural deodorants are still good, I need something to at least stop the stink.

Latest Dream:
- fucking Harrison Ford. The man kept telling me he loved me and I kept telling him to shut-up while laughing and running my fingers through the silvery hairs on his wrinkled chest.

_______________________________________


In Other News!

The London Public Library in downtown London has been my very favourite place today. It's truly amazing and makes me feel all warm and smiley; it's three expansive floors of magic, literature and community.

- Their cafe, with large bright windows facing the busy street, sells delicious fair trade coffee and they won't kick you out if you want to stay for hours off one beverage purchase.
- They also have areas on each floor for consuming snacks and beverages so that you don't have to leave the library to eat your cookie. I find this last fact lovely since my alternative, the Weldon library at UWO, has 'Food Police' on patrol 24 hrs/day. Pffftt. When I'm writing and doing research for eight hour stretches, I need a friggin' cookie, leave me alone.
- They have community-focussed centres and services like an Employment Resource centre, meeting rooms, media centres (where people can sit in comfy chairs and watch the CBC together), a Language Learning centre, and Information centres everywhere with Community boards and other great things.
- Their Foreign Language Film section is wonderful and will be frequented by myself this summer as free French and Hindi movies from the library are always better than cable television.
- There are comfortable chairs and sturdy tables generously dispersed on every floor, the majority being along the bright large windows and close to electrical outlets for laptop users like myself.
- no wireless internet access means that one the largest self-induced hindrances to my essay-writing is eliminated.
- In my experience, most of the patrons are quiet and respectful to others allowing for quiet reading and plenty of (much-needed!) peaceful productivity on my part. It's astoundingly refreshing.

I'm packing a lunch tomorrow and I plan on staying at the LPL from Open to Close to write my feminist gardening essay. That place makes me happy.

__________________________________

Happy Easter Sunday!

I'm spending the day writing a paper, due tomorrow, while anticipating my parent's visiting soon with Easter Dinner (a.k.a. take-out Swiss Chalet). There are middle-aged married shirtless men outside of my house building a fence in my backyard, and I'm listening to the CBC and the hum of my washing machine.

I hope that, wherever you are today, and whatever your (non)denomination, you're able to give someone a hug (or pat on the 'ol bum) and a little smile. Here, I give you a picture of a little flower I found in my backyard to spread the love. Enjoy!

Also, the Queen says:

"Happy Egg Hunting!"

it's all wrong but it's all right

When home alone, writing papers instead of enjoying Easter weekend with family and loved ones, I like to cheer myself up in my stress-breaks with downloaded television shows, some tvo kids, and the knowledge that Dolly Parton just came out with her very own cookbook! Yes!

It's not all bad though; the essay writing, I mean. I'm using my next essay as an excuse to read my recently purchased gardening book, and it is going to be about feminist guerilla gardening. Prospective title: 'Subversive Hoes: Jennifer Bloomer, Gayla Trail and the art of urban gardening'. See?

I also finally bought myself a DivaCup and, like most girls who discover it for the first time, I'm super-duper excited. Disposable tampons and pads make me angry. Shoving silicone cups up my cunt makes me very happy.


I think I'll even go for a long walk tonight to get some fresh air. Remind me to go for a walk, ok?

Oh! And Happy Easter Weekend every (non-Orthodox Christian) one! The sun is out - go snuggle with some bunnies and birdies!

sit on a potato pan otis

He's gone and my insides still smell of him. He's gone, after two days of quiet caresses, laughs, friends, cuddles and feasts of maple-syruped things injected with kisses and sweetness. He's gone after exhausting my body with his. He's left me and I can still feel his hands on me.
I had tugged on his coat strings, jumped up and down, for one more kiss before he went away again. I waved goodbye with one finger and a low-slung lip. The weekends go by too quickly. The in-between, the falling asleep shivering without his warm limbs attached and waking up alone and panicked, is too much. Too much shit. Too much desperation, not enough clawed flesh. I need his body and mind here now, like any day or evening. We'll hold each other close and talk about profound things like farm animals, 'child-whores' eating Jesus tears, and our own hard-to-please assholes.

she's a bit too excited about the bananas

I've been being so superficially productive lately! I mean, who cares if I haven't showered, shaved, or read significant amounts of school-related anything in a little while? I've baked! I've cleaned! I've read far more interesting materials!

