Last day of the twenty second year.

Wild in the streets since 1986.

It was spring, twenty three years ago and moisture hung in the air like invisible raindrops slapping my very pregnant and very permed mother in the face as she hauled a shitty four year old (sorry Mike) and her two year old middle child indian princess, Mooniaki (Erin) up the long walk to grandma's house. Erin always wore that leather headband around the house all those years ago. I was also jealous that she was an indian princess and I was just Grandma Hildebrand's doppelgänger. (Being known for looking identical to a hundred year old lady does not even come close to being as cool as having a leather headband. Can you say "I have a complex?"). I have a complex. Anyway, it was spring and together my mother and father hopped into their tiny white car, sans children and flew to the closest hospital. I was born, squalling and hungry as hell, the labor only took twenty eight minutes. I have always been efficient. Anyway, I was born and thankfully not called Morgan (all of the Morgan's I know are notoriously cunty).

Oh retrospect. These last two days have been precious. Yesterday winter broke officially and something else was busy being born too: patio season. I, along with Rabbi, Rags and Scott joined the throng of Vitamin D deprived patio-roosters at Bar I and drank our faces off. Sorry Grandma, but we did. It felt incredible to be out there again, feeling victorious for surviving yet another Winnipeg winter. I will drink to that, again and again. After Scotty picked up the tab (WHAT?!?! THANK YOU you two) Rabbi and I felt our evening was not quite over and done with. With Kingcans in hand from the neighborhood vendor, we biked over to the train bridge and dangled our feet and watch the light die down turning everything black by the time we remounted our bicycles to head for home, weaving absentmindedly down the Crescent. The river sounded beautiful from up high, like the world's biggest water feature, or one million window panes breaking in unison. Beautiful, what a good way to welcome sister Spring.

Hi, hello, we salute you with our giant tin cans filled with poverty beer.
Welcome, please stay.

Now Brightback Morning Light is on, spinning on my turn table (I couldn't wait until Saturday), and it is blowing my brains in half. JJ, download that shit, immediately. It will be perfect for finishing up your collection and sewing on the last buttons here, for putting the last zipper in there. Oh boy, thank you for this recommendation, I had no idea. You know when you buy one of those wild card albums on a whim and you take it home, slide it out from the sleeve gingerly and set the needle down hopefully and then at the first listen it is like nothing you have ever heard before? This is that, to me.

Today Brendan came up from the basement at work after his shift ended at three and flashed something in his hand and I saw it without needing to turn my head. Okay, I will be right there; let me just slide my arms out from inside these giant cooked beasts. We sat outside eating bananas and drinking this delicious Mango nectar drink stolen from the front fridge and partook and then I went back inside to finish my shift. One giant sip of half melted Slurpee, two cucumbers, four cold yam fries dipped in the best aioli I have ever made in my life and then one icy Pelegrino on my butcher block with lime. Perfect day. I chopped eight billion onions at the pace of molasses and shredded twenty pounds of carrots slow, slow, slow. Green peppers came next, and then the tomatoes. Jens Lekman rounded out my mellow kitchen shift and I bobbed along while cleaning three giant turkeys. Riding a clean Alba home, we took the long way from the bakery and dodged potholes and puddles with ease. What a day, what a nice day. I would like to sit in a sun room and watch someone tune a bicycle while I paint my toes coral. Vice city, Spring has sprung and so has my morale.

Then my phone vibrated and it was my bike guy asking White bartape or Black grips on chrome drops? in tiny black letters and I wrote back, Black grips please. This agendaless life is easier than I thought.

Today I rode around my neighborhood, showboating. Second day in a row. Yesterday I was channeling a sexy truck driver and today I was channeling the auto mechanic turned printmaker look. I won't lie, I did. It was no electric bass attached to a pocket-sized amp in front of one hundred staring people, but riding with an ink stained apron and waltzing in to my cafe (my, haha) and drinking the first iced latte of Spring/Summer o9 felt good. I am not leaving yet, so get ready for the multiple persona just waiting to be exposed. Twenty three looks good. Tomorrow, I will post the jewel email of the year from one of my best friends in the world, Loco. Loco, thank you for sending me what you did, it blew my brain in half.

Tomorrow we will eat pho as a family and I will be twenty three, interesting. Aching, interesting choice of vocabulary.

