After all the moving around of the past year and a half – a month here, a week there (only to return again) – cities, streets, neighborhoods bleed together and I turn a corner, expecting to see something that isn’t there and end up entirely confused.
Congratulations go out to my auntie and uncle:
They won Thanksgiving this year!
18 people, 2 turkeys (one of them jerked and oh em gee, it was off-the-charts delicious), and enough dishes only a teaspoon-sized serving of each could be accommodated on the plate.
A lesser table couldn’t have withstood such bounty. So laden with food was the table that, for its part, it was undoubtedly thankful that Thanksgiving happens but once a year.
Talking with my aunt about compulsiveness while cleaning up after dinner. Her assertion that, considering my genetic heritage, I come by it quite honestly.
I work at keeping it in check. And for this reason, losing the dayplanner is a good thing because I had been “relying” on it, in an obsessive-sense. And I’m not about to give up the blog and my renewed interest in writing, even though it has taken a somewhat compulsive turn. I find myself continuously rolling phrases around in my mind, absently, like sucking a candy.
Yeah, so I bequeath the planner to the OCD gods, in the hope they’ll let me keep the blog without it getting out of hand.
[Tracey, if you’re reading this, it’d still be supergreat if you could call the
Colleen, on not having a driver’s license:
“If it came down to an emergency situation, instincts would kick in.”
Me:
“How d’you figure driving would be instinctual behavior? It’s not like motherhood or something.”
Colleen:
“Oh yeah? Britney Spears. How’s that for instinctual mothering?"
Well played, Colleen. Well played.
One summer, while my aunt was visiting, my mom was on the hunt for a steamer trunk. No antique or junk store would be left unexplored! We stopped in at Johnson’s Museum (which leans heavily on the junk-side) and Mom found the best-ever, must-have trunk. So her loving sister inquired as to its cost. My auntie is a tiny person. And from this tiny person came a voice that was heard throughout the county: “300 dollars?!” We promptly left. Sans trunk.
After my show, and after the requisite number of you-were-lovely’s, my aunt tells me that she was surprised to see there was such a thing as “butch” dance. I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Butch dance. Butch dance! It says over there…” and she points to the wall where all the performers' bios are posted. And I clue in.
“No, Mik, butoh. It’s a Japanese-style of dance.”
“What? I’m sure it says butch.”
And she marches over to the opposite side of the lobby to check it out. And in her best 300 dollars?! Voice, “It says butch dance right here! Butch!! Oh wait, that is an ‘o.’ Never mind.”
2) Intelligent Office. Offer services as pretend administrative assistant to small start-up companies. “Mr. Brown? Let me see if he’s available.” Put on hold for 15 seconds, glance around small, empty room. “I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?” Being paid to lie? I could do that.
3) Kept woman. At least temporarily? Yes, I could do that.
Goldilocks of the Pants!
I am the proud owner of a practically brand new pair of lululemon pants because they were too small for the girl who bought them, too big for her friend/my cousin, but fit me juuuuuust right.
***
The
***
Serena. Friday night. Queen West. Approximately 15 minutes after we were texting each other in an attempt to make hang-out plans for Monday.
Aaron. Co-worker briefly at Harbourfront. Last visit: accompanying class [musician]. This time: Little Italy, The Big Chill’s end of season blow-out. With Serena, also co-worker from Harbourfront (but really, who isn’t?).
Antonio. Met in NB, around age 12, through mutual friend. Recognized me around 10 years later while serving. Then co-worker. Bump into him every time in
Oh, the humid sweltering heat that this city does so well! Mother Nature doesn’t seem to understand that it’s October and I should be able to wear jeans without being in near tears due to discomfort. At one point today, I even found myself lingering over a subway grate for the momentary relief provided by the greasy updraft (eww, I know, but it was really hot).
With a relatively open schedule for the afternoon, I started the trek to Bay and College to catch the end of a meeting Tracey was having with Kousha (for our piece – but remember, I wasn’t actually supposed to be in town). I was waylaid on my journey by a guy who needed a photo taken of him in front of Massey Hall. “Make sure it’s good; it’ll be in Monday’s Toronto Star.” Well, it wasn’t, Bernard LaChance, if that is your real name (ok, I checked out his website, bernardlachance.com, and it is his real name). Not that I was entirely surprised. As my friend Mr. B [a photographer] pointed out, The Star has a closed floor. They don’t just print anyone’s photos.