My campus bookstore is having their annual booksale this year and the prices of certain texts are so ridiculously cheap, it's wonderful, refreshing, even! I was late for all of my appointments the day I discovered the sale. While I was pissed to see one of my course books on sale for 3.99 while I'd paid something like 21.95 for it a few months ago, I consoled my eager self by purchasing the previously too darned expensive The Joy of Cooking for 6.99 and a book about an imaginary beer-drinking, closet-dwelling giraffe named Jim who gives some British bloke advice on how to better fuck his wife, which I just couldn't bear to pass up. I'll be diving into that one as soon as I've finished my current distraction from texts such as this and this.

Also, with the combination of a few holiday gift cards and my sister's employee discount, I was finally able to get my hands on Gayla Trail's lovely gem of a gardening guide-book, You Grow Girl. I'm ridiculously excited about the prospect of growing my own herbs and watching my baby plants grow, joining a community garden, and making my new home a palace of greenery and no longer the palace of plant deaths!

I cleaned my room last night and now it smells like oranges instead of assholes!

I made banana muffins today, via Lady Sra's recipe, because I don't eat my spotty bananas fast enough and I prefer baking to reading more theory, and they turned out fantasmically! I ate three just now!

Also, here's a vagina snake for you (taken from her(/e)):

Take that!

tidbits from over here this way, and showering is for losers today

I finished watching this movie at 3AM, and all I can say is: ))<>((
Oh, and this photo makes me happy:
as well as this happy archive. It's the little things.

Why Laura has been crying/feeling sorry for herself rather than blogging [warning! extreme whinging ahead]:

1. She's been rejected by every PhD program to which she applied.

2. She returned to her old school and saw old friends last week which reminded her of the inspiration and idealism she had back then and the resentful, machine-like, angry, soulless grad student she's become and it scared the crap right out of her.

3. Her doctor switched her birth control pills because of the sporadic bleeding (see nearly every post leading up to this) - random bleeding stopped, yaaayyy! - unfortunately they are also pills with a high dose of the crazy hormones. You know, the hormones that make you think paranoid thoughts, not want to leave the house, distort self-perception and self-worth, kill the sex drive, eat more, cry cry and cry. Yeah, those ones.

4. Fuck you, 'distances make the heart grow stronger', they just make you feel lonely. That's all. Lonely. Emails and phone calls can only do so much and can't ever replace the physical - the touch, the nearness, just having them there in front of you or holding you, or anything, just be here, damnit! I hate this city and that it's torn me away from everything/one I love and left me feeling empty.

5. She misses her dog.

Yes, I haven't blogged in nearly a month for all of those reasons. My entries would have only been full of whinging and complaints, paranoid thoughts, and insecurities, and I didn't want to waste the time writing that shit. I thought I'd just get it over with in one ridiculous post, here. Rejection affected me much more than I thought it would, and going back home to see my family and friends and my old school reminded me of a better state of mind. I need to get back to that and recover all that grad school has killed in me and uncover the positive things I know it's given me but that I just can't see yet. The pills I have to take to control my body spitting out its blood save me from anemia and uncontrollable bleeding but they fuck with my head and have made me manic and on the brink of tears all the time. Maybe it's just a rut.

I'll probably regret typing this entry. Buh. Ignore this. I'm going to go back to my chocolate pudding now in cry baby land. Laura just really needs a hug, and maybe a dog.

stop posting about your vagina

'Your vagina is fine, your vagina is fine, your vagina is fine' they say.
Well then, Doctor, why the random bleeding? Huh, huh? 'splain that one!
...
Oh yeah. Stress does that.
Sheeeeeeeeeessshhh! Bodies are stupid.
Escapism: ride on a white horse in 4-inch heels and eat some garbage in a bunny suit. Jump around in a box.

in case you were wondering, and even if you weren't

Lately, I've been:

• frequently camping out at school office for peace, quiet and tea.
• making new and great friends and spending time with my ever-lovely sister.
• getting depressed and anxious about the early acceptance letters to PhD programs sent to colleagues/friends/fellow students while my own mailbox remains empty.
• wishing I'd applied to the school which hates me in the city which I hate after witnessing such a huge beckoning/grab in the apparently huge program here, at least for the sake of getting in somewhere rather than ending this life as someone's secretary or barista.
• eating discounted Valentine's Day remnants.
• missing cuddles and company, sleeping with a teddy bear and other manufactured mammals for comfort.
  
