Becca in Halifax

Classing Up the Joint

2011-05-27T22:43:00.000-04:00

I was in a Halifax nightclub the other day—one of those shiny, bubblegum spots that cater to the barely- (or not-quite-) legal crowds, and that change their name and décor more often than most of us change underwear. It wasn’t a night out; the club was serving as a lunch hall for a movie I was doing background in. This place had, at its entrance, just to the right of the bar, a rather peculiar focal point: a large, billboard ad for the morning-after pill. It’s one of those jokey ads, a touch risqué and just a little wry. Its slogan, “Oh no.”
I was offended when I realized what I was looking at. Really? A huge ad for backup birth control within reach of the beer taps? Ick, right? The little-l-liberal in me immediately reacted, suggested I was being prudish, maybe even a little sexist. After all, women have a right to decide how to regulate their bodies.
I should clarify my opinion on the position. I absolutely and unequivocally support a woman’s right to decide how to manage her body and her fertility. I am pro-choice, and I think that women have the same right as men to decide when, how, and with whom they’re going to have sex. I bristle when I hear the word “slut,” and I despise the notion that women who are sexually aggressive, voracious, or even (and I hesitate to use the word) promiscuous are any more objectionable than men who behave the same way. But that’s not to say that I don’t find some behaviours—by women or men—objectionable.
I explain with another story. Last week, I was on a different movie set. Dewar, the Manitoba judge whose remarks seem to shift the blame for a sexual assault from the rapist onto the victim came up. And, of course, someone began to defend the judge and the rapist. “Don’t get me wrong,” the guy explained, he wasn’t defending rape, but “you know the kind of attention a woman wearing a super-short skirt is going to get in a club.” I’ve never really learned to temper the expression of my opinion, so my reply was pretty… snappish, shrewish, bitchy, shrill—choose your gendered adjective. I defended my right to wear whatever I want without fear of sexual violence, and concluded my tirade with, as I remember it, “and you can think what you want of me when I’m wearing that skirt, but anyone who’s not a criminal is not going to rape me after I say no.”
I don’t want to have a discussion on what constitutes a refusal. I think we—and the law—have been pretty clear on the topic. No means no. That’s all. Nothing justifies rape, ever. Ever. But—but—I do judge women who dress in what I think is an overtly provocative fashion. Particularly in certain contexts. In the middle of the day, for instance. Or at work.
Of course, I’ve been known to dress in a way that makes me look and feel sexually attractive. Most of the time, in fact. I have more than one short skirt and low-cut top in my closet. I don’t think that makes me a hypocrite. Whatever I wear, I wear it in a way that—I hope –communicates my sense of self confidence and self worth. II believe that there’s a difference in presenting yourself as sexy, and presenting yourself as a sexual object. And, like pornography, the latter is hard to define, but I know it when I see it.
I don’t pretend to be an arbiter of taste or propriety. I recognize that the line stands in a different place for different people. For some Muslim women, for instance, that line is showing their hair or even their face in public. That’s not antimodern or antifeminist, in my opinion. After all, I have a line, too. As my reaction to women whom I think have crossed it proves. I think that line has a lot to do with self respect, and refusing to make it easy for people to throw around words like slut or see me as nothing more than a sexual object. But I will defend every woman’s right to decide for herself where that line is, or whether it’s even important.
And that line brings me back to that nightclub poster, and my reaction to it. Yes, we sometimes make choices that aren’t in our best interest. Yes, we have a right to do our best to mitigate the effects of our bad decisions. Yes, products like the morning after pill help women to manage their sexuality in a responsible and empowering manner. But… should we plan to make bad choices?
The poster is positioned strategically. It’s huge, and you can see it from the dance floor, and from the bar. I’d go so far as to suggest that it seems to encourage irresponsible behavior.
Yup, I said it. Irresponsible. Because we should be responsible with our bodies. After all, we only get one. When we’re responsible to ourselves, we lead healthy lives, and that means caring for and protecting our bodies.
But that responsibility goes double for sexual health. Because—unless we’re planning on a life of celibacy, our sexual choices might impact someone else later on. According to some estimates, half of North Americans will have a sexually transmitted infection at some point. Some are curable. Others are merely treatable. And they might also affect ourselves later on, as we make decisions about fertility and parenting.
I’m not expecting myself or anyone else to be infallible. Everybody’s gonna make a bad choice sometimes. We have that right. And we’re lucky enough to live at a time when our mistakes don’t have to impact the rest of our lives the way they might have in the past. Many STDs are easily treated. And even the ones that you’re stuck with forever are manageable. The world doesn’t end if you contract a sexually transmitted infection, or have an unplanned pregnancy. But—wouldn’t you rather avoid it where you can?
So. There it is. My problem with that ad. To me, it’s encouraging irresponsible behavior with the suggestion that mistakes can be fixed. No problem—make that bad decision. This bar’s got your back. Have one more cocktail, have unprotected sex, and worry about the hangover tomorrow. Call me crazy, but wouldn’t it be better to plan ahead? Just a little?
Hey, dodgy nightclub, how’s about you relace that tacky “Oh no” poster with a nice ad for condoms? Class up the joint a touch!

Now THAT Would Be a Good Use of my Time!

2010-09-09T16:44:00.002-04:00

It seems that I might actually be almost close to finishing the dissertation... which is exciting, because once I'm not a student any more, I'll actually be unemployed--like, that's what I'll have to put on forms and stuff. Nah--screw it, I'm just gonna put "writer." And say it out loud as I fill out the form, then look around and announce, "Yes, I am a Writer." When that gets dull, I'll start doing "Actor." And I'll really pronounce the O: ActOr.

Anyhoo, the diss is making me antsy, and I think I might be losing my grip on my social skills (as anyone whom I've assaulted with border-collie-like affection on my rare trips in public these days will surely verify), but I think I really hit on a stellar idea while updating my Facebook status and pointless Twitter account (1 person is following me! Woo! What up, Amanda?) for the 47th time last week: Time Machine! Why waste more time writing my dissertation? I'm just gonna build a time machine, go forward 3 or 4 years or so (yeah, that oughta do it), grab a copy of my diss from the library, bring it back with me, and PLAGIARIZE MYSELF! I am a genius! (Or, the guy who wrote Back to the Future 2 is genius. I am really good at this plagiarism, no?)

Seriously, people, call me. I need to talk to someone who is not by dog. Especially call me if you would like to offer me a job or produce my totally un-plagiarized screenplay.

In Soviet Russia, Play Critiques You!

2010-08-21T16:47:00.005-04:00

I came across this story on Facebook today (thanks, Robin, for the link!). For you who don't hyperlink, I sum up: Edmonton actor Jeff Haslam posted a vitriolic reply on a fan blog. Apparently, one of the subscribers to his theatre company wasn't 100% in love with their latest show. The Globe & Mail article is pretty anti-Haslam on the topic, and I agree that his comments aren't exactly warm and fuzzy, but I do appreciate the fact that he had the courage to respond to a review of his work... to a point.

The really exciting thing about online publishing tools, from blogs to Facebook to Twitter, is that we now have an unprecidented ability to engage in dialogue and debate. Unfortunately, some people hide behind the anonymity of online comments to say some truly hateful things (as my very dear friend Junaid, among others, can tell you). But the fact that Haslam commented openly and sincerely is laudable. I would love to see more artists responding to their critics like that. After all, why would the critic or the reviewer get the last word? The idea of a critical dialogue between a reviewer and an actor or a playwright or a novelist or a filmmaker is pretty inspiring, actually. Though Haslam's comments in this case were pretty immature, petty, and unprofessional. In my opinion. (See my previous posts on the topic of thick skins and artists.) Nonetheless, props to him for publishing his response openly and sincerely, and under his own name and profile pic.

Where he really loses me, though, is this comment: "I wish she’d stop subscribing to my theatre company." (He also calls her "icky" and a "pretentious doof." Uncalled for, since the blogger in question didn't start the name-calling. But it's not like other reviewers haven't resorted to name-calling, so he has a right, I guess.) Since when are only purely positive reviewers welcome in a theatre audience? How fascist has Edmonton become since I moved away, that we now ask critics who offer any sort of actual criticism not to patronize artistic establishments? More importantly, how financially flush is Teatro La Quindicina that they can afford to hand-pick their subscribers like that? Don't we all wish we had that kind of financial independence? From now on, I am only sending my work to publishers that are going to love it. If they have any notes on my writing or--dare I suggest it---if they would even consider rejecting it, forget them. I don't need their journals or their imprints, or their money (for those literary magazines that can still afford to pay their contributors, anyway). While I'm at it, next time I teach, I only want the students who are going to give me a glowing review on my teaching evals at the end of the year. I really don't think that educational institutions should even consider admitting students who are going to be in any way critical of the teaching staff, curriculum, administration, or subject matter in any of the courses. They should like it--all of it--or drop out.

Of course, as Haslam points out, theatre companies can dispense almost entirely of audiences. He writes, “I wonder if [Yeo] knows that her crappy 19 bucks goes to less than 40% of what it costs to pay all the artists she isn’t always smitten by?” He is really on to something here, don't you think? I mean, why bother running the risk of an audience that isn't going to love your play. Theatre companies should just close their doors entirely, and perform to an adoring director, AD and Board of Directors every night. That oughta take care of those pretentious, presumptious reviewers!

So I'm getting a little ranty here. I guess it just irks me that someone who has the privilege of working as an artist should be so unreceptive to feedback, or the possibility of dialogue--so much so that he actually suggests censoring his audiences! His stance is troublingly hypocritical: he feels entitled to comment on the reviewer's blog, and challenge her opinion of his performance, but he wants to rescind her ability to attend his plays in order to provide her own feedback? Have we really rached a point where plays can resist censorship, and take on contentious issues, but the audiences aren't allowed to comment on the actors' or playwright's handling of these topics? Have we moved to a place where art is a monologue, and as patrons of the arts, we're all meant to just take it? Maybe I'm doing it wrong, but I always thought that opening a dialogue--not closing it--was kind of the point...

Save First Nations University

2010-03-24T12:52:00.001-04:00

Please show your support for First Nations University!

See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zc1xmmQlOY

Or go to http://fnuniv.wordpress.com/letter/ to download a letter to send to your MP.

Why Can't We Just Say It?

2010-03-14T13:41:00.004-04:00

In the last week or so, I've received a letter and a couple of emails that rankled me a little. They weren't rude or insulting, but they were polite. Very, very polite. Insultingly polite. And polite to the point of meaninglessness. I know--politeness is a quintessentially Canadian quality. But come on. Can't we just get over it?

I'm good at polite. Very, very good. When I owned a business, I wielded politeness like a weapon. Customers who complained, or who were looking for discounts, or who were making requests that I wasn't going to give into--they ran up against my politeness. I never had to give away anything I didn't want to. And I also never had to be rude. Seriously--my politneness is like adamantium (or maybe unobtanium) coated in Teflon.

I should qualify--politeness, in my opinion, is not the same as good manners. Good manners are a code of conduct based on consideration. They vary from situation to situation, and require you to be attentive, and to respond to people in a way that will make them most comfortable. Politeness is also different from kindness, which is based on sympathy, consideration, and a desire to give someone else what they need or want. Kindness and good manners are, in my opinion, closely related. Politeness is a different bird.

Being polite means getting your own way without directly making a request or a demand, and simultaneously making it almost impossible from someone else to deny you what you want. Being polite often means being very, very manipulative. Or, at least, so I've come to conclude.

