Friday, February 27, 2009

Dinosaur Jr.

Two posts back, one post forward. If you were wondering, I deleted what I could while I could to save face. It is never okay to name drop on the Internet. It is not my style and yesterday's post about swimming lessons and my inexplicable feelings towards lost loves were just that, inexplicable. Sorry I came to that. Name dropping, it is not usually my style. Thus, delete. No one wants to be that girl, hung up. So, I am sorry for being that girl. Hung up.

Onward and upward. Resolution sans guilt.

Tonight was a night of forgetting a day spent crying into sourdough dough. I had dinner with my lovely brother at our favorite restaurant and he dropped me at my friend Leigh's who is fresh off the Paris boat and still jet lagged. There were six people at his "I am home" party and that was the perfect amount. Conversation was fluid and thoughtful, interchanging, chameleon-like and warm all at the same time. Arms were waved, six bottles of wine enjoyed over six different veins of conversation, plus. We spoke of design, art, child rearing, baby names, espresso beans, old jobs, future jobs, the choosing of partners, the benefits of young marriage, the benefits of late marriage, birth control, male birth control (wtf), wood working, custom trades, Montreal friends (Loco and JJ) and so on. Rob rubbed his hands together in the middle of everything and we all followed suit because it felt necessary, and it felt great. I love Rob Vilar and his musical taste. He has a great radio voice. We all spoke in circles and squares and traded partners of conversation until everyone was tired. Then Leigh started making espresso around midnight and again we launched back into it all. Nils walked me home. Him in his Sorels and offered his married arm to me because my stylish brogues had no grip. On the way home we spoke arm in arm of architecture down Assinaboine, Montreal over the Osborne bridge, moped high hopes and top secret opportunities well into the Village. He is great company.

I only bailed once on Nassau and thankfully he was long in bed with his lovely lady before he saw me splay knees first on uneven turf. I fell, laughed, picked myself up and crawled into my own bed, happy for the friends and neighborhood and community I have. Grateful, beyond happy even. I lay down happy and hopeful for the weekend (and art show that I have my first silk screen prints in) that lies ahead and the dancing that has yet to be danced. Everything looks promising, even though I reek of Parisian cigarette smoke not smoked by me. Second hand Parisians. I will take what I can get.

Glad to have you home Leigh. One down, a hundred friends to go. Everyone always comes back to the nest. Thankfully, there is espresso late, late in the night and night bottles of Malbec and foreign chocolate until they arrive.

With wings flapping in anticipation, Madge.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Babies on a clothesline.

I thought my baby fever had finally broken but apparently it has returned; with a vengeance. I cruised down to Martha Street today to shoot some new screens for the new projects festering in my brain and to eat a sandwich as I printed solo while my other freshly coated screens stood to dry. I listened to Jenny Lewis, sang along loud in the comfort of the empty studio and ripped through a shit tonne of ink. Jeannette came with a real fever and printed doilies on one of the grocery bags that Jill made for us. It looked pretty bonkers. Sadly, I was game to start printing on my grocery tote but the idiot who coated my screen did it too thick leaving me no choice but to pressure wash it and start from scratch. (As annoying as that was, it felt nice to know that someone knew less about coating than I did; not being a complete rookie anymore is awesome).

A few weeks ago while visiting Yosh in the woods, we stopped in at the feeding frenzy that is Steinbach MCC on a Saturday morning after breakfast. I stocked up on a bunch of fabric and other cool knick-knacks as it was "Bag Day" which pretty much means you are handed a paper shopping bag the moment you walk in the door by someone with a thick beard and an even thicker accent who says simply, fill it for five bucks; so you do. You just do it. I was nearly spilling with joy and my bag was nearly spilling with some of the things I found (half duck boots half winter Sorel boots, WTF? Awesome). I very nearly cashed in my bounty at the till when the baby section caught my eye. Mid step, I heaved my body in that direction and Yosh's shoulders heaved in disbelief. More? Can you actually fit more shit into that bag Megan? Are you serious?!? That is what his eyes said as I sprinted across the room with a certain joie de vivre. (Whatever. I have put in hours and hours feigning interest over musical instruments at Mothers and a million other music stores in this city with that man).