• accumulating my hatred for 18th century literature and asshat literary theory ever further.
• (not-so) secretly reading magic realist Canadian Lit. until 3AM when I should be working on presentations.
• sporadically allowing my mind to freak me out about the double-decker seminar presentations I have to perform on Monday and Tuesday, respectively.
• taking out frustrations on sweet and unassuming partner who deserves nothing but praise, support, laughter, kisses, smiles, bed days, and bathtime (among many other things, including woodland adventures!).
• not updating my weblog.

Today:
9:45AM

• Woke up feeling like death after passing out in reading not-so secret books in bed in the early morning.
• put on hat and clothes, biked to school in the rain.

10:30 - 11:30AM

• Met with Professor to talk about my upcoming presentation about cracks, big jugs, blouses and 'one flea spare'. Left her office with a book she loaned to me, knowing I'd met my newest feminist public performance-oriented academic role model.

11:30AM - 1:15PM

• Biked home in the rain in hopes of taking a nap upon couch. Once home, decided to eat junk food and stare into space(/the living room wall) instead.

1:20-2:20PM

• Biked to gynocologist since bloody sex and random cramping isn't as fun as it sounds. The doctor, nurse, and resident there were pleased to inform me (altogether now), after fiddling with and bruising my insides to the point of near tears yet again, that all of tests came up negativo and that the hole they'd cut out of me more than a month ago has (finally/actually) fully healed. I raised my eyebrow at them, I did.

2:20PM - 4:20PM

• Gave myself a bit of a break. Realized that I'd informed my Professor that I wouldn't be able to attend her class that afternoon because of the expected length of today's appointment, and now that said appointment finished so very early I could actually go home and nap and/or wander around/make myself a healthy meal before my evening class.
• biked around downtown London in the rain because the thought of going to school or work was more depressing than failed presentations and dim futures. Flew by long-lost Meredith on the way.
  
• bought myself some spices, headbands, candy, cheap winter accessories (hat, scarf/tube like thing, fleece headband/tube like thing), and some slippers which were made to look like dead puppy dogs wearing sweaters.

4:30-6:30PM, 7-10PM

• Biked home in the rain wearing new winter accessories and carrying spices and puppies in a bag. Returned home to find roommates watching Oprah talk about racism, families, and make-up with her guests.
• cooked myself a great dinner for the first time in a long time - a slight replica of Nadine's lovely stirfry and spicy peanut noodles she made for us a few weeks ago.
• biked back to school to watch a movie at 7PM with the film class I assist in, hiding myself in my new hat and developing a slight arousal for handlebar mustaches.

10PM - present

• Entered office and set up my desk for tea and presentation preparations. Put my feet inside the squishy fabric guts of puppies.
• distracted myself with the evils of wireless internet, pretending to work and feeling guilty about lack of productivity while the effects of little sleep started to set in.
• spilled (no, dumped) my full glass of tea all over the front of my workstation - my lap, my slippers, my books, my papers, my role model Professor's book, and my computer. Her book has little damage save a slight discolouration along the edge while my books are wrinkled, stained, and soaked through, and my computer is doing very troubling things (like retarding the functions of my touchy mouse pad thing and keeping the battery light on as charging when the machine has been plugged in for hours).
• I think it's time to go home.

sappy anniversary post

I am having a lot of trouble trying to express to you, internet, how very much in love I am with this man. I've decided though, that there are some things that I will always want to keep sacred and would never be capable of expressing to you in words. Words simply wouldn't be enough.

Hopefully I will at least get the chance to describe our anniversary weekend in more detail here soon, but right now I'll just say that it was nothing less than perfect. Blissful, even. Honestly.

There were rendez-vous at bus stations, photoroams with friends, and fun musicals to clap along to.