Back to the letters: the first was a PFO (thanks to Claire for that term. The first word is "Please." It means, "No. Don't bother us any more."). I had applied for a job, and got a very polite PFO in the mail. Nice of them to send it, right? I actually appreciate PFOs, because I tend to haunt my mailbox or Inbox, waiting to hear about jobs I really want. I think that sending a form letter PFO is a very considerate way of telling applicants they don't have to be on pins and needles any more. Except that the PFO was transparently disingenuous. It contained a couple of ridiculous superlatives. Now don't start by telling me that I'm selling myself short. Yeah, I happen to think that I have mad professional skilz. I ran a business, I'm a pretty good teacher, and a good writer, too. (Sorry, is it not polite to say so?) But I'm also realistic. For instance, I don't have my PhD yet, and my only publications are short stories. I also know several people who were probably applying for the same job, and I know that their CVs are a lot sexier than mine. So I wasn't particularly suprised to get a PFO. I was disappointed, yes, but what really rankled me was the blatantly obvious form letter that pretended to address my application in particular. In fact, for a split second, I actually thought that the respondant was making fun of me--"Oh, yeah, you were REALLY qualified for this job. NICE application, lady. We were REALLY impressed." (No, that's not what the letter actually said, that was how I interpreted it on first reading.) So you've got to send a form letter--okay. I get it. A lot of people apply, and it would take years to address each application individually. I don't mind getting a form letter. But please, let's be a little sincere. "Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you a position at this time" will suffice. Add a bunch of silly superlatives about my "exceptional qualifications," and that's just patronizing. The form letter, however, was apparently insufficient, because I also got an equally silly form email PFO. Really? Twice? This is almost as bad as the weird rejection letter I got a few years ago, in which the magazine editor actually wrote, "If you are going to continue in this field, you will need to develop a thick skin." If these aren't form letters, then somebody has started a rumour that I respond really, really badly to disappointment. Like, postal-badly.

Which brings us to the other email. Now, it has taken a few years, but I actually have developed a thick skin, when it comes to rejection letters. I have published four short stories, and two of my plays have been staged. Believe me, I have sent my work out more than six times. In my early twenties, I cried every time I got a rejection letter. I got over the habit. (If I hadn't, I would perpetually suffer severe dehydration.) I know I write well. I also know that publishers get a lot of really good books and stories, and can't run them all. I don't mind form letters, and am actually flattered when an editor takes the time to scrawl a few words that directly address my writing on the little rejection slips. I've received a lot of good feedback that way. Sometimes, editors even suggest other magazines that are more liely to publish my work.

Some friends of mine have received really bitchy rejection letters. One of the Nice Wantons told a particularly gruesome rejection letter horror story. Until last week, though, I've never received anything other than direct, polite (in the best sense of the word) and professional rejection letters. The email I received on Friday, though, was a different story.

It actually began with some very helpful and practical advice, but the message quickly develved into a diatribe about the sender's work load: the number of submissions she receives, why she doesn't have time to read my work, and how I am wasting her time. It was all very polite, mind you. Very carefully-veiled acrimony. She had clearly only given my work a cursory glance--she was even mistaken about the genre. The worst part was, she referred to it as "poorly-formatted." Yeah. She did. Criticize my writing all you want, bitch, but my formatting is impeccable.

Seriously, though, my irritation springs from many sources. First, does she really expect me to seriously consider the advice she provided in the first half of the email, when she went on to give me a dressing-down for wasting her time? We are all emotional creatures, and we are not likely to be particularly responsive to someone who is being acrimonious. If she meant, "Screw you," then she should have just cut to the chase--that's what I read in the email, and I wasn't really feelining like considering the rest of the message. I don't think that's a hyperbolic response, either. Second, she counted the number of pages that I'd written, and conceded, at the very end of the message, that I must be "very passionate to write so many pages." I found that comment condescending in the extreme. I sent her a professional request, from one professional to the next. Whether or not I am passionate or not is a non-sequitur, especially since she announced, at the beginning of her message, that she neither read, nor intended to read my work. Despite her company's policy on receiving unsolicited submissions. Finally, her work load is not my problem. If she feels overworked, she should discuss the situation with her supervisor, and not with me. Why can't people stick to the topic? Don't send me irrelevant information--and don't imply that your workload is somehow my fault, or my problem.

I think the crux of the problem is that people forget that someone--a real person--will be reading the crabby emails they send. Why do we think of email (especially business email) as an acceptable place to exorcise our frustrations? How do we think people are going to respond when we fire off a passive-aggressive diatribe like the one I received? Not well. (But I'll get to my response in a minute.) Honestly, we need to put our need for politness aside for a second. We need to learn to say, "Screw you" (or worse) and mean it. Why veil aggressive, angry behaviour in insincerity? Because, guess what--as soon as we type "screw you!" into the body of a business email, one of two things is going to happen: either we're actually going to communicate our meaning in a clear and direct manner, or we're going to realize how inappropriate that kind of response is, and actually draft and appropriate and professional response.

I blame email and its capacity for almost-instantaneous communication (unless, of course, you're using your Dal account) for a good part of the proliferation of passive-aggressive emails like the one I got. If the individual who emailed me hadn't been able to fire off a message right away--if she'd had to type it out, sign it, find an envelope and a stamp, re-read the message, fold the paper, and place it into the envelope, she might have realized, at some point, that it really isn't appropriate for her to tell me about all the other work she has to do. At least, I like to think that would have been the case.

So. My response to her message. First, my mouse hovered ober the "Delete" icon, then moved over to "Reply." I clicked, and started typing. Then I deleted the whole works. Instead, I opened a word document, and drafted a reply that mirrored, almost sentence-for-sentence, her email to me, in tone and in structure. At one point, she suggested that I enroll in a writing class to learn how to format my work properly. I suggested a Professional Communications course to improve her business emailing skills. I saved it. I brought my laptop downstairs to show Trent. He nearly died laughing.

"Is this someone important?" he asked. "Someone who could affect your career?"

"Not likely," I told him. Really not likely. I had Googled her.

"Then send it."

I did. I felt awful. The email was condescending, passive-aggressive, and impeccably polite. It was dreadful. Just a few hours later, I had a reply. It was direct and assertive. The woman told me that she thought it was terribly inappropriate and bad for my career to suggest that an industry professional enroll in a Communications course to learn how to draft business emails. She also acknowledged that she hadn't noticed that my work was, in fact, formatted according to industry guidelines when she had sent her original email. She told me that, if I hadn't sent such an inappropriate reply, and simply pointed out her error, she might have reconsidered her decision not to read my work. She might have been sincere on that point--but I doubt it. I'm pretty sure my work was in a company recycle bin (or possibly a shredder) long before she emailed me the first time. Of course, I have to tell myself that, or risk regretting my message. All in all, the second email was much better than the first. She addressed only the issues at hand. She told me clearly and without any forms of politeness that she was truly offended by my email. And she even offered some good (professional, and not condescending) advice on navigating the industry. I sent her a sincere email thanking her. I acknowledged that my first reply had been deliberately snotty and condescending, and probably ill-judged, but that I had been responding to what I perceived as a tone of frustration and impatience in her email. I told her that I truly appreciated the advice she had given me. I hope she reads it. She probably won't. It will probably be deleted, unread. That's okay. I know those guys will never consider my work--at least not as long as she's with the organization. But I feel that I've performed a public service. I somehow doubt that the next rejection letter she writes will be as unprofessional, acrimonious, or passively aggressive as the one she wrote me. I hope it won't be nearly as condescending, or as polite.

So. My mission for me: stop being so damn polite. Say, "Screw you" when I mean it. Because if I mean it, I know the message is getting across anyway, not matter how polite I am in trying not to say it.

The Tea Baroness Abdicates

2010-03-02T10:57:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, Trent and I made the difficult decision to close the doors of our café, Cargo & James Tea, Halifax. I imagine that our decision comes as a surprise to some of you, and not at all to others. I also imagine that many of you feel that we should have told you personally, and you’re right, but I hope you’ll forgive us, knowing that we would rather not have to tell the story more than once. However, we are very grateful for all of your support, and we want to thank you for helping us out in so many ways: giving us the start-up money we needed, moving furniture and equipment, putting together a safe and giving us a stereo, coming all the way downtown to buy our tea and coffee and teapots and steepers, setting up our bank accounts and lines of credit, working for us for peanuts, sharing your artwork, your music and your poems, not kicking me out of the PhD program or Trent out of the sector council, handing out our coupons and telling your friends and families to stop by the café, coming by to chat with me at work, listening to us gripe, worry, gush, brag and confide in you, helping us navigate the mysteries of Simply Accounting, and not telling us we’re crazy when we told you we wanted to be business people. Thank you so much.

Although, in the last sixteen months or so, the store has been financially self-sustaining, it has just been too much for us to handle. Until very recently, we had hoped to sell the business, and were in negotiations with potential buyers as late as Friday, but when the last interested party backed out this weekend, we decided that it would not be responsible to incur another month’s expenses and stresses. In addition, we have yet to take home a paycheck or any dividends from the business, and after thirty-three months of working for free—and working some very, very long hours—we are feeling the strain. But while the business itself is kaput, Trent and I will be fine. If things go worse than we think they will, though, does anyone want to buy one very small dog? How about one slightly used Baroness tiara?

Although tea wasn’t quite the financial goldmine we had hoped it would be, we are glad that we made this venture. We learned so much, had so much fun, gained experience in business that we could never have had otherwise, and met so many extraordinary people in the process. We have thoroughly enjoyed the last two and a half years as Tea Baroness and Baron.

We plan to lay low for the next week or so—we haven’t seen all that much of each other lately, and it would be nice to see if we still remember how to sleep in—but we know we’ve neglected a lot of important relationships in the past few months, and we want to get in touch with so many of you very soon.

We are, of course, sad about our decision. We will miss our little tea empire, but we are also relieved and excited to focus on other things.

917 Redux

2010-02-16T16:07:00.004-05:00

As some of you may remember, I am issue 917. Still. Again. Always. Maybe the Administrivia gods didn't like my burnt offering of red tape and black ink. Or else the Data Entry Demons (I picture them looking like the Gravelings from Dead Like Me) have it out for me. Or I have bad beaurocratic karma. I don't know. But the fun, it just keeps on coming.

So. The whole student loan fiasco last fall--I spent innumerable hours on the phone with CIBC until I was finally escalated to a lovely woman in their Ombuds office who has me fax her all my Schedule 2s and Form Bs (Schedules 2 and Forms B? Whatever.). To make an extremely long story short, she submits all my forms, and keeps me in interest-free, non-repayment status for another year. Except that I have to pay $250 in interest, because although the adminicrats at Dal who gave me the forms I needed to submitlast year insisted that, since I had a Schedule 2, I didn't need a Form B, I was accumulating interest on the Alberta portion for failing to submit a Form B on time. Whatever. This year's forms were all submitted, I was in interest-free-non-repayment status again, and meanwhile, Mary Beth cleared up that nasty 917 problem for me. Home free, right? Right?

Wrong.

In January, Trent's work sent him to Las Vegas for the CES. Since the hotel room was paid for, I decided to tag along. Toni and Brad met us in Vegas, and we had a great time. Once we got there.

Before we left, I decided to be a very good PhD student and pick up some books and articles to read in Vegas. The week before, I had put about $20 of photocopy money on my DalCard, so I grabbed a stack of (non-circulating) journals and went to photocopy them. Except that the photocopy machine said my DalCard was expired. I'm no dummy, so I knew right away that Dal had 917ed me again. I take the books up to the circulation desk, and try to explain that I Am Issue 917.