Now, it must be said. I have a weakness for the baby section in every store whether it be high or low end. It makes no difference (except maybe the smell, but who really cares anyway). I am my mother's daughter and my sister's sister one hundred percent when it comes to justifying the sometimes outrageous, sometimes not so outrageous price tag attached to cutsie baby clothes. If it is thirty bones for a pair of the softest leggings in the world; you buy them because they are the softest leggings in the world. If you stumble upon a leather skirt for a two month old, you buy it even if no one has a two month old. A two month old worthy of that leather skirt will come along eventually. We all do it. It is totally insane. Now back to Steinbach MCC's Bag Sale. Considering the economic plight we are currently swimming like desperate dogs in, I perused the ailses with enthusiasm. Ideas were flying in my head as my fingers grazed through the racks of teensy underthings, white snappy onesies, cloth diapers, baby long johns, you name it. Just like in any store I enter, I was shopping by feel. My fingers ripping these bite sized articles from their hangers the second I felt good cotton. I was also looking for anything white or plain. I found about ten satisfactory things and one really good piece and made my way to the till. Yosh was waiting patiently as always and I slid my five dollar bill across the counter feeling a bit guilty for the highway robbery I just pulled off.

To bring this back to Martha Street, I put some of my white baby clothes to good use and silk screened the shit out of them with Jill's baby in mind. Forks and knives, mauve doilies and hotplates dappling my now not-so-plain onesies. I am psyched. Below is the first yield of the fruit of my labor. It only took about ten tries to get the right consistency. I think I have found my calling: silk screen and baby clothes. Now I need a baby model and my Nikon and I am set.

Someone have a baby already. Baby Maiya, baby Norah, baby Solomon, baby Maddy? I will happily set one of you up against a Ukrainian doll backdrop. Call me.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Frownzen is missed.

James if you are reading this underneath a tree in China, I miss you. I do not know what to tell you about that mental girl who wanted to throw the rock at your face. Maybe Chinese girls are just tripping. Or maybe she was on the rag. It happens.

This man, in case you were wondering, is the best man. He took off running for China a million months ago for the second time and I haven't heard much since. No news is good news. We are blood and I feel good about that. Fingers are crossed that all is well on your end in the land of opulence, James.

The very best regards, Cousin Meg.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Paris in the Springtime.

One year ago today, I wrote this

2/21/08 Switzerland
Madge is going to lurk outside tents at Fashion Week with Puke Marvin. 1:47pm

in hot anticipation of this, and this, and this, and this

of Paris Fashion week. I vowed to go back, with money in my pockets in order to do it right. At twenty one, a girl should lurk outside of tents at Fashion Week. I spy, Chloe, Karl Lagerfeld, Luella Bartley tents. Alexander Wang was still under the radar. It was totally mental.

Anyway, I am on home turf this winter and there is not fashion tent or cheese shoppe within a million miles. And it is okay.

Also, I bought Jenny Lewis' Acid Tongue album on vinyl and it is totally blowing my mind in half. Insanity.

Ana Bananicka Bolicka Walicka.

Yesterday I went to the thrift store in hopes of finding a cache of clothes for my planting job that starts at the beginning of May. I came home with an armload of amazing gear. Inspired to dress for outdoor exercise in my new/old finds, I pumped my tires and put on my helmet (which I have worn every single day this winter thankyouverymuch) and hopped on my sparkling beloved and went for a twenty mile ride to the park and back, stopping at Grant Park and McNally to pick up pictures and then to Bar I for coffee on my way home. Solid start to the day. Nothing gets me going more than ripping in traffic, nodding to other riders just as psyched as I am that the streets are finally dry enough to ride on with slicks without facing death every time you weave in between lanes.

