(Un)Familiarity.

Hmmm...1AM...writing a paper that's due tomorrow. It's been a long time since I've been here. I have "fond" memories of pulling all-night paper writing parties with my roommates in university. Each of us in our own corner; frantically writing and smoking, writing and smoking; sporadically testing out seemingly brilliant phrases on eachother; round of cheers for each additional page written; willing the printer to spew pages just a bit faster; screeching up to the school, abandoning the car - doors open, keys still in the ignition - and sliding the paper into the drop box just as the secretary is packing up to go home. It was always so satisfying to see a classmate running up the stairs as you were strolling down. Kind of got a bit smug - ha...so I wasn't the last one.
OK, so not that much drama this time around. The paper will be finished in plenty of time...but it does bring back memories.

So I have to buy a Xmas present for the new man friend. Admittedly, commitmentphobic me is somewhat wary about this new development. It'll be a month...ONE month...uno...un...yi...a single...and now we're buying presents?? But I talked to the friend, the set-us-up matchmaking friend, and apparently MF was probing her for ideas. He used the word "we" tonight too. So casually, "My sister wanted "us" to come tobogganing tonight, but I told her that "we" couldn't make it tonight because "we" were busy." And I say "Oh, that's too bad...I would love to go! It sounds like fun!"...but I'm thinking - Who's busy? I'm busy...I'm writing my paper. But you're not busy...so who's we? He and me...that's what he meant. So what does that mean? Does that mean girlfriend?? Admittedly I've tried it on a few times these past couple of days, just a couple of test runs in a safe environment - "Boyfriend brought me flowers to cheer me up", "I made boyfriend chicken soup on Friday because he was sick." I think the hives are starting to go down now...And what does he mean - his sister wants "us" to come? So his sister knows about me? We're going to double date with his sister? Sisters don't like their brother's girlfriends...I don't cope well with that...I am NOT used to NOT being liked! And there's that word again - girlfriend. He wants me to meet f-a-m-i-l-y?? Breathe Lindz, just breathe...serenity now...count to ten...ommm.


And though my instinct is to booty-call old MF in order to sabatoge this new situation, I am going to fight the instinct. I like this new one. He knows I'm neurotic, he's dealing with my exam anxiety, he says he can handle it. He's so calm, and steady and trusting of everything: me, our relationship, life. He knew I was working late tonight, and he works the night shift, so he suprised me with coffee on his Tim Horton's run. He's good, this one.
So, if it means that I have to buy a gift after only a month...then I'll buy a gift after only a month. See...heart rate is slowing, eye is ceasing to twitch...see, you can do this! It's funny cause it's only when I'm not with him that I'm neurotic...when I'm left to stew with my own thoughts and envision all the scenarios in which the rug gets pulled out from under me and I get screwed.
So...a gift...I've got part of it under control, but I'm not so confident in the rest of it...has to be thoughtful, yet not too personal...and the type-A in me says "self, you are NOT a crappy gift-giver...get it right" and so I stress. I mean I'm the person that starts shopping for Xmas in June so that I get it right. I have a gift drawer...I've bought wedding gifts for my friends who are yet to be coupled and baby gifts for my friends yet to be impregnated. Type A...that's what I said. Thoughtful, and yet not too personal....right...

Deja vu??

So I was going to write a post today, and then I had this vision of writing it before. So I scrolled back through my posts only to discover that, in fact, I already had.

So does this mean that I am totally unoriginal? Or does it mean that it's a notion that is near and dear/undecided in my mind?

I'm inclined to think the latter. I'd like to think the latter...but then it was only a post about salad dressing, so perhaps not.

Something beautiful

I know advertising is awful...gets into your head and creates a consumer out of you. But sometimes the writers of ads just have a vision...and they create something beautiful.
My friend showed this one to me this evening. He says the entire thing was filmed in a single take one afternoon in San Francisco. Apparently they parked a truck filled with rubber balls at the top of a hill and opened it up and let them roll.
I think the results are
spectactular

I've taken to watching it on study breaks...kind of soothing.

From my early morning family law class

RE: the effect of lifestyle choices on custody orders:

"Most judges lived through the 60s and 70s...they don't really care if you smoked a joint every now and then. They probably have all smoked a joint at one point. Pot is not such a big deal.

Now CRACK, crack is a BIG deal."

And thus I was awake.

Some Kind of Warped Radar?

Why is it that men wait until you have moved on and are happy with a new guy to come back and say all the things you wanted them to say while you were together?

Is it some kind of twisted radar...they sense that you are happy or that you're seeing someone new and they take that as their cue to come sweeping back into your life?

I'm not trying to be bitter or spiteful...I'm honestly curious. I didn't say a damn thing to guy #1 about guy #2. Not a damn thing. So how does he know??

When it rains it truly does pour...that's the truth of it...relationships cycle in monsoons and droughts. Why is it that the monsoon season coincides with exams...that's really my question.

And why does it have to be so damn cold here...I just want to set up a command station from my bed and never leave.

Butterflies

Second date tonight...I'm way more nervous about this one.
Damn those expectations!

Ill-timed, but Uncontrollable

I am newly twitterpated. Mr. So-Good-On-First-Date, I had a fleeting moment where I understood why some might be so quick to jump on a plane to Vegas.
We went for a winter walk to half admire, half make fun of the Christmas lights. We gave hot apple cider to the homeless guy that asked us for change. We talked for hours and hours until the wee hours of the morning.
He's so good on paper - firefighter, in the process of adopting an abused half-German Shephard half-Lab puppy. She's only six weeks old and was found basically beaten to within an inch of her life. He's handy and is a ticketed auto mechanic. He's from BC, a Canucks fan, a go-cart enthusiast AND a hobby photographer. We both shoot with Nikon cameras and are snobs about them. He wants to go skydiving. He likes artsy films and has seen more of Stanley Kubrick's films than I have. We have the same favorite movies and his mom is a quilter (my mom isn't a quilter, but a home made quilt is the thing I covet most in the world). He brought me a single red rose.
We played the scar game, which is rather sexy, really. You know...like the I'll show you mine if you show me yours but re: scars. He beat me with a dirt bike accident induced compound fracture/skin graft.
But with exams right around the corner...I just don't know. This is NOT a great time.

Awed

I just finished reading perhaps the most awesome book I have read in years: Atonement, by Ian McEwan. He won the Booker prize for his previous book, Amsterdam, but this author is phenomenal...and that is not an embellishment.
To nutshell the book, it is about a young girl; she is an author; she has a wild imagination. She has an older sister and a brother, and her brother's school chum is the maid's son who has had a smouldering love affair brewing for years with the older sister. She has two cousins who come to the house for an extended visit. She is 13. It is 1935 in England. You read the back of the book and it says essentially, that this 13 year old will commit a crime that will reverberate through the lives of the characters and all the way through the war. The book, however, opens up in this lovely pastoral scene: birds chirping, lovely English manor, witty repartee between the characters. You, as the reader, cannot fathom how the author is going to get from this lovely point a, to the awfulness which is promised in the summary. And yet he does. And I'm not going to spoil it for you. It just simply must be read.
As an author, what McEwan truly excels at is understanding the vulnerability and the arrogance of humans. He understands how a nice tableau of life can just unravel and how once things have inertia, they are unstoppable. He understands that actions are set in motion not with one big decision, but are rather a culmination of seemingly meaningless, thoughtless, mundane events in life.
He writes his characters with sympathy, and yet holds them accountable for their actions. You love them, and feel compassion for them, and yet cannot forgive them for what they have done. And that makes them real.
I realize that I haven't given much of a plot summary at all, but the beauty of this book is that you are continually suprised. After finishing it, I read a number of reviews on the internet and was a bit miffed at those which gave away plot details. It is best to go in blind.
The other thing I love about this author is that he writes prose...true descriptive beautiful prose. More like a 19th century author than anything modern, and yet he is contemporary. Critics have compared him, and I agree, to Virginia Woolf. Yet, I would add that his writing is, in my opinion, far more accessible than Woolf's. Perhaps it is the modernity of his language that give me this impression.
If I had to choose one novel to recommend...perhaps even of the last 5 years, it would be this one. It is nothing short of phenomenal.

Could you repeat that?

You know you've been friends with someone for awhile when you start to hear reruns of their favorite life stories...or sometimes you can even recite their favorite stories ("Hey 'Cole...I have a penis and you have a vagina, right??" would be one of my personal favorite friend stories - thank's 'Cole...I still get a chuckle out of that one).
But this is not my point...
Sometimes in your idle chitchat with your good friends they just slip something into the conversation...just nonchalantly, casually, and it causes you to double take. More often then not there is a diamond in the rough story behind it. Like today, my blond haired, blue eyed friend and I were chatting about travelling and she mentioned that she wanted to go to Africa and visit her "dozens of aunts and uncles." And then in the next breath she was talking about something entirely different. ...hold on, rewind, back up, explain yourself. Not just anyone has dozens of aunts and uncles, nor a single African aunt or uncle...and it's not every day that you meet someone with dozens of African aunts and uncles...and I certainly have never met a blond haired, blue eyed person with dozens of African aunts and uncles. There's story there...I could smell it.
I love my childhood friends...there is a certain comfort, a level of trust there...almost more like a sibling than a friend. But friends you make as an adult...there's always suprises, there's a whole life worth of stories. And people certainly do lead facinating lives.
One of my favorite I-have-five-minutes authors is Robert Fulghum. He wrote things like "All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten", and "Uh-Oh - Observations From Both Sides of the Refridgerator Door." But one of his more interesting books conceptually is one called "True Love." Now granted, even a romantic like me can only take this book in small doses, but if I recall correctly what he did was set himself up at a coffee shop. Stuck a sign on his table that said something to the effect of, "tell me a story about love, and I'll buy you a cup of coffee." It was a success...he amassed some amazing stories...and not just about romantic love either.
My mother laughs at me because invariably when we go shopping I wind up striking up a conversation with someone in a store. I can't help myself. People are interesting.

