Anxiety

In general I don't think of myself as a worrywart. I'm not one of those people who has to carry antacids for a nervous stomach, and I don't get shaky before interviews or presentations. Although I can be a big suck in the privacy of my own home, whining to Turner about this and that and wringing my hands for dramatic effect and pleading for back rubs to soothe my jangled nerves, most of the time it's 90% melodrama and 10% boredom-alleviation. So it's been an interesting journey to finally arrive at admitting that I have something akin to an anxiety attack at least once a day: every night, I dream about Sloane in danger.

For years as a younger woman, I wrote down my dreams in a dream journal. Never was I under the delusion that they could predict the future, or that they meant anything in particular - to the idea of Jungian archetypes, I am not a subscriber. (Who's ever seen a chimera in their actual dreams, other than Jungian patients? I'm sure those therapists are flashing too-fast-for-the-eye-but-enough-to-trigger-the-brain films on the walls of their offices.) I just wrote them down as curiosities, since over time even very elaborate dreams slowly disappeared into the ether without my fumbly first-thing-in-the-morning notes. (And there were always the ones where I'd lose my teeth somehow - often the front ones, just loosening and falling out, much to my dismay. We all have those, I think.) But in general I've enjoyed my dreams, their elaborate loops and weird parallel twists that echo my waking life. When Thab and I lived together we'd always discuss our nighttime soap operas over breakfast in the mornings before class.

But as for these dreams about Sloane. They're not so much with the "fun", and they're pretty thin on plot. They're more like brief, nightmare illusions in that hazy horizon between sleep and wakefulness, rather than actual narrative-style dream stories. They're always set in whatever room I am sleeping: our bedroom in Calgary, the guest room at Thab and Phet's in Bangkok, and now in Turner's cousin's room here in Ottawa. It's all completely real; the bathrobes on the back of the door, the piles of laundry, the one bent blind in the venetian set on the back window. I think my eyes must flicker open and my brain builds the scene into what I actually see.

It's pretty much the same each time, with new twists: inside the realistic image of the room I project some situation of Sloane in danger - my baby standing on the playpen railings, about to fall. Or struggling on the change table, set to tumble three or four feet to the floor. Or most often, now that she's walking, I am lying in bed, sleeping, so tired I can't keep my eyes open. And she's walking around the room, getting into the electrical sockets, or ready to walk away out the door. And from the mollases-stuck sleepy part of my brain comes the terrible thought: I can't get up... there she goes.... did I close the baby gate to the back hallway? Oh no... And finally I wake in a lather, and leap out of bed to go tearing off down the hallway, only to find... nothing. The gate closed and the kitchen empty, and Sloane asleep, in her crib. And me, standing wild-eyed and confused in the hallway at 4:45am, slowly feeling like a moron.

Even from early days I had anxiety dreams wherein Turner or I had rolled on top of her in our sleep. I'd wake with a start and set to thrashing about with the covers, yelling at Turner, "You're on her! You're on her! She's under there!" Turner would roll over and mumble, "...Ash, she's in the basket, beside the bed, she's fine..." and go off back to sleep. And he often wouldn't remember anything about the incident in the morning. Of course I expected some new-motherhood anxiety, particularly in those early months when you're basically going from one what the hell? moment to another. But now I kind of feel like I've got a handle on things and most of the time I feel like I know what I'm doing. I'm a great parent and Sloane's safety is naturally paramount. So there's no possible way I could have forgotten that I'd left her in a closed dresser drawer where she's slowly running out of air (immediate rescue operation necessary). And yet this is what I see in my mind when I wake in the night, and I hit the ground running, trying to save my baby.

Overall I think I'm pretty chill in the worrying department, as a mom, frankly. Like, seriously. You may not know me, but it's completely true, I'm simply not a nervous nellie. I don't stress out too much about "germs" - I'm not one of those mothers who wipes their kid's head after someone kisses them, and we fork her over whenever someone wants to hold her. I let Sloane figure out by herself that soap tastes terrible, and that it's slippy to walk over a pile of newspapers & magazines left on the floor. I'm not handing her knives and razors and sippy cups full of gin, mind. I just think life is certainly full of minor dangers and inconveniences and it's important to let kids figure out on their own that if they wave around the xylophone mallets and accidentally gong themselves in the head, well, that's something that hurts and they might not want to do it again. I'm right there to whack her on the back when she chokes on her food and I've always got one hand on her in the bath. It's not hard love, it's just basic learn-as-you-go.