Pfft, not that I’d want my debut as a photojournalist in The Star, anyway. I mean, the only reason it can claim legitimacy as a newspaper is because it’s less laughable than The Sun. That paper still has a featured Sunshine Girl. In a bikini. Every day. The only things The Star has going for it are the crosswords/jumbles and that the classifieds are well laid-out.
The Toronto Star set up free distribution with
I believe that the disparity between York and U of T’s free-newspaper alliances aptly encapsulates the perceived disparity between the two schools. This is merely a postulated observation and, true to my status as a
Nifty!
But I digress.
I missed the meeting by minutes and was suddenly without any plans for a two-hour window. So I kept walking, ruing my choice to wear my blue ever-so-delicate-but-still-knit sweater over top of a t-shirt (I had no idea it was going to be so hot and I wanted to look cute, ok?). By St. George and Harbord, however, I was glad the 2nd layer masked my thoroughly sweat-soaked underneath layer. Although somehow, with beads of sweat dripping off my nose, I don’t imagine I was fooling anyone.
***
As I turn onto Bloor, I catch sight of the jagged pieces of what is the ROM’s renovated façade jutting out over the street. Michael Lee-Chin – seriously? Crystal Age? Are you sure…?! Alright. I’m just sayin’… Gawd! It’s The Royal Ontario Museum; no one’s expecting it to be moh-derne.
When I was in
So in I went to check it out. And it was even cooler than the description – it also helped that the temperature was considerably cooler, too.
I know this may come off all snooty and not at all “hip,” but I think I like installation art. Oh dear! That statement made me cringe; I can only imagine your reactions.
Leslie Korrick, High Priestess of
Yesterday was moving day. Not a huge ordeal when the extent of your belongings fit neatly into a duffel bag, a pack, and a couple plastic grocery bags (excluding the bike, naturally). Of the two potential rides I had been offered into the city, I opted for the
I would not, could not be in the suburbs for another moment. The possibility of hanging out in
No.
I had to leave.
I had to leave now.
And without the slightest twinge of regret induced by the frivolity of passing up a free ride, I called a cab and headed to my new digs on
Lucky for me, it was unquestionably the right choice. After tossing the stuff in my new (and very large) room, Brother Dan, Poebe the Wonder Dog, and I walked through the Glebe to pick up a few essentials at the grocery store. My original plan for the evening had been to attend an arcade-themed art-type installation party at Club Saw – I was sold after reading “Super Nintendo” in their publicity. But the unplanned shelling out required by my extravagant transportation choice and the lack of a going-out posse deadened the siren song of the awaiting Atari. Concerned by the prospect of me kicking it alone in a new house, Dan invited me to the party he was attending. At the very least, I’d meet some cool people, he assured me.
And he was right!
I met some fantastic people: Zoe, the adorable hostess; Mark, the host with the quintessential-Ali music collection from A to Z (who’s invited me to bring my computer over whenever I like); Jill, my vivacious could-play-a-young-Julianne-Moore nearly-neighbor; and Anne, her equally hilarious and ultra-creative compatriot.
Want the coincidence of the evening?
Of course you do!
As Anne was adding me to her Facebook – hey, it was almost 2am, there had been drinking, everyone was in their mid-20s to early 30s, it would have been weird if Facebook hadn’t been brought out – I noticed She’s Crafty was listed as an event on her profile. I had been planning to attend after reading about it last weekend. So I asked my new friend if she was going. She looked at me kind of funny, “Ali, I’m organizing it.”
“Your last name is Tessier?! I was on your website and everything!” (Yeah, I’m kind of a geek.) So now, not only will I know at least one person there, it’ll be the organizer! Nice.
Highlight of the evening:
Dan introducing me and, in explaining my recent move, said, “What she’s done is essentially the modern day equivalent of running away to join the circus…”
I love my new home. I love my new roommates (including the pup). My new neighborhood. My new friends. My dancing life. The fact that today, Brother Dan made me up a plate of the vegan brunch he cooked for his date.