OCD??

Why is it that some days I frantically and compulsively check my frequently read blogs for new postings? Some times I go for days without reading them, and then all of a sudden I just crave new postings. And I get really upset when I don't get them. What are you all doing?? Where is my daily dose?? Not even a measly comment to wet my whistle.
I'll keep checking...someone is bound to post something sometime.

Barking in my dreams

Last August we put my old lab, Maverick, to sleep. He was thirteen and a half years old, he had hip problems, was almost completely blind, was losing his hearing. In the last few months of his life he grew stiffer and stiffer until he could no longer climb the stairs. A walk just down the block would take up to a half hour, with him painfully and gingerly hobbling the whole way. Sometmes when he was just standing his hip would all of a sudden just give out, and he would be unable to get to his feet again.
His eyes were still young though...I'll never forget the day we took him to the vet, and he looked at us with such trusting eyes as the vet gave him the shot. So calm, so warm, so young...his eyes were like warm chocolate and the friendliest things you'd ever seen, unless he felt he had to defend us. Then...watch out.
Several months ago I heard about this book, Marley & Me, by John Grogan. It's about the life of his lab. It took me all this time to get up the courage to read it. I still miss my dog, in unexpected ways.
It's a phenomenal book...I laughed harder than I have in a long time. But I cried my eyes out. Sobbed, really, to the point of red and puffy eyes. Like the next day I woke up and my eyes were swollen almost completely shut. But it was cathartic. Lab owners are all the same, same kind of people, same kind of experiences. More often than not they have the same temperament as their dogs: enthusiastic, alert, friendly and a little bit reckless. So I identified with the writer. But more importantly, the little silly, annoying, destructive things that labs do...the lovely, friendly, affectionate things that they do. All of those were there. And it made me love my dog all the more...it reminded me of all of those things that he used to do. It made me happy to remember that.

I realized today that it's been awhile since my last post.
Life is chaotic, there's been a pity party or two, a lost election, a trip home, a paper written and a lot of self-indulgence.
I should be back...soon.

Another world

I live downtown. I love the noise and the bustle: the horns, and the flurry of people and the rumble of the traffic, and the clouds of steam coming from sidewalk grates. I love the glimpses of blue sky in between tall towers - or even better, the reflection of clouds in the windows of skyscrapers. I love the concrete jungle. I love it because I never feel alone, I never feel alienated, I always feel like I'm at the heart of things. I've never wanted to be the center of attention, but I've always wanted to be at the center.

I woke up this morning, and the first thing I heard was the weather report. It had been snowing all night, and everyone was whining about the state of the roads. I love that feeling when you are cozy in your bed, kitten curled up in the crook of your arm, and you can see outside the soft falling snow. I always sleep with my curtains drawn: 1) I like to wake up to natural light when I can, 2) the way my windows face, no one really can see in, 3) I like to contemplate the weather before I get out of bed. So I contemplated the snow for a moment, and then I was roused from my warm cocoon by the smell of freshly brewing coffee. (New coffee pot...auto shut off (yeah, I'm not going to burn the house down by forgetting to turn it off)...and delayed brew (I love to wake up to fresh coffee))....

I take the train to school...so the condition of the roads and the disaster of traffic concerned me not. I sliced myself the last of the banana bread, poured my coffee into my spill proof travel tumbler, and headed out into the snow.

I've commented on the silence of snow before, I think. I love to take a walk in the falling, or newly falling snow because it's so peaceful. The world seems muted, clean, calm, quiet. But I've usually considered this in the context of walks through the forest, or along the sea wall - things of that nature. This morning when I walked outside of my building, I was treated to the same effects on the city. No hustle, no horns, no traffic rumbling - just quiet, slow, muted whiteness. No concrete jungle, just drifts of white. It was slow...it was peaceful. I'm sure by the time I go home this afternoon it will be all gone and as I said before, I do love it...but for a moment it was another world...a snowy world...a quiet world...a lovely world.

I'm going to the Dixie Chicks concert tonight.

I think that regardless of what one thinks of their political opinions, or their music, in this world where young girls look to people like Britney Spears and Paris Hilton as supposed role models, it is refreshing and hopeful that a group of fierce, independent thinking and classy women are also on the stage.

The point to me is not what they had to say, but that they had the courage to stand by it when faced with the kiss of death in the music business - loss of fan base. If girls can learn from that rather than how to be a Slave 4 U, or how to star in your own internet porn movie, I think we just might be ok.

Therapy

I've been wallowing a little bit later...in self pity, in self criticism, in self loathing, in self consciousness. It's funny how these things a) come in waves, and b) tend to be slightly contagious. My two good friends have also been throwing themselves a bit of a pity party lately. It's not as if we don't have a thing in the world to complain about, but events which, under other circumstances, we might have been able to roll with, seem to be holding us up.

There is some dwelling going on.

So last night I decided to take matters into my own hands. It was time for some banana bread. I truly think that it is a cure all. Like chicken soup to a physical ailment, banana bread is equally comforting to the emotional self. And it's the whole experience of the bread...the smell of it baking, the slathering of the butter on the steaming slices, the ice cold glass of milk. I've always thought that if you have to have a serious conversation with someone, tell them bad news or whatever, you'd better have a loaf of banana bread in the oven. Real estate agents like the smell of coffee or baking cookies in an open house...I think they're missing the boat - banana bread would be far more effective. Walk into a house baking banana bread and you are immediately at ease, calm, warm.

I don't like bananas, truth be told. I don't like them because I am averse to their consistency. It makes me gag. Fruit should be juicy...not smushy. For a long time I thought I was weird for thinking like this...but just the other week I met a like minded individual - a kindred spirit. Anyways, my point is that I buy bananas, and put them directly in the freezer...cause then whenever it's time for the banana bread, all I have to do is pull them out and defrost them in the microwave.

I have my secrets to a good banana bread. First of all, I can't stand chunks of banana in the bread - see above. So I put them through my potato ricer - smooth like butter. And second of all I like my bread moist, so I add almost twice the required banana portion - but again, smooth not lumpy. The most important secrets are the spices: clearly cinnamon and lots of it, but the lesser known and more important, in my view, one is allspice. Allspice provides depth of flavor, and, most importantly, that dark caramel color to the loaf.

One of my favorite restaurants in Vancouver, Glowbal, serves banana bread with a cinnamon butter at its brunch sitting. It's one of my favorite things about this restaurant (also their Benny - rivals Fruits Folie...for sure) . But under ordinary circumstances, I think that banana bread is best hot with butter, and a cold glass of milk. Obviously if you are just removing it from the oven this is not a problem, but I've found that when it come to reheating, slices of banana bread stand up quite nicely in the toaster. And toasting also crunches up the crust rather nicely too.

Anyways, the banana bread definitely did the trick. The three of us polished off an entire loaf and a litre of milk, and then giggled our way through Grey's Anatomy, and played with the kitten. Terminated/suspended relationships were not mentioned even once.

And this morning, as I run the baking gear through the dishwasher, and tidy up my apartment, I am comforted to know that I still have a half a dozen bananas in my freezer: ready to be mobilized as soon as there is a need.

It's beginning to look a lot like Xmas

I can't help it...I love the season.
This weekend we had the first snow storm of the year...it was one of those gentle storms where the fat white flakes swirl softly. The kind of storms that are romantic and dreamlike. And I wanted to bust out the Christmas music.
But I promised myself, no...not until November.
Well it's November 1st, and I'm gonna listen to the Nutcracker as I read tonight. And tomorrow I just might put up a few decorations.

Holding up a mirror

I had a very privileged childhood - private school, figure skating, horseback riding, weekends skiing or in Hawaii. I wanted for nothing. And one thing that always pissed me off was when people treated me as if they thought I was a snob. Like they reacted to the way they thought I was going to treat them...or when bus drivers spit on us for no other reason than we were in our school uniforms.

I know...poor little rich kid.

But my point is that I feel in a lot of ways like I do a lot of what I do in my life because of this cosmic guilt I feel over how privileged I was. Like all the volunteering and crap. I feel like I have more to give back to my community than most people...like I owe more.

But I've been thinking about why I get angry about how I'm labelled...why I take it as such an affont, and why I am so quick to hold up my "contributions to society" as evidence of my un-snobbery. I think that what it really is, is a feeling of moral righteousness. Like I want some sort of award for what I do. And that makes me wonder, if you don't do something for the right reasons, then should you do it at all? And I think that the answer is, yes...you should...because the fact of the matter is that people benefit from your contributions whether you do it for noble reasons, or for nasty ones. But we should ask more of ourselves...we should expect of ourselves to do things for the right reasons, and not be so goddamned selfish.

And then I got to thinking about how I do treat other people. Maybe I do deserve a little anger or scorn. Maybe I am judgmental, and then aloof or cold when I deem someone to be beneath me. And I mean beneath me in terms of socioeconomic status, or in terms of intelligence, or education or attractiveness. This self analysis was all prompted by a conversation I alluded to in a drunken stupor on Thursday night. It really fucked me up emotionally, and has caused me to look at some of my interactions with people. We had a heart to heart about our relationship. We're good friends...but it took some time. I love him now...it really wouldn't take me much to fall "in love" with him...but it wasn't always the case. How do I describe him...he's quirky...he's not mainstream...he grew up in the bush...he's not conventionally handsome. And when I first met him...those were the things that were foremost in my mind. I could make excuses for myself - I was in love with the asshole with the dry-toast girlfriend at the time...yada yada yada...but none of that excuses that fact that the ugly truth is that I dismissed him. In retrospect, I can see that he put himself out there...and I rejected him. Not only did I reject him...but I don't think it would be too much to say I was rude. Quite frankly, if I were him I certainly wouldn't be friends with me, let alone saying the things he was saying.