"I have no idea what that means," the circulation librarian tells me.

By this time, it's ten minutes to 4. We're leaving the next day, and I know that there's no way I can get me student status reinstated in time to get these books. So I offer to leave my wallet, Visa card, Dal Card, my soul with the librarian if she'll just let me run the (non-circulating) journals to the English department--the building directly across the street, no more than two minutes away.

"I have to check with my supervisor," she tells me. And she does. I watch as she confers with a woman at a desk no more than twenty feet away. "Sorry," she tells me at last. "You can't take these books out of the library. But you can buy a visitor's card for $1 and put more photocopy on it."

Okay. I know that $21 is not a lot of money. But Dal has just "expired" the almost $20 that I put on my card the week before, and despite the fact that my tuition is paid in full, has, without a reason that anyone in any campus department or division can fathom, revoked my student status. I am not giving them another $21.

"Listen, I'm just going to run to the English department and get Mary Beth to phone your supervisor and explain my situation, okay? What is your supervisor's name? Would you please tell her that someone from the English department will be calling her right away?"

The circ librarian agrees, and I sprint (I am not exaggerating. I sprinted. In really cute pumps) to the English deparment in under 60 seconds, quickly give Mary Beth a rundown of the sitch, and she calls over to the library. And gets the librarian's voicemail. A phone call to the circ desk tells her that the supervisor has left for the day. Nice, eh?

At this point, I am not in a friendly mood. So I sprint over to the DalCard office and snag the attention of the only staff member still working. I would like to be able to say that I used my charm and diplomacy, but I didn't. I basically had a temper tantrum. The DalCard woman tries to tell me that a data entry error originating in the English department has resulted in all my priviledges being revoked, but this is not my first trip to the circus, friends. I tell her that the English deparment didn't revoke my student status. She tries to send me to Human Resources or to the library. I refuse to leave. I demand that she un-expire my card and allow me to use it at the library to take out books, and to photocopy, using the money I loaded onto the card the week before. A long line of students is forming behind me. I can see that the woman is getting nervous. Frankly, I feel kind of bad for her--I mean, it isn't her fault that Dalhousie's administrative and data storage computing systems are a joke. But I'm also not backing down. Finally, she takes my card outside with her. She's gone for a long time. I briefly worry that I've driven her to some kind of act of administrative meltdown--you know, my DalCard, the Henry Hicks clock tower, whatnot. Finally, finally she comes back. My DalCard, it seems, has been "un-expired." But only for two days. I have two days to take books out of the library and use up my photocopy money before I'm re-revoked. I thank her. Politely. Then sprint back to the library, do my thing there, rush back to the English department, update Mary Beth, and the next day, I'm off to Vegas with a suitcase half-full of books and articles. And, a week later, when I get back, Mary Beth has sorted out the whole 917 issue. I am a real-life PhD student again. I think Mary Beth has magic powers--like maybe an adminibeaurocrativia-repelling suit of some kind.

So much for 917.

Last week, I worked a lot of hours. Not unusual, really; often, I work in the cafe until early afternoon, then make my way over to campus for a few hours. Monday to Friday mornings, I leave the house at five minutes after seven, and I seldom get home before eight at night. But almost every day last week, there's a message on the phone to call back CIBC before 7 p.m. Fat chance.

Yesterday, I get a letter in the mail. From CIBC National Student Centre, containing an Important Message Regarding my Canada Student Loan. My end-of-studies date was August 31, and my six-month grace period, it seems, is about to expire. My loans are entering repayment unless I submit a complete and accurate Schedule 2. Deep breath.

Today, from my office at Dal, I call them up. The guy on the phone says he has no record of my having submitted a Schedule 2. He doesn't mention a Form B, but I'm guessing he has no record of that either. I can hear my voice getting more and more harpyish as I explain that I had them faxed directly to the Conflict Resolution specialist in the Ombuds office, and she told me last fall that all my records are complete and up to date. He puts me on hold for about a century. I fucking hate muzak. Finally, he comes back on and says that, because my forms were not processed until January 25, my file will not be updated until later this week. I have no words. I faxed them the forms last October, they weren't updated until three weeks ago, and somehow, this is my problem?

Anyway. I suspect that the phone messages last week were about the same thing, but I return the call to CIBC, just to be sure. It is, indeed, my friendly reminder to start paying up, since their records show that I am no longer a student. I point out that, had I not spend close to 100 hours on the phone with them over the past six months, I might have actually had time to complete my dissertation. Yeah--I feel strongly that, were it not for CIBC, I would be a PhD by now. So I have the girl double-check that all my forms are received and in order.

"You know, it's actually a really good thing that you called back to follow up," she tells me. "In fact, you should probably call again next week to be sure." She also tells me that the Form B is redundant, and that the only for I need to submit is the Schedule 2.

This is the point at which I finally lose my temper. There was a diatribe. It was unfriendly. I don't remember everything I said, but I'm pretty sure that I concluded by threateneing to bill them for my time, each and every time that I had to call them to confirm that someone there is actually doing their minimum-wage data entry job and processing the paperwork that I have been sending them, faithfully and on time, despite the nauseating degree of negligence and indifference on their part.

"Okay, so, thanks for your call, and be sure to call back next week to follow up with us, okay?" she says just before she hangs up.

I Am Issue 917

2009-10-30T13:48:00.005-04:00

God, I hate administrivia. All week, I've been looking forward to spending today on my dissertation. It's almost 3, and I haven't even started yet. Why? Administrative glitches have kept me on the phone and email for hours. Student loan problems again. You may remember that this is a perennial problem for me. Actually, I've been plagued all week with administrative glitches. On Tuesday, I was trying to order a book through the library's document delivery system, but kept getting an error message that says that I am not permitted to access Document Delivery. I get in touch with the library, and they tell me that my card is expired, and to go to the DalCard office. I do, and they tell me that my card is not expired, but that my student status has been revoked, and that I am now staff. The DalCard lady tells me to go to the English department, because they're the ones who changed my status. So I run back to the English department, and straight to Mary Beth, because she can fix anything. She tells me that the English department hasn't changed my status, and she starts making phone calls. She reaches someone who says that I have to go to the DalCard office, because they're the ones who can make status changes. (Yay! Admiscircles are great!) She reaches someone else who says that, since my SSHRC ran out, and I'm teaching part-time, I can't have student status--meaning that I can't have my bus pass (which I've paid for) or use the library (which I need). Mary Beth calmly tries to point out that my primary role is a graduate student, so I need to be able to use the library. She leaves many messages for many people. The next day, Mary Beth tells me that she has spoken to many people (registrar, library, DalCard, etc), and that the library people had told her my DalCard was expired. However, when she spoke to the DalCard office, they said my card didn't expire until December 31st. Regardless, even if I do get a new DalCard, it will say I'm faculty instead of a student. No bus pass, no library borrowing privileges. So she keeps looking into it. This morning, Mary Beth (aka my hero) sends me the following email:

Hmmmm. Apparently the DalCard office has a work ticket system.
You are now going to be known as Issue 917.
Looks like they will now give you a bus pass sticker, and a new
card when the one you have expires the end of December. If they
have a problem with this, tell them you're Issue 917, and hopefully
that will clear things up.

For the record, I would like everyone to refer to me as Issue 917 from now on.

This morning, I was going through my mail to find a letter from the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!) telling me that, as my end-of-studies date was April 30, I am now accumulating interest on my student loans, and they enter repayment status November 1st. Sigh. The issues:
1. I am still a full-time student.
2. I am a graduate student, and my annual end-of-studies date is August 30, not April 30.
3. I filled in and submitted all my forms last year. I haven't got around to it yet this year, but since my end-of-studies date was only 2 months ago, I wasn't too stressed that it's still on my to-do list.
So I phone the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!). I spoke to a woman who was either a Nazi or a demon--not sure which. I explain that, every year, I have similar problems. She tells me that she has no records of previous phone calls or emails to the call centre, and that I should have asked to talk to the supervisor, I should have filled in the correct forms, I should have submitted them to a bank branch, and since I didn't do any of these things, my first payment is due November 1st. I told her that I had gone to my school registrar last year, filled out the forms that they told me to fill out, and submitted them. She tells me I should have double-checked, and, since my end-of-studies date is April 30, I should have submitted new forms in September. I explain (again) that my end-of-studies date is August 30, so I still (should) have time to fill out and submit the forms. She tells me I should have made sure my school gave me the right forms. I explain that my school insisted that they had, that they put the correct date on the forms, and that I submitted them on time. She told me that wasn't possible. At this point, I am EXTREMELY frustrated and, I confess, yelling. I ask her to please stop telling me what I should have done, and that I had done everything that I could reasonably do to submit my forms correctly and on time. She tells me there's nothing she can do about it, and that my payment is due November 1. I ask to speak to her supervisor; she says, "Are you sure? There's a long wait." I said yes, I was sure. She suggested that, instead, I request for a supervisor to call me back. I agree. The problem is, the supervisor will not call me back until Monday--November 3, and my loan goes into repayment on November 1. However, there's no guarantee that CIBC will revoke the interest they've been charging me since April.

So. I take a deep breath. I send a very long email explaining the issue to the CIBC Ombudsman. I call the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!) again. When a woman answers, I make sure it isn't NaziDemon again. It isn't. I explain the problem as calmly as I can and ask what we can do. She puts me on hold to check my file (NaziDemon didn't bother) and, when she comes back, tells me that I've submitted Form B, when I should have submitted Schedule 2. I take a deep breath and explain that, last year, when I went to the Registrar, I just asked for whatever forms would keep me in interest-free, non-repayment status with both Alberta and Canada Student Loans. She advises me to send in this year's forms, but insists that there's nothing she can do about last year's--I owe the interest. I try not to cry. I point out that I did everything I reasonable could to fill in and submit all the right forms on time. She suggests that I call the Dal registrar to request a letter explaining that: a) I am and have been a full-time, year-round graduate student, and b) they gave me the wrong form. She also tells me that, even though I go into repayment status on November 1, my payment won't actually be due until the 30th. NaziDemon never told me that part.

And so I call the registrar's office. I explain: I am a graduate student, I pay fees year-round, I asked for the right forms, I got the wrong ones, and now I'm screwed. I ask for a letter "Oh--" I add, "And I'm Issue 917."

Long pause. "I have no idea what that means. I'm transferring you to my supervisor."

Fortunately, she takes the time to explain the whole novella to her supervisor, so I don't have to launch into the whole thing one more time. And here's what I find out: because so many students drop out during the year, they have a policy of never putting grad students' official end-of-studies date (August 30) on the form. Instead, they only put April 30, and we have to come back in April for a second form to submit. WTF?! I told her that nobody had ever told me that. She says I should read my forms more carefully. Believe me, I will from now on. Only suddenly, I remember getting a notice from the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!) last spring, warning me that my end-of-studies date was approaching, so I went and got a shiny new set of forms. Of course, when I picked them up, there was only a Form B, not a Schedule 2. "Didn't you notice that one of the forms was missing?" she asks me. I manage to suppress the urge to point out that my PhD is in English, not Administrative Formology. I'm glad I did: she agrees to write me a letter; I'm to pick it up on Monday.

I'll keep you posted.

Coast Best of Food

2009-03-22T17:28:00.002-04:00

It's back! The Coast is now accepting votes for Best of Food! Maybe I'm biased, but I think you should keep Cargo & James Tea in mind for Best Tea, Best Cafe, Best Coffee... and don't forget Zoe, Amanda, Elise, Alia, Christine and Britta when it comes to Best Barista!
Thanks for your vote!
http://www.thecoast.ca/halifax/BestofFood2009/Page

Please Support Research in Arts and Social Sciences!

