Grateful

Last Monday evening Turner and Sloane left for Nova Scotia and I was left here in Calgary by myself. This was by design. I needed a period of me-time, it had been decided and planned months ago.

I missed Sloane and Turner this week, but I have been using the time alone (the first alone time in more than 2.5 years) very wisely. Among the things I was grateful for, this week:

- My bicycle. Such a lovely and constant companion these last seven days. It totally deserves a tune-up, I realize. But I toodled my wobbledy way through the traffic every day to avoid the horrendous Stampede parking fees around town, and got enough exercise in the process to stave off totally gaining the 20 pounds I deserved to put on this week (I went off "the Plan" when Turner left and this week even had PIZZA. And REAL TEA. And a GELATO. And so on).

- The band at Fionna McSomethingsomething (the Sheraton hotel downtown bar)'s willingness to play our yelled-out 'requests' of "RIGHT UP YOUR KILT" (Wild Rover) and "AND SHE WAS" (Black Velvet Band), and their amazing, miraculous, and fortuituously perfect timing on "Home For A Rest", which pulled Victoria and I out of the bathroom to madly pseudo-stepdance our hearts out, channelling the old Clark Hall Pub spirit.

- Sourpuss shots. Thank you, David Friese, for introducing these into our world. Far too tasty & dangerous!



- The weather. During the week it was 28C every day. I ran around outdoors working and carousing in the improbably humid air, loving every second. Then today, when I woke finally exhausted and worn out from the week, it was 14C. Perfect timing for turning on the furnace.

- Chic Studios. Amy Nicole of Chic Studios and I have been working together to cross-promote since December and I've really valued her amazing and ultra-positive business sense. A few weeks ago we hammered out the details of turning her hallway into a gallery that I would curate. This past week this has become a reality. Please visit the gallery at 100 - 850, 16 Ave SW (lower level). This is directly across the park from 17th Ave where the kids juggle and people hang out with their dogs in front of Mount Royal Village. You know you go past there every week, dawg. Drop in to see our hip shit on the walls.

- My house. Though I usually spend a lot of quiet brain time wishing my house had higher ceilings, or a second storey, or a back extension, or a rose window for the attic, or a properly sealed front walk... etcetera, this week I found in me a huge amount of genuine and unconditional gratitude for my house as it is. I love our proximity to downtown, I love the hollyhocks that are finally sprouting in the front yard, I love our freshly painted croft shed. I love how the house is cool even when it's roasting outside. I love that we have windows above our bed that let in the fresh early-morning air. I love that we don't live in a show home, so that our messy lives with our toddler and cat and million magazines can spill all over everywhere and it's okay. Plus, we live close enough to Stampede for the nightly fireworks to rattle the windows, so we've got that going for us, which is nice.

- And of course, the peoples! Among the peoples I need to thank for this amazing week of amazing fun whist being amazingly un-traditionallly-encumbered are: Chris Turner (my spouse and father of my child) and Sloane (said child) for getting out of Dodge without complaint; Alexis Bahry for finding a lot of really fun things to invite me to; Karen Krull and Victoria Coffin for calling and yelling into the answering machine, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING TONIGHT???"; Bruce Bristowe and Peggy Bumanis for inviting me to the RCA Stampede party; Moonira Rampuri, Marcello DiCintio, Jenny Saarinen, Garth Kennedy, Jewels, Maryam Nabavi, Heather and Trevor for including me in their awesome, I-was-invited-last-year-but-couldn't-come Kensington House Crawl ('07)... what a wicked Georgian-toasting, bocce-playing, Reefer-Madness-watching, and piratey-minus-the-intended-eye-patches-ARR-me-mateys time was had by all! Thanks to my neighbour Rob Dermedy who was 100% cheerful about lending his electrical skillz to the Chic Studios gallery despite the repeated delays and logistical glitches. And of course three cheers to John Johnston, David Friese, and Bruce Manning, plus the guy Karen brought to the Sundowner. Thank you all for including me in your Stampede plans this year. (Marky Mark-Mark, we'll see you next year, yo!)

p.s. I read TWO BOOKS this week!!