There is not much to report today. I have having lunch with my old high school chum, Jon Dueck who is an accountant and has a grown up job. With that in mind, he can still drink me under the table and today is his turn to buy lunch. We always eat at the same table at Stella's. Good man. On that note, I should shower and wear something more appropriate than tights-as-pants. Gross. I walked into Bar Italia today in my cycling outfit and as usual Abi thought I was a dude. EVERY TIME. This morning, the nostalgic station played the song "Chickery Chick Tra La Tra Lee" that my Grandma taught me when I was really little. I think that song was first recorded in 1946. I started singing along while cleaning my bike and all of the sudden I jerked my head towards the record player where it was playing out of and said "Ohhhhhhhhh, Grandma!". Love you Helen, Helen, Helen.

Anna Bananica Bolica Walica can't you see? Chickery Chick is me.
Rebecca Louise, I miss you SO much.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Forget the Chloe's.

This photograph below is a preview of my late twenties/early thirties that are to come. Let it be said. Someone leaned over this night and kindly pointed out I have interesting features and perhaps I have not yet grown into them. Damn straight. Thirty is the new everything. Life keeps looking better and better and if I went outside dressed in an outfit such as hers tomorrow, or in two months, or in five years, it would still be in brilliant taste each time.

Memo to self, collect clothes that age with you.

Come to think of it, I have three noteworthy pieces in my modest lifelong collection that stand out: One, the magnum opus of my reserve is a black crepe overlay dinner coat lined with silk satin that is without a doubt, a show-stopper; Two, also black, my men's alligator portfolio that cost me well over half the rent but was simply so justifiable and so damn beautiful I didn't even consider not getting it. I found it two years ago in Paris with Kit and Rabbi standing guard as I travelled toward it like a bee to the hive and have long vowed to cart this minivan sized carry-all around on my shoulder until death do us part. The third piece is a mink fur stole that my Grandmother bestowed upon me. It sounds like regal heirloom (and it is), but Helen Helen Helen probably stitch ripped the shit out of that thing from the collar of some ratty coat and threw it haphazardly onto the Self Help pile. (On the same note, I remember finding a beer cooler with a cool shoulder strap in a similar give away pile and wore that thing as a purse religiously for about two months straight when I was ten. Even to church. Duracel, represent. My hat collection is also worth mentioning at this point. While I am not one for maintaining a fashion blog or posting daily What-I-Wore recounts, I will happily talk your ear off about clothes that make my heart race. These things, do me in.

Forget the Chloe's, the Mary Kate's, the Aggy's, the Kate's, the Lara's, this is the type of woman that if I would see in the street, I would automatically respect her based on individual style. Cool, collected, classic and baby bit weird. It works and she wears it well. I hope some tripping teen born in the new millennium will say something along those lines in regards to my taste ten years from now.

Yosh and Cindy.

I was thinking of Yosh today.

The last time I saw him the winds picked up so wildly and almost threatened to blow us off the road entirely in the forest near to where he lives. We were driving down a dirt road in B.F. nowhere, listening to the Hip, presumably high as kites, laughing loud. I made him stop the wagon, get out and walk backwards in the wind so I could take pictures of him. He never questions my demands and he never needs an explanation. Never raises an eyebrow at my impulse photography, or my urge to lie flat on my back on his floors (which I always end up on for some reason), and never ever steals a judgmental glance in my direction when I shriek in Steinbach's KFC. This is why we are friends. The wailing coming from inside the car wailed on as the wind took over. Hair everywhere, voices lost in the air currents. I watched him laughing through my camera's lens and I remember feeling so happy to be there. Eventually we got back in the car, back on the excuse for a road, back into his second story music room with the view that looks into a sea of a million towering birch trees and drew and drank and ate and listened the afternoon away. That was the last time I saw Yosh.

We fought the wind and the wind won. And then. This.

Today I was perusing the vast sea that is the Internet and stumbled upon a picture that looks so akin to Yosh it is uncanny. This is not him, but this is what he will look like when he has babies. I cannot wait to see what type of father this man will become. If luck will have it, I will be nestled in that music room on Saturday. My ticket out of the city. I long for the quiet found circling inside those birch trees.