We drove in snow storms, madly, to kiss in fairy-lit parkades surrounded by swirling churches. We ran in the snow, hand in hand, to find abandoned castles but decided to get naked by abandoned campfires instead. We stood on the bridge where our two rivers meet, held each other tightly through the storm, and he handed me a little black box from his coat pocket which contained giant vermin encased in glass. Laughter, dancing and smiles; all full of meaning.

The kisses, the touch, the ecstacy was endless.

This man makes my toes curl, my face crack and my head swell. I'm freaking joyful! I had never imagined that I could ever be this happy and it just keeps getting better and better.
I am a very, very lucky girl.
And maybe I'll leave it at that.

Monday Night Class; Architectures of Feminist Performance

I slipped the worst essay I've ever written EVER ever under the door of my tiny teacher's door today and scurried off to class where I learned about Dry Lips and Kapuskasing and rape scenes and crucifixes and something about women wearing big boob plastic prosthetics and big butts and big baby bellies and liquoring it up behind white screens as told by a german girl with acne scars and pocahontas hair.

I somehow wound up in the grad club after class after the birthday girl met us in the hall wreaking of vodka and citrus, giggling and leaning against someone's office door. I drank a lot with my lesbian transvestite friends and my shy birthday girl who read my palms and were like - hoo hooo you very creative, get writing, you get big money, you're where you belong, live long life, you get babies, ooooh you're in love! - and we talked about dickmen jerking off to theories that no one understood in a presentation that most of us left halfway through because he'd run an hour and a half about gooble degoo crap that made me wanna smash my head against the desk and smash his hand against the old sony laptop he kept tap tap tap tapping and we laughed about our hatred for the most intimidating class ever and the worst essays we'd ever written EVER ever. I tried to explain my essay and they were all like 'oooooh sounds ineresting' and I'm like yeah, SOUNDS LIKE! Blleghg.

We chased down our shots with more liquor in ice and clear glasses. I think I remember taking a glass home, I should check my backpack. One girl told me about how lesbian relationships develop and how she wants to cuddle. Another girl told us about her screaming fights with her Marlene Dietrich-loving soon-to-be ex-girlfriend who called her selfish and too involved in school and told her she cares too much and she's NOT ALLOWED TO WASH THE DISHES ANYMORE since she's now a guest at home and SHE GETS THE CATS!! and by the way, WE'RE NOT GAY, it says so in the contract, and we're like - dude, you're gay.

And then I watched the two of them rub each other's thighs under the table and make blushing googly eyes (class next week will be awk-ward!) and then go home on the bus together as I waved goodbye to friends and sang Rod Stewart songs on my walk home. Now I can't stop the drunk and am eating chocolate cake.

violated innards, repeat

Yesterday in Medical History, little Laura learned that her cervix is buried uncommonly far far inside of her, is tilted drastically downward and is shifted sharply to the left, making it difficult for female gynocologists at the UWO Student Health Centre to find and poke at without awkwardly tilted hips and forearms full of discomfort.

the boob

Is it so wrong that I'd rather watch a pretty girl younger than myself get her mammaries mildly molested at an awards ceremony, or view images of rich and famous people I don't know who either need some support or some deflation than read a large 18th century novel which will make up a part of a twenty-page essay due in twelve wee days?*

Yes. Yes, it most definitely is.

Especially since I've yet to type a single sentence related to said essay in my word processor. Especially since I woke up in a cold panic early this morning having dreamt that the next twelve days had magically disappeared as a result of poor time management. Especially since I only faintly remember my alarm clock whispering 'GET THE HELL OUTTA BED YOU INGRATE' this morning, between dreams, as I had fallen asleep with earplugs in my ears yet again. Especially since certain visitors from Waterloo will be a-visiting in a few days and this lady needs to dance!

So Laura, it is now the time to stop gazing at boobies and get to work, for goodness' (and lord academia's) sake. Now wipe that damn smirk off your face and make yourself a coffee.

*as a side note, was it so wrong that I laughed near urination at the story of a man reading a poem entitled 'Ode to the First Woman Who Swallowed My Cum' at the grad club, while the other feminists in the room scowled?

the woes of reproductive organs

Yesterday, with very little warning, a man with a power-gut and a last name that was Italian sliced out a piece of my cervix and I still don't know where exactly he put it. Of course, this was after he snort/giggled in agreement with me that 'Oh, this should be fun'.