So it's been a bit unexpected that lurking somewhere inside me is a nervous mother. I'm aware that these visions are the product of a paranoid part of my brain, a panic centre being triggered by the muddy first flickerings of wakefulness in the night. Save my baby! comes first, of course. And then later: What the hell? How on earth did I think Sloane could have gotten into the closet, sitting amongst Turner's sweaters? But knowing that I'm hard wired for this is kind of comforting, in the end. At the very least I know I can get from full sleep to a slide tackle position 4m away to break Sloane's fall from the bookshelf (top shelf) in less than 2 seconds flat. Given my decided lack of athleticism these days, that's certainly something.

Categories: Mom-ness | Sloane

Comments [1]

---

On The Go

At one time in my life I was so pleased to be moving around all the time. Oh, the jetsetting life I lead!, I thought. Then I got older, priorities changed, and I got married, bought a house, had a kid. And it turns out that I haven't changed my habits, but my disposition has altered greatly.

Having just gotten home after two months in Asia, and having worked like a maniac to finish up my contracts since I got home (to the detriment of all efforts at beating jet lag and the journey-induced exhaustion, etc.), and only in the last couple of days having started to feel like a regular human being, all I want in the world is two things:

1. To go see my sister and her new baby, Luke (Welcome, Luke Dominic!)

2. To stay at home and go absolutely nowhere for the next six months

These things, as you can see, are mutually exclusive. Since the latter isn't realistic (we're going to New Mexico in June for research, to Kelowna for Brother John's wedding in July, Nova Scotia and Ontario in August, and Africa in September...), Sloane and I are leaving for Ottawa tomorrow morning. We bought a collapsable playpen today for Sloane's napping/sleeping comfort en route, and we'll have the car seat in tow. We're staying with Great Uncle Richard (Turner's middle-namesake) and Great Auntie Steph in Nepean, commuting to Sandy Hill to visit Ains and Luke and Jonathon. And we'll be spending the weekend with Cousin Jana near Kingston, and seeing a variety of other folks around Ottawa if the opportunity arises.

That's the size of it. Can't wait to see Ains, but don't want to leave home. Pack of ungrateful assholes, us, eh?

[...p.s. If I'm honest I'll also admit that I want 3. My grandparents to be in full-time nursing care that a) doesn't compromise their idea of how they want to live out their 'golden years', but also b) no longer involves living in the cottage on Strawberry Hill. I can't talk about this situation now; perhaps once Nanny and Grampa are gone.]

 

Categories: Ash | Family

Comments [1]

---

Happy Birthday To Sloane

It's March 19th and it's been one year to the day since our darling baby girl was born at 14:37 at the Rockyview General Hospital. It was a snowy March day in 2005 when Sloane Lantau Bristowe Turner was yanked into the world via foreceps. Ow my vagina (etcetera), but hey! Hallelujah, my baby!

McSloaney the Sloanester

 

...And now, a word to our girl:

Sloane,

At one year old you are walking. Not just walking, completely motoring around like nobody's business. As great-auntie Sharron has said, "No flies on you, Sloaney!" You started to walk in Bangkok, six weeks ago; Auntie Thaba bought you a walker (illegal in Canada, but blessedly available everywhere else in the free world), and you toodled around in that for a few days, but then you realized that there was no need to roll when you could run, and off you went. Within five days you were able to bend down and pick stuff up and stand up again without falling, and nowadays I often see you pivot on one foot like a point guard.

Tha's right, you know it...

You're in the 5th percentile for weight now, down from the 10th a few months ago when I wrote a whole entry about how you eat and eat and eat and yet you stay little. I want you to know that I want you to be exactly the size you become - and if you're 4'5" or 6'1, I'll love you the same. I mention the percentiles because I find myself wracked with what is, apparently, the worry of all mothers everywhere: Is my child getting enough to eat? I can't think you could possibly eat MORE, but I still worry that you might have a tapeworm or something, since you were in the 90th percentile when you were born, but you've fallen more than 85 percentiles in the year since. I even had the doctor in Bangkok wag her finger at me and say, "At this stage you really should start her on solids..." This, while I was actually feeding you bits of bread as she spoke.

Being diagnosed with rotovirus at Bangkok's Bumrungrad Hospital, Sloane is about to poo all over the table (not shown).

You're clearly (mostly) heathy as a horse, loving life and happy and smiling and laughing and running around. But I worry when they say you're in the 5th percentile, and probably mainly because there're numbers involved. I hate numbers. They form the basis of math, which eventually leads to calculus, and by the time you're reading this for yourself you'll have heard from me about 20 zillion times about how I failed out of calculus with the 31% on my midterm, and how this was ironic and obviously FATE since in Alberta, grade twelve regular math is called "Math 30", and the calculus course is called "Math 31". (Enh? ...Math 31? ...31% on the midterm? C'mon, I was SO fated to have a spare that period.)