We will see.



My name is Meg and I have a case of the Winter blues. Considering that we are well into February's clutches, I think I did pretty well keeping various demons at bay up until this very moment. On this note, I am going to go for a run. The demons will come regardless, but at least running will keep my ass at bay. Cream soups have engulfed me completely. I need to get out of here.

Oh dear me.

Don't worry mum, this is not a "Dry Bathtub" situation. This is a walk in the park in comparison. This is merely a case of "I am dead jealous that my best friend is in South America without me" and also a mild flare up of "My body is ghost white" and not to mention a manifestation of "One year ago today I was in Switzerland running ten miles a day and deciding what in God's name to wear to Paris Fashion Week" situation. Easily manageable, thanks. Thanks for being in Bali for a month without your alabastard children.

Below is how I feel/look today.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

When I lived alone.

Band of Horses sifted through the dripping laughter bar-side today at my favorite neighborhood haunt. Their lyrics of songs I had long since filed away in the accordion system in my head stood out in the forefront of my thoughts while sitting there and pronounced themselves as I perched on a bar stool, so thoughtfully. With Alfie on my left, Corydon legends who have long adopted the said bar counter as their 9-5 desk real estate to my right, two barista connoisseurs at twelve o'clock, one brilliant Winnipeg filmmaker at eleven thirty, three old schools, two Sundaes and one beer later, conversation was light and sincere. Our cut off finger gloves matched, his exposed skin naturally darker than my ghost winter-white. Our friends and their lovers are baking golden brown in far reached corners of the world as we speak, and we sit at the same bar every afternoon. Left behind, collectively broke as a joke. But not for long.

I left Bar I distracted by many things on my brain, needing to write something down but not knowing where to begin, and yet never waivering for a moment over whether or not to pop in at Sugar Mountain. Unwilling to spend over five hard-earned dollars on the afternoon coffee, I was more than happy to blow five dollars on yogurt covered raisins.

Chocolate or yogurt covered raisins are my favorite treat. It is a rarity, but when I do give in to them my mind goes to summers spent at the lake with my mum and her sisters and mother. These women, proud and good, brilliant mothers with tight knit children running around the bush like wild indians. We did everything together. Our sleep overs at Betula were of the epic variety. We were the kings and queens of the lake, of the woods. All of this is remembered and perused mentally when I eat yogurt covered raisins. What a delight.

Valentine's was equally as sweet, but not remotely so in a romantic sense. We participated in a tradition, just not on Hallmark's watch. I think this is how this hyped, pointless holiday should be: sweet, but not romantically forced. And it was just that. My uncle James picked up myself and a mountain of laundry and when we arrived back at his home, we were greeted by my favorite three year old in the universe, Kaleb Minh. We did the laundry together and whenever I would hand something to him to throw in the wash, he would yell "clear for takeoff" with every tossed article. I think he learned that from my brother, who was once a pilot. When that was said and done, we walked hand in hand up the stairs to a freshly fed six week old and read her Robert Munsch's Paperbag Princess as she slept on my chest, apathetic to the snot-nosed Heroine. The rest of my siblings and Tante Daryl eventualy filtered in and we all sat down to eat steak with blue cheese and baked potatoes and greek salad. Simple and luxe at the same time. Every meal at their house is paired with a bottle of wine that always compliments the flavor of the dish. Without fail. It was a delightful day.

This morning, three haggard Kroeker siblings stood in line at the Don for an hour in anticipation of the food that was to come. It was worth the wait. In the interim between sitting and wolfing, we practiced our signatures in the blank spaces of the newspaper just like we did when we were 9, 10 and thirteen. It was nice. My embrace with Ragged and Scott at the very end was the perfect precursor to a perfect day.

Now I am back at home, wholly satisfied and listening to Band of Horses still. Go buy yourself some yogurt covered raisins and think of your Grandmama.

Make out with me, this man.

Post script: I just scoffed when I noticed the belt chain and lock around his waist until I caught myself, and realized it is for locking up his moped in between rides. Double cool, double babe.

