March 28th, 2008
Okay. You know that stupid test where you determine your porn name by adding your childhood pet’s name to the name of the street you grew up on? Well. I lived on many streets but one really works well for this, and so without further ado, I present to you my porn name:
Yes… Midnight Beaver. Midnight being a black cat (I was so clever as a third grader) and we did in fact live on Beaver Street, which is in Abbotsford.
March 27th, 2008
Last night I had a really great talk with my dad. We were watching There Will be Blood and while swapping DVD’s (it’s too long for one), we got to chatting… which turned into talking… which turned into three hours of dissection of some things that are going on in his life right now. I know I’m very lucky to have a dad who is also a great friend to me, and someone I can engage with on a mostly adult to adult level. And he’s great to talk to – lively, interesting, smart, argumentative to a degree, funny. It’s never boring. I love him a lot.
But it’s still complicated. Because to a degree I’m still the kid, and even if I see something more clearly than he does, I can’t say so. You can’t tell your dad what to do. We talk, and I don’t keep my thoughts a secret, but I don’t always say them as strongly as I’m thinking them. Because there are multiple duties in play: the duty to be honest, the duty to support your loved one, the duty to respect the rights of others to direct their own lives, the duty to keep the lines of communication open. He’s stood by me when I did some boneheaded things and stayed silent, the supportive silent that makes it possible for you to admit your mistakes with only minimal shame. He never says he told me so, and neither do I. We know each other too well for that kind of stuff, and again, I know I’m luckier than most on that score. He’s a man I admire and respect and strive to emulate in my dealings with others.
So I stay silent because the straight route is not always the best one. Because people’s feelings direct them and you have to understand that and respect it. Because we can look at each other and both know there’s trouble coming but he has to try.
But it’s still hard to sit back and watch the train wreck unfold in slow motion.
March 23rd, 2008
I make a very good caesar. And now, in honour of that, I shall make one.
It has a certain inescapable logic, doesn’t it?
March 20th, 2008
Husband and I went out for a bite after my class tonight. A couple friends joined us after the eating portion of the evening, and though I would have enjoyed staying for more talk of college basketball (I am easily amused when tired), I was exhibiting the signs of exhaustion and needed to come home. Today has been quite a bit like being hung over. You know how that is – you wake up after a night of drinking and you’re all physiologically disorganized. The balance is off, the eyes are bleary, you can’t make sense of how to put on your socks. Everything feels weird and just a little off. Well, that was me today even after my good morning nap. Now that I’m old (28) I can’t seem to cope with this tiredness thing very well.
So now I’m home, and in a state of post-prandial tummy distention that, combined with the general lack of sleep, means I’m not long for this world. It’s jammy time.
March 20th, 2008
So I survived the EEG – and let me say that it was a rather unpleasant experience. Not as unpleasant as, say, having a limb amputated – but not as good as cookies, either. The opening moves were actually quite interesting, as my skull was measured and marked a number of different ways in order to plot where the electrodes would be placed. It was all downhill from there.
The process is probably too boring to relate in detail here, but I will say I hope I never have to go through it again. There was one part that involved a very intense light being strobed into my eyes from about three inches’ distance, and at various rates (hertz? whatever), that was intensely awful and caused a lot of cringing and squinting and tearing-up. The part where I had to hyperventilate for several minutes was pretty sucky too.
Ultimately I left with paste in my hair and sucker marks on my face from where some of the electrodes were placed. I look like a very small but rather angry octopus was attacking my head. Which is kind of funny, and the best part of the whole affair. I can now officially say I have sensitive skin because the EEG technician, a woman who pastes electrodes to people’s skin for a living, declared, based on those sucker marks, that it is so.
March 20th, 2008
I didn’t manage to stay up all night, but did keep the sleeping down to about two and a half hours, with the aid of a trashy novel and some bad TV. I officially feel bleary, slouchy and exhausted. And you know what sucks? Now I have to get dressed and go out in to the cold and dark to make my way to the hospital.
I should get a bloody medal.
March 10th, 2008
So far this morning I have stubbed my toe, dropped my breakfast on the floor, and missed the opening of Law and Order.
Might as well go back to bed.
March 9th, 2008
You know how Johnny Cash did a cover of Trent Reznor’s song Hurt, and it’s basically no longer a Nine Inch Nails song because Johnny now owns that motherfucker? He owns it! (Note to Esan: not literally.) Well, tonight I discovered (while cruising Youtube for more fodder for the newly acquired Nick Cave obsession) that Metallica did a cover of Loverman. I can see why they chose it – it’s a bad ass song about fucking, or, more precisely, the agony leading up to the fucking. I will hereby confess a girlish crush on young Mr Cave because despite being scrawny and none too pretty (and a heroin addict I believe), he manages to become a sex god in the video for that song. I know, I know – it’s got its cheesy points. But taken as a whole? Some throw-back, non-feminist dinosaur-brain part of me is just slain by raw lust. Loverman is about raw lust.
So maybe if you’re feeling lusty, you could check it out. Maybe it only works with women. Maybe it only works with me? Your mileage may vary… but I think it’s very hot.
March 8th, 2008
Tonight was about empowerment. With a group of nine other women, I performed the Vagina Monologues in front of a modest but enthusiastic audience of 70. This is a significant triumph over shyness for me, and a triumph for women everywhere that we came together, talked about our most private and shame-laden parts, and not only created positive energy and excitement but also money for women-positive charities. Part of our empowerment was reclaiming our bodies for ourselves rather than the sexual objectification of others, and to this end we did a piece at the end in short skirts which contains the line, believe it or not, my short skirt has nothing to do with you. I felt proud.
Then it ended, and there was applause and beer, and finally a skytrain trip home. And as soon as I stepped off that skytrain onto Main Street, all my feelings of empowerment evaporated. Suddenly I was just a woman in a short skirt and highly noticeable hot pink tights, alone, at night, in a bad part of town.
Which I guess is why things like this play are necessary.