Our finger-fanged babe, watching the world go by.

We're just in the process of weaning you. I wanted to wait until we came back from Asia, so you'd have the benefit of my immunity while we were travelling. The truth is, I never minded breastfeeding you, and would have gone on with the boob for at least another year if I'd had enough milk for you. As it's been, the last few months have been a stretch anyway - I have enough for you in the mornings, and for a few sucks here and there over the course of the day and in the bath at night, but in truth my body long ago decided that it's time you switched to bottles. And I'm sorry about that, because I love feeding you, and even though we're only on day two since we started weaning, I think I miss it more than you. I thought it'd be more of a fight, but I suppose the supply has been dwindling off for some time, and in the end I'm glad at least that this isn't traumatic for you. ...Just wait until you have to go off to university and that's no problem at all - you can head down that hallway for the plane and giggle to yourself that it wasn't at all hard to finally leave home. I'll stand in the airport watching you go, finally understanding what my mom went through as I walked away at age 17, full into my future while she stood there, stricken and wishing me well, anyway. 

You have eight teeth, and still almost no hair. You've been saying "Wassat?" since just after Christmas, and lately you've added the first half-syllables of "ball" and "cat" to your repertoire. You love more than anything our game of 'konk' - I know I'll regret teaching you this "fun" game right around the time you first kick me full in the mouth with no warning, but for now I take your heels and konk-konk-konk them into my forehead when you're flailing around on the change table. We also konk-konk-konk our heads together under other circumstances, and I always end up feeling like I'm doing you a favour for all the future heading-the-ball-off-a-goal-kick you'll need to do if Grampa Brucio has his way. If you're going to be a proper centre midfield we know you'll need all the early training you can get.

We give you a massage every night before you go to bed, singing "Sloaner's gettin' her feee-eet rubbed, feee-eet rubbed, feee-eet rubbed, Sloaner's gettin' her feee-eet rubbed, before-she-goes-to-bed," (to a modified version of the tune to "Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush", invented by Turner). Your father knows that someday his hands'll fall off as a result of having two massage addicts in the house, but for now it is a sweet before-bed ritual that we all love. As for bedtimes and naptimes, you sleep with a blanket, one that was my old baba from when I was a baby. Granny Val saved it for you all these years and brought it to Calgary just before you were born. It's getting old and grey now, all tattered along the satin where you like to rub the edging through your fingers. But it's soft and smelly and when we hand it to you at bedtime you grab it and in the next motion pop your thumb in your mouth and slam your head down on our chests, sighing.

Now, of course it's all perfect love at this point, but someday we'll arrive at some giant shitshow melt down, and we know that. You're going to yell at us, blah blah blah, "You don't understand me," etcetera, and lock yourself in the bedroom, seriously distraught. And Turner and I'll turn to each other and say, Well, 'that day' is finally here ...who'll take the first watch while the other goes out for phở? I'm sure there'll be internet access everywhere on earth by that point, so avail yourself of the local connection beside the tub and log on to the archives of Mama's weblog. Because if at that moment I could pre-emptively interrupt the black raincloud of teenagerdom to mention a few things, it would be these: When we were making you back in the spring of 2004, I wanted you more than I've ever wanted anything in my entire life. And I love you more than anything. And your father and I are so proud of you. You are the most precious thing in the world. ...And no, you are not allowed to stay out past 12 midnight, you're only 14 years old and I don't care who borrowed their parents' hovercraft all special so you could attend Britney Spears' coming-out-of-retirement concert down at the old Calaway Park grounds. You know full well already that you can go see Ani diFranco, but only if Mama gets to come as chaperone, and that's pretty good shakes there, kiddo.

Besides which, it bears reminding you that at this point I have wiped up POUNDS of your poo. I have sucked the snot from your nose and the wax from your ears, and I have held you and rocked you and rubbed you while you cried and cried and cried, inconsolable because you didn't know why or what you were mad at. I have been sleepless and sleep deprived, I have been bitten and thrown-up-upon and had my hair pulled and my eyes poked and my clothes ruined. That's all superficial stuff though, dear. 

I love you, there's nothing more important to me in the world than you. 

I look at you and see myself - literally. You look like me, and I can't deny that it's pretty gratifying to produce a child in which you can undoubtably see your genetic contribution. There's no question you're your father's daughter but you certainly got my cheeks and my eyes, and you've absolutely inherited my old toddlerhood pastime of NEEDING to get the hell OUT of the high chair and wander around the restaurant, smiling at everyone at the other tables, and patting the loose electrical sockets. We've learned to eat pretty fast in restaurants, of late, though it seems you'll always sit still for sushi (...that's my girl).