I expected your average pap-scraping when I left the waiting room of screaming children, but what I got was that ordeal x100. I couldn't help but moan and whimper as the clamps used to pry me open began to bruise my insides and various probes had passed through.
'Are you alright?'
'No, it hurts'.
Swish swish, some solution was sprayed into me.
'Hey, do ya wanna see your cervix?'
'No, (whimper) not really', I replied.
I did manage to catch a glimpse though of the mysterious fleshy (odd and indescribable) internal mechanism on video display beside me before the man in green sliced a piece of my fleshy insides. He stuffed some coppery substance inside me before I was allowed to close my legs again and he left before I sat up and was able to tell the nurse, 'Ughhh, uhh, I'ma na feelin' soooo gooooo----". She ran out to get the towels and the juice.

The body is a strange thing. Apparently, it is a natural reaction for one to feel faint, dizzy, weak, nauseous and be in panicked cold sweats for a few hours after experiencing trauma to the cervix. Who knew? Certainly not me. It just doesn't make much sense to me, really.

I'm usually fine with these sorts of things, and so after the nurse let me lay down on the table for a while, drink some juice and take some deep breaths, I was a little embarrassed and ready to get out of there as soon as possible. I didn't expect to have to sit down halfway through putting my pants back on, but I shrugged it off.

The people in green came back to check on me and I cheerfully said my goodbyes and walked out of the office with my nose and chin upward-facing.

I almost made it to the elevator.

The walking somehow brought on the knees weakening and the walls blurring, the cold sweats and the pukes again, and I could no longer sustain my own weight. I found a chair in the hallway outside someone's office and sat/collapsed there for a while panting uncontrollably with my head against the wall, trying to make it go away, not understanding what was going on. A nurse walked by and stopped, aghast, when she saw me.
'Are you alright?'
'Yeah..I, Im fiine, I jus.."
'Do you have an appointment somewhere, or did you just come from one?'
'I jus came fro [points] ova theeeeeere... [arm goes limp]'
'Oh, I see. I'm going to go get someone from over there, but I might need to take you down to Emerg. You really don't look so good.'

The nurses came from down the hall, all remarking on how I 'don't look so good', and assuring me that this is the normal reaction from most women who get the procedure. 'Yeah, most of the time they faint just down the hall, right near these desks here...'

I spent the rest of the afternoon eating their cookies, drinking their juice, and reading their magazines in their Aerodynamics waiting room until I was able to walk more than a few feet on my own again. I biked myself home, wrapped myself in a blanket, and bled on the couch for the rest of the live-long day.

Sometimes, having a cervix really sucks. Like yesterday.
Now pity me, and buy me pretty things.

essay break/by the way/grossly unimportant

I got a haircut.

All of them.

That's all for now.

[un]memories of yore

Amongst a flurry of skattered receipts in my parent's failed attempts to find evidence of a purchased dress model, a folded strip of thin paper was thrust at me.
"Do you know what this is?"
"Umm, nope" I said as I scanned the calligraphy for some trace of recognition. I should have said, "Yes! Yes! It's poetry!" And the best kind of poetry at that: poorly written, scribbly, unfinished, wonderfully confusing and enigmatic FOUND poetry!

Rain
The Wind through the trees at night
The summer sun dawning
The cold frost - BIGHT (sic? BRIGHT/BITE?)
the birds done chirping
Along with the humans
They are ready for bed
BANG, SMASH
"What was that" cried Jonny

It was thunder said MaryLee to her younger
...

I’m picturing my troubled teenage sister bonding with farmer’s sons in cornfields over hash, rye and collective poetry; or she and her best friend who had just been released from rehab up all night smoking cigarettes in our garage, drinking herbal tea, collecting sentence fragments, remembering cornfields. Or maybe I abused too many substances to remember highschool.

fluffy bunnies and warm thoughts

For a few days every month, I bleed from my crotch. No, I do not get a 'monthly visit from Aunt Flo' or any 'little friend', I bleed from my uterus as it passes parts of its lining and blood cells through my vagina every month.