Post post script: His name is Ringo and he lives in San Fran. Triple cool, triple babe.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Ode to a Fleet of foxes.

These two ladies sing so surprisingly well. This is a cover of Fleet Foxes' Tiger Mountain Peasant Song and when I stumbled upon this, I smiled and my imagination took off. I see myself singing in the woods in a hardhat and a white shirt when I go tree planting, hair a muck, top bun, wild bangs, strong back through a haggard shirt, strong arms, and stronger legs wishing desperately for a bicycle. We have been warned well of the nine hour day workload that looms in the elements, in the air, in the snow, in the rain, in the wind, in the woods and I am going to sing in between shovelfuls. I will probably cry between shovelfuls as well, but I will sing.

Nature, starring Madge.

Yesterday at work, I sang Maroon 5 for the entire day. Eight hours straight of Maroon 5, my poor coworkers. I will spare you of it, but in the meantime, watch these two ladies sing their pants off in the forest. The acoustics are good, very good. Oh, also as I previously wrote to Rebecca this morning, for the first time in seven years I can now lick the backs of my bottom teeth! They took off my permanent retainer at the dentist today. I feel like a new woman. I am off to drink copious amounts of espresso with Sula at Bar Italia.

God bless Fridays, Megsie.

Thursday, February 12, 2009


Ragged Anne M saved me from myself this evening. She honks and I run. Today she rolled up in Gracie's car and when I opened the door I was flooded with beats of welcome and familiarity, and she nary said a word even though I knew that she knew I smelled of ass.

That is friendship.

She drove, we talked, hashed some things out respectively, hated on the Internet, laughed hard at my outfit and at our own pathetic selves and twin states of mind. She is one of the FEW who I can candidly admit who I stalk on the internet and she always complies and satisfies my curiosity with her own outrageous list.

"iGoogle, get on that shit". Okay girl, whatever you say Ragged.

I love this lady. This lady who slipped a hand written note into my flustered palm one night in summer at an art jam at the Boozecan. The kind of night where everyone arrived at the same time from different directions on bikes, drunk, happy, delirious with summer ease. We arrived separately and I left a different person. She was a vital part of self discovery this summer. It was the best "I love you" I have received in years. Ragged, I love you too. So much so. Scott, you are the shit too.

I just ate all that the luxe McDonald's on Grant (identical to Earls Main save for the ugly employees, heatless fireplaces and UPC codes on the wall) had to offer and now I am going to bathe, for the second time today. Then I will read while this food slides through my digestive tract like butter. It is time.

Starting now, I am on a four day weekend. Tomorrow shit is going to go down on a dance floor. Pardon my shit by the way; I find it to be a step up from the F word, which I am trying to cull from my lexicon. One shit and fuck at a time, Grandma. Baby steps.

Speaking of les enfants, I had dinner with Baby Mad (the Ukrainian queen) and her overtly relaxed mother and our friend Kathleen at Spicy Noodle House today and the baby was just that: Mad. Beyond mad, hopping mad, wild, livid, boiling, apoplectic, hot under the collar, on the warpath, foaming at the mouth, steamed up, fit to be tied, wrathful even. She screamed the entire time and while attempting to pacify this beast baby, people stared fiercely and instantly I became that person in a restaurant. That person who dares to cart a pissy newborn to Spicy Noodle House on Valentine's weekend. I felt like a single mama on a day out from the Projects. It was another of life's subtle reminders that I am not ready to procreate yet.

Babies turn into monsters, turn into people, turn into young adults who steel your liquid Tide, canned beans and toilet paper when you go away to Bali for a month. Thanks, life. I owe you one.

My baby fever has broken.
McDonalds is very delicious.
I HATE the teens who live underneath me.
Ragged Anne M tights-as-pants is the shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit is the new black.

I am not clever anymore.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Halloween Dance Jam, circa 2005.