Love, love, love.
My friend Steph, in reference to the stories from my Korean Saga, once wrote to me that there are always hard times in the mix with such adventure, but the memories I have will color the entire retirement home I get to when I'm 95 yeas old (she's one of my favorite people ever). Something tells me the same could be said of my current adventures, despite the conspicuous absence of exotic local.
Exhibit 4 is my star witness. It’s the “aha!” moment that interconnects a series of previously unrelated and seemingly meaningless things. It’s watching the tension disappear from Kevin Spacey’s crippled hand in The Usual Suspects. Exhibit 4 is beautiful.
***
The poignancy of this latest round is amplified by some treacherous not-paying-attention-to-my-intuition-(and-after-all-that’s-happened-!!) on my part. The full details are unnecessary; it involved a place I found early last week. I wanted so much for it to work that I completely tuned out the signs that were busily kicking me in the shins, their vain attempt to snare my attention. In the end, it worked out for the best (naturally), but at the time it didn’t feel that way. I’d love to say that I’ve gained all this valuable insight about listening to my intuition and learned my lesson, but I’m not foolish enough to think it will stick. The backslide will happen again, and again… it’s just the way of things.
So, without further ado, I give to you Exhibit 4:
Beth is a friend from
When I saw Beth in the spring and asked what Dan was up to, word had it he was moving to
Jump ahead to a week and a half ago:
Biking to class Tuesday morning, I pass someone I think I recognize. I’d been taking the same route around the same time for over a week by this point and assumed it was just another regular. Then, it hit me: he looked like Dan. But it couldn’t be. Because he was in
So, I kind-of, sort-of didn’t think it was actually Dan, but took it as a sign to send Beth an e-mail asking if he was in the city. And she told me he was! And that he’s living in the house on McLeod with three other roommates. And that he’s not really accessible by e-mail, but I should give him a call.
And I do. And we play phone tag for a while. And then it occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, he’ll know of someone looking for a roommate. So I leave him a phone message to that effect. And a few days later, after an ongoing fruitless and disheartening search for a place, I get a message: Dan’s household has a spare room that just opened up. And it turns out that it was him I passed that morning.
Dan’s response:
“Talk about serendipity.”
And I tell him that I do.
I meet up with Dan. And we have tea and talk for hours and decide that I would be a good fit for the household. And here I am. And it’s perfect! I now have a room in a real home that is close to everything, four cool roommates (including Dan, hitherto known as Brother Dan), and Phoebe, one of the smartest dogs I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.
The End.
But not really.
With all this talk of coincidence, serendipity, and signs from the universe, you may be starting to wonder if I’ve been spending a little too much time with people who eat only raw food or something like that.
Here’s how I see it:
I know that I am in the exact right place for this moment in my life. There are no doubts in my mind. I imagine this doesn’t happen all that often in the course of a lifetime.
Yet, despite this insight, it’s hard when it means leaving the people you love. I miss my family, my friends, my home. When I’m in the right mindset, I remind myself how fortunate I am to have so much love in my life.
But then there are times when I have this pervasive feeling of rawness, like chaffed skin, when all I really want is a hug and my lack of physical proximity to the ones I love resonates throughout my body in the form of a dull ache.
And that sucks.
So when things are less than ideal – the “perfect” place falls through, my turning in class seems beyond hope, there is no one to go out with because I just don’t know enough people yet – and it would be so easy to throw in the towel, hop on a plane, and be at my parents’ place in time for dinner, these synchronous moments crop up, each one seeming to whisper, “Keep going, your on the right track.”
And that’s why I’ve been waxing on about them. I have to remind myself that they did, in fact, happen. And that I am in exactly the right place.
I miss you.
All of you.
Monday evening, Le Groupe held a gala fundraiser at The French Embassy. My primary tasks for the evening were to greet the guests, guide them toward the entrance of the labyrinth [which consisted of pathways defined by small, lit(!) candles on the (!)floor] and replace the aforementioned candles when they were inevitably kicked over by the diplomatic set.