 

The thumb knows.

But you're well on your way to being a daddy's girl, despite the long stretches of time when Turner has had to be away from us recently, working on research for the book. I know it ripped his heart out to leave you there, sleeping in the wee hours of the morning, when he'd pack up and leave for the bus or the flight that would take him far away from us. I know he always worried that you might forget him in the time you were apart. That you're still so young, a week or two can be almost a lifetime in your world - surely there was a danger that the memory of him would fade?

But I'll tell you, the first sign you ever learned was "Dad" (swiping your hand down one cheek, to evoke his beard), and not a day went by when he was gone that you wouldn't ask for him. One day I went to wake you from your nap, and as you woke you flipped over and excitedly signed, over and over: Dad! Dad! Dad! Rubbed your eyes. Jumped up to the railing, still signing. Looked at me, face all a-beaming: Dad! Dad! Dad! You'd been dreaming about your father. I don't know if I've ever seen anything so heartbreakingly amazing as your face that afternoon, so happy that you'd seen Turner in your dream. Yeah, I have never been worried that you'd forget your dad when he's off, bringing home the soy-based pseudo bacon bits. You know your pop.  

Turner and his babygirl take in the late afternoon glow at Auroville's Matrimandir park.

Little girl, we're going to take you around the world. Before we left Canada in January, I was terrified of what might happen to you if we left home. I think it's all part of the overwhelming protective instinct that kicks in the moment that placenta goops out and the pregnancy is completely, officially over. While you were living inside me, I could make sure I kept myself safe. But once you were out in the world, oh The Things I Could Imagine began to crowd in and clamour for attention. I never realized I had such an amazing capacity to picture awful, complex, increasingly unlikely scenarios wherein you get hurt, or you're taken from me.  

This was before we saw the "No Photographs Inside The Temple Complex" sign, posted by yonder doorway at south Chennai's Hindu temple - we'd come in a different gate.

But just a week ago we got back from two months in Bangkok, living with Auntie Thaba and Uncle Phet and Cousin Ji Hong. It was the best thing we could have done in your first year, taking you overseas. It taught your parents (again) that the world is a magical place, full of good people and interesting stories; and most importantly, it showed us that we can bring you anywhere. Next up: Ottawa in a few days, New Mexico in June, out east in August, and then Africa in September. Onward ho!

Everyone's looking a little goofy in this one... you can't win 'em all.

Besides the fact that you learned how to wai (hands together, in prayer position) when people would greet you with Sawatdi kaa/kraap, and you had your cheeks pinched by approximately 2000 Tamil well wishers in India, and you discovered a love of sticky rice and congee that we can't properly supply in Canada... well, you came into yourself in a way on Ekkamai that I will always credit to Thab and Phet and Ji Hong and Thailand in general. Somewhere there, learning the world of Thab's giant marble-floored flat, and the Shiva sculpture in the lobby, and the iced-green-tea at Chatuchak Market, and playing with Kitt all day in the Fun Room, and grabbing at the ceiling handles on the BTS, and suckling on the way home from late-night adventures in Bangkok taxis, and the lovely maitre-d lady at the local sushi restaurant who always whisked you away into the back kitchen to give you crab stick, and the flavours of coconut jelly and chinese bbq pork bun, and waking Ji Hong from his naps, and eating everyone's shoes at the front door, and banging on Trung's bamboo xylophone, and the big smiles you had for Thab and Phet when they came through the door at the end of their days... somewhere along the way you became the first hint of a little girl, not just a baby anymore.

The Ji Hong-Sloaner Duet: I feel charming!/ Oh so charming!/ It's alarming how charming I feeeeeeel!

I have never been mad at you and I am relieved to know that you only ever bring me joy. Before you actually become a parent it's hard to know where you'll fall on that spectrum of feeling like you're ready to devote your life to meeting the needs of someone else, a little being who will never understand how much you change your life for them (until they have kids themselves, and even then, I think it's impossible to fully relate to the specifics your own parents went through). More than ever, I so appreciate all my long years of education, and the many different jobs I had while coming of age. I am so glad for all the running around like a drunken lunatic I did in the middle of the night, and the travelling by myself in Asia and Europe and Central America, and the laughing my ass off at Clark and on the beach in France and in the side alleys of Paharganj. I'm glad I tried shrooms and scuba diving and that I did all that public speaking for Rotary. I'm glad I drove across Canada by myself, and that I wrote so many letters over the years, and that I lived through some terrible heartbreaks. All those experiences and lessons are part of me, every day, and every day they help me be a better Mama to you. I did everything I needed to do to be totally ready to be your mother now, and all I can say is that perhaps timing is key, in parenthood. Thank you for arriving right on schedule.  