Thanks to the innumerable talents of Luke Marvin, I can now share this videographic jewel with the world. World, I was a dinosaur four years ago, back in the day when I used to wear a watch. In 2005 a whole bunch of us went to the Mansion for an intimate Halloween party. We snorted rockets, we scared children, we smashed pumpkins, and most importantly, we danced. Hard.

Luke was a cat from Cats, Erin a unicorn, Nathan an outhouse, Ainsley an expectant mama, Jaq was God knows what, the douche in the leather jacket is not worth mentioning, Andy was a Jazzercizer, Kyle a basketball star, and Tiff was a sexy ballerina. We danced and Luke turned it into something Oscar worthy. One more thing, we also microwaved the Mansion's cat. Sorry PETA, no one cared in 2005.

I am so glad to be able to share this. Enjoy, and thank you again Puke. (Rabbi, maybe don't watch this unless you want to puke in your mouth seventeen times). Just sayin'.

Hallow-oose Canons, 2005 from Luke Marvin on Vimeo.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Divinder called (again).

He said he wants us for real, Babs. Come home soon, okay?
And just for good measure, because Lord knows one can never see enough of this man.

Xo, xo; you know you love me, Francoise.

Святые дымы.

Святые дымы in Russian, means holy smokes in my mother tongue. Russian Vogue, or whatever, do me now.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Ho ho ho and a bottle of Rum.

I am draped in a Wreck t-shirt, painted and silk screened by the boys who I have watched with mother hen pride over the past fours years. It is nearly two in the morning and I am as awake as the day I was born. April 16th, 1986, ten twenty eight in the morning.

Spring was in the air today. It was such a tease and yet so reviving. Without fail, every single time a cyclist whipped past my position at the breakfast table, on the sidewalk, at the bar, or in the car, my neck swiveled to watch him pedal past. It is still balaclava weather, but today the air felt different. We felt different. I felt hopeful. And to think, I am missing Spring entirely! Insane.

Today was another Saturday, my favorite day of the week; my day of rejuvenation, my day of light and laughter, of slow mornings dragging my jammied behind around my so-loved home hefting cup after cup after cup to my mouth. Coffee on Saturday mornings at the red table. Andrea came to look at the apartment and we closed the deal with eye contact. No signatures necessary. I made up my mind a few days ago. My work here is done. It is time to give this home away to someone who needs a boost of positivity, roots and inspiration just as I did when I moved in two years ago. The winds of change are howling in my ears, it is welcomed and terrifying.

I hauled my ass out of my bed in time for her arrival and tidied with the pace of a thousand somethings, cleaned the bathroom, sang along to the Shins, anticipated breakfast. Desperate for some fresh, cigarette-free air, I opted to walk purposefully to the Village a little early to snag a forever dirty table and pop in to Pear to apologize to my sister for last night's sloppy doorway demeanor. I am sorry Frin, I was a mess. To recap, I fell into a tree and it took me half an hour to stagger to her house. She lives three blocks from my front door. Sorry Braintrain, I owe you big.

At the Toad I sat and read the paper, drinking another cup of coffee while waiting for the others. Jill and Chris showed up first, followed quickly by Alfie and Zach. Conversation was bang on and sincere. We are starting to become known as the table with the boistrous laughter and the wild hand gestures. Jill somehow won over our ice-queen-newly-knocked-up-and-still-bitter-as-hell-about-it server by talking baby banter and when our food came it had bigger portions than normal. All newly pregnant women, I salute you. Eat whatever you damn well want, you earned that lot. Eat your weight and eat your mistakes, it will be the best thing that ever happened to you six months from now. So we shot the shit over French Toast, kibitzed over bacon, shouted for attention over hash, and plum enjoyed all of the happy things that come along with eating breakfast at your favorite place on Saturday morning with good friends when you are all (save for the lady with child) still slightly faded from last night's shenanigans. It was good. We paid, left, breathed in the Spring air all together and took the Village by storm. Jill and Chris eventually parted ways to run errands, but Alfie and Zach and I perused records, magazines, toilet paper aisles, makeup counters, and Movie Village until heading back to my house for a round of afternoon tea and oranges. We listened to my new record (I like to buy a new one almost every Saturday as a reward for hard work during the week; and today I chose Suf's Illinoise, because it is a classic and a must-have in anyone's vinyl collection). Lord knows one can never have too much Sufjan Stevens on hand.