2009-03-04T11:01:00.001-05:00

The recent federal budget calls for SSHRC funding to support business-based research; please sign the petition below, or contact your MP to let the government know that Arts and Social Sciences research is important and deserves funding, too!
http://nikiashton.ndp.ca/sshrc

Why Valentine's Day and All the Other Holidays (Except Hallowe'en) Are Stupid: An Essay

2009-02-14T13:52:00.002-05:00

Valentine's Day is dumb. It's a dumb, mean holiday. Thursday, I overheard three different couples arguing (mostly via cell phone) and realized... it's almost That Stupid Holiday again. Now, as you all know, I'm the Twenty-First century Feminist, kicking ass in great shoes, cooking and baking with glee, demanding equal pay for equal work (so there, Sweatervest!), and insisting that someone with male genitalia due his fair share of the vacuuming and toilet scubbing. But I'm all sympathy for the menfolk around Feb 14th. Honestly, haven't you figured it out yet? THIS HOLIDAY IS A TRAP! Because whatever you do, it's not going to meet your female partner's expectations. Not even close. Brought home flowers? She wanted chocolates, babe. Couples' massage? She was hoping for jewelry. Nice dinner out? Wanted you to cook it. And because of the messed up, unwritten rules of this Very Stupid Holiday, we're not allowed to tell you what we want! You're just supposed to know. Because evedence of telepathy shows that you really, really love us. Come ON! Nazis probably invented Valentine's Day.
Also, The Stupidest Holiday Ever is just mean. Single people hate it. Check that: single women hate it. Single men are just hoping that The Mean, Stupid Holiday will have chipped away at single women's self esteem enough that they'll get an easy hook-up tonight. So who likes Valentine's Day? Creepy single men who have little hope of getting any the rest of the year.
In fairness, Tacky Pink-and-Red Holiday isn't the only mean holiday. Pretty much every commercial holiday leaves somebody out. Christmas? Not your favourite holiday if you have a crapload of people on your gift list and a minimum wage income. Thanksgiving? Not the biggest hit with the Native North Americans, I imagine. Easter? It's supposed to be a "spring" holiday, but it just reminds Canadians how long and crappy our winters are? Family Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Grandparents' Day? Not hard to figure out who might feel left out on these ones. Canada Day? Not a big hit with the JWs.
So what about Hallowe'en? Diabetics probably don't like this one much. Except that they get to dress up like zombies and exact their revenge on candy-eaters by scaring the crap out of them. Same goes for dentists. Okay, okay JWs aren't big fans of this one either. Still, I gotta say, on balance, Hallowe'en wins the Least Emotionally Damaging Holiday award. Of course, that guy (yup, adult. Grown man.) I made cry at the Fort Edmonton Halowe'en Spooktacular by chasing him with a rotary saw, while wearing a black cloak and goalie mask, probably doesn't agree with me. But at least that psychological damage was all in fun. Crappy Paper Hearts and Stale Cinnamon Candies Day is still in last place in my books.

Also, I Plan to Start Wearing a Trenchcoat, Sunglasses, and Fedora in Public.

2009-01-30T16:52:00.004-05:00

Hello, faithful readers. (By which I mean, Hi Phil.)

I'm having some internet privacy issues of late, so I'm going to lock down this Blog so that only people whom I approve can read it. It's probably something I should have done a long time ago, but I hate the feeling that I have to become all paranoid and hide my identity online. Mainly because I'm not all that interesting--I'd always thought that no one would really be interested in anything I post online. Not interested enough to stress about it, anyway.

So... in the next little while I'll be locking down this site. I've already locked down my Facebook page. If you want access to either, just drop me an email: becca {aaattt} cargoandjames {dottttt} com. (My hotmail account is too spammy.)

See ya undercover.

I'm Fessin' Up

2009-01-20T12:35:00.002-05:00

Here it is--my confession: I am probably the only person in all of North America who wasn't glued to the TV today. Just after 1 (Halifax time), I made myself a tea, then walked down the hall and peered into all the offices where people were crowded around computer screen, watching the CNN live feed of the inauguration. And when I got back to my office, I cracked a browser window myself. But here's the confession: I wasn't enthralled. I didn't cry.
Before I start getting hate mail, I should clarify: I think Obama is awesome. Wish we could replace Sweatervest with an Obama of our own. I cried when I heard the election results. I feel pretty hopeful when I think of what the next eight (yes, eight) years will be like in the world. But I just subjected Nicole, my friend, colleage and officemate to a tyrade of cynical curmudgeonliness about the obsessive attention to the inauguration. Why? Honestly, I'm not really sure. Except that I feel generally suspicious of ceremonies. I guess what I'm most looking forward to is opening the newspaper over the next few weeks and months and seeing the kinds of things he does as President. Don't get me wrong: the English grad student in me really admires him as an orator. It's exciting (in a very nerdy way) to see rhetoric used so expressively and effectively in public. Especially after eight simultaneously hilarious and appalling George W years. (What? women putting food on their families?) I guess maybe, too, I think it's a little sad that we won't have such an obvious source of humour for the next few years. But what I think it comes down to is that I feel a little sorry for Obama. I mean, the man could be Jesus or Dumbledore himself and still not live up to all that we want him to live up to. Also, he's inheriting a huge crap pile, and everyone's trusting him to clean it all up: the economy, Iraq, Afghanistan, and more than three hundred years of racism and oppression--the whole shebang. Honestly, does anyone envy this man the task ahead of him? Still, I think we're all hopeful. I guess it's an exciting time--especially after eight years of terror and paranoia. So why am I being so curmudgeonly about the whole inauguration speech? Maybe I'm just a jerk. Or maybe I'm hoping that we're going to see real and meaningful change. And as much as I love a well-crafted, effectively delivered speech, I think that what excites me most is not the speech, but the action that, I hope, will follow.
Or maybe I'm just curmudgeonly.

Let's Act Green!

2009-01-17T19:43:00.002-05:00

As usual, I'm probably the last to hear about this, but I like the One Million Acts of Green thing. I like that it gives me easy tips, so I don't feel all overwhelmed, like I have to undergo a major change and save the planet all by myself. I like that it tells me I'm a good girl for the things I've already figured out on my own--like that I should stop using my dryer and air-dry my clothes instead (I love my outdoor clothes line in the summer! I particularly like hanging out Trent's gynch with the yeti!) and that cold water is better than hot for doing laundry. I like that it's giving me new tips to try. I think you guys should join. Unless, of course, I'm the last to get on board and you all know already. Either way, here are a few things I've figured out already:

Vinegar makes the best cleaning product. Buy a tiny jar of a nice-smelling essential oil (pine and bergamot are nice) and mix pickling vinegar (it's stronger) with a few drops of the essential oil in a spray bottle for cleaning counters, bathrooms, sinks, and toilets. Add a little baking soda to clean the bathtub. Dilute in hot water to wash floors. By the way, vinegar is dirt cheap--cheaper than ordinary cleaners and way, way cheaper than enviro cleaners!
Eat vegetarian once a week. If you don't like tofu, add lentils to your pasta, or put almonds on your salad. Meat production and processing also produces a lot of greenhouse gasses. Come on--one supper a week isn't all that hard. Just ask Trent!
Clothes lines are awesome! They make your clothes smell so nice, and wind is a natural fabric softener. Except in the winter. In winter, it's just a freeze-solid-crunchifier.
Nellie's All-Natural and Watkins make awesome natural laundry detergents. Nellie's even makes a great bleach substitute. Add a tablespoon each of vinegar and baking soda to your laundry for extra cleaning power. Buy powders, not liquids, and always wash on cold.

Okay, now your turn: tell me the ones I've been missing. Oh, and click on the link in my first paragraph and join the challenge!

A Pretentious, Biased and Uneducated Art Review

2008-09-28T19:32:00.004-04:00

To the confession: art makes me feel dumb. I don't really understand the different between a really good painting and a poor one. Like everyone else, I like some paintings, and I don't like others. I have some basic concept of technique and composition, but visual art usually makes me feel like I'm going to be exposed for my plebeian tastes.
Poetry used to make me feel the same way. I was nearly 30 before I finally felt that I "got" poetry. A startling confession for an English PhD candidate, I know. Give me a novel or a short story, a play or an essay and I'm a critical fish in water. But poetry... I'm still getting used to it.
And maybe it's because we're all so used to seeing photos, but my visual arts anxieties are somewhat lessened when I'm looking at a photograph. So I'm pretty excited that this month's Cargo & James exhibit is part of the Photopolis Festival. Until the end of October, we will be showing Scott Blackburn's Religious Views by a Non-Religious Person. And you know what? I look at his photos and I think, "I get it..."
And so right now, I'm going to offer a critical review of some of his paintings. Don't judge me if I get it wrong.
My favourite photo is of a Madonna statue from a church in Church Point, NS. The statue is remarkably lifelike, and her eyes are turned to heaven, only Scott has managed to capture her gaze from a downward perspective. As you look at the photo, you feel an uncomfortable sense of voyeurism--like you have somehow got between her gaze and God. In addition, the statue, and its gaze in particular, is uncannily lifelike--I continually forget that I'm looking at a photo of a statue. It's both beautiful and usettling.
Scoot has also taken a composite photo of a church that is falling into ruin; the amazing thing about this photo is that the images suggests iconic heaven-and-hell imagery: beams of sunlight falling through the ruined roof, and darkness showing through the broken floorboards.
Other images expose the often decaying pageantry of religious imagery: beautiful statues feature cracks and faults, and the guilding on haloes is tarnished and rusted.
Okay. I'll stop being so bloody pretentious now. You can trust me when I tell you that tese are beautiful and haunting pictures, or you can come to Cargo & james to see them yourself, and then tell me how utterly wrong I am about them.

Sure, They SAY 70% of Communication is Non-Verbal...

2008-09-02T11:13:00.002-04:00

You can smell it in the air... stale beer and acne medication. That's how you know this year's crop of first-year students is in town, settling in for, y'know, school and... stuff. Today, all the street corners are dotted with Shinerama volunteers: 17-to-19-year-old standing at every intersection, collecting money for Cystic Fibrosis research. Some of them have rigged up boxes on sticks so that they don't have to step out into traffic: they just poke out the box, and drivers roll down their passenger windows and throw money in. Problem is, I'm a luddite withour power windows, and a pickup truck I can't reach across. So at every corner on my way into the city, I'm making this exaggerated rolling motion with my right arm, and hoping that they'll understand that the motion, coupled with my pained "I'm-sorry" grimace, means, "I don't have power windows, so I can't give you money right now, but I feel really, really guilty about it!" and not, "I'm a miser and think charity is for suckers!" Fianlly, finally, I'm headed down a quiet street and I see more Shinerama kids. I pull over, reach across the gigantuan cab of my truck, roll down the window, hand them all my change, and I explain my predicament and ask that they stick one of their Shinerama stickers to my passenger window, thinking that would help explain things on my way home. And it would have too, except that on the drive home, all the Shinerama kids were on the driver's side. Sigh.

Bear's HNIC Submissions

2008-08-31T22:24:00.002-04:00

Log on and tell them how much Bear rocks!

Click Here

And Here

If this is a practical joke...

2008-08-13T20:59:00.001-04:00

there will be some crying.

http://www.fireflyseason2.com/

I Want Your Brains! BraaAAAAAIIIIIIiinnsssss!