It was grand: the Embassy itself is an art deco palace and at the end of the evening, we had the left-over champagne and some of the tiniest hors d’oeuvres anyone had ever seen. And, of course, I had to be dressed up, which is always fun. For those of you familiar with my multi-purpose dress, I came up with a new asymmetrical way to wear it. A hit, Marie-Claire (one of the dancers) found the most intriguing aspect of it was the amount of left boob that was exposed, which begged the question, how was everything staying put?
The events of Monday evening, however, highlighted a disturbing – albeit hardly new –trend. I am by no means well-versed in the language of fashion. Only a year ago, The Girls launched a determined campaign geared toward enlightening me on The Ways of Such Things. After much concerted effort, a compromise was struck wherein I could wear sneakers out dancing without repudiation, so long as I put on a little make-up. They were and are patient teachers, deserving, I fear, of a more malleable pupil.
Nevertheless, there is one thing I do know and it is this:
Flip-flops are NOT formal wear.
I don’t care how unseasonably warm it is for late-September, you can find lovely sandals that have no more foot-coverage than you standard pair of flip-flops. [I don’t know, is it the lack of coverage that people find so appealing…?]
I was shocked – shocked! – to see this atrocity perpetrated not by teens and early 20s co-eds, but by respectable (although this qualifier could be called into question) middle-aged diplomats and patrons of the arts. What is going on?!
I’m not the biggest fan of flip-flops under the best of circumstances. I find they have an unsettling effect on the wearer’s walk and posture. As footwear, they have their place: the beach, cottage, canoe trips (I don’t want to hear any sass about my own dollar-store beauties), etc. And I wouldn’t dream of denying anyone of their preferred summer footwear. But please don’t pretend they are somehow Gala-appropriate.
Note to my readers who have recently entered university:
Your flip-flop-wearing sins will be overlooked. I clearly recall arriving at my
So, your everyday around campus flip-flops have got nothing on that.
[Still with the Enviro. Sci. here]:
Once, after we had a guest lecture from the president of a logging company known for its stringent sustainability practices and the course’s two other TAs – angry, dreadlocked, no-doubt granola-eatin’ Feminists – got their patchouli-drenched undies in a bunch and, one after the other, launched into an indignant tirade directed at the company and its murder of innocent trees in front of the guest lecturer, no less [man, I hated that department], Brad rose from his seat and calmly expounded on the need for tolerance, understanding, and yes, even sustainable logging practices.
Frankly, he could have told us to go club some baby seals and wear their pelts while burning a few acres of rainforest, and I’m pretty sure the majority of the female population in the lecture hall, bedecked in their MEC finery, would have complied. Ugh, did I mention I hated that department…?
But I digress.
Simple rules of thumb for flip-flops
Yes: beach, cottage, public showers, gym locker rooms
No: job interviews, weddings, gala fundraisers
So if in the process of getting dolled-up, you find yourself stuck looking at the “super-cute” $3-pair you picked up from Old Navy, and say, “These ones have rhinestones – that kind of makes them formal…?” No, it does not. Or “How about these ones with the sweet little sunflower?” Not on your life. Look at it this way, if they’re made of plastic and/or float in water, do yourself a favor: Go for another option.
***
And if, by some bizarre happenstance, this blog is read by the woman I saw out dancing in Moncton who saw fit to pair her hoochie club ensemble with white Crocs and thought that was acceptable (I’m only assuming) because they were studded with “diamond” jewels, I have this to say to you:
Sweetheart, they’re Crocs; the rhinestones don’t make ‘em look “hot.”
*3 snaps in Z-formation, turn on heel, and walk away*
1) Pawn-Da-Rosa: … and how does she feel about that?
2) pcroom: I know what they were going for, but it just looks odd
3) Hot Pepper, Expressive Thai Food: nothing inherently wrong here, except that I read the script-like font as Expensive Thai Food every time I go by.
I’ve been neglectful of some key details relating to where I am and what I’m doing. This is my attempt at filling in the blanks, but if there remain some glaring questions left unanswered, post a comment and I’ll do my best to clarify.