There is no excuse for treating people poorly...sure, because you might become friends with them and grow very fond of them. But even if not...even if you never have cause to see them again. It takes just as much effort to be nice, as it does to be rude. And the bottom line is that we none of us are superior human beings...we maybe more advantaged, or luckier, or priviledged. But worthiness...shouldn't that be measured by our actions, and not by our opportunities? By what we do with our lives, and not what we were born with?

I found out tonight that hadI not been an asshole one year ago today, I might have been with a totally awesome guy. Instead I found myself counselling him to propose to his girlfriend who is totally excellent.

I promised myself taht I would never regret.

I don't know that I can keep my promise. But I did swear to him that I am as much a girl
s girl as I am a guy's girl and therefore nothing happened.

I haven't decided if I regret it yet or not...

Wine & Cheese Schmooze Fests

Part of the territory is voluntary/mandatory attendance at wine and cheese gatherings with the firms. Voluntary in that it isn't compulsory, but mandatory in that you are shooting yourself in the foot if you don't go.

Tonight I got the inevitable question - so why aren't you interviewing for a summer position?
My breath caught in my throat for a minute - so calculating - what did they want to hear? Was this a test? What is the right answer?

So I took a deep breath and said - "Well, once I sign on with a firm I want to be able to dedicate myself and my time. And before I do that there is some travelling that I want to do and some adventures I would like to get out of my system. I'd like to try as many things as possible and take advantage of as many different opportunities as I can."

And there was a pause and then he smiled, and said that he did not summer either. He took the summer to do a tour of Europe. And then the conversation moved forward and we chatted about various trips that we had taken, yada yada yada.

Whew...land mine number one avoided.

Astonishing

A friend of mine sent me a funny chain letter about the word "bitch." In response I was trying to track down one of my favorite feminist quotes. I never did find it, but in the process of looking for it I came across this:

Pat Robertson - 1992
"Feminism is a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians."

It made me wonder why it is that feminism is so threatening to some. And I speak of feminism, not feminazism which I find somewhat distasteful myself, and somewhat counterproductive to the cause of equality. I wonder if it is fear which precipitates this type of thought? Can he truly believe this? In a rational, practical, realistic way?

I often joke that my philosophy of life is: why choose when you can have both. I joke...but I mean it at the same time. I love my career; I am challenged by it, and excited by it, and frightened by it. And when I engage with my colleagues, I attempt to do so as genderless individuals. I say I attempt because, ethically or not, I am not above using sex to my advantage. And before hackles are raised, I am not referring to sleeping my way to the top - you have to draw the line somewhere, but rather sex more generally. I consider it a tool...bros before hos is still regularly used in any occupational field, and I think that sex is a valuable and legitimate tool to be used in an attempt to break into that circle.

But I digress. My point is that, though my career is important to me, it does not diminish my desire to be a wife, and a mother. I value my femininity, my prowess in the kitchen, my nurturing side, chivalry in general. I certainly want to have a family, I have no desire to kill my children and I am not a lesbian. I recognize, and often celebrate the inherent differences between men and women.

But I don't to be told I can't do something because I am a woman. And I want my actions to be evaluated in a way that is not colored by the fact that I am a woman. I want to live and work in a world that rewards on the basis of merit, pure and simple. And I abhor the notion that people like Pat Robertson interpret that as being evil or unsatisfactory or as undesirable, somehow.

Why must we place limits on the capacity of people to live and thrive? Why must we force people into socially approved and defined boxes? Why must we force people to choose? Why do we interfere in the lives of people who are not interfering in our own lives? Why are we so arrogant as to impose our own moral judgments on others? Why is our focus on judging others rather than enabling them? Why are we not more concerned with bettering ourselves - living as good global citizens?

Damn you, Pat Robertson, for judging me. While it's true that I do not officially ascribe to any one of the major organized religions, I can tell you one thing for certain - No God of mine is that arrogant or that exclusive, or that vindictive.

Recently I was in court for a domestic assault. Buddy slapped his girlfriend around a bit.

The chargers were withdrawn in exchange for him entering into a peace bond, which is essentially a restraining order. It lasts a few months...and then nothing.

So I'm doing all this, and I'm actually pissed off because the original offer was 9 months on the peace bond, and I think that's ridiculous...3 would do. Fast forward to the end, the judge agrees and we are off. And I'm driving home and it all of a sudden strikes me that if I had engaged with this guy in any other venue of my life I would have been appalled by what he had done. If I had read about it in the news, or heard about it through the grape vine, my opinion would have been that he should have had the book thrown at him. If the girlfriend had been one of my friends, or my sister, or myself, I might have done him bodily harm.

It's a weird existance, that of criminal defence. The act exists in a vacuum where there are no victims, no bad guys, and no crime, really. All that exists are facts, and a definition. It's very unemotional...very impersonal. If the facts meet the definition, then you have guilt with a range of possibilities, and if not, then you have not guilt, with a range of possibilities. It's like a mathematical formula, it's like a science, and the players, who are human, are dehumanized.

It's weird though, because I feel as if my inclination to judge morally and ethically the behavior of others is suspended when I am acting in this capacity. It's like there's a buffer between my work, and their actions. The process of evaluating a case is so methodical, and meticulous...it is looking for holes, finding deviations in process...it is finding reasonable doubt and triable issues. And I think that this is right. The purpose of the trial process is to determine facts. I truly believe that this can only be done in an atmosphere that is objective, and unemotional. People say that the justice system spends too much time thinking of the accused, and not enough time thinking of the victim. I understand that this is unsatisfactory for victims...victims who are left with a consequence, and want someone...anyone to pay for that consequence. I don't know. There are some new restorative justice paradigms that are designed to deal with the issue of victims. But that's a subject for another day.

I should not be allowed to drink and blog.
My punishment shall be to leave the post up and suffer any humiliation it might bring me.

Uh-oh

I had a fantastic night tonight.
This weekend was the annual alumni rugby tournament at my school. It's a very important event for the guy's team. They take this stuff very seriously.
The girl's team is just fun...we know shit about rugby...and we wear pink...and giggle and shriek..
That being said...we did play a full tackle game today. I have a blazing black and blue cleat mark on my thigh to prove it. After all, we are law students...competativeness comes with the territory.

**Following the advice of the lovely Eve, I have decided that I do not need to punish myself and thus the remainder of this drunken post has been removed to protect the innocent, or the not so innocent - namely, me***

Giving Thanks

Went home for Thanksgiving this weekend.
Charlie came as carry-on, and though she cried pitifully for the entire pre-flight routine business, she seemed to settle down once the plane took off. Maybe she was just so tired from crying...like babies...she cried herself to sleep. I have new appreciation for what it's like to have a temper tantrum throwing child now.
My parents absolutely loved her. My mother promptly stepped into the grandmother spoiling her rotten role: feeding her treats behind my back, buying her new toys, bragging to her friends about how cute she is, criticizing my methods - "Lindz, aren't you going to feed her...see she's hungry."
We had a full house for thanksgiving dinner, and Charlie learned quickly how to coax turkey from the plates of our dinner guests. It's a miracle she wasn't sick everywhere. She's a manipulative one she is.
I have another cat that lives with my parents. Purrsey - little runty grey tabby cat that I grew up with. She's almost 21 years old...same age as my sister. She's been declining these last few years, losing tons of weight (she's always had a thyroid problem, but now...it's a bit shocking).
She and Charlie tolerated eachother fairly well. Poor Charlie wanted to play, and poor Purrsey wanted nothing to do with the little whippershapper. There were a couple of instances where Charlie got too close and Purrsey growled a reprimand. So then Charlie took to stalking Purrsey around the house, and jumping out to scare her. Then she'd get scared herself and dart backwards out of the reach of Purrsey's claws.
It was really sad though to see the two of them side by side. Charlie is the picture of youth: so healthy and chubby and solid, with sparkling eyes and a shiny shiny coat. Her body is like an elastic band - jumping and darting about, turning sommersaults and playing with anything and everything. Purrsey on the other hand can only be described as an old lady: frail and painfully thin, she moves so slowly and her joints audibly creak. Her fur is not so grey any more, it's somewhat brown around the edges, and kind of dishevelled and dull. Her eyes, still green as always are somewhat bloodshot now.
I came upon Purrsey on my parent's bed one night, and sat with her and stroked her fur. And I started to cry, in the dark, just sitting with my cat. Part of me thinks that my parents should put her down...she just looks so frail. But then she doesn't seem to be in any pain.
She is the best cat...truly. When I was little I used to dress her up in doll clothes, complete with bonnet, and carry her around like a baby. When Maverick, the black lab, came she took complete control of that situation. She used to sit on the counter in the kitchen with her tail over the edge flicking it back and forth, tempting him to check it out. And when he inevitably did she would whirl around and smack him across the face. Or she would tempt him to chase her around the backyard...great fun for the both of them, until Purrsey decided that enough was enough...and then she would stop dead in her tracks...and he would practically do a sommersault trying to avoid bowling her over, and she would whirl around and smack him across the face. But the funny thing is that he was really protective of her. Stray cats would make their way into our back yard, and because she was so runty, she was a prime target. Maverick would always run to her defence, chasing away the stray. She used to like to sleep in bed with you, either under the covers or right on your chest. She'd like to wake up early, and wake you up too. She'd put one of her paws right on your eyelid. Then withdraw it and wait. Then if that didn't work she would put her paw on your eyelid and slowly extend her claws. Then when you'd open your eyes, she'd look at you as if to say..."who me??"
We had to put Maverick down a year ago...she came before him, and she's survived him now. I think she's lonely...maybe she misses him a bit. Part of me wonders if her death will also sort of close the book on my childhood.
But she was the best cat. A total bitch...with tons of attitude...but with a motor of a purr and unlimited affection for those she respects. She is the best cat.