2008-07-08T11:43:00.003-04:00

Here's the skinny: Trent had a brain child this spring, and now we're trying to get it working. Buckley's Music is donating a guitar to our store. We're going to hang it on the wall next to a donations box and invite customers to play it... for a small donation. Then we're going to match those donations, and the money will go to providing music lessons for kids whose families can't afford to pay for them on their own; the YWCA is going to help us select program participants. All is going well, except we can't think of a clever name for the program. "Music for Youth" is just so prosaic. Little help?

I'm Not Dead, I'm Just Boring

2008-05-20T13:31:00.002-04:00

So this Blog is making me a little anxious lately. I keep trying to think of something to post. For a long time, I figured no one read this beasty any more, but then you all give me hell when I go unposted for a long time. Well, I hate to say it, but I got nothing. Life is pretty dull these days. I don't even have a good rant for you, on account of I'm pretty happy about most things. I worry about our teashop not making money yet (though we did have a really good day on Saturday, despite the crappy weather), and I am secretly (check that: was secretly--not so secret any more) terrified that everyone will find out what a big academic slacker I am, even though I've had a really productive couple of months. I'm working out a lot lately, and even though I haven't lost any weight, and I look pretty much exactly the same as I did in my winter hibernation months, I feel prettier. Much, much prettier. Yay, endorphins! Trent and I went to Montreal for a few days. It was fun, relaxing, and I'm still trying to figure out how to get the pics off my cell phone. I wish we had more time and more money to do all the house projects we plan on doing. I wish I could take a few weeks and visit Edmonton. I wish my dissertation would go faster. I wish I would get an acceptance letter in the mail from a publisher for a change. I wish everyone who's sent me a rejection letter would get really bad hives. I wish we had a maid--or at least a house elf. I wish I had another Harry Potter book to look forward to. I wish my hair was naturally red so I could stop dying it. I wish I could afford to go shopping much more often. But I'm glad the writer's strike is over, on account of I got my BSG back. And I'm glad Trent hooked up a computer to the TV so I can watch Buffy whenever I want. I'm glad I'm not teaching this summer so I have more time for school, the store, the garden and the gym. I'm glad we're finally making good friends in Halifax. I'm glad shirts are long and waists are Empire this summer. I'm glad it's almost summer! I'm glad to hear how well everyone I love is doing. And I'm glad you guys still actually want to hear what's going on in my life--even if it's boring. I love you and I miss you.

I'm on TV!

2008-02-22T08:26:00.002-05:00

...but am I that prissy in real life?!

Halifax Living

It's Not Really Sexism if You're a Woman.

2008-02-07T10:30:00.000-05:00

You know what I DON'T like? UFC. You know--cage fighting, mixed martial arts, ultimate fighting, call it what you will. Two 'roided-up guys with cauliflower ears grappling on the ground, trying to make each other pass out or tap out or whatever. And don't tell me I have to give it a chance before I decide. I gave it two chances--watched two PPV events. Both times, I felt mildly nauseated and very bored. I think it's a big masculinist display of brute force and it's dumb.
It's not that I'm against violence in sports. I think boxing is stupid (we all saw Rocky IV and itwas no surprise that Stallone--er, Rocky was brain damaged), but I do like hockey fights (in a hockey game, not just staged for the hell of it). Of course, I like hockey fights because they're funny. Guys with that much padding are NOT going to hurt each other. They might as well just have a pillow fight. (Or not, because my mom says that's a good way to lose an eye.) Okay, maybe I am a little against violence in sports.
I've discovered that I have an exception: women's mixed martial arts. My friend Tannaya (yes, green drinks Tannaya) is an Ultimate Fighter. And I think that is so cool that I want Cargo & James Halifax to sponsor her next fight! How awesome would that be? I mean, tea is healthy, and mixed martial arts is a sport and sports are healthy, right? Right?
Trent, of course, is mildly perturbed by what he sees as sexism on my part. After all, if I hate watching men kick the crap out of each other, that should go for women, too, right?
Wrong. Here's why: when men do stupid things like Ultimate Fighting, I'm pretty sure it's meant to be a display of masculine prowess: "look at what the male body can do!" Or "See? I'm a man. I'll prove it by kicking some other guy's ass and emasculating him in front of a huge crowd and some TV cameras." But when women do it, they're picking at the very masculinist posturing that's behind these macho displays. Suddenly, it's all, "look at what the human body can do!" Because women are meant to be excluded from these displays of physical prowess. Or we're just supposed to watch and be impressed by them or something. Kicking some other woman's ass is an act of feminism, see?
Or maybe I'm just justifying because I think Tannaya is so cool and I want to go and watch her kick some other woman's ass.

I Oopsied.

2008-01-15T13:47:00.000-05:00

Once again, Becca is reminded that Blogs are a public forum. A newspaper reporter found my Blog the other day and wanted to report on the trials and tribulations of opening a teashop in Halifax. Perhaps I should take this moment to clarify that this Blog is intended to form a personal conversation between me and my family and friends, and that I would really, really prefer that my comments not be republished in any other forum. However, I don't like the idea of going all secret and making my Blog by-invitation-only. I guess I just need the occasional reminder that ANYONE can find me here if they look long enough.

So... teashop is open and going well. I've posed for newspaper photos twice this week and given three interviews. The interviews I enjoy, the photos not so much. The teashop is open and it is lovely, except that we still don't have our bookshelves or fireplace (see trials and tribulations, below). My staff is fantastic, and I have my life back--I only have to be there a few days a week, and I have my comfy chair in the corner by the espresso machine where I read my trauma studies and contemplate beginning work on my dissertation. I present my PhD prospectus to the department on the 31st and generally, life is good. Except that Bear has to travel to Cape Breton every weekend until the end of February for work.

Oh--and I did a really fun thing yesterday: I'm TAing for a professional writing course, and the students have to do a presentation to the class using PowerPoint. The prof (Lyn B, for whom I TAed before, and who ROCKS!) asked me to do a demo presentation, and I figured, sure, I could do a GOOD presentation, but where's the fun in that? Lyn and I talked, and I decided to do a what-not-to-do demo. So fun! I recycled an old lecture on Structuralism and Post-Structuralism (complete with huge photo of the winner of the World's Ugliest Dog contest), except that I added slides packed with dense definitions of the terms, which I then read as fast as possible, with my back to the class. I also said remarkably pretentious and preposterous things like, "And of course, we are all familiar with Claude Levi-Strauss' seminal work in anthropology" and "I'm sure you're all familiar with Roman Jakobson's particular brand of Russian Formalism." It is just so fun to see a completely flummoxed look on a student's face! You have no idea how liberating it can be to aim to fail.

And now, just for you, the World's Ugliest Dog: (imagine it in huge PowerPoint style!)

From Sanguine to Bilious in Three Days Flat

2007-12-17T09:52:00.000-05:00

You guys don't know how excited I will be when our teahouse is finally open for business. Either that, or I'll already be locked away in a mental ward. I know that construction never goes exactly as planned, but I can't help but feel that we've had a particularly rough week. First, our power meter, which was supposed to be installed last Monday, still isn't in, so we have no electricity. Then on Friday, when the Eastlink guy showed up to hook up our phone and data connections, the workmen on site sent him away because they didn't know where the cables are, and we haven't been able to reschedule. And last week, the truck carrying all our millwork (counters, shelves, tabletops) was in a traffic accident and most of it was destroyed. And, although they rebuilt a lot of it, our shelves were apparently destroyed again in last night's storm. Also, our cash register and espresso grinder are both missing in transit. I am so, so tired.
Also, I have to finish my marking today.

We both heard it, so I can't be THAT crazy!

2007-11-28T11:41:00.000-05:00

Ozzy has a special meow that he reserves for travel: as soon as we put him in his carrier or into a vehicle, he starts with his hollowed-out, rounded, mournful rowr! This morning, he had an appointment with the groomer to be shaved, so Bear and I wrestled him into his fancy blue soft-shell carrier with the mesh windows, backpack-style straps, and suitcase-style wheels and retractable handle. Of course, as soon as the zipper is shut on him, he starts his travel-meow. And as Bear and I are putting on our shoes, he has a little freak-out, rattling and bumping his carrier.

"Watch out Oz," Trent warned him, "You're going to fall on your face."

Sure enough, moments later, his carrier fell forward on its mesh-windowed front with Ozzy still inside. For a second, he was silent and still, then came the muffled complaint from inside the bag: "Ow!"

Bear and I looked at each other and chuckled a bit, and for a long moment, Ozzy was quiet and still in the overturned carrier. Then, clear as day, he called out to us (presumably to make sure we hadn't abandoned him in that undignified and helpless position):

"... Hel-lo?..."

Teastuff in our Garage:

2007-11-22T10:40:00.000-05:00

A printer-fax, a loveseat, twelve dining chairs, four bar stools, an easy chair, an ottoman, three coffee tables, two mini-fridges, a commercial dishwasher, a toaster, a panini grill, eighteen plates, twelve bowls, twenty-four saucers, thirty-four mugs of various sizes, thirty-six spoons, twelve butter knives, twelve forks, twelve dishrags, twelve towels, three milk jugs and a microwave.
On its way to our garage: another loveseat, a couch, a full-size fridge, two more easy chairs, and an upright freezer.

I can't wait to rent us that cube van!

Tea Update

2007-11-19T11:53:00.001-05:00

Dear diary,
Today I was pompous and my sister was crazy...
(Sorry. Couldn't resist beginning with my favourite Firefly quote.)

Dear diary,
Yesterday I was pompous and crazy. And then Trent and I spent a shitload of money on furniture that strangers will sit on. We got a real (but cheap) brown leather couch from the Brick, and two pleather loveseats, a pleather ottoman and twelve pleather dining chairs from Wicker Emporium. Our teahouse will be spill-proof! Our cabinetmaker is building tabletops for four used table stands that our equipment saleswomen found us, and our garage is now full: two mini-fridges, a commercial dishwasher, toaster, panini grill, eighteen plates, twelve bowls, twenty-four saucers, thirty-four mugs of various sizes, thirty-six spoons, twelve butter knives, twelve forks, twelve dishrags, twelve towels, three milk jugs and a microwave. Our full-size fridge and stand-up freezer just arrived at the brick warehouse, and we are still waiting for some of our furniture. Hopefully, the espresso machine, four-foot refrigerated showcase, slush machine and coffee grinders will be delivered right to the shop!

Hana (my pickpup truck; keep up, guys!) was looking a little worried until I told her not to worry: Trent and I are going to have to rent a cube van next week or the week after to get all this stuff to the teahouse. Cause we're not serving tea out of our garage.

Yay! a cube van!

Let me clarify: NOT a vacation!

2007-11-15T23:09:00.000-05:00

Whew! Bear and I are home from our whirlwind trip to Edmonton! I both hope and fear that, right now, you're saying, "What? Edmonton! You didn't call me!" (Hope, because it means you love me, and fear, because I don't want to piss you off.) Here's the thing: we didn't call anybody, except Trent's Gran, who is celebrating her 84th birthday this month and Andrea, who just turned 40. (Yeah, sis, I'm telling the internets you're 40!) We were very, very, very busy: we were in Edmonton for teatraining.
I think I've told everyone already, but if not, here's the skinny: Trent and I have bought ourselves the franchise rights to C&J teahouse for downtown Halifax! Our store is under construction on Barrington and South Streets! So... we had to go to Edmonton for training this weekend. It was kind of a secret trip because there are so many of you that we love and miss in Edmonton, but it was literally an all-weekend thing: we got to town late Friday night, were in training all day, every day, until two hours before our plane took off on Tuesday afternoon. It was exhausting. And exciting. Guys, I'm going to be a Tea Baroness!
And here's the (other) awesome part: we left just before the big snowstorm in Halifax, and got back just as the weather in Edmonton was getting cold and nasty. I have to rub it in: today was T-shirt weather in Halifax...