Lickety-lick barba-trick, on board the yacht off Phuket in January

Sure, I wish I could lose more of the pregnancy weight off my tum. And the arm pimples continue to pox my soul. My nipples are certainly never going to be the same. And I can feel every nuanced gurgle of my ovaries: who knew there were so many nuanced gurgles in the ol' ovaries? ...But oh, it's all worth it a thousand times over, my dear. You are my sunshine.

You are being raised in a house of passion and love and I hope that when you're becoming an adult and deciding the path of your life, that we can be good role models for you in this regard. We want you to follow your soul's song. We chose to do with our lives that we had to do, and for this we have earned for ourselves a singular, everyday peace that not everyone finds. Partly to this end, we're going to make sure you have the means to educate yourself beyond high school, so we stick every last cent of "extra" money we have into your RESP (registered education savings plan). I get a bit obsessive about it, shaving off 10% of everything I earn, and bouncing my government mother's allowence directly in there. Turner knows that I'd start selling stuff from the house to funnel money into that account if he'd let me. Because I picture you turning 18 and graduating from high school and no matter what else, at least being able to pay for your own further education with this money. Your father and I want you to do and be whatever you want to be when you grow up, but having the option of going to university or college is something we want to guarantee for you. We both got so much out of our university days - well beyond the 'education', we met our lifelong friends and had experiences that inform our lives every single day. And we're determined to carve out that place for you, so it's there if and when you want to use it. And as your uncle Doug Bell helpfully pointed out, you'll be in the graduating Class of 2027. I can't even picture that date, or imagine what the world will look like twenty one years from now, or even say for sure that I'll be around to see it for myself. ...And maybe more than anything that's why I lie awake at night, scheming to sell off Turner's hockey card collection to put a few more dollars into that fund.

The best of the Sloane's birthday memorial family photo series by Brucio

Now, in younger days we all end up feeling like, Gee, the world is so fucked up - should I really be so selfish as to bring a child into this mess? My dear daughter, I am sorry you're living in a world where the USA is an unrepentant bully, a delusional imperialist sharpening its knife right at our doorstep. And I'm sorry that you live in a province where the government thinks it's a better idea to buy off the electorate with $400 dollar cheques than to invest in health care or public transit, or education. I wish the Ramsay crackheads and other greebly people who vomit on our front steps (a birthday greeting this morning) would just go away, or go somewhere else, or get help, or something. Never before was I so intolerant of the segment of society that drag races up and down Spiller Road late at night, or of the people who have violent, barking, scary dogs that lunge at fences when you walk past. There's a part of me that needs to protect you no matter what, and that piece of my soul can get incredibly zealous and absolute - even when there's no rational reason to suspect that any harm might come directly to you or our family because of the many random idiots that populate this planet. But from the international to the neighbourhood block, there are always threats to safety and sanity. It's true now, and it was true a hundred years ago and it will be true a hundred years from now. That won't change. So we can bring you into the world with the hope that we, and you, can be part of the careful, deliberate, "good" side of things. And that's all.  

Doin' the India bling thing in Chennai: Sloaner and Mama

I wish your Granny Val and Papa Mike lived closer, and I wish it wasn't so expensive to go out to Nova Scotia to see Gramma and Grampa Turner in Antigonish. Essentially I wish it was an ideal world where we all lived within walking distance of each other, where you could take turns going to each house after school, watching tv on your grandparents' couches and fingering their furniture. I remember so clearly what it was like to put my little fingers into the grooves of my grandparents' coffee table in Thunder Bay, and I know 100 years of private school and horse camp and expensive orthodonics can't substitute for that feeling of belonging you get when you look at your family and they look back at you and you KNOW where you came from. That's the most important thing to us: that you grow up knowing you come from love. Thank god Grampa Brucio lives nearby and comes to visit you all the time to let you punch his blown-out cheeks and to read to you on the couch. You're part of an amazing, loud, vibrant, Canadian family, represented coast to coast, and I promise that even when you're a sulky, unrepentant teenager that we'll drag you hither and yon to be forcibly immersed in all the ferociously cornball ways we love each other - and that you'll thank us for it later. ...So shut up and get in the car, we're going to have a good time.

I could go on, and on, and on, my dear. But for now, that's it. Happy First Birthday little Sloaner. We love you so much.  

With love from your Mumma

 

 

Categories: Mom-ness | Sloane

Comments [4]

---

Beverage Swag

Well, Keitha's swag water bottle story has reminded me of my own tale of winning-a-CBC-beverage-container.