------------------------As a sidenote, I am desperately into Department of Eagles at the moment, thanks to the godfather Yosh, the true man of my heart. Listen to them. Love them. Take them on a trip. Find their album "In Ear Park" and listen to it while working or doing some activity that allows you to listen to it all the way through. Prick your ears and really listen. I like to listen to them when I wash dishes or wash down my grill at work. Grueling and rewarding. I hadn't really found a band that makes me think in that way since I stumbled upon Destroyer in Josh Ruth's music collection this summer. It is imperative to listen to it thoroughly. I think it is important to see things through in life. This is my new goal. See shit through. Pardon that outburst... back to the Perfect Saturday.

A few hours later we picked up Zach's lady, Mel (who I adore on every level) when she was finished work and popped into Garwood Grill for late afternoon grilled cheese and chocolate milk (just like on Saturday afternoons post public skate with my Dad one hundred years ago, and it tasted the exact same as it did at the VK to boot). The Wreck VI film premiered today at the Graffitti Gallery so we made sure to fill up on Garwood's comfort food and beetle over to the gallery way down Higgins to support my boys in the Wreck Posse. James, if you are reading this, I have never been so proud to be kin. Your part was graceful and tasteful and a pure feast for the eyes. Handsome devil, that man. One hell of a skateboarder. Bram and Gurngler did a bang up job of production. I felt very proud, and was honored to be called over by Baby Evan Stinclair and Tyler to stand beside them. These are my boys, my children. Anne M, I thought of you one hundred times while I stood between the two of them. I now feel what you mean when you call your man sons your sons. It was wonderful. Full stomach, full heart, full head, full throated laughter. Full day.

THEN, just when I didn't think my Saturday could get any better, the four of us (Alfie, Mel, Zach and I) drove to the Yellow Dog Tavern to see my very favorite local band, The Magnificent Sevens croon for the best people the city has to offer. They croon and their lead singer, Ida who plays stand up bass like a woman possessed, waiiiiiiiiils. She sings with her guts and people bend over backwards just to watch her. She is a showman, and it shows. We arrived hours ahead of time to get good real estate in the tiny pub but time slid out the window and became a non issue the more half pints we drank and the more rounds of Big Boss Little Boss we played. Nachos came, and so we became hungry vultures. I love nights like these. Eyes dart around the room, scanning, scanning, scanning for him, for them, for her, for it, for anything. Everyone is warm and appreciative of even the tiniest extension of grace. The room was full of good grace. Good gracious. I loved the men in plaid and heavy frames with the controversial haircuts with the side parts. Side parts! BABES. This is a bit of a gamble to admit, but ever since printing at Martha, I have developed a shameless (and quite respectful) crush on my art teacher who is very married. I am incredibly careful not to be one of those girls, groan, especially because I quite adore his lady who might someday be my boss (if I am lucky enough) and so on etc. But when he came up to me at the side bar to grab my hand and to tell me that because of the way I was raised and the way I work and the way I clean up my space, I now entitled to print at Martha street for free as long as I need to. It felt like passing a test that I had no idea I was writing. With gold stars at that. I was half faded and in my attempt to thank him for all he has opened me to and introduced me to in the art world namely, I probably spilled something or swore a blue streak (as did he) in my state of elation. What a teacher, what a man. And how. I am still floored. This will be something I do forever, printmake, I mean. No one can ever take that away, it is in my blood now, it is in my dreams. I feel so lucky to have found my niche so young.

