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.
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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