It's A Good Day

Played volleyball last night for the first time in years. I love that sport...I don't know why I ever quit.

Woke up this morning and the sun was shining and it's warm...20 degrees. I wasn't in a rush this morning either so I fed the cat and made coffee, took a shower, threw some laundry in the machine and made an egg sandwich. Then I ate my breakfast and perused some of the videos on youtube. Then I read a case or two for my class. Then I got dressed and ready to go. All before 9:30. I love that...I love to get stuff done in the morning but still be leisurely. I had an appointment at 10, so I went there, ran an errand at London Drugs, dropped off the car and caught the train to school and was there by 11. Again...fantastic...it's not even afternoon yet and already I have a full day's worth of activities under my belt. Went to the library, did some readings, and ran into a friend who tried to talk me into volunteering for Cuts for A Cure. The cancer fundraiser where people shave their heads. I looked at her like she was mad because I'm kind of vain about my hair. I spend a lot of money on it and the products I put in it. But she promised that I wouldn't have to cut it, I could just help out with the administrative/organizing/fundraising part of it. So I agreed, and now I have that on my plate too...such a sucker I am.
Anyways I had some class...had a meeting...sent some emails...did some paperwork at my job...had lunch with a friend outside in the sun.
Now I'm back in the library, reading and waiting for my rugby practice. Then it's off to the bar to watch the first NHL battle of Alberta. Always entertaining as my friends are pretty much evenly split Vancouver/Edmonton/Calgary fans. There's always vested interest and bragging rights at stake in any games involving those three. I'll get home around 11...probably slightly intoxicated...then I'll pack for Thanksgiving weekend, play with the cat a bit and curl up to sleep. I'm taking Charlie home for the weekend. She's coming as a carry-on. I'm slightly apprehensive about how she's going to handle it...we'll see.

But my point is that it's been, and will continue to be such a good day. So productive and yet so stress free. And things are just going my way too. I love it when things go my way.
I've been a pretty miserable person this past month...with school and sickness and stress and work and getting behind and all of that nonsense. I feel like maybe...just maybe I might have control of my life again. That's a good thing.

A Year In The Merde

Just finished reading this book, by Stephen Clarke. I suppose I enjoyed most of it. It's a bit like a fictional travel log. The author has created this character, Paul West, who is a British twentysomething business boy wonder who goes to France to work for a year. From what I can gather, the author plans to continue the adventures of Paul West in future books. Most of the book is very funny...the comments that he makes, his observations on Parisien life, and on the life of an expat living in Paris. His experience in the business world, and the little things like mistranslations and misunderstandings.
The author is very sarcastic, almost caustic sometimes...I mean he has another book entitled Giving Good Head: An Analysis of the Expectations of Real-Ale Drinkers. That just sort of sets the tone. But I found, at times, that the tone of the book was almost negative. And I can't say that I was overly enthusiastic about the way women were treated - at the risk of sounding like a crazy feminist - I thought they were rather objectified and I felt sort of uncomfortable about it. For example, there's this whole bit in the book where the characters are talking about how in Paris you don't find an apartment to live in, you find a Parisien girl to screw - Sex with Accomodation.
Anyways, perhaps my opinion of this book was doomed from the start. The publishers bill it both as "an urban antidote to A Year in Provence", and as "edgier than Bryson." So, first of all, I loved A Year in Provence, and second of all, I love Bryson. So I had high expectations. It was funny, but alas, it didn't live up to my expectations.

Memories

My friend and I were talking about playing the piano last night. It's one of my biggest regrets...quitting the piano. I wanted to quit for so long, but my parents insisted that I take lessons until I turned 13. So happy when I quit...and so quickly regretted quitting.

But it reminded me of my great Aunt. This woman is quite spectacular. She's the youngest of 11 or 12 siblings. My grandmother was the 3rd eldest and her name was Maria Alida Nannetta Josephina. My great aunt just Ekaterina. It's as if they ran out of names or something. But they lived in Holland, in Amsterdam, during the second world war and my great aunt tells stories of how they survived on nothing but tulip bulbs and potato peels. She is a classically trained pianist and used to sing opera and learned tons of different languages travelling all over Europe singing opera: Dutch, English, French, German, Italian, Russian to name but a few. She immigrated with many of the family members to Canada, following the second world war, and became an opera teacher.

One of my fondest memories is from family gatherings, usually around Christmas. Her birthday is on boxing day and so there is always a party thrown for her. She's the only one left of that generation...the matriarch of that side of the family. And always at some time during the festivities she would quietly make her way over to the piano and start playing these elaborate concertos or sonatas...always from memory...Chopin, Schubert, Beethoven...she'd play forever. And I'd always follow her and sit cross-legged on the carpet to listen to her.

She's the tiniest woman, my great aunt. Probably only about five feet tall, and weighs maybe a hundred pounds on a good day. But she has these hands...long elegant fingers...and they dance across the keys as she plays the scores in her mind. She used to wear this pair of rings on her right ring finger. Two silver rings each with a large silver ball that sort of sat to each side. The two fit together, overlapping. I'm not describing it very well. But I remember that the balls used to fall to the side, slipping under her finger as she would play...her hands flying across the keyboard....and they would clink against the keys. And I remember how she used to flip the rings back around with her thumb...never missing a beat...never missing a note.

She's in a home now but she still has her own little room, and we still go over to her and drink tea with her (always loose ...she has a beautiful silver tea strainer embellished with elaborate filligree). We always bring dutch cookies of some kind - ginger cookies or the little fingers filled with almond paste. And at some point she'll take her walker and take us out to one of the common rooms where they have a piano and she'll play for us. She doesn't have the same repetoire any more; she generally plays the same thing - a piece by Schubert. But she still plays beautifully.

Recently I noticed that she doesn't wear the silver rings with the balls any more and so I asked her about them. She doesn't remember them. Maybe they weren't that significant to her...I mean, truth be told, I probably wouldn't remember every piece of jewelry that I've ever owned. The funny thing is that I remember them...so clearly. The way they hit the keys, the flick of her thumb, the way they looked so large against her slender finger, the warmth and contentment I felt as I sat and listened and watched her play.

My grandparents have long been dead, but they used to have these brown cord jackets that they used to wear. My opa's coat used to smell of pipe tobacco; my oma's coat of butterscotch lifesavers. I remember that too. I remember lots of other things about them too...things they used to say or do, bad things like when my Opa was sick, or their funerals, or how upset my mother used to get when my Oma was deteriorating. But those were things that happened. I just think that it's interesting the memories we have attached to inanimate objects: a cord jacket, a silver ring. I just think that it's interesting how sometimes we can recognize the significance of something as it happens, and other times it sort of slips into our memories benignly, and develops meaning and significance unconsciously. And then we remember...so clearly...as if it were yesterday.

Little bits of Luxury

This is how my mind works...my thought chains. Eve comments on my method of dressing a salad, I admit to learning it from Martha Stewart. I also learned how to fold fitted sheets from Martha Stewart. I have just recently purchased 400 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Thus, the topic of this post. I love these sheets...I promptly went out and bought matching pillow cases, and also upped the thread count of my duvet cover. I never knew what I was missing. They're like the cashmere sweater of the linen world. They're so soft they're almost like satin...but cotton. I just love curling up in my bed now...just excellent.

I've also recently invested in new towels. Last year when I moved in I bought one of those 3 pack for 10 bucks towels at Superstore. Why do I really need soft towels, I thought. But then with the acquisition of the high thread count sheets I started to wonder...maybe I should invest in new towels.

The final straw came when I stayed at The Swamp in Montreal. K...you boys live in a swamp, and yet your towels were far nicer and fluffier and softer and just better than mine. And that was it for me. If The Swamp has nice towels, than so should I. And so I went on a mission...and bought the softest, nicest, most expensive Egyptian cotton towels I could find. Hey...I've never really been one for moderation. Ahhh...they're huge and so soft and fluffy.

My quality of life has seriously increased. I've never had this stuff before. I never thought it was important. But these little bits of luxury just make me happy...randomly make me smile. A good investment I think.

Summer Photos, part 2

Summer Photos, part 1

What would mama say?

I ate ice cream for breakfast this morning. I was trying to figure out what to put in an omelette and I came across it in my freezer. I NEVER have ice cream in my house, and I decided that's what I really wanted, and...who's going to stop me?

Maybe I'll have breakfast for dinner. That would balance things out.

I slept in this morning too...till 11. And it was one of those get up at 9 to do something and then go back to bed afterwards kind of sleep ins...which I also NEVER do. Usually when I'm up...I'm up.

Hmm...I'm thinking this change of personality may actually hold a lot of potential for the day. What else can I do that I never do??

A License to Slow Down

"The Old Soul" wrote briefly today about the imminent arrival of fall (I think it's 10 o'clock tonight if the announcement on the radio was accurate at all), and it's gotten me thinking a bit about my own perceptions of the season. She seemed to take notice of the bleakness of the season. I, with respect, think I'm going to have to disagree.