Right now, my crotch is bleeding. I don't really have a problem with it, nor do I hold any resentment for it (even back when the bleeding would get so bad I'd be in cold sweats, screaming on the floor and head over the toilet, out of commission for days, passing what looked like alien life forms from my insides), and, having an active sex life I actually look forward to its regularity. Ahem. However much I might say I enjoy the bloody things though, during these red-tinted times I look forward to the blissfuly sanitary feeling of a hard warm shower at least once a day just to keep on top of things. It only makes sense.

And so, this morning as I was about to hop into my much-needed shower, I slipped off my socks and maxi-pad filled panties and dropped them on the light tile floor, I was in a pretty good mood. I stopped for a second to observe the blood-clotted specimen I'd produced, turned my foot and took a step toward the tub. As I moved my body in slow motion from my current position to the shower though, my right foot slid on a towel, throwing me off my axis and forcing my left foot to land directly in the blood-drenched diaper. Squish. I felt my foot get warm and wet instantly and I quickly lifted myself out of the bloody mess but ended up doing a little dance between tub and cupboards that ended with blood splatters and red footprints on light tile floor, light coloured towel, light coloured socks, and a stream of blood running steadily down my leg. A solo menstrual murder scene. Myself and my bathroom were directly confronted, and covered, with my body's feminine defect.

Sometimes you just have to stop and laugh at yourself.
Especially when you're bloody and naked, cleaning your bathroom floor with the shower running and your dog sniffing at the door.

How To: Christmas

This is how to celebrate Christmas around here. Or, at least, what I did for Christmas (in list form):

For starters:

• come home early from school to see your dog and sleep on a couch.

• get in a brief argument with parents about the lack of heat in sleeping/moping quarters of said couch.

• miss boyfriend enough at times to send intimate pictures, frantic emails, and get a little dillusional.

• actually feel 'at home'.

Christmas Eve:

• be treated to big breakfast by baby-pushing parents and every member of town.

• walk the dog in the rain.

• wrap presents until 3AM.

• wish you were a) cuddling by the fire with someone and a cup of hot chocolate, b) had gone to the Mayor's house with your parents simply for the sake of some entertainment, even if its old yuppy people entertainment or, c) drunk.

Christmas Day:

• wake up early for surprised greetings and hurried showers.

• open lots of wonderful presents.

• pajama pants!

• smelly things to wear and/or burn!

• 'hopeless chest' items - cookware set, stack n' twist containers, cups, christmas ornaments, etc. (shut up, I get excited about useful stuff).
  

• booze!

• so much chocolate I could puke!

• so many gift certificates they make you say 'holy cannoli'!

• funky wooden buddha/hawaiian chubby kids bookends from Tudor whose ass cracks make me giggle.

• wonder why the unwrapped gifts included neither socks nor underwear this year. Realize it's because you're 23. But still ...

• pick up boyfriend to fondle and present with presents.

• stuff face with turkey, stuffing, etc. upon etc. upon barf.

• try to walk the turkey off after dinner with little success - end up with a beautiful, snowflake and kiss-filled walk among holiday lights instead.

• forget to remember the rest of the night. Turkey induces horniness followed by comatose state.

Boxing Day:

• wake up early to face the drill squad who instruct you on making cheese ball, ham ball, romakis, cheesecake and lasagna.

• watch 'March of the Penguins' with father and lover. Cry and coo. Desire baby penguin.
  

• watch your lover charm the heck out of your father by eating his favourite oyster and cheese concoction spread together.

• eat, eat, and eat, among guests.

• watch one of your favourite Christmas movies among group. Find out, for the first time in the 112th viewing, that it is actually Canadian. Love it even more.

• play dominoes for hours and start to win until you switch seats.

• drive sleepy Tudor home late so that he can spend the rest of the night entertaining children.

post-Christmas:

• avoid writing essays and applications.

• stress yourself out over (the anticipation of) essays and applications.

• transfer academic stress to other areas of life for imaginary reasons.

• drink a lot of coffee and steal a lot of internet at Cafe 1842.