[Hey, what the heck! Post a comment regardless. If my mom can figure out how to “hug” me via Facebook, I have complete faith in you, The Reader, and your Internet abilities. Although, she did “hug” me about 11 times in a row and then “bit” me; well, it’s been a steep learning curve.]
I arrived in
I’m here for dance, specifically to take class weekday mornings with Peter Boneham and the amazing dancers of Le Groupe Dance Lab. Peter is a multiple award-winning artist, the longest-serving artistic director in Canadian contemporary dance, overall genius, and at 72 years of age, will not hesitate to kick your ass.
Although I analytically understand the main principles behind Peter’s technique, this hasn’t (in my mind) made it much easier to achieve these principles in my body. Especially the turning. Oh boy, is it rough! My right leg is one thing, there’s a possibility, a glimmer of hope. But my left leg is still in the process of post-injury relearning – although, to the leg’s credit, it’s mostly during the advanced work that I feel a disparity between the two sides.
But oh, I love it! The entire place is so kind and welcoming. Every morning, everyone – dancers, Peter, admin, tech – greet me by name. Even Rudy, the studio dog, comes to see me. I haven’t witnessed any bullshit. And it feels like home.
After class, James strutted around the studio, saying in a put-on deep booming voice, “D’oh, d’oh, d’oh! My name’s Josh and I’m a man.”
To which Josh replied, “Lalala, my name’s James and I’m jealous!”
It could have been just the end of the week of a long, but I found it quite funny.
Ali’s #1 Top-Ranked Utopic Daydream:
All the people I love – friends, family – live in the same neighborhood. And I get to see everyone pretty much whenever I want. And we have large “family” meals, and game nights, and afternoon tea, and block parties, and there’s always music and laughter…
A therapeutic process wherein, Step 1): the entire muscular system is removed from the skeleton, then Step 2): all knots, scar tissue, calcium deposits, and other nasties are worked out (possibly with the assistance of meat tenderizer or papaya extract), and finally Step 3): the tissues, now smooth and supple beyond description are spread back evenly onto the bones.
Like butter.
When Exhibit 3 first made its appearance, I was so awed by its glories that I was determined to ensure that it receive the pinnacle of blogging gold-star treatment. Bells. Whistles. Stars. Exclamation marks the likes of which have never been seen outside an 11 year-old girl’s diary. But life, housing-hunts, and everything took precedence and the entry didn’t make it onto the blog before the astounding denouement of Exhibit 4.
And frankly, after that Exhibit 3 suddenly seemed a lot less awesome. Like Orbits after it had been on the market for a while (you know… the drink from the early 90s with the colorful bits stuff suspended throughout it).
Oh sure, Exhibit 3 is still pretty cool, just like Orbits – I mean, there’s stuff suspended through out it! and you can drink it! – but, I don’t know, something happens: the novelty wears off or something way more amazing comes along, like gel-candy in a tube or OK soda (remember The OK Manifesto? “It’s OK to be OK.” How do you compete with that?!)
I probably shouldn’t talk down my own blog posting in such a way. Hopefully, this preamble won’t result in a marked drop in readership…
And so, I give to you Exhibit 3:
The Saturday at the end of my first week in
Exhibit 3 begins simply enough with a bubbly redhead named Isabelle striking up a conversation with me after the yoga class. She’s joined by her boyfriend, Christian, and the conversation switches back and forth between French and English. When I give a brief explanation of why I’m in
The following weekend, I’m visited by the luminous Tracey Norman for rehearsals in preparation for performances in
After a very long day on Saturday, we find ourselves ravenous and still downtown at
“Hi, Isabelle!”
“Hi, Ali! That’s weird…”
“I guess… although, I gotta tell you, not really for me these days.”
“I was just going to call you. We’re going out to this club. Wanna come?”
“Thanks anyway, we’re dead-tired.”
“OK. Hey, did you know this was the place we were going to take you last Saturday? Pretty good, huh?”
“No, I didn’t know, but that’s not the least bit surprising.”
Ps: Yoga outside = amazing! Beth, Sarah, Jane, and any other lovely yogis who may be reading this, two words:
I have a decent relationship with my bike. We get along most of the time. I’d even go so far as to say I love my bike. But I have a confession: I am not in love.