This was probably just more than two years ago - early February 2004 if I had to guess, now that I think of it. It was back when I was still working at Canadian Heritage, and Turner and I were newly married, and John had only just started dating this gal named Fiona. (Those of you who might doubt Lava's efficacy, I'll refer you to this site.) I'd been invited in a semi-official capacity to attend the Calgary $100 Film Fest down at the Alberta College of Art and Design, and although as a funding person you get invited to all kinds of stuff about-townish, I decided to go since my neighbour Xtine Cook was going to be singing with her band. Besides which, I was the only funding officer in town who ever deigned to attend anything subbacultural, so I felt a sort of duty to go and wear the stripes and such.

However, the $100 Film Fest being a predictably shoestring event (and unqualified for the programs that I adminstered, besides), I didn't feel obligated to arrive completely in my right mind. After a few warm-up drinx here at home on Spiller Road, Turner and John and Fiona and I trooped down to The King And I on 11th (via taxi) for dinner. A great deal of beer and pad thai and goong curry and sticky rice and wine later, we took a lot of rather instructive photographs with the giant fighting (dancing?) garuda sculpture in their entry lobby, before going in and getting a last traveller beer at their bar, and finally stumbling out into the night to catch the Ctrain up to ACAD.

So it's one of those nights in Calgary: it's snowing, but it's warm, the night is still, and the streetlights are all glowing pink and yellow in the frosted air, and you're putting fresh footprints on the sidewalks ...which are weaving a bit, but that's okay, because your tum's full of Thai food and you're on your way to a Cultural Event to which you have the coveted perk of all funders everywhere: the free pass for you and all your friends.

We get the Ctrain at 8th & 8th and roll the rails up to SAIT, and get off at the Jubilee station, wobbling our way over the Plus-15 and down the stairs into the milieu of the film fest, proper. Which hasn't even started yet, though this is SUPER news because that means what? ...Yes folks, it means there's time for a beer or two at their please-god-buy-something-this-is-our-only-form-of-fundraising bar cart parked in the overlit brick-walled lobby. Being employed and already-semi-inebriated people, we decided to invest some of our hard-earned dollars in their fundraising efforts. (...What can I say? It all seemed like a series of very good ideas at the time.)

Anyway, we said hi to the various people with whom we had passing acquaintances and/or prospective funding applications, and we finally got our (free!) tickets sorted out. And as we shuffled into the theatre we were given back our stubs to keep - "For the door prizes!" said the stoned-to-the-bejeesus & unwashed art student manning the door. Now - I've never won a door prize. Never. Even at those events where everyone's supposed to win something, no. Not me. But when that spiral-eyed kid gave me that stub and said those words: door prize, I knew I was going to win. Yes, I did. I swear I knew.

So we took our seats, and the lights dimmed, and the "films" began. I think one of them was about melting down plastic dolls and then mixing them with paint and smearing them on walls. One was simply a political manifesto read overtop a shaky b&w shot of a windowsill (nothing was happening outside, either). There were people going up and down stairwells - holding the camera. And I think one of the films featured hands taking the wrappers off of successive hard candies from a dish, but the point of view was so close up and out of focus that it wasn't at all clear that the person "making" the film even knew that the camcorder was on. By about ten minutes in, I think I was able to speak for all of us when I muttered to Turner, "Thank god we drank so much before we got here - these films BITE."

"Ssshhhhhhh!" said Turner, supportively.

The whole point of the "$100 film fest" was that you were supposed to make the film with a budget of $100 or less, hence the name. Most entries certainly fulfilled this requirement, no question. More creative talent had gone into lighting design for the auditorium (two switches by the door - one lit the stage, the other lit the audience) than most of the films, I'm afraid. We were basically waiting to see Xtine perform and then get the hell out of there, though in the meantime we applauded politely at the end of each "film". As an arts funder, I'd seen some shite in my time. I won't say it was all shite this particular night, but I will say that I stole one of the film fest's posters to put in my office as an incentive: you too, with a minimum of fuss and bother (never mind "talent") can make something worthy of being screened in a "film fest", even if you're waaaaaay too high and/or unconscious.

Finally our neighbour came on, dressed all in orange. Overtop of a film depicting her walking around Inglewood and some shots of her daughter, the band (complete with a guy playing "the tub" and one on a real bass violin) played, for quite some time, the song written to accompany the film: Orange is the colour, orange is the colour, orange is the colour, orange is the colour, orange is the colour, orange is the colour of IN-SAN-I-TY! ("Orange Is The Colour Of Insanity", for short, I believe.) They'd digitized orange splashes and designs overtop of the action throughout the film. It was the best by far that we'd seen and I was so relieved. At least I didn't have to lie when I would later tell my neighbour that her film was the best thing on offer that night. And blessedly, the intermission was next.