Maybe it's my west coast upbringing and my inherent duck-like qualities, but my immediate perception of fall/winter is not that they are bleak. Perhaps a little less kick-up-your-heels and carefree, perhaps a little more serious. Granted, there's a little more rain, and a few more grey skies; I will freely admit that you do not see the sun for the months of November and February in Vancouver, for example. Of course I've also been known to say that you are truly a west coaster when you stop thinking that the rain is dismal and start thinking that it's cozy...but moving on...

I love the smell...Fall has a smell. If memory serves me correct, it is much more distinctive on the West Coast than in Montreal, for example. But it's still there. And it reminds me of all things cozy: crackling fires and steaming cups of freshly made chai, Thanksgiving and Christmas, skiing and the silence of snow. The silence of snow...I could write pages on that topic alone. When I was little my dad used to pack up the camping stove and take us on snow walks into the University Endowment Lands to the pond at the foot of the Clinton Hill. And we used to make hot chocolate in the snow. It's funny thinking back on it because I always remember thinking that it was this great trek we were going on. Then one day, walking the dog in the woods, I realized that we were walking past the very place of the hot chocolate cook outs. It's only about a 20 minute walk from my house. Not such a trek after all...but it's funny the perceptions we have as children.

I digress...Don't get me wrong...I love the summer. The summer is so go-go-go, and I love that about it. It's as if you want to suck every drop of sunshine and carefree laughter and childlike joy. It's like a license to be capricious and impulsive. I get the urge to have flings and fly off on spontaneous road trips. But it is almost exhausting...and I feel like sometimes you don't have a chance to catch your breath.

On the contrary, fall and winter are slower months...you're justified to stay indoors, dust off that book you meant to read all summer, brew a cup of earl gray or - even better - a cup of fresh chai, put on some Duke Ellington, pull up a footstool and a cat and just revel in the sheer delight of warmth and comfort. It's like a license to slow down. Maybe the bears have it right...maybe what we do is a sort of hibernation.

Oh...and then things like skiing and the feel of a brisk wind and a cold nose. The warmth and softness of a scarf and overcoat...oh...I could go on forever.

I'm looking forward to it...bring on the fall.

Great Salad Dressing

I made myself a salad for dinner last night, and in my true little of this little of that fashion made a salad dressing to go with it. Can't tell you quantitites because, like I say, it was a little of this and a little of that. But it was fantastic...and super easy. I just can't abide by store bought salad dressings when there are so many easy and healthy variations on a vinagrette that you can make yourself.

But the recipe goes something like this:

Olive oil (I go easy on the olive oil cause I don't like greasy lettuce)
The juice of one half fresh lemon
Little bit of rasberry infused red wine vinegar
Pinch of salt
Tons of pepper
Little bit of mustard powder
Splash of soy sauce
Just a touch of honey
Some non-fat parmesan cheese
Tiny tiny bit of garlic powder.

The pepper is key...I think it just makes the recipe.

I like to mix the dressing in the bottom of the salad bowl, and then throw the tomatoes, cucumbers, other hard veggies in the bowl and coat them with the dressing and let them marinate. Throw the greens on top but don't mix them until you are ready to serve.

So good...I think i'll make it again tonight.

A Little More Like Myself

Mmmm...had dinner tonight at the Keg with some friends of mine.
The first full meal I've eaten in about 2 weeks (between the ear infection and the fevers and the nausea and then the subsequent shrunken stomach I just haven't eaten).
But it was really good steak, and salad and baked potato and red wine, and great conversation. Mmm...sometimes it's just so nice to be satiated.
I'm starting to get my life back under control too. Wednesday is my crazy class day: 7 hours of class, and lots of the profs use the socratic method so you really have to be prepared. I actually was half decently prepared today. Not as good as it could have been, but I didn't sound like a complete turd answering questions.
I'm glad. When I'm not on top of my life I just feel completely wretched and anxious and frustrated.
Mmmm...they say patience is a virtue. It's just going to take a little patience to get entirely back to normal.

Terrible Twos

My kitten has discovered her appetite for destruction.
Ten minutes ago she launched herself from my couch onto the drapes that double as closet doors and pulled the whole contraption down.
Earlier today while I was at school she pulled the contents of her crate out and carried them all over the apartment, and then proceeded to rip apart her bed into little cotton puffs.
Now I'm watching her try and figure out a way to get into the laundry basket ....oops there she goes...oh crap who knows what she wants to do in there...operation retrieve Charlie from basket

I am profoundly sad today. I was supposed to try out for the competitive mooting teams today which is something that I am really really interested in doing. I have had the problem to work on since Tuesday, and have been too sick to even look at it until yesterday. Starting yesterday afternoon I attempted to prepare my submissions for moot court today, and finally about an hour ago, I was forced to throw in the towel. Even the questions I was asking myself I could not answer, and I had to face the fact that I was not going to be able to stand up to the judges.

I don't like to admit that I'm in over my head. I don't like to admit that I can't do something. But the only think I don't like to do more is do something half-assed. And so I withdrew.

I'm very sad. I really wanted to do this. Granted, there will be next year. But next year is not this year.

A Few Bumps in the Road

So...spent the day in the hospital yesterday...guess I wasn't so much on the road to recovery...or at least I hit one hell of a road block. But I'm back on course now. They gave me some good drugs. I have high hopes.

The Road to Recovery

I have been sick sick sick these past few days...like the kind of sick you'd imagine you might be if you happened to have a pandemic flu...or happened to be paranoid that you might have a pandemic flu.

I really am a crappy sick person though...I have zero sense of humor, and tend to wallow in self pity and whine and complain a lot. My friends only stopped by briefly to drop off OJ and gingerale and trashy magazines and other things that sick people enjoy, so Charlie took the brunt of the complaining. She withstood it well, mind you.

But my fever has broken...I feel like that should be a song...hmmm...

Oh...speaking of Charlie...she has developed a new habit...well 2 actually...one very cute...the other, not so cute. She is officially playing fetch now...but only at 5 AM. She wants to play, and I refuse to get out of bed...so she's figured out that she can bring the miniature foam soccer ball to me in bed and I will throw it for her. This is very cute, and I'm hoping that it will generalize to just regular play time. I'd like to have a soccer playing cat. Ok second habit...not so cute...she's taken to attacking feet and other moving parts under the covers....ok it is really cute to watch but in a stifle the laugh cause I'm gonna get in trouble if I don't scold her for it kind of way. This can be painful...unexpected, and potentially injurious. So far, nothing irreversible and I appreciate that the cat's got spunk, but I can see this having disastrous consequences. Any suggestions??

Whirlwind weekend

Things are starting to settle in around here...everyone is back from summer holidays, classes have begun...and so have the debaucherous nights.

I had one of those nights that keeps morphing over and over again such that it feels like many nights on Friday. It was the night of the first party of the school year, one known for many shenanigans, and much alcohol, and many stories stemming from the fall out.

My evening began with a cup of tea with a friend of mine at my house, while I assembled an ensemble for the evening (evening #1).

Then off to dinner: pizza and pitchers at a local dive with a group of friends (evening #2).

Then a wild cab ride that involved cursing the cabby for taking the worst route imaginable and some wild gesturing and a poor tip as a result (evening #3).

Then the crazy party - cups (for beer) cost $5 - I got mine for a kiss...I figured that was a good bargain. Then beers were 4 for $10, and I, for the life of me, was unable to pay for a single drink...so I started unloading my drink tickets off on random strangers (evening #4).

Then there was an outside bit where the part of Lindz was played by some crazy flitting social butterfly where she talked to about a hundred and fifty people or so in the course of about forty five minutes. I remember much giggling but not much of what was actually said (evening #5).

Then there was a bit when Lindz ran into her two most favorite crazy boys with whom she has developed a tradition of naughtiness. The last time they were all together there was some breaking into horse paddocks and drunken bareback riding. This time poor innocent Lindz was convinced to steal a completely hideous fake flower arrangement from the pool bar across the street. So the three characters walk out of the bar nonchalantly (Lindz has the arrangement) and into the parking lot. Lindz's poor heart is racing...she has never so much as shoplifted some candy. And then, just when she thinks they are in the clear the bartender comes out and says, "excuse me"...and we turn around, flowers in hand and sweetly say, "yes."...and she says with a very strange look on her face, "Umm..can I have that"...and Lindz smiles big and innocent as if to say...how on earth did these hideous flowers get into my hands, and says, "of course you can." And then we turn around and run away... And back at the party, Lindz is so excited about her adventure, and the crazy boys are telling the story as if it was the funniest thing ever, and then they accuse her of not completeing her mission because she got caught. But Lindz gets the last laugh...becuase in the midst of the adventure she popped a piece of pool chalk into her purse...and they never found that. Mission accomplished...the flowers were merely a decoy. (evening #6).

And then there was a dancing bit, which may or may not have involved some tango and some two stepping and maybe a dip or two. (evening #7).

And then Lindz saw some friends she hadn't seen all night, and they were off to Denny's...so she joined in and partook in a slammer, at 2AM. (evening #8).

And then Lindz was dropped off at home, and was about ready to step out of her heels, when her cell phone rang and the boy and his friends were on there way home from the bar, and on their way to a friend's house for drinks. So Lindz gave the kitten a kiss, turned around and walked back out her door and into the truck. And then the new crew made the long trek to the north side of the city, which admittedly is a bit of a black spot for poor Lindz...but she does remember it ending with a discovery that the owner of the home had forgotten her keys at her mother's house earlier that day.(evening #9)

Evening #10 involved breaking into said house through the window with the airconditioner...it was a complete comedy of errors with airconditioners dropping, and people being hoisted and squeezing through openings far too small for them, and all the while an enormous American Bull Terrier (or standard terrier...one or the other...he was huge)....running around our legs, whimpering and trying to figure out what was going on.