“So what?” you’re thinking, “there’s nothing wrong with that!” In fact, many of you in this blog’s readership are probably thinking it would be a little unusual if I was in love with my bike.
But I lament this absence because I was in love with a bike once. My heart got broken and most of my bicycle relationships since have been tumultuous at best.
I bought my glorious steed from Canadian Tire with money from my tax return. It was blue and silver, had shocks, and went really fast. We had an instant connection. Of course, it was quite a step up from the $10 cherry-red piece of junk I had been using, with unbelievably warped wheels and breaks that could only be described as decorative.
We had a great summer – like most first loves, ours was pure and innocent and full of joy. And then, while in a job interview, my love was stolen. On
Back to the shop. Jeffcote introduced me to AnnaBelle Blue. The price was right and the name Jeffcote had christened her with was so charming. But she came with a warning (I’m not even making this up): Jeffcote was convinced she was cursed. I thought that was a little extreme.
In retrospect, I believe that AnnaBelle Blue harbored an unrequited crush on Jeffcote. He was eager to get her out of the shop because no matter where he was, somehow, he would trip on her, or she would fall over when he passed. It went on and on. I giggled and took the bike, because he was always teasing me, anyway.
But I should have listened. AnnaBelle made it so she had to go back to see Jeffcote on a regular basis. With every visit, the initial “good” price steadily became less so. And every time he saw her coming through the door, Jeffcote would shake his fist and through gritted teeth, grumble, “AnnaBelle Blue…!”
After that, the next bike I rode regularly had actually been in my possession since I was a teen. The Green Bee was a bit of a clunker with a too-small frame, but it got the job done. Springtime rolled around and it became clear that I’d be happier with a new bike. And though I had intended to get a mountain bike, I was reluctantly persuaded to get a hybrid. I think that faint resentment is why there’s a lack of love between me and my current steed.
I guess bike relationships kind of work like human relationships. There’s really no way to recapture that first-love elation, is there?
Riding my bike is a great joy for me. So I honestly took pleasure in the rather long trek to and from the place I was house-sitting for the past three weeks.
It’s such a good route, too! Once I get on the path, it’s smooth sailing through the Experimental Farm, across the locks, and along the canal. Ah, Experimental Farm! I’ll miss you.
The first time I heard it mentioned, Adam was giving me directions to get back to
Which makes me think of On the Far Side of the Mountain. Which makes me think of a story, completely unrelated to bicycles. I’ll tell you anyway ‘cause it’s my blog and I can do that.
At one point when I was quite young, my brother received copies of my dad’s favorite childhood books: My Side of the Mountain and On the Far Side of the Mountain. I was ridiculously jealous of the gift. I was the reader, not Josh. Why weren’t the books given to me? In hindsight, I imagine my parents were trying to foster a love of reading in my brother. Yeah, it didn’t really take.
Please don't think I’m some bookish-snob looking down my nose at my little bro, tsk-ing his lack of literary pursuits. On the contrary! My brother and I have always had very different interests and aptitudes. I liken his interest in reading to mine in, say, golf. I’ve played miniature golf a handful of times (oh man, this analogy doesn’t even extend to real golf!) and it’s ok, but not necessarily something I’d seek out for entertainment.
Not enough?
My brother at 13 could do things with computers that even now I can only explain as “magic.” And as far as welding and metal-work, he’s got the sibling market cornered. I learned how to knit this spring. That’s the sum extent of my craftwork skills.
[I just think I should have gotten the books, that’s all.]
Riva and Jeremiah’s mother (who has yet to meet me) calls Jeremiah’s place, where I’m house-sitting. We chat for a bit. She asks how I like the city, house-sitting, etc.
“Oh, good. I’m just in the process of trying to find a room closer to the studio. I doubt the 50-minute bike ride will be as appealing in late November.”
Pause.
And with complete sincerity and genuine motherly concern: “Ali, there is a bus.”
Ah, the country-bumpkin impression Momma Soucie must have had of me in the moment before I reassured her that, yes, I was familiar with the public transit system.