Mi casa es su Basa.

Blue Long Johns, favorite white hand-me-down V neck with the bike print on the back, hair wild, giant sun hat indoors. It was a grey day and there was no pressing need to wear a giant sun hat--indoor or outdoor--but I felt like wearing it, so I am. The Duke and Duchess (Zach and Mel) just left after a lovely evening including all of our favorite vices: a solid dinner, Leffe beer, Shira's good jazz, my mum's Tulip sugar cookies. Zach came and stayed and then left to pick up Mel and together they came and together they left with a promise to return shortly. Eventually they did, carrying more beer and essential ingredients that I had some how forgotten. While I waited for them, I passed time by tuning both the radios in the home to 107.9 fm, my favorite station to work alongside and prepped for dinner and cleaned the rooms and flipped through a magazine from its place on the empty recipe stand. Who needs recipes? That stand that I once gifted to JJ (because of the color) and the same one she eventually gifted back to me (because of the functionality) is built for perusing the latest British Vogue in between sautéing and stirring. And how. Those are my most precious hours spent in this home. Cooking alone, listening to some crooner from the 30's, maybe some Billie Holliday or someone else lovely, drinking wine in between switching from the mince to the chop to the julienne.

Today while midcook, I caught myself imagining someone coming home from work, to our home, throwing shit and a gorgeous attaché case and keys down on some gorgeous wooden chair in the hall, loosening some restricting article of clothing while breezing through the living room toward the direction of the lady standing in front of all of those beautiful spices wearing an apron covered in ink from printing sessions of Christmas past. Today I made a red curry dish paired with delicious basa fish over steaming jasmine rice. Cilantro seeping into the fingertips, the smell lingering on wrists and cheeks and forearms when brushing away at something absentmindedly in between chops. Delicious. Cooking for a cook is also terrifying, but I held my own and Mel passed my work with flying colors thankyouverymuch. Still, I kept thinking of that day when someone will come home and appreciate those smells and the fact that company is coming and the table looks nice. What? No art supplies, giant drawing pads scattered with fallen pencils from her hair?! No pens, no ruler, no tape, no prints all over? he will think. The evening was nice, but another body would have rounded out our dynamic well I think.

I am eating the leftovers as I write, dreaming of a kitchen and the man who comes home from work to eat the food and greet the lady.

Zaterdag, again.

Did the usual Saturday business today, but slower. Woke, spring cleaned Pear with Frin, breakfast with Sula, coffee with Rabbi, rode around town, picked up dry cleaning, drew a bunch, visited Jane's art show, rode home, cleaned the kitchen, Andrew Bird on vinyl, dinner, Dwell at the kitchen table, music, more drawing, planned a party, read, evening. Then I watched this, twice.

So very sorry I missed the symphony with Rags.

Bed (it is nine on a Saturday night), Meg.


Breaking Upwards Movie Trailer from Breaking Upwards on Vimeo.

Nouveau riche, not.

On a less depressing note, I came across these babies in the stacks a la MacBook today. Artists unknown, but not forgotten.

Bad Thursday, Good Friday.

I have learned more of the importance of humility in the past two days than I have in an entire fiscal year.

Strong statement, but I would never write such a thing unless it were the truth. Yesterday was most easily the lowest I have felt in quite some time. The universe pulled a fast one on me and ripped the rug out from under my feet around 4 pm yesterday. After a shiteous day at work, I came home to an equally shiteous email from my tree planting boss situated in Dryden. In the shortest of form, the planting contract that many of us were banking on to begin as of May the first, fell through thanks to Recessional fingers choking the life out of the milling/forestry industry in northern Ontario. The news was quite a shock to my system and I did cry for a few hours at the thought of being homeless, jobless and poor; but after a few grounding phone calls with the people in my life who continue to give endlessly/graciously (and a few surprising others), I came back down to earth and perspective and practicality soon took over the reigns from my initial state of terror and horror.

Yes, this is shitty. No, it is not the end of the world. Yes, I will have to be creative with my living situation in the next few months. No, this is not nearly as bad for me as it might be for the Papas who have to go home to their families to break the news that the community mill shut down and in turn, they too will have to get a bit creative.