Before we were let go, however, the host came on stage. Door prize time - everyone get out yer tickets. ...Ah yes the door prize I'm going to win! I thought casually - we can stay just a bit longer. In that inebriated zone of certainty I was completely assured of my win, and I composed (what I thought to be) an appropriately humble-and-yet-surprised-and-excited look on my face. But it was of no surprise whatsoever when the MC did, actually, call out my number. "535008? 535008? Does anyone have five three five zero zero eight? ...Oh-oh-eight?"

I barely glanced at the ticket, actually: I knew it was mine. "ME!" I yelled, triumphantly. "ME, ME, ME! I WIN!" I bellowed into the theatre. "Ah, an enthusiastic winner, excellent!" called the host from on stage.

"I WIN!" I yelled again, standing up and punching the air with both arms, ticket held high. "ME!!!"

"Ah. ...Yes, congratulations," said the host, now slightly less jolly, and turning to get my prize.

"I KNEW I WOULD WIN!" I shouted, turning from side to side, nodding. Nobody believed me, I don't think, though by this point I'm sure some people had began to suspect at our drinking activities prior to arriving.

The host held up my prize: an insulated mug from ZedTV (the late-night CBC show that screens experimental short films), one of the film fest's 'sponsors'. "THROW IT!" I yelled, holding out my hands, exaggeratedly. I was only about ten rows from the front, and the theatre wasn't that crowded - it was an easy toss.

So after a "oh shit, well, fine" look, the host threw me my cup, and Turner caught it when I fumbled the catch, and I snatched it from him and turned around to show the crowd. "I WON!" I told everybody. I was very proud of myself. And in return I got a polite smattering of applause. I bowed (slightly), and sat (Turner was pulling at my belt loops, John was making the "SIT DOWN" motion with both hands, Fi was pretending to look for something in her coat). I turned to Turner: "I won!" I whispered. He looked at me. "Obviously," he said. "Now: should we go?" "...Oh yes!" sez I, even though they were still giving out more door prizes. I somehow knew I wouldn't win again.

So we all stood, and without further ado, we left. The house lights were up, so there was no mistaking our departure. After I'd made a big show of myself and everything, yes, we got up and we very obviously gathered our coats and We Left. "Bye-bye!" I called from the doorway to the still-trapped & -assembled crowd, giddy from my win.

Everyone in our party bolted for the C-train station, hoping not to encounter anyone from the film fest. We went downtown and caught some jazz and beers at the BeatNiq club, and wandered through a nearby art gallery (another agency funded by our ministry, and I had to make a hasty exit, finally recognizing my own drunkenness), and then made our way to the Auburn (at the base of the Calgary Tower), where we found our pal Lawrence. A few drinks there, yadda yadda yadda, lemme show you my amazing door prize that I won, etcetera, and finally home again home again riggy jig jig.

...Unlike Keitha, I still have that mug. It serves me well. My reputation, however, sustained a bit of a knock. But I'm assured of a win if I ever enter anything in Calgary's $100 Film Festival, I'm sure of it.  

 

Categories: Ash | Calgary | Work work work

Comments [2]

---

Nobody Thinks That Sake Is A Good Idea At This Hour, Not Even Me.

Hullo hullo, we're back in Canada. It's 3:09am and I'm exhausted and jetlagged and on deadline; there's only sake left in the house, but I'm not above bringing it up to snuff in a saucepan and sitting down in front of the ol' blog to tell a few tales.

A few weeks ago I did a foolish thing. I'd had a pretty good run of stories and after years of officially Not Giving A Shit What Other People Think, out of the blue I decided to submit my blog for review by a hilarious snarkfest weblog review site, I Talk Too Much. Ha ha ha, I'm so funny, thinked I. Oh, Dad and Leo and the house alarm - guffaw! The abysmal state of Indian bathrooms! Har har har, DO go on, Ashley. So I submitted my site and thought Oh Goody, Can't Wait.

Except then something happened. Then I didn't want to post anything. I didn't want to say anything that might compromise the coming review. I couldn't think of anything quite good enough to say on here that didn't seem banal, or lame, or self-indulgent. And then I got into this big merry-go-round of thought wherein Of Course everything is self-indulgent, it's mine own blog and I say what I like and mainly write to amuse myself first and foremost, etc. But them ideas and thinkingness didn't help matters at all, and in any case, I just stopped posting.