Categories: Ash | Calgary | Friends | House | Work work work

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Camden

On watching the fated Japan - Argentina game, armed with the only silk-poured Guinness I've ever had in my life, in an old Camden pub in London, June 1998:

I love the tawny ripeness of these ancient London wood floors; lacquered, bumped and holding the shape of heavy heels, books and plates' corners (knocked off tables), the shuffle of chairs. They're all left behind as grooves, in subtle snailtrail dents, living orange where it meets gold-brown, and between, the deep dark knots like fists within the wood.

And when Japan was clearly starting to lose - badly - the front-toothless man to my left: "Aw, an' yew wer' rilly goin' fer them, wer'ntcha!" (Commisserating tone, this.) ...I have to admit, yes, I had been cheering for Japan, the underdogs.

Categories: Ash | Wurldliness

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O Cat Cat

As you might now be suspecting, I've been looking through my old journals. I kept a regular journal from about age 13 to my late twenties, when email and then blogging finally took over my writing output. I have no wish to publish these journals in their entirety, not "someday", not after I die, never. I'd say honestly that 95% of what's in them is complete navel-gazing bullshit, as any good young-person's-journal should be. However, from time to time I did write stuff down that I looked back on later and thought, ha-ha, that's pretty funny/interesting. So in my week off, here in Calgary, I'm mining a few of these gems for you.

This poem (please note: I do not fancy myself an actual poet) was written by my 24-year-old self. At this point I was living on my own in Guelph, in an apartment with no furniture. We (me & the cat) commuted, often, to Toronto, to visit Turner in his tiny cockroach-infested apartment on Bloor West.


Cat, o cat-cat
please don't diahrreah in the plant
KIT-ten, o puss puss
please don't bite my hand

I feed you dry food and
all my proscriptions, like:
Please don't piss in two places in the car
(or in the car at all, more like)

I drive around now with
baking soda carpetting the floor mats
But I don't mind.
Okay, yes I do mind

At first I think these are really only suggestions
but then I lock you in the bathroom
with the lights off
because I need to punish you for defecating in the wrong places

Categories: Ash

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Hinterland Who's Who

Found in one of my journals, dated 28 December, 1998.

[Characteristic Hinterland Who's Who whistle]

The back seat driver.

The back seat driver, contrary to its name, is often found in the front seat of the car, though on the passenger side. Back seat drivers are generally wary of speed, weather conditions, and driver navigational abilities. Many back seat drivers have licences but prefer not to operate the vehicles, being better versed in offering unsolicited directions.

Common calls of the back seat driver include,
"Watch out!"
"Slow down!"
"Where are you going?!"
"The road is treacherous!"

The call you never want to hear out of the back seat driver:
"Goddammit! I told you so!"

For more information about the back seat driver, please contact the Canadian Wildlife Service, 66 Sparks Street, Ottawa.

***
Those of you who aren't Canadian, or those of you too young to remember Hinterland Who's Who, please refer to this site to hear the audio/video of our youth on which this spoof is based: CBC television used to air public service messages to educate the masses about the native animals and plant life of Canada. And every clip began with the now-classic, plaintive, high-pitched flute solo which many (possibly every) Canadian Gen-X'er has trucked out at the bar for comedic punctuation.

And who says we don't have our own, home-grown culture up here, eh?

Categories: Canadiana

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Not A Job I'd Want

I wasn't afraid of heights until after Sloane was born. One day I was up on a ladder (I think to peer suspiciously into the attic, still fearing the zololite back then) and when I looked down I got wicked vertigo. Since then I have had some trouble with being up high, the idea of elevators, Sloane anywhere near a balcony, etcetera. Nothing too drastic but certainly a change from my growing-up-gymnastic self, having won many ribbons for my prowess on the balance beam and being able to do back full twist flips on the trampoline.

Anyway, we were getting lunch yesterday at Vietnam Restaurant on 12th Ave, and I look out the window and see a man dangling from the Calgary Tower on a grapple line. Photographic evidence:

Categories: Calgary

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