Get over yourself, you are not the only one affected. Not even by a long shot. These thoughts turned over and over in my head until my sobs eventually subsided along with self-pity. Grandma called--concerned--and left a very endearing message on my voicemail. She closed her warm message with an adage that I have been spoon fed since I was small, When the Lord closes a door, He opens a window. While I am not sure how I feel about our Father in heaven airing out my well planned life, her prayer threw a blanket of familiar calm over me. Alfie also received similar words of wisdom from his own mother. Bless these mothers who pray on our voicemail's. I am so lucky. Once my obvious crying face became semi presentable to the public, I did what I always do in moments of absolute despair: I took Jessica Alba down from her high shelf and pedaled as fast and as hard and as evenly as I ever have. In doing so, my body began to remember to breathe. Breathing evenly and in time with pedal strokes on a fixed gear is imperative. Dressed in a thin hood and fingerless gloves, I let the wind take us. Alba and I ended up in the Exchange after an intense ride through downtown and chinatown. I wept openly as I rode, assaulting pedestrians and drivers alike with my alarming emotions; but I didn't care. After one coffee, I wove back home through traffic at a less breakneck pace and was fairly calm by the time I reached my home.

Back inside, the afternoon faded into the well-lit evening and I cleaned my bike, listened to records and waited for Rabbi to come. After a few more fits of despair, she came bearing wine and a brave face. "Meg, be humble", she said at one point while I stood at the foot of my bed, nose upturned at the thought of physically taking up the offers of spare beds and couches of my friends and family. I would never want to put anyone out. "Be humble", she said again and eventually the words sank in and I let out a small "Okay, I will". That is a friend. A friend is someone who will take you by the shoulders when your face is swollen from sadness and say "be humble, take what you have in front of you, say thank you, and let yourself be carried for once in a goddamned lifetime" even though it hurts her more to say it than it is for me to hear it. Okay, I will. Thank you Rebecca, you are a very good friend and I am a very good spoon. With all of that said, with that humbling exchange of words passed between the two of us in my bedroom with intense eye contact, we pulled up my proverbial bootstraps together and stalked out the door arm in arm.

We have enough, because we have each other.

The night at the Lo pub was one of sobriety and sincerity. I connected with many people and managed to hold a few very remarkable conversations despite the din of the room. As I walked home with the course of the day's events flipping backwards in my head like a Rolodex, I was calm and hopeful.

When shit hits the proverbial fan, there are always breakfast dates and babies to hold. That is how my Good Friday began, good. Two words come to mind when I think of this morning's meal shared with the man with the lovely penmanship: lovely and refreshing. I only nearly choked once during the meal and after, I almost let myself skip home. It was too nice (and DRY) not to cycle, so again I hauled a sparkling Alba down from her high and mighty shelf to showboat around my neighborhood. It felt so good. So, so good. No trust me, it felt good. My favorite barista/furniture snob in the world was working at my neighborhood espresso haunt and we were both genuinely psyched to see each other. Abi poured me my third cup of coffee of the day and both of us could barely contain our pure joy for the birth of sister Spring. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. She is here. He also poured a mean americano for my last night's savior, and I joyfully unlocked my bicycle and rode west holding the paper in one hand and Rabbi's coffee in the other. Homegirl answered the door looking bedraggled and together we curled up in the living room bathing in the morning sun.

From her house I pedaled over to Kaleb and Maiya Papaya's to shepherd the babe children into their respective easter clothes and to jostle the baby lady while Kaleb showed me how awesome he was at brushing his teeth before all of our family piled into the house. The light was clean and the family happy. It was one of the best gatherings we have had in a while. Everyone was funny and warm, there were quiche and eggs and parsley salads, good cheeses, good wine, barside gin martinis straight up with extra olives with my cousin Jen, a walk down the Crescent, paparazzi, puddles, iced and sprinkled paska (Auntie Marj totally nailed that one out of the park, as per usge), and one very tired baby. Maiya was pissy near the end and we quietly excused ourselves to escape to the inviting rocking chair upstairs. Drenched in slatted light in the yellow baby room with that gorgeous girlchild sprawled across my chest, we slept. She honked softly like a baby goose and when we both woke, we were smiling and rosy cheeked. Who knew how good a tired baby was for the soul? Very good, actually.

For what it is worth, thank you for the kindness and inquiry, I will be just fine.