It's Like... Well, It's Like Herding Cats!

2007-10-01T09:42:00.000-04:00

Have I mentioned how gorgeous a Halifax fall is? September and October really are the best months of the year. And for her first fall as a resident of Nova Scotia, Mom is enjoying them, tourist style! Dolores has come to spend two weeks with Mom and already they've been to Peggys Cove, Grand Pre, and the three of us went to the Mahone Bay Scarecrow Festival last weekend (so much fun!). Today, they're off to Cape Breton.
This means that, while they're away, Trent and I are petsitting. Tilou is, of course, a very good dog, and Chai is an adorable kitten. But, in case you're not keeping track, we now have five--yes, five--pets in the house. Marlowe keeps following Chai around, Chai keeps alternately teasing and growling at Marlowe, Tilou is glad for the break from both of them, Enkidu is trying to mother Chai, Chai either lets her, growls at her, or tries to play with her; when Chai wants to play with Enki, Enki gets upset because she just wants to lick Chai's head, and Ozzy is just plain suspicious of the whole thing. Except when he's hissing at Tilou. Which Tilou loves. It makes him bark. Which makes Ozzy hiss more.
Too much monsters! Just too much monsters!!!

Blog Game

2007-09-26T20:07:00.000-04:00

Mkay, I invented a Blog game. Let's play it.
When you go to post a comment to my Blog, you have to enter some letters into a little box so that spam can't get me. Sometimes, the letters form almost-words. So post a comment: copy the almost-word into the body of your comment, then make up a definition for it. I'll go first.
(Procrastinating? Who, me?)

Fences

2007-09-23T14:49:00.000-04:00

Today's been kind of a weird one. My next-door neighbours are having a baby shower. The house is owned by Wayne and Ginny, and Andrew, their son, his wife April, and their kids all live their too. Anyhow, April is pregnant, and yesterday, Wayne mentioned that today is the baby shower, and did I know I was invited?
Here's the awkward part: right after we moved in, we told them that we wanted to fence in the back yard for Marlowe. They said okay, but they wanted us to get it surveyed first. Fair enough, but it's been bloody hard to get a surveyor to come out and do the work. (Halifax!!!) Finally, Wayne got a surveyor out to replace the missing marker pins. Well... it turns out that we have way more land than we thought, and they have way less. The rose hedge isn't even NEAR the property line! They are understandable upset (who wouldn't be?) but they've also hinted that Ginny is particularly upset at us for wanting to put up a fence on what they always thought was their property. I know what you're thinking--not really our fault or our problem, right? True enough, but who wants to feud with their neighbours? Plus, they are quite nice (a little odd, but they've been good neighbours) and I don't like the idea that they're upset with us, whether it's our fault or not. So. I suspect that my baby shower invite got lost under a pile of pissed-off.
I don't really like leaving things like that, though, so yesterday, Trent and I went to get a little baby gift, and today, I made a tray of crostini to take over. I stopped in, told them I couldn't stay because I have a big pile of marking (which is actually quite true), but that I wanted to bring over a gift and a snack. A few minutes ago, while Trent was outside digging post holes for the new fence, they came by to return my plate, full of goodies from the shower. I think we're good.
How's that for a day of construction? Trent is building fences, and I'm mending them. Good fences make good neighbours, right? (Oh, the cliches, the cliches!)

Let's Play "Name That Cat!"

2007-09-15T14:00:00.000-04:00

Mom and I went to Bridgewater today to pick up one last accessory for her new house... but she can't settle on a name. Here are a few that she likes:

Ocean

Saffron

Chai

Ulysses

Birch

Sumach

Sasha

Quick! He needs a name by tomorrow! Help Mom decide!

Uh, oh--introspective again.

2007-09-13T19:26:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's because I should be prepping for class and I'm procrastinating again, maybe it's because 30 ain't getting any further away, or maybe because September really is a month full of weird anniversaries, but I've been thinking a lot lately about where I was when...
9-11: Six years ago. For some reason, this one seems like the longest ago. I think it's because I was in such a weird place. I was 23, I'd just dropped out of the MA program, and I was working at Fort Edmonton, a place that always felt like such a retreat (or an escape) for me. It was this really gorgeous day, and I was at work, and I was so grateful to be working there, and relieved because I'd made the decision not to do my Master's degree (at least not yet), and I was really, really worried about the future. I had no idea where I wanted my life to go, and I was so focused on just enjoying the now because I knew that, by the end of September I'd have to start making some decisions, and then all of a sudden, there was this major world event happening, only it didn't really change the fact that I was still me, and I was still scared, and I still needed a plan. And it made me feel really small and really self-absorbed and just a little ashamed.
Lady Diana dies: 10 years ago. I had just started University. I was out of Cold Lake (again) and I was so excited. And I realized for the first time that I wasn't as small-town as I thought I was when all of my Kelsey Hall floormates were stoked about the possibility of getting drunk. So somewhere (I don't remember where) I met these three English guys from another floor, and we went for beers. We were having a really fun time, and we drank way too much beer, then it was on the news that Lady Di was dead. We were all like, "Oh shit," but honestly, we were too drunk to do anything but have a good time. Then one of the English guys chose that precise moment to start hitting on me "You know you're pretty?" And I laughed, and he said, "No, I mean it, you're really, really pretty," and I thought, "Oh, shit, I guess I can't hang out with these guys after all," and I teetered my lonely way across the road to 5 Kelsey where most of my floormates were already puking. But I'd lived in France, and I was oh-so-sophisticated, and I knew that if you ever got drunk, you disguised it, and that anyone with any self respect never, ever vomits in public. And I didn't spend much time on 5 Kelsey that year.
The Winspear Opens: 10 years ago. Again, my first year at UofEh. I had met this really cool girl in my English class (I don't even remember her name now) and we started hanging out together. She was invited to the poshgala Winspear opening ceremonies, only she didn't wear dresses (ever) and wanted to know if I had a dress she could borrow. Well, my Aunt Debbie had given me this wicked vintage gown--very 70s, very funky, and I lent it to her. A few days later, this girl and I met for coffee, and it became clear that she thought we were dating. Particularly strange since she'd met my boyfriend. I made it clear with all the delicacy that a 19-year-old could muster, that we were just friends. Well, next English class, she's sitting somewhere else. And she won't talk to me anymore. Then she dropped out of school. And she kept my dress. A few years later, I ran into her again. She was working at Audrey's Books. I asked her about my dress. She told me she was sure she'd returned it. Either that, she said, or she'd thrown it out.
The Dawson College shooting: 1 year ago. Is it awful that I remember this terrible, tragic event, and all I can think is, "Holy shit, that was a year ago already?"
So I guess what comes of all this is, I'm the centre of my own little world. As if that wasn't clear enough already.

For you... the Blue Beast!

2007-09-01T20:28:00.001-04:00

Granted, she isn't pretty, but you can drive her while you're in Halifax!

And now, some funny pictures of Marlowe in a dress-up collar that Mom bought for her. Notice how, in the last photo, she has the same expression on her face that I have in my profile picture...

Because, of course, she couldn't have done it all by herself!

2007-08-20T12:11:00.000-04:00

While we were in NB a couple of weeks ago, I got a little... shrill when I saw a preview for this summer's next flowsy romantic comedy: Becoming Jane, starring Anne Hathaway as Jane Austen. When I first heard about this film a couple of months ago, I thought, "huh. Wonder what they'll find to make a plot out of." After all, as Austen biographers will tell you, the novelist's life was not exactly exciting. She was devoted to her family, especially her sister, was excited and proud to be making money from her writing, never married, and died at around 40. In fact, her only engagement (the general outline of which was pillaged for the most recent film version of Mansfield Park) was to a friend of her brother--more of a family alliance than a romantic connection--and she changed her mind and broke off the engagement the next day!
Now, don't get me wrong. I know that biopics aren't documentaries--nor should they be. By all means, if you're making a movie or writing a novel about someone else's life, use creative license to make it more interesting. We don't have all access to anyone's life, and to me, creativity is more honest than bare-bones faithfulness to documented facts. Here's what bothers me: why are we still not giving women any credit for independent, creative impulse?! Women are either muse-figures, enhancing the creativity of virile artist-men, or else they're shy, timid creatures who must be awakened to artistic creativity by virile living-life men.
Okay. Take Walk the Line. I like this movie. A lot, and I thought Reese Witherspoon was amazing as June Carter Cash. But take a look at the plot line: crooner with raw talent produces great music all by himself, but has to be reined in by stable, reliable June Carter, who, despite the fact that she was a successful musician in her own right since childhood, is represented as artistically peaking when she wrote more music for her virtuoso husband to sing.
And now, Becoming Jane. The tagline: "Their Love Story Was Her Greatest Inspiration." In other words: poor cloistered, misunderstood Jane has nothing to write about until an unpredictable, virile man shows her how to live. Um... should I even get started on the implicit value of female versus male experience here? Or the assumptions about what enables creativity, and under what circumstances? Why do I suspect that we're not going to see a film any time soon about the woman who enabled Dickens' particular genius?
So, what do you say? Can you think of any movies where the roles are reversed, and where women's life experience enables men to become creative? Or where a strong, creative woman does just fine artistically, but needs life guidance from a stable, reliable man?

Just give me a basket and a... chainsaw?!

2007-08-08T22:04:00.000-04:00

Wow. Trent and I just got back from a long weekend in New Brunswick. Aunt Maureen, Uncle Terry and Trent's cousin Jeff and his partner Melanie spoiled us for four fantastic days in Moncton and at the... "cottage" (think: log mansion) at Bass River. We had a fabulous time hanging out with family--including Mom & Dad Soholt (while poor Mom Esme got stuck petsitting--ha! that'll learn you to move to Nova Scotia!)--and doing various and sundry water sports. Stay tuned for pics.
One morning, we walked over to the "shed" (actually a massive garage containing, among other things, a righteous model train set and a vintage T-Bird), where Dad S and I noticed some raspberries growing next to the pond. Dd and Terry mentioned that there were more raspberries growing in the bush on the quad path.
"Oh, good," I said. "I'd like to go berry picking."
I asked Trent whether he wanted to join me. He said he'd rather watch paint dry.
As we walked back towards the house, I asked where the raspberries were. Terry said that they were near the back of the trail and that Trent could take me on the Rhino. (A Rhino is the unholy... and AWESOME spawn of a Jeep and a quad.) Before Trent could roll his eyes, I said, "No, no, just tell me where. I'll find it." After all, I'm a backwoods girl from way back.
"No, they're way back in there," Terry replied. "I'll have to show you."
I started to get uncomfortable. After all, I didn't want to make a big production of it. I just wanted to pck some raspberries!
We get back to the house and word gets out that I want to go berry picking. Immediately, Maureen goes hunting for a bucket. "No, no, no!" I cry. "I'll find a plastic bag or--something!" My vision of myself, tripping merrily through the forest, eating berries as I go is vanishing, morphing into this giant, embarassing production. I'm really uncomfortable now--everyone seems to be preparing for some sort of massive excursion. Maureen and Mom S are hunting for a berry receptacle, Trent and Dad S are prepping the quads, and Terry is out getting the chainsaw ready.
"Wait! What?! Chainsaw!" Good god! Now berry picking involves power tools?
"Yes, we'll need to clear the trail," Terry replies. "I'll take one Rhino on ahead and you and Trent can follow in the other."
I look guiltily at Bear. "We can watch paint dry later," I promise quietly. My bucolic vision of me as berry gatherer is dissolving into realities of enormous motorized bush vehicles, berry receptable quests and... chainsaws. And, next thing we know, when Trent isn't hauling freshly cut brush off the quad path, he's helping me AND Terry fill a bag with raspberries. Glancing at me reproachfully every few minutes.