Evening #11 started with about a half a beer and then it was about four o'clock in the morning, and everyone went to bed. Evening #11 ended at 11AM the next morning when everyone awoke wondering where they were, with pasty mouths, overturned furniture, and a huge puddle on the floor where the airconditioner had leaked everywhere.

As for the fall out...well Lindz went to school today...and though this first party is infamous for the stories it generates...apparently none of them are about poor Lindz. This is excellent...apparently she behaved herself then.

Magic Ear Drops

Hallelujah, I'm cured.

I have been a miserable sack of cow dung this past week...sick and grouchy and miserable and awful. My sore throat progressed up into my ear, and last night I was in so much pain...I tried to drug myself...downed half a bottle of Buckley's...but you know that stuff...it tastes like they took all bad things on the planet and mixed them up in a bottle...it's like they're trying to make you puke.

Anyways so this whole thing is tinged by the fact that there was this huge fiasco with my health care and I'm wasn't sure that any province was covering me any more...this in the land of universal health care...but anyways. So five thirty AM rolls around...the kitten has decided that she wants to play fetch (we've been working on it all week...I'm very excited about it...good exercise for her)...I'm miserable and I decide that I'm going to call Alberta health care and yell at them for leaving me high and dry. So I do...and they're closed....so I cry. Then I think to myself - self...you never checked the mail yesterday...maybe your card came in the mail yesterday. So I go downstairs - bride of frankenstein hair...haven't brushed my teeth...slightly wild eyed...not a wink of sleep. And guess what...not only was the health care card there...but my student loan came through as well....Hallelujah...when it rains goodness...it pours goodness.

So off I go to the doctor...and he cures me and he gives me good drugs and some magic ear drops to take my pain away. I haven't had an ear infection since I was a kid. But I do have nightmarish flashbacks of shrieking in pain...I remember now. So it doesn't hurt any more, but my balance is still off...I bump into things, and get woozy from time to time. I've always thought that was wild...the connection between your inner ear and your balance.

Hmmm...there's a crazy beginning of year party at school tomorrow. Alcohol and an inner ear infection...reminds me of when we used to give blood so we could get drunk cheap.

Delinquency

I am home from my vacation now...and need another one to recover.

I have so much to say about the last few weeks...but the fact is I am unmotivated because I am ill. Sore throat, fever...all that good stuff. Montreal made me sick...and that makes me feel old. What...I can't handle a few days of partying any more or something??

Maybe I'll blame it on the flight home...people always get sick on planes, right??

But I will say that all you Montrealers...you certainly are hardcore. Because three days, and I'm having to start detoxing...in bed by ten, a ton of water, salad only, and no mind altering substances or cigarettes. I won't give up my coffee though...that would be a real tragedy...a girl's got to have her vice, right??

It was fun...I can't wait to do it again! Until next time.....I love you all.

Wine and weddings and road trips...oh my what a hangover!

I'm sitting in Seattle right now...hanging out at my friends' apartment. They are at work. I am not...lazy girl I am...the most productive things I've done today are take a shower, bang out Moonlight Sonata on their piano, poke through V. S. Naipaul's Beyond Belief, and check my email. The lady of the house should be back in an hour and then we'll have lunch and have one of our infamous this-is-the-reason-we-could-never-study-together-during-undergrad conversations and then I'll head back to Van, and the weekend will be over.

This was one of those weekends that felt like it went on forever...it seems impossible to believe that Friday was only three days ago. My sister and I had a shopping date with my mom during the day...and Friday night we had one of our phenomenal dinners with my crazy god parents. Fantastic Italian restaurant called Amacord. My father was in charge of reservations and of course neglected to make them...8 o'clock rolls around, our party is at the house drinking wine and eating brie with Leslie Stowe's Rosemary and Pecan crackers (seriously the most phenomenal cracker with a soft cheese...completely unbeatable...Eve, I'll bring a box with me)...and all of a sudden the question is where are we going to eat...good thing the owner of the restaurant likes my dad...he had things rearranged within a half hour and we were sitting down to eat. They do fantastic risotto there with wild mushrooms...and they'll half the size for you so that it's perfect for an appetizer (the gnocchi is also sensational), halibut with white wine and capers for a main, and enough tirimisu for the table to round out the meal. All of this washed down with a really great BC wine - I think it was a Sand Hill Pino Grigio. One of the most fun things about this restaurant is they will often serve you shots of liquor and squares of chocolate with your check: Frangelico, Sambuca, Amaretto. It's always disappointing to me that there is only one shot per person.

Saturday morning I awoke at the crack of 6 AM, nursing a mild hangover. I had to pick my friend up from the airport at 6:30...she was flying in from Alberta for our colleague's wedding in Qualicum Beach. And so we grabbed her luggage and hightailed it to the ferry which we took to Victoria. We had reservations at noon for high tea at the Empress hotel. I've never done this before, and though I hear that it is a rip off (54 bucks for a pot of tea and some finger sandwiches)...I also think that it's an experience to be had at least once....And my friend had never done it either. It was lovely...tea was served in a silver pot...we ate scones with clotted cream and smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches, and felt very Victorian. It was also very interesting for the people watching...I mean come on...this is high tea at the Empress...not happy hour at the Boom Boom Room....I don't think it's too much to ask middle aged women to bust out a bra...maybe leave the crushed velvet halter top in the hotel room...perhaps a pair of heels to replace the grimy old flip flops.

After tea we drove the Malahat up to Qualicum for the wedding, which was lovely...on the grounds of this old inn overlooking the ocean. There were bubbles...and we know how I love to blow the bubbles. Most of the guests were family of the bride and groom...and then the groom had some friends there. I was with a party of 5 of the bride's law school friends and, for the second time this summer at weddings, I felt a bit like the Witches of Eastwick or something. The ungodly single city girls whose dresses are cut too low, and who drink too much; who are ogled by the husbands and scorned by the wives. Example: the MC (single friend of the groom) decides that the clinking of glasses = bride and groom kiss rule only applies if the clinkers kiss first. Of course it's only women at our table and somehow after a few glasses of wine we were convinced to up the titilation factor by kissing eachother. Oi...and then yada yada yada...there may be some compromising pictures of me and the best man. I don't know why they let me out of the house alone. It's the problem with drinking wine out of carafes...if you have the bottles, then you see them on the table and can monitor your consumption...but with carafes and waitresses who are on the ball...I probably had the better part of two bottles of white wine over the course of the night...or maybe more. Oh well...it was a good time.

Sunday morning came far too quickly. I had promised the bride and groom that I would drive them to Seatac in Seattle, where they were leaving for their honeymoon in Costa Rica. I figured that it would be a way to get my gas paid to visit my friends in Seattle. We thought that four hours would be plenty of time to take the ferry across and drive down to seattle...2 for the ferry...2 for the drive to Seattle. Alas, border line ups and crazy construction on the highway...we left the hotel at 1:15PM and we arrived at Seatac at 9PM on the dot. It was a LONG trip...especially given our hungover conditions. That being said...great tunes...good conversation...I can't exactly complain. Then...bottle of wine with my friends...yams with butter and brown sugar which I've never had and absolutely loved...and then one of the deepest, soundest sleeps in my recent history.

And that brings me to now. It was a good weekend...the kind that leaves you glowing...and also slightly hung over.

We had a perfect day sailing yesterday...me and my dad. We took the boat late morning and spent all afternoon criss crossing the harbour, manouvering around the half dozen freighters that awaited unloading. The sky was completely clear, there was a light wind...maybe 15-20 knots coming in from the straight...the sea was fairly calm. The wildlife was plentiful: tons of harbour seals, bald and golden eagles, and blue herons.

We took turns pilotting on each tack, trying to beat top speed of eachother...my dad won...he cracked 6 knots once. But we were just smoking...averaging about five and a half through most of the afternoon. The boat had a good heel going...usually about 15 degrees or so...but once my dad had it over at about 25 degrees. That takes trust, it does. I was perched in my favorite position, up on the high side of the boat, with my feet dangling over the edge...it's a rush when you heel over that far.

My favorite part is probably the coming about...it's so exciting....one person at the helm, one person manning the sheets. At the cue, the pilot spins the wheel, and the boom slams across, one sheet is loosed and the other pulled, fighting against the wind, and then cranking the winch so that the genoa is taut...and the boat rolls in the surf, and the wind catches in the sail, and all of a sudden you feel this sudden lift as the boat surges forward, propelled by nothing but the force of the wind. It's so quiet...the only sound is the wind and the surf...as the hull of the boat cuts through the water. I remember one time, when I was about 12, we were crossing the Georgia Straight under sail, and all of a sudden we were surrounded by a school of porpoises...and because we were so silent, they grew bold enough to approach the boat...and they ran along side of it, diving under the bow, playing in the wake. We have a picture...it is one of my fondest memories.

I miss the ocean...I think more than anything. It never ceases to amaze me the power of the ocean and the sea air to clear the mind, and calm the heart. And it does great things for the hair too.

The Fat Lady is on in Five.

So that's it...summer is officially ending...my job is finished...I fly out today sans lip gloss. Three weeks of vacation...and then summer is o-v-e-r. So...wow.