We got busy in India of course, and it started out like that - busy, and lack of internet access, and then the internet access we had was shitty and spotty and slow, and Sloane got a fever and scared us a bit that way and I had to be with her all the time. And then we came back to Bangkok, and Sloane was still a bit sick on and off, and then Turner left to come home to Canada, and I was on my own, but I was starting these two contracts and was busy like mad getting some documents whipped into shape for an NGO based in Laos. Which was great an' all, but it was our last two weeks in Bangkok, and I was working day and night, and trying to pack, and Bauer and Karen came through town again. And then we had to take Sloane to the hospital, and the deadlines changed, and I had to pick up last minute gifts at the Weekend Market, and so on. And I kept thinking I'd post about this and that, but I was, underneath all the running-around, kind of paralysed, waiting for this review from "The Bitches" over at I Talk Too Much.

But finally I said Ah fuck it, this is retarded, I miss my blog. So I wrote to the site to say, Uh yes I'm a moron but please take me off your list to be reviewed - I'm not posting anything anyway because I have stage fright or something. And I got an email back about a day later: "Oh, sorry, I'd take you off the list, but I think you've already been done." I'd missed it, because I was avoiding the internet.

When I saw the review, I laughed. LAUGHED, because oh lord I guess I asked for it. Back to Not Giving A Shit for me, frankly, because if this is what Those Who Review think, I'm MUCH better off talking to myself online as per usual: my review, here. In truth I have to think that this woman didn't read anything beyond the header, since she seemed to hate it so much. But that's fair - the site is brutal and nasty and I love many of their reviews because they're so creatively mean, though I am disappointed I didn't raise enough ire to earn an inspired version of being handed my ass. I knew full well that if I'd wanted a warm fuzzy I could've asked my mom to review the site (hi Mem!), so I was a bit sorry that the header got dissed and there was nothing more interesting than that. Personally I thought the Uncle Leo & Brucio house alarm story was pretty funny and worth the price of admission at this point, but maybe it's just because I know the people involved. In any case, despite the dismal review I got interesting traffic and emails from lovely people complimenting me on my site content and also a few telling me I was an international bigot ("more like an American, I'd have guessed, than a Canadian - most Canadians are tolerant" said one guy) due to my cultural 'insights' about the Indian toilet situation. Uh, okay.

Anyway, Sloane and I have been back for a few days, dizzy and disoriented and jetlagging... but slowly getting back into the Calgary groove. More to come from Spiller Road HQ after some sleep.

Categories: Ash | Internet

Comments [3]

---

History Lessons

Years ago, and I'm talking years and years ago now – like, probably 15 years ago – John Johnston was on his way across Canada. At Winnipeg he decided to do a day trip to Fort Garry. The guide was dressed, as guides often are at Canadian sites of Historical Importance, in period costume (as a blacksmith, as I recall). They were taking a trip back to 1875, and everyone was given an explanation of Fort Garry's importance – in westward expansion, in trade and policing, and as an administrative centre for what was, at that time, Metis country and bald prairie.

 

The guide explained that the Fort was an important, working, nearly self-sufficient community, and everyone living there had to have something to offer – no layabouts or loafers, no dead weight. And then he looked around the group. "As newcomers, you have to have something to offer. It's 1875 here at Fort Garry: what skills do you have that could be of any use to us?"

 

The group looked around, one to another. The Winnipeggers of the group were a buncha lumpy civil-servant descendants of Ukrainians and Scots, most probably. The German and Japanese tourists hoped to hide behind the language barrier. Shuffle-shuffle went the feet, the feet of late 20^th century occupants of the first world: service industry paper pushers, none of them could shoe horses, or read the weather for farming, or build anything that didn't come with instructions from Ikea. Of this big group of people, nobody could think of anything they’d have to offer to the 19^th century frontier.

 

And then John – good man, our JJ, as always - stepped forward. In his best cockney shipboy accent: "I kin read n' write, sir!"

 

The blacksmith exploded, laughing: "…Yes! Excellent! We always need people who can read – most of us here are illiterate and they’re always sending orders from Ottawa that we can't figure out. …Anyone else?"

 

...When we got to Bangkok, I thought it'd be good to pick up some work while I was here... some editing would be great. Lots of NGOs and international agencies in town, it shouldn't be too hard. Well, you should watch what you wish for, because thanks to Phet's networking, within a month I'd landed two contracts. Now I'm neck deep in the thick of it and wondering what the hell I was thinking, taking on work when there's markets to be explored and Thai food to eat, and a swimming pool to enjoy and all the wonders of Bangkok lying here at my feet. (In short, I'm an ungrateful wretch!)

 

John's quip has been bouncing around and around in my head, but in my voice the tone is more whiney and snivelly: I sure put my foot in it - I can read and write, sir!

 

 

Categories: Ash | Asia 2006 | City Planning | Work work work

Comments [3]

---