When Ida wasn't dry humping her bass and distracting us from intimate conversation (the four of us have pretty intense chemistry when altogether) our heads were bent in the direction of each other. Again Zach delivered me straight into a Gladiator headspace so strong and decisive that it was tempting to up and leave our roundtable and head for the bush to start planting tonight. In my mind I am already there, going, working until puking, persevering. I think this will be the first time in my life that I will know exactly what it means to be Mennonite. We are a pack of work hungry wolves. I am at least. Ask me how I feel three months from now when I am planting three thousand trees a day, knee deep in swamp water with eight hundred fazillion bugs on my body. Hopefully I will still be hungry.

This doesn't make any sense. I am become nonsensical and it slightly depressing. Today was brilliant.


Tomorrow is already here. One day closer to there.

When, not if.

I was sans computer for days on end (my friend Bram is making a skate film that premieres today, cool) but I am back at long last. Pardon my hiatus. Nothing much has changed since, Rabbi and Kit left me for Buenos Aires, I was uninspired at my job for the first time, I made a beef borscht with the help of my Grandma over the phone and I think I nailed it, prints were finished and are ready to be mailed so sit tight. I take forever getting things to the post. Today. Today. Today.

Yesterday I was moping around my home missing my best gal, tired, hungry when Alfie called. Saved by Barfredo. I walked through wintery streets towards his home and the air was fresh. Country fresh, it was alarming and satisfying. We drank martinis on the floor and eventually got into a cab to go to a cocktail party in Wolesely (hilarious, if you know that neighborhood). We walked in and were greeted by men and women in shabby evening wear. Suits with sagging shoulders and bow ties that used to belong to grandfathers now long in the ground. Bejeweled dresses stolen from thrift stores with jagged hemlines and ripped panty hose. Knowing how that group rolls, I anticipated this and dressed accordingly.

The house was spilling with the right people and at one point Emily put on Fleetwood Mac's Rumors and I two-stepped shamelessly with this one blonde man with glasses for the rest of the night. He was more of a boy than a man in retrospect. All I really remember is twirling, and dancing in perfect step, laughing into him, everything was muffled and nothing else mattered. It had been a while since I shared a dance of that sort with another. All of the shameless twirling and martini consumption suddenly went to my head and the next thing I knew I was zigzagging down Arlington and then I was INSIDE an evergreen tree. I somehow fell in. Actually, I was leaning against one casually, resting, and then I fell in. So I chilled out underneath that beautiful span of evergreen, lay down and collected myself. I might have barfed once or twice, not on myself thankfully, but all in all it was quite a lovely evening. After a while I heard Alfie shouting my name from the front door of the cocktail party so I somehow bushwhacked my way back out and onto the sidewalk and called a cab. Once home, I realized I lost my keys (every single key to my life, gone) and had to stagger over to my sleeping sister's home to pick up my spare set. She was not impressed and I don't blame her. I think it was around three.

All the things I lost last night:
- my house keys
- one pair of slippers
- one pair of gloves; no, not the cashmere ones Anne M
- my breakfast, underneath that tree
- all of the money on my person (funny how that works)

All of the things I took home:
- one hundred pine-needles

So. Eventful Friday night. Ripper night, as they call it. Who is they, you ask? They would be tree planters. I was accepted to go tree planting come May first. Good Lord. Two months of back breaking work in the wilderness, ten hour days of repetitive work spent mainly alone, nights spent sleeping in a tent and sitting around a fire, suppers made for Gladiators and eating like a truck, bulking up and skimming down, working beside bald eagles and elk; here I come. I think I will have to write a book if I come home alive. I think I will have to write a book when I come home alive. That is news I guess.

I am off to our weekly Saturday morning greasy spoon breakfast at the Toad. Rebecca and Andrew and I were having a conversation before they left for their respective vacation spots (her Buenos Aires, him Thailand, them Jerks) about the routines that stay the same for the people left behind. Yes my routine will stay the same but that doesn't mean I am not missing them like crazy. I have been dragging my behind around for the entire week in mourning. I am grieving the loss of. But. Today I am chinning up and going to go eat my Little Tadpole breakfast in good company (we are the ones left behind and we eat together to pass the time until our best friends, lovers, brothers, mothers, sisters, whatevers come back to us).

I miss you Babs.