Damn, those were good raspberries.

Just give me a crazyhuge straw hat to wear while I garden and I'm set!

2007-07-14T14:16:00.000-04:00

Mom, Bear and I have been hard at work this month. We're finishing the deck and porch, and painting the house and garage... purple! Okay, technically, the house is a shade of deep blue, but to me it looks purple. How awesome is that, living in a purple house?
Those of you who have seen our HaliHouse know that it was formerly painted in tones that could only have been inspired by a detention centre of possibly a concentration camp: grey and black. Kind of dull in the summer, downright depressing in the winter. Now, it is a deep, vibrant shade of blue/purple, with white trim. (Or it's getting there, anyway.) It looks kind of sporty--like a team jersey or sailing clothes. I love it!

One neighbour's response to the new colour: "Purple! Looks great! I love it!"

Another neighbour's response: "You're not really painting it that colour, are you?"

Heh, heh heh.

If I Know I'm an Idiot, Does it Make Me Less of an Idiot?

2007-06-25T14:51:00.000-04:00

Okay. I have a pattern: there's something I don't really want to do. Usually something administrative, like filling in my student loan forms, or a funding application, or other paperwork for school. Or my thesis prospectus, or maybe my course description. And I know that really, it isn't that bad, but I don't want to do it. So I put it off. As long as I can. And I start getting anxious. As the deadline approaches, I start finding new and creative reasons not to do it--like absolutely needing to clean out my cupboards. Or weeding the garden. Or reorganizing the shed. You get the picture. Very necessary things that totally trump this looming administrative task. And I start to get worried. It keeps me up at night. I get stomach aches. But I still don't just sit my ass down and do this stupid thing that has me all stressed out until I absolutely have to.
And you know what? It's never, ever as bad as I think it will be. Ever. Take, say, my prospectus. Now, I have a SSHRC. My SSHRC proposal is essentially a draft of my prospectus. But I can't even convince myself to open the damn file for weeks! And then I do, work on it for an hour and a half, and email it off to my supervisor as a first draft. No problem. Suddenly all my stress problems are gone.
Or my course description--I know most of the students won't even read the damn thing anyway, but I wai until the firggin thing is two weeks overdue before I even start work on it! And you know what? It takes me, like an hour. A day later, a few good friends have looked at it, given me their feedback, and the thing is submitted. So easy. Why did I put it off?
Only, the worst thing is, I know I'll just do it again. Anf again, and again, and again, and...

Noah's Ark: Bursting at the Seams

2007-06-19T08:49:00.001-04:00

Okay, I've finally figured out how many pets is too many pets. Four. Four is the breaking number. Mom is in the process of moving to Nova Scotia, and becuase it was really stressing Tilou out to see the house slowly emptied, Mom brought him to Halifax during her house-hunting trip and left him here. We figured, no problem--Tilou is a really good dog, right?
In theory, yes. Except that Ozzy can't pass him without hissing. And Tilou thinks that's awesome, so he gets all excited and starts barking and dancing and shit. And then Ozzy, who really just wanted to show his displeasure in a sort of desultory manner, gets really freaked out and upset and puffs out, swipes with his claw and runs away. Also, the dogs get jealous of each other. If you pet one, the other runs up to you. In fairness, Marlowe started it. But then Tilou thought, hey, that's a prety good idea. And then when one gets jealous, they both start barking and trying to edge the other out. And then when it's time to go outside, both dogs want to go first. And last. And each cries at the door when the other is outside.
Oh, and don't even get me started on the two-leashes-for-a-walk thing!

Home for a Rest

2007-05-30T11:47:00.000-04:00

Wow. Talk about your whirlwind trips! We are now back in Hali after the world's most fabulous... and exhausting trip to Edmonton! By my count, we managed to fit in:

4 business meetings
at least 9 lunches and dinners out-an afternoon at Fort Edmonton
visits with over 50 friends, family members, former coworkers and miscellaneous Edmontonians that we miss a lot--including several other out-of-towners, Mom & Dad Soholt, Michelle, Hardeep & Simrin, Aunt Maureen & Uncle Terry, Uncle Tim & Aunt Linda, Paulie and Heidi
trips to virtually every part of the city (South side, West end, North side, Mill Woods, Riverbend, St Albert, downtown, Old Stratchcona, and University)
2 missed flights (oops!)
4 different airports
one illegal driving incident (driving a rental very, very carefully without insurance!)
2 floor hockey ejections for high-sticking (guess who did that.)
househunting with Phil & Nancy
container gardening
2 nights on the town
come-ons from several Edmontonians, including a shiny new Business graduate ("English? You know that's like totally worthless, right? You'll have to go back and take Education or something." What a turn-on.), a high school student, and a fireman (yup--those 3, all me!)
a new tattoo (not me!)
impromptu dance lessons for the rhythmically challenged at the Attic
the discovery that Corey's girlfriend is the infamous Pixie
stays at 3 different houses
petsitting
slight intoxication
baking
bowling
shopping
a wardrobe malfunction
and very, very little sleep.

Whew! I'm tired just cataloguing it all! (And I'm sure there's a lot I've missed in there...). Anyway, it was so, so fantastic to see everyone--I miss you all already! And for those of you we missed, the good news is, we will probably be back in July and August.
Love and big, big thanks especially to Greg & Nadine, Julie, Bob & Emmet and Toni & Brad for letting us freeload with them.

Fort Edmonton

2007-05-23T12:27:00.000-04:00

We're already running out of time to visit with everyone, but we would still love to see as many of you as possible. We're planning to go to Fort Edmonton Park. We'll meet at 10:30 tomorrow (Thursday) morning, just outside the main entrance at Fort Edmonton? This will be a kid-friendly activity--yay! Also, we have 6:00p.m. resos at Japanese Village--let me know if you want to join us. Here's my cell, just in case: 902-488-2458. If you can't make it at 10:30 but want to meet us there later, just give me a call on my cell.

Coming Up Next...

2007-05-21T12:22:00.000-04:00

Okay. We've been having a fabulous time in Edmonton so far--it's so good to spend time with everybody! We thought maybe we'd have a mini-person-friendly day at Fort Edmonton on Thursday, and then, in the evening, dinner at Japanese Village. Let me know if you're up for one or both!

One More Sleep, and then Edmonton!

2007-05-17T15:49:00.000-04:00

I could not be more excited! I thought maybe we could go for drinks on Whyte on Saturday. Assuming Sapphire still exists, I thought that would be a good place to start. Say... 8:30ish? I'll have my cell with me, if case anyone want to catch up with us later: 902-488-2458. We'll be petsitting at Greg and Nadine's until Wedneday, then we'll be at Bob & Julie's, then Toni & Brad's. We're planning some dinners out at our favourite places: Japanese Village, Earl's, Olive Garden, plus, I want to spend a half a day or so at Fort Edmonton. (Weird, the places you miss...).
We've got Japanese Village resos for Thursday. Let us know by Wednesday if you want to join us. And we thought we'd kick off the week with takeout and movies, either at Greg & Nadine's, or at a movie theatre on Friday (No, Brad, I'm not going to see a zombie movie. Ask, oh say, Toni or Trent or Tania or Roz or just about anyone how I feel about zombies. Would I take you to see a mouldy bees movie? Hmmm?)

My Imaginary Boyfriend...

2007-05-03T10:55:00.000-04:00

Trent and I did another movie extra gig this week. (By the way, Diamond Grill is the perfect reading for that kind of day--the text is fragmented, your reading experience will be fragmented. Ideal!) It was actually kind of awful and boring and they wouldn't let us take breaks to eat, and they really, really rationed our pee breaks, and the movie (made-for-TV), Sticks and Stones, is probably going to be terrible. We spent the whole day booing an imaginay American national anthem at an imaginary Canadiens-Islanders hocke game (you guys remember the one). Mostly dreadful. Only, as we were filming the last scene, I look over to where the cameras and director are and someone looks familiar. Hot and familiar.

"Hey Trent, isn't that Christopher from Gilmore Girls?"
"I don't know. Looks like him."

Just then, Meagan the AD comes over. She's the same AD Trent worked with on Outlander. She goes straight to Trent. "I was looking for you!" she says. "Want to be in the shot?"

Of course he does. So he ends up right behind "Christopher" (whose name is actually David). Can you believe it? So much hotness in such a small space?

And, after the shoot, as we were waiting to sign out, I got my own close-up of Hot Christopher (sorry, I don't want to think of him as a real person) as he squeezes past me to get outside. And then, of course, I constructed an imaginary narrative in which he is now my boyfriend, and Trent is still my huz-bind, and everybody is totally, totally okay with that.

100 Posts!

2007-04-25T16:51:00.000-04:00

Now please send me money.

Seriously--you didn't expect this level of quality entertainment for free, did you?

Growing Up Is NOT a Good Thing!

2007-04-16T17:00:00.000-04:00

The difference between Becca at age 9 and Becca at 29:

You: Don't worry--you'll do fine on your exams. I know it.
Becca, Age 9: Really? Wow, thanks. I feel much better now. Seriously, thanks.
Becca, age 29: What? How can you make a statement like that? Where's your evidence? Are you citing an expert here, or is that your own, unfounded opinion? I don't deal in conjectures bud, I need EVIDENCE! Everyone has an opinion--my dog has an opinion--what you should have learned by now is to support your opinions with facts, quotations, textual support for god's sake. Honestly, an opinion like that, completely unfounded and unsupported is worthless to me. And cite your source. MLA style, please.

Update

2007-04-13T17:14:00.000-04:00

Trent and I got home from Sparwood yesterday afternoon. In late March, my stepfather Ron died suddenly. Trent, Philip, Nancy and I all made it out to BC to help Mom out with a bunch of things, including putting her house up for sale. (If you're interested, you can see the house postings here and here.)
Mom, of course, misses Ron very much, but she is doing well and planning for the future.

The First Crocuses Are Up!

2007-03-28T10:39:00.000-04:00

I saw them on Bayers Road on Monday.

Now. I shouldn't be looking at crocuses, thinking about crocuses, or Blogging about crocuses, I should be reading and studying and thinking, and when I'm taking a break from reading, studying and thinking, I should be marking and marking and marking.

Yeah, He's Hot!

2007-03-23T17:47:00.000-04:00

Apparently, Atlantic Talent Agency lets you vote on how hot their talent is!

Well.

You know who's hot? Trent's hot! Click here and here and tell them so! Just above the pictures are a bunch of little white or yellow oblong dots. Click on them are rate Bear's picture. Maybe he will get more auditions!

And Then There Would Be Little Bits of Can Lit All Over the Walls!

2007-03-20T11:15:00.000-04:00

Okay. My candidacy exams are coming up in just over a month. For those of you who are not in the know, this is probably the most intense period of my post-secondary career. Basically, they give us a year to become experts in our field by madly reading everything on an enormous reading list, then we have three days of examinations to complete--two days of written exams, and one four-hour oral exam. If I fail... well, let's say I was a pretty good secretary once upon a time. So I'm afraid I'm not going to be much fun between now and May 3rd, when my exams are finally over. That's assuming that my brains don't become so full that my head just explodes.