I'm not really in a place to be profound today...I went to my friend's stagette last night. She's getting married on the island next weekend. I've never been to a classic, ridiculous, penis-cup, suck-for-a-buck kind of stagette, which this was. Because most of us are in law, and TOTAL geeks...there was a theme...I'm embarrassed to even say it..."prisoners of love"...we were all outfitted in black and white with hand cuffs and whips....and bubbles (which aren't exactly related to the theme...but I love bubbles and they were definitely the novelty of the night). It was completely out of control...by the time we let our boys join us at about 1 or so, there was speaker dancing and body shots on the bar.

I love the time of the night between bar closing at two...and stumbling back to the apartment at 5:30...the slow trickle out of the bar, jovial conversations outside, stolen street corner kisses, wanderings shoeless because you're done with the heels and you see nothing wrong wandering barefoot through downtown, back to someone's apartment for "just one more" (I love the people who show up for the one last drink...some old friends, some you just met that night - drunken comraderie...it's fantastic) and then the slow dispersion of your evening companionship as everyone tends to leave two by two...yada yada yada. It just seems like that time can never last long enough...so contented...happy.

But one thing that I wanted to mention was this dish we had at one of the bars. Stuffed strawberries...seriously...I think this is what prompted the allowance of boys because these things were utterly orgasmic, and totally easy to make on your own. Superripe, supersweet strawberries...cut off the green, stand upsidedown. Cut off the pointy end and add melted chocolate and a dollop of whipped cream...replace the end and then drizzle caramel all over the strawberries and the plate. Of course the better the quality of the ingredients, the better the experience - I think this whipped cream was infused with vanilla bean, for example, and the caramel was nice and thin...perfect for dipping the strawberry...you could probably also add some kind of liquor to the chocolate or something like that...but seriously...the memory is still on my lips.

It was a good night...I wish every night could be that good.

Things that make you go hmmm??

First of all...sometimes, just when I think that the world is no damn good, people are just fantastic and I love them. Charlotte will be well taken care of during my vacation...three different homes, everyone more than willing to help me help her. I'm so happy!! And she's doing so well...she's taking her medicine with some resistance but without too much complaint and she's gaining weight, becoming more brave and investigative, and purring all the time. My colleagues call me her "mommy"...but I'm averse to that title..."custodial guardian"...we'll see about the "mommy" thing...in time.

Secondly...I confonted a stereotype that I never even knew I had today. I spent my lunch hour at an outreach today. A shelter for hookers on the "skid row." And you know one of the things that I was most suprised at?? The amount of men, and transgendered women that were there. I guess I just had this image of bleached blond, strung out, emaciated women with fuck me heels ...I guess I just never gave much thought to the composition of the hooking population. A coworker and I hung out there for a couple of hours....they call her "Blondie", me "Pretty Eyes"...we're technically there to answer legal questions, provide resources, that sort of stuff...so we chatted with people, ate ice cream sandwiches, watched a bit of Pet Cemetary opened some files. At one point there was an altercation between two of the women - one straight, one transgendered. And the woman who runs the place called a group meeting. Apparently the "street" has been present more and more in the shelter these past six months...I gathered that she meant that there had been more and more violence and problems recently. She opened the floor up for comments from the people there (probably 25 or 30 in total). One women commented that she didn't understand why there were so many men there. And one of the men stood up - other than rather feminine clothing, he lived as a man - most of the men there lived as women (I'm not sure I'm explaining this very well) - and his comment was that he had been coming there for five years, and he didn't know where he would be if it wasn't for this place. And then, with a sudden burst of emotion, he said, "You all know that I'm out there every night sucking cock just like the rest of you." I'm not sure I have any other comments about this. But I do know that my reaction to it was surprise...and then surprise that I was surprised. I guess it's like it's one thing to know...know with your head. And it's another thing to "know"...know with your heart. And at that moment I knew with my heart that this was real...that these lives were real...that these women, these men they were all real...and that my own perceptions of what life on the streets was like were not real. But the thing is...I could spend every single day at that shelter...and I could "know" with my heart what real was for these ladies, but the difference is that every single night I go home and I curl up in my cozy apartment with my adorable kitten, or I stress about my boy situation, or I hang out with my girlfriends and drink wine, or I do any one of the things that I have talked about here in the past little while - but they...they are out on the streets sucking random cock for $30 a pop. Man...we judge...so easily.

I was having this one conversation with a meth head today (man...meth heads and their teeth...for me that's a for sure reason never to touch the stuff)...but regardless...she's not hooking much these days. A few months ago she had a bad date - john threw her out of the car and then ran over her leg. She's permanently crippled now, has had two surgeries on her leg, and another one scheduled for October. She has bi-polar disorder, diabetes, and a whole host of other problems in addition to her addiction - she looks way older than her 35 years. Anyways, she had some questions about her conditional sentencing order relating to a criminal conviction a little while ago...so we started chatting, and were chatting when the outburst occurred. So I asked her what she thought...why there had been increasing problems. Her answer was that there were some bad drugs on the street right now...bad mixes, bad varieties, just bad. And then she said that there were always more problems in the summer because there were more people on the streets - it's warm...hookers don't like to stand out in the cold. So in the summer there are more people competing for johns...and, consequently, less money to go around. The combination of the two makes people edgy...and angry. I've never given much thought to the social dynamics of the street.

Ok...and then a totally different and totally shallow, superficial, vain comment...but important to me and I don't give a damn what it says about me. I am very upset that I apparently am no longer allowed to take lip gloss on airplanes. I can deal with the no liquids thing...but my lip gloss...that's crossing the line for me.

I have a baby!

Our office in the twilight zone or something like that because the most bizarre things happen there. We have law offices upstairs, downstairs, and on the same floor, and we're all pretty friendly...we shoot the shit from time to time.

Yesterday afternoon one of the receptionists came up from downstairs with a tiny kitten in her arms. Apparently one of the lawyers discovered her on the street, and actually thought that she had hit her with her car. The kitten had a bit of a messed up eye, and a bit of a bloody nose, but she was eating well, and drinking water, and was a complete cuddler. She is black with green eyes, white socks and a little pink nose. Soo cute.

The issue then was who was going to take her. All we've been hearing around town was how crowded the pounds are, how the SPCA has no room at the inn, and the fear was that if we took her in that she would be euthanized.

Suddenly, all eyes are on me...yes, I have mentioned getting a cat, yes I love cats, but I had decided that my apartment was just too small, and I just couldn't afford it. Besides...I leave in four days, off on my whirlwind cross continental trip...for three weeks.
All of a sudden money is slapped on the table - there...take her to the vet; homes are offered up - there, we'll take care of her while you're gone; and the guilt trips were served on a silver platter - If you don't take her, she might be put to sleep.
And so before I knew it, I was taking a kitten in a box to the vet. I have to give her penicillin wiith an oral syringe, and eye drops - neither of which does she particularly enjoy. She doesn't live in a box any more, of course. She has her own little palace now, lined with this furry pillow thing and cashmere scarves, and little lambs in ballerina costumes stuffed with cat nip. She's going to be spoiled rotten this kitten - I can't help myself.

I'm trying to socialize her to the kennel so that I can travel with her, and bring her to work...shit like that. But this is proving difficult. Last night she cried when I closed the door (though she's sleeping quite soundly in there now)...I made the mistake of hanging water for her on the door...and then she got upset and tried to get out, and dunked herself in water, which made her even more upset (so cute though, all water logged). So I took her out, removed the water, and towelled her off and gave her a hug and then put her back. I gave in a little bit. She had to sleep in her bed...but I put the bed on my bed so she could sleep next to me. She stopped crying after that. And then at five thirty when she woke up I let her out so she could curl up next to me. I figured she deserved a reward for sleeping through the night.

Her name is Charlotte. When I first met her, we weren't sure if she was a boy or a girl...so I named her Charlie...I figured that was pretty ambiguous. But now I know, and so now its Charlotte...Charlie for short.

Update: She wasn't found on the street...she was found in the middle of the fucking highway...this cat has some kind of survival instinct. Her finder actually thought she was dead on the highway and drove over top of her...like she was lying in between the wheels. The lawyer looks in the rear view mirror and sees Charlotte get up and have some kind of fit (I suppose I would as well if a car ran over top of me)...Lawyer freaks out (is a total animal lover), slams on the break and rescues Charlotte....takes her to court...brings her back...the rest is history.

Moving Day

Our office is moving today...across the hall. Our benefactors have decided to take our old office space and turn it into an elaborate reception area. I'm not complaining, our new office has hardwood floors, fresh coat of paint, bona fide interview rooms rather than just partitions. Nothing like a move to make me feel all fresh and clean again. It's motivated me to go over my files, clean up my desk, start fresh.
When I was a kid and my mom started to feel restless or upset or disconcerted in anyway, she would always change up the furniture in her house. Either move it to different rooms, or just move it around the room...and of course when you move the furniture you have to clean out the cabinets and drawers and reorganize. Afterwards she would feel calm...like she had a new house, like her life was now orderly and fresh. Though it was just a superficial makeover of a room, it manifested a psychological makeover as well.
I think I've inheirited her tendency...the best way to cheer up for me is to reorganize my closet...clean it out...rearrange it by color and type of clothing, reorder the hangers so they are color coordinated and hanging in the same direction, refold and coordinate all of the clothes in my drawers. I know it sounds like a cheesy metaphor - cleaning out my closet - but it really is rather cathartic. Same with moving or reorganizing in general...it's like creating order in my surroundings helps to maintain order in the chaos that is my mind.

Communication is a marvelous thing

How often do I argue with someone only to realize that we're both saying the same thing, albeit in a different way? Too many, that's for sure.