• shop to relieve stress - quickly blow a little over a hundred dollars on cheap dvd's and used clothing in a few hours. Hey, the amount of gift certificates I received for giftmas will keep me alive for months - I needed pants and 'Crocodile Dundee', damnit.

• play Scrabble and meet with old friends instead of dominoes on game night.

• get hair cut into the shape of a muffin.

• walk through cemeteries with someone you love.

• repeat.

I should update more often so that I don't have to write such long entries next time. Or not. Everyone loves a list, right? I'm off to go fool myself into appearing productive by staring at books and computer screens for hours without involving flipped pages or typed sentences.

the goose is getting fat/boring Christmas walk

My parents took me out for breakfast on the morning of Christmas Eve. We went to the usual place, the one my family lovingly calls 'The Old Cunt', and where my parents don't need menus. I ate french toast and ham while my parents spoke loudly to all the passing-by local restauranters they know about how much they want me to produce grandchildren for them soon.
"I'm 23!"
"So what? I was 20 when I started!"
"Yeah, I was 21 when I started popping them out. You need to get a move on, we want lots of grandkids and I mean LOTS!"
"Oh gee, thanks guys. Well, you're definitely going to have to wait a while on that one - I've got years of school left, I mean, that's if I get in ..."
"Hey, and if you don't get in then you can always be a hairdresser down the street and maybe Tudor can get a job as a bike courier around town and you can live down on Hincks* street with your seven kids!"
"Very funny".
The worst part is that I think they were only partly joking. I just shook my head, smiled at the loyal customers and buried my mouth in my coffee cup.

Later in the evening, my parents fulfilled their Christmas Eve destiny by eating candied nuts, fancy cheese and crackers, and getting buzzed on cheap wine at the Mayor's house. For Christmas, they like to watch a rotating silver and blue tinsel tree, drink at a mini bar and listen to the old couple down the street complain about each other over a roaring television screen fireplace. I usually stay at home alone on Christmas Eve and wrap presents. For some reason, this time it all feels different. It just feels kind of bleh. Usually, on Christmas, television offers me at least a little entertainment - with specials, marathons, etc. - to keep me sane. This time, the only thing close was 'A Christmas Story' marathon. I don't like 'A Christmas Story'. After slouching on a pull-out bed filling out applications all day, I was not in the mood to sit around watching something I dislike and going slowly crazy alone indoors. Plus, my dinner hadn't been digesting properly. I needed air. I grabbed the leash, the dog, a plastic bag and my outer gear and we went for a late night walk in the rain.

My dog and I trudged through the slush and puddles down empty streets where coloured lights dangled on windows of sleeping houses. We walked in the middle of the road, past the site of one of my first instances of teenage employment, and past the home of the boy I dated in highschool who will soon be husband to a lovely girl and owner of a lovely house in a city I'll soon be leaving. Their driveway was full and I wanted to knock on the door as I passed by to wish his family a Merry Christmas. It wasn't that kind of nostalgia, it was just that I missed the warmth of that family on Christmas and we usually see each other yearly - they're always pretty great around the Holidays - but it was late at night, and it might have been weird.

I kept walking and travelled down the street which shares my family name. In the winter, you can always tell which areas of town house a lot of kids since every other house has either a snow man or an ice fort/igloo on the front lawn. We walked in zig zags down the quiet street and I was remembering the nights when I would shut my eyes so tightly in efforts to make myself fall asleep because my parents had told me that Santa won't come until I'm asleep. I've always taken a long time to fall asleep; those night were torture.

We turned back when the rain from my hair started dripping down my face and my dog's paws were in a constant loud splash. We passed the house in which I lived until the age of 6 or so, where I remember running bare-bellied and bare-footed after puppies and astro pops, and then passed a group of 14 yr olds with Labatt's Blue on their breath and peach fuzz on their chins who wished me 'Merry Christmas' as they stumbled by. I walked by the first house again on my way back and noticed their lights were on, and I imagined music playing.

My parents had come home before I did, me alone with my wet face and hair and a dirty wet elderly dog. I've come back home to wrap up a package of Denta-bones for my dog.

It's been an odd Christmas so far.