I have enough because I have plenty.

Cornucopia of swears.

My mind is with Loco. I just finished penning her something that will hardly hold a candle to what she has been sending my direction lately. Canada Post must flip lids when they see our packages fly through the air. Dear Beth, expect something in four business days, uh huh. The girl working the counter at the post office was so perplexed by the line drawings going on on the front of your package, she almost smashed her nose upon bending at the waist for further inspection. I always like it when the post people offer to snip the obscene business day stamps down to size in order to accommodate my equally obscene packages. Thanks, Canada Post people that was nice.

No tears today. I made mashed potatoes with dill and butter and cream because I felt like it. I ate them in the kitchen too, just to spite my latest frenemy. They were delicious. As I was elbow deep inside a burning hot turkey, ripping it's heart out and then the ribcage (my favorite part), Rags came out of NOWHERE rocking Marc Jacobs and swingy hair and a bouquet of orchids wrapped in brown paper (also my favorite: orchids and anything wrapped in brown paper). If she would have waltzed in and presented me with a block of cheese or five pounds of corned beef wrapped in brown paper, I would have been equally as ecstatic. This little lady, this woman who has blazed into my life bearing so much more than expensive gifted flowers, has taught me a lot about living. About being a friend. About grief. About prioritizing and organizing. About employment and unemployment. About being a wife. About being cool. About humor. About making life-giving food.

She has taught me a cornucopia of skillz.

Yah, a Z. I went there, Rags. Thank you for the flowers you blessed woman. You have know idea how much seeing your face while we skipped out on the burning hot turkeys and sat on the warm wood fence welcoming all the Vitamin D we could behind the bakery, buoyed my spirits. You know how when you were a kid and you pushed a ball under water as far as you could in some Auntie's swimming pool? And then do you remember how it felt to see that thing build under pressure and then fly up through your tiny frame and light up the sky and block out the sun, if only for a moment? That is how I felt when I saw you walk in to my kitchen.

I have said it before, and I will say it again: Thank you is not enough. Do you remember the first time I wrote that to you? I do, like it was yesterday. It was last summer, after a shit show of an art show. I biked home that night, drunk off of the spell of your first lesson in living. May we always feel that fucking awesome when we walk into the kitchen's of our future selves. (Grandma, sorry for the usage of "fucking"). I love you Anne M. Orchids and you in one day? Goodness abounds.

Moving on. Speaking of Grandmothers, hello Helen! Are you out there? Are you still with us? Has your lover/other driven you to drink? I hope not. Hi Grandma, this is a public letter, something I consider FAR better than an email. We will see each other on Friday and whisper scandals back and forth while one of us holds the fastest baby in the world (Maiya Papaya, holler) and the other stuffs Auntie Marj's INSANE paska down the hatch. That lady knows how to bake the bread of the Body. I tell you! Sadly, I am becoming skin and bones as the days near closer and closer to my departure. I am starting to look like Granny Annie Kroeker. Now would be the PERFECT time to get our tattoos, while my bones show thanks to Cal's innate Kroeker metabolism that sky rockets when anxiety strikes:

mine on my ribs,

Helen
Helen
Helen

and yours on your heart,

Megsie
Megsie
Megsie


but sadly, I spent my last American twenty dollar bill on some new headphones so our Grandmother/granddaughter tattoos will have to be put on a two month hiatus until I get back from the trees, RICH. (Who needs Mister-Grade-one-to-Grade-nine-just-because-he-was-rich boyfriend when I can simply go tree planting? Besides, he broke up with me on a sheet of loose leaf. Asshole). Thank you for slipping that dollar dollar scrill into my mother's secret compartment of her wallet with the intention of passing it on to me. You are good. You are goodness. I love you, Grandma. See you on Good Friday, did you give up reading this post for lent or what? No comments in a hundred years. Come ON!

Yesterday was shitty, today lovely. I am still thinking of Loco, wishing she and JJ were here for a midnight ride, or some other kind of midnight delight on a Broadway rooftop. Lo standing up on her bicycle for countless blocks and JJ and I taking up the rear nice and slow with McDonald's in hand. Soon, soon, swoon.

Rags, do me.

Shiteous.

Pardon the previous entry. It was a shiteous read. So is this.