I have exactly 4 days of work left...which blows my mind. I just don't know where the summer has gone. Granted, I spent a good portion of it being depressed: combination of sister strife, career chaos, and just general decision making dilemmas. Now that I feel like I have things under control, I just want the summer to last and last. Alas, 'tis not to be.

But you know one thing that I really did realize was that considering and evaluating the decision is the difficult part...but committing to it, if it's the right decision, is so easy. Sometimes, for me I think that the hardest part is closing the doors, rather than opening them...if that makes any sense. That, and doing something that deviates from the plans that my parents have for me. But even then, the scary thing isn't doing the thing, it's telling them about the thing that I'm doing - again...not sure if that makes sense. Hell, it took me six years to get up the courage to tell them that medical school wasn't for me...it only took me six months to tell them that civil law isn't for me...or not that it isn't for me, but that I prefer the alternative. Hell, that's an improvement if you ask me - 6 years to 6 months. My mother thinks that if I practice criminal law, I'm going to wind up getting murdered by one of my clients...she's a worrier...and into the melodrama. I also think she watches too much Law & Order.

I went out to the farm this weekend - without the boy. This was good, I think...I have perspective again...I set the rules for a reason, before I got all suckered in...and I think that I still want to abide by them. Truly, we would never work relationship wise...but we are very compatable other wise and that's fine by me.

I learned how to use a riding lawn mower this weekend, and I cut acres of grass...and then ran over a piece of barbed wire which buggered up the blades, and took me and 2 middle aged men to pull out (I wasn't strong enough, their arms weren't small enough...it worked out between the three of us). It was very fun...but I got a wicked sun burn...OUCH!

Though there may be plenty of guys in the sea...

...sometimes you want the one on the end of your pole. Or so I'm told by my oh so wise colleague.

I hate this...I didn't want this, I got suckered into this, and now I'm both grrr and neurotic, and I hate feeling neurotic. But you know what this means...it means that the bastard got under my skin. I have lost control.

Never did like fishing...stupid jack ass.

Hmmm...it's pouring rain right now. It suits my mood.

It's Always Nice To Hear I Love You

One of my crack smoking clients professed his love for me to one of my colleagues today. Apparently we have really interesting conversations and I smell good...or something like that.

My colleagues tease me because I always find myself in situations requiring hugging a crying stranger in the courthouse bathroom, or gentle rejections of marriage proposals. I made a homeless guy an egg sandwich a few weeks ago, and included in his lunch bag carrots, yoghurt, V-8, and multivitamins - they teased me about that for weeks. But, I'm sorry, doncha think that the homeless guy - of all people - could use a few multivitamins. The other day I interviewed a client with some serious anger issues - beats his girlfriend, and the police, and the postal workers...shit like that. I was in the office with my two beefy frat boy colleagues, and they were hovering outside the interview room waiting for him to launch himself across the desk aiming to strangle me. He didn't...he wound up crying instead. My frat-boys promptly bestowed upon me the award for best interview of the summer. Meh...everyone has their issues.

It's nice to be loved...even by druggies with criminal records as long as my arm. Probably won't take them home to Mom...generally want to use hand sanitizer after our meetings...but it's still nice to be loved.

Why is vulnerability such a scary thing?

This is probably going to wind up being a little more personal then I would like...but I had the girls over tonight and I've had too much chocolate and just enough red wine to feel like telling some self truth.

I've alluded to my controlling nature on more than one occasion. I like to compartmentalize my life, down to segregating my friends from eachother: high school friends here, McGill friends there, law school friends here, UBC friends there, work friends some place else...and boys...well they get a whole spot in my life to themselves. I don't like them to mingle...it gives me anxiety on the odd occasion when I consent to worlds colliding. My high school friends tease me that they won't meet a boyfriend until after the wedding. I laugh...but there is a kernel of truth to it.

I don't know what it is...I profess about how wonderful my friends are...how accepting and unconditional their friendship is. I believe that...after all, these are people who helped me get over unbelievable insecurity issues that I left high school with...those who shall remain nameless may recall an early meeting involving me beating my head against a metal door frame. I tell my new friends about the Lindz of days past and they don't believe me. And it's true...I am confident now...and fiercely independent, and stubborn as all hell. So I'd like to think that I don't believe or care about what my friends think of eachother, or of my boyfriends or of me for being involved with all of the above. I'm more inclined to believe that my issues in this regard are a vestige of the past - a sliver of non-confidence in my own decisions - a reminder that I once was not so decisive - the tell tale heart in my closet of skeletons...maybe I'm just not good enough...and maybe everyone will be able to see it if he is generalized to the rest of my life.

But I don't have the luxury this time around...he's a relative of my boss...he's now met everyone that I work with...I've met his parents for crying out loud...my tell tale heart is thudding in my ears...and revealing itself in newly developed neuroses. This was supposed to be casual. This was supposed to last exactly three weeks until I left for my vacation. I offered him supposedly what every guy wants...sex with no strings. I was very up front about it...I got verbal confirmation (albeit somewhat manipulated...but I'm not going to go there here). And yet here we are...and I'm playing the multiple phone calls a day and cute text messages, and playfulness and flirting...and I feel like I'm being wooed for crying out loud. And I don't know how things went off the rails...I remember when...in crystal clear technicolor because the alarm bells started clanging loudly, but I don't know know how. My colleague says that the simple explanation for all of this is that I stole the remote control. He says that men like to control the relationship, just like they like to control what is watched on tv. I set the parameters of what was game and what was off limits (namely: any sort of emotional attachment), and I made the "relationship" forbidden fruit...and that's why he wants it now. Well shit...if I'd known that's how the game was played, I may have done several things differently in the past.

Regardless...I now find myself in a position where I feel like I'm losing control a little bit...capitulating just a little bit. This is usually the point at which I turn tail and run...hence my laundry list of "the ones who got away."

See, I think that part of my self-growth, en-confidencing procedure was to become independent, and to be able to rely on myself. Travelling - China, India, South - East Asia - that was a huge factor there...learning to rely on myself. But I think I've gone too far in the other direction. I resist relying on anyone for anything...including orgasms. No, seriously...it's about reliability...consistency...dependability. The fact of the matter is that people are flakey...they let you down...they lose interest....and then you get hurt...or disappointed...or heart broken. And then I worry that maybe my self confidence is too fragile, too young to withstand a blow like that. Yeah but the really fucked up thing is that I really am a romantic at heart...a cynical romantic. It reminds me of the first verse of that Stevie Wonder song, "I Believe (When I Fall In love It will Be Forever)":

Shattered dreams, worthless years,
Here am I encased inside a hollow shell,
Life began, then was done,
Now I stare into a cold and empty well
The many sounds that meet our ears
the sights our eyes behold,
Will open up our merging hearts,
And feed our empty souls

Ha.. that's me...emotionally void - a cold and empty well - yet still holding out hope for prince Charming. The problem is that even if I met him...I'd probably run. My red wine buzz has worn off now...I should probably publish this before I lose my nerve.

I Suppose I Should Put My Money Where My Mouth Is

My God...it's like Christmas

Library of Congress - Prints & Photographs Reading Room

Quick follow up

Because I get obsessive, I found a series of Pulitzer Prize Photographs, accompanied by the photographer's thoughts at the time. I think it's interesting to hear what they have to say.

Eve...a few days ago you wrote a post about what one might be thinking right before they die...I think that the 1968 Vietcong Execution picture captures, among other things, that perspective quite well.

A Snapshot

I took some photos when I was out at the farm last weekend...of tractors and fields and farmhouses and such and I've been paint-shopping (not photo-shopping, I'm not made of money) some of them this afternoon...which is a very powerful thing, I have to say. With a wave of my magic eraser I can make backgrounds disappear, change the color of peoples' eyes.
Photography is, by far, my preferred art medium...and it's also one of my secret if I could be anything what would I be professions. I would love to be a photojournalist.
This is not to pretend that I am any good at the art....I have never been a particularly creative person after all...but I am better...better than I once was. I think it was India that really inspired me...a true playground for the senses. The colours, and the extremes of society - the vividness of life in that country just beg to be photographed.
Photography as a medium that just inspires me...I think that part of it is the realism, and part of it is that I have the sense that time was stopped...captured, lassoed. Whether it be important world events, or human nature and behavior, or the pure asthetic pleasure of nature a la Ansel Adams, we can stop time or rewind it with photography. Along with the images, the memories of those who have died, the smells and sounds of places seen, the emotions and feelings of experiences...all can be powerfully relived. For me, photography captures emotion better than other art forms...a depth in the eyes, a vibrancy in the colours - life, in all it's beauty and all it's frightfulness. Because there is also a raw-ness to photos...while beauty can be highlighted, ugliness cannot hide. Some of the most famous photos in history have been of brutal subjects but have supported or prompted political movements, social movements, legal movements: [disclaimer: the following are very harsh, but important, I think] the napalm girl, Gerri Twerdy Santoro and the consequences of illegal abortion, the baby and the fireman after Oklahoma city...anything awarded a Pulitzer prize.
I'm not a total pessimist...my favorite photo of all time we used to have hanging in our living room on Pine: Ella Fitzgerald singing in a smoky jazz bar with Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman sitting in the audience. It may seem like an odd choice for a favorite photo. I love it because I wish I had been there...sitting in that bar...I can almost smell the smoke...I can almost hear the music...I can almost taste the whiskey. Those people - the three of them - are some of the most marvellous artists in my opinion, and I would kill to have spent just one night in their presence.
They say that a picture is worth a thousand words...but I think it is also worth a thousand feelings, a thousand emotions...a thousand nightmares...a thousand dreams.