*Hincks Street, in my small town, refers to a street in a bad area of town - sort of like Cheapside or east of Richmond in London, or Jane & Finch in Toronto. On Hincks street, however, the biggest dangers would be getting breathed on by a mulletted, Nascar hatted, high-topped, acid-washed Export-chugging porch monkey, getting smoked up by a 35-year old live-at-home with a bad dye job, or getting knocked-up. Our family used to live near Hincks street, when I was very young.

she flips pages unshoe'd

I am currently seated in Cafe 1842 with nearly 3/4 of my Christmas shopping and an orange soda complete. There is jazzy Christmas music playing over the thumping music upstairs and coffee cup clinking next door. An unwashed man drank his tea and left after the loud man on his cell phone bustled away, and a girl with a red bandana is sitting beside me writing notes compiled from her head and from a novel on her lap.

My classmates become annoyed with me when I rave about the wonders of Waterloo and the shittiness of London, but I can't help it. It's not that Waterloo is the best, or even a great city, it just feels like my city; it feels like home to me. I've gone 'home' a few times since I moved away and it never felt the same - my parents had rearranged the furniture and, as a result, took away a strip of my childhood. This is my first time back to Waterloo since September. I honestly did not expect to be such a nostalgic. I'm remembering morning walks for coffee in the summertime while working down the street, and late-night Scrabble games over tea, smiles, and hand-fondles. 'Home', for me, covers about a thirty mile radius, centred in the 'burg and to it I've realized that I am unashamedly attached. I passed through Stratford with my sister and her sore-toothed friend last night on the way home, and I wanted to jump out of the car just to touch everything again. I may be a ridiculous person. Buh. Now it's back to catching up on blogs news and gossip on cafe courtesy before I grab a Javanilla and buy some more things to wrap with bows and pretty paper.

monday morning updates and Merry anticipation

I'm going home for Christmas tomorrow, I think. I get to see my dog! Maybe when I get home I can actually go Christmas shopping. I still have to buy for three or four more people and I'm starting to get a little nervous. I want to punch Martha Stewart, Regis Philbin, et al. in the face for reminding me, yet again, that "it's only one more week 'til Christmas!" just now. Fuck off, morning show hosts.

On Saturday I finished the essay I had been putting off for weeks. If only I could be as productive as I am during my final day of writing during every day of writing. I wrote eight pages in less than eight hours on Saturday, but for five days I had been stuck on page six. Pretty ridiculous. I really should leave myself time to edit my papers too - I can only hope there are no more than a few glaring errors like half-words, unfinished sentences and incorrect 'there/their/they're' usage. I'll cross my legs and fingers that a paper on Flickr as a panopticonic site where self-portrait artists ultimately have no control over their own images, being under an intricate system of surveillance and where participation in the community is a constant shifting of power relations, will make some sense to my Professor the grader. We shall see. I'll just worry about being more efficient on the writing of the next two - at least, for them, I'll have my dog beside me at home for help.

I returned home grumpy on Saturday night after dropping off my essay, and Tudor was naked in the kitchen cooking dinner. You can't get much better than that. My mood soon switched to the positive and my stresses of the day melted away until we were cuddled on the couch with tea and French cinema.

Yesterday Tudor played hookie from work, claiming something about a plane crash and a comatose state, and we spent most of the day never leaving each other's arms. It may have been the best day off ever. Eventually needing some fresh air and eggs, we travelled down the street in the late afternoon to the geriatric mall/Cherrhill Village Mall where Christmas displays have been placed near benches where they twitch and sing and generally freak people out. Later on, after we filled our bellies with some roasted chicken and during a few Christmas movies (and a Canadian short entitled 'Turkey'), I sat down to decide on my future for the next five years. I decided on setting certain hopes on Toronto, Hamilton and Montreal. Today I shall begin getting the application process underway, or maybe just avoid it a li' bit longer. We shall see how this one turns out. There's always Starbucks or etc. for the ridiculously over-educated. I don't see anything wrong with that. I'd like to keep going, but a break could also be good. I'll turn out just fine.

Tudor should be coming home soon. He's quitting his job today in favour of a prospective job that won't kill his mind and soul, and in moving back to a city that won't make him want to run into oncoming traffic (like me). I should go and get dressed soon.