Blogging is So Last Week.

2007-03-17T11:04:00.000-04:00

My name is Becca and I'm a Facebook addict. At first, I only signed up because all the cool kids were talking about it and I wanted to know what it was like. Only now, I can't stop. I Facebook every day. Sometimes twice a day. I've even added a Facebook badge to the bottom of my Blog.

Since I started Facebooking, I've connected with old Fort Edmonton friends, Walterdale friends, UofA friends, GSA friends, Dal friends, and even two friends from France.

I can't stop. I just can't help myself. I Facebook nearly as much as I Blog...

In 65 days...

2007-03-13T10:31:00.000-04:00

We will be in Edmonton! Yay! We arrive May 18th, and we don't go home until the 27th. Thank you SO MUCH for all the place-to-crash invites (and especially to Phidit and Nancy, who were going to let us spend 10 days with them in their one-bedroom apartment!) and the equally awesome car-to-drive offers. It's nice to know we're still welcome in E-Town!
We will be spending part of the visit chez Greg & Nadine in our old Lymburn stomping ground, and the rest of the visit with Julie, Bob, Emmet and tummybaby in St Albert. We've rented a car with our Airmiles, so we're good to go!
I know everyone has a busy scedule, so I thought we could plan a couple of evenings out to make sure that we get a chance to see everyone. Are Japanese Village and Sapphire still where the cool kids go?
We can't wait to see everyone!

... and if they could, can their paws work a mouse to get online?

2007-03-07T20:52:00.000-05:00

You know how sometimes, you know what you should do, only it takes someone else to actually say it before you can really resolve on doing it? That's how it was for the Barky Dog situation. I knew that I should just go and talk to my neighbours, and, in fact, Trent and I had already sounded the idea of first asking our other neighbours Danny and Angie what the Barky Dog people are like--but I didn't really have the nerve to do it until you all gave me your brilliant, inspired, mature advice. So. On Thursday, I decided that I would go around and talk to both sets of neighbours on Saturday. Except that, on Friday, the dog didn't start barking until much later in the morning than usual--nearly 8:00 a.m. And on Saturday and Sunday, I didn't hear it at all until the afternoon. And yesterday, not until 7:30 a.m. ... until 8:30 a.m. A little later start than most days, but still, I was all ready to go and talk to neighbours today... except that this morning, the dog didn't bark at all. In fact, I didn't even see it as I left for school. And it wasn't outside when I got home, either. And it's not out now.

Last time Cujo disappeared was after I had called in a midnight noise complaint about it. So maybe one of my other neighbours got tired of the daily Sunrise Serenade. Or maybe the family got sick of that long, twice-daily walk from back door to the end of the driveway to tie up and bring in the dog.

Or...

Are we really sure dogs can't read? ...

Another DIY Caption!

2007-03-04T14:38:00.000-05:00

Maybe I'm Just a Jerk

2007-02-28T10:54:00.000-05:00

Okay. I need advice. Lymburnites and former visitors to Lymburn, do you remember Nana the Barking Dog? Owned by Alex, the Russian pickup-truck-opera-singer? Son-in-law to Smirnoff-Limeric-Guy? Well, there's a dog across the street from us that makes Nana seem... well, downright loveable.

For those of you who haven't been out to visit us, we like in a sort of subdivision in the country. All the lots in our neighbourhood are about an acre. But it's not the country, it is defintely a subdivision. Kitty-corner from us are neighbours that we haven't met yet. They have a big, German-Shepherdish dog. The dog gets tied outside to a short rope near their driveway around 6:30 a.m. every day and stays outside until nighttime. And it barks. All. Day.

Now, this is fairly annoying at 2 p.m. when I'm trying to study, or in the summer when I'm gardening and it's barking at me the whole time, but whatever. I can deal with it. What I'm finding increasingly hard to handle is the unremittant (sp?) 6:30 to 8:30 a.m. barking. Should I mention that I don't have to get out of bed until 8, or 7:15 at the very earliest? So I lie there, tired and cranky for up to an hour and a half, listening to this dog's constant barking until my alarm goes off.

Last summer, I was working at the garden centre in Sackville, a half-hour from the house. Back then, I had to be up shortly after 6 to get to work. One night, while Trent was away on a business trip, I went to bed shortly after 10. Immediately, the dog started barking. And didn't stop until after 1 a.m. Finally, shortly after midnight, almost in tears, I called a noise complaint in to the police. Althought it didn't stop the dog barking that night, I didn't hear the damned beast for over a week after that. Now, you should probably know that I felt terrible about calling the police on my neighbours, especially since I've never met them. It's the first time I've ever done that, and so far, the last... now here's where I need your help.

We only know three of our neighbours really well. Two of the three have mentioned Barking Dog to us--it seems to be a neighbourhood annoyance. And there are other barky dogs around (they're dogs--they bark. I know this, and generally, I consider it a minor nuisance) but none that bark early in the morning, all day long, and sometimes late at night. Also, it makes me angry that these people even have a dog--I've never seen them walk it, and it spends literally all day tied to a short leash. Frankly, I feel sorry for the thing. However, I feel even more sorry for me at this point.

Now. I know that I can sometimes be a little... less than reasonable when things annoy me, so I need some advice here. Do I:

Call in another noise complaint early one morning?
Send a letter or email to the noise police and maybe the SPCA?
Go across the street, introduce myself, and ask them not to let their dog bark in the morning?
Just learn to deal with it?

Or is there another solution I haven't thought of yet?

The Tequila Guy's Name Was Che Che.

2007-02-26T19:15:00.000-05:00

We had a fantabulous trip to Mexico... and a rotten flight home. I'll tell more about it later. For now, I'll leave you with a few pics from Mom & Dad's camera... I won't say much about them, except that our Las Caletas trip featured an open bar. See if you can pick out the pics from the boat ride home...

Don't Take This the Wrong Way But...

2007-02-14T10:33:00.000-05:00

...I hope it snows on your heads all next week. On account of Trent, Mom & Dad S., Paulie, Phidit and I will be basking in the Mexican sunshine. With cervezas and kaluhas con crema. And somehow, tropical vacations are always better when you know that you've escaped some really crappy weather.

Three more sleeps! (Actually, two-and-a-half more sleeps, since we have to get up crazy early to catch our flight on Saturday.)

Pero El Mono Es Muy Loco...

2007-02-11T22:50:00.000-05:00

So. Tiger for Marlowe, no tiger for Ozzy. And I feel pretty bad. After all, he's 0 for 2 now. I call Trent and work and tell him the story and ask him to please please please stop at Superstore on the way home and pick up the monkey I'd vetoed in favour of El Tigre. And I spend an anxious afternoon, coddling and apologizing to Ozzy, while secretly celebrating the fact that Marlowe is half-trotting, half-stumbling around with a little yellow catnip tiger in her mouth. And Enkidu gets in on the excitment, and starts carrying her plush mouse around, meowing through it to let me know what a mighty hunter she is.

Finally Trent gets home, triumphantly pulls the monkey out of the package, and presents it to Ozzy. Ozzy sniffs it and walks away distainfully, still eyeing El Tigre. Trent and I try the switcheroo: Mono for Tigre, but Marlowe doesn't want the monkey either. Nobody wants the monkey.

Ozzy did, however, display a brief interest in the plastic wrapper that Mono came packaged in...

El Tigre Es Muy Macho.

2007-02-08T10:15:00.000-05:00

Last Fall, we got an exciting "birth" announcement: Greg and Nadine sent us a picture of their new kitty, Ruby Soho. ("Oh, cute! Trent, let's get a new kitten, too!" "No.") So we picked out a fuzzy little catnip toy for Ruby Soho (and one for James Brown, too-can't leave the older sibling out). Only, before I had a chance to wrap and send it, Ozzy found it and tried to make off with it. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of point in giving Ozzy cat toys, because Marlowe usually just gets them and eats them. Plus, this was Ruby Soho's toy. Sorry Ozzy.

Now, since Marlowe hurt her back, she's been too sore and weak to play much. And, while I was grocery shopping last week, I found some other cute, little catnip toys. I had trouble choosing between the yellow tiger and the brown monkey, but I eventually settled on El Tigre. I brought it home, took it out of the package, and gave it to Ozzy, who sniffed at it in his usual, cautious way. ("Mom wants me to have this. Is it safe? Can I betray my enthusiasm and bite it like I really want to, or do I have to maintain my dignity for another minute here?") So I start putting away groceries, and I hear Marlowe getting out of bed. (Since she can hardly move her hind legs, "getting out of bed" is actually a euphemism. She kind of drags her bed behind her until her hinquarters finally slide free.) A moment later, I hear her little nails clicking on the tiles much more quickly than they have been lately, and her collar jingle as she shakes herself. I look over, and Marlowe is looking much happier than she has since her trip to the Emergency Vet clinic: her tail is wagging, she's standing, not falling over, and her ears are perked up. Oh, and she's got El Tigre in her mouth. Ozzy looks from Marlowe to me as if to say, "What just happened here?"

You know what? I've just decided to serialize this post, a-la-Victorian-novel. Stay tuned for the continuation.

Cat Did It.

2007-01-24T12:25:00.000-05:00

Marlowe is okay... sort of. After two and a half weeks of stressing and several expensive trips to the vet, we've leaned that Marlowe has slipped two discs in her back. This means that she won't be able to run, jump, or climb stairs for a few months, but she doesn't need surgery or a trip to the specialist in PEI. Thanks Nones, but we won't need to ask your clients for... er, business tips after all!

We still don't know what Marlowe did to hurt herself, and the cats are suspiciously silent on the subject...

Marlowe requests that get-well-soon cards be made of meat or grapes.

"I'll See You in Hell, Pachebel!"

2007-01-21T13:00:00.000-05:00

Y'know that song that's virtually replaced the wedding march?

Well...

Taking Responsibility is for Suckers.

2007-01-18T14:48:00.000-05:00

Trent and I have a saying. We reserve it for moments in which we don't want to take responsibility for something (tracking mud into the porch, leaving a cup in the TV room, forgetting to do something we'd promised to do, ...).

"Dog did it."

Now, this saying is pretty practical--after all, we do have a dog, and she has done a lot of things that we wish she hadn't. I'm thinking of the time she chewed all the pillows in the living room, or when she chewed Heidi's new shoe, or the time she chewed the vacuum cleaner cord... yes, there's a theme here. But, as an excuse, it also has its drawbacks. For instance, Marlowe is less than a foot tall, has no opposable thumbs, and doesn't leave the house or yard, except when we take her for walks or to the Emergency Vet Clinic (boy does she know that place well these days). So, for instance, forgetting to pick something up at the grocery store or not getting around to doing the dishes sometimes warrants a raised eyebrow when one of us tries to blame it on the dog.

However, during my last Study Break this afternoon, I was tooling around the Internets (still not a truck, people) and I came across some crazy guy's ("Uh, yeah, hello, Kettle? Hey, this is The Pot. Listen, there's something I gotta tell you...") Blog, where he announced the "Hot Excuse for 2007:"

"Wizards did it."

Oh my GOD! Imagine the possibilities! Accidentally hit "send" on the pretend death threat email to your ex-boss? Not your fault. Wizards did it. Late with your nephew's birthday present again? No, you weren't--wizards again. Messed around on Blogs so much that you gave up reading and failed your PhD qualifying exams? Nope--wizards did it.

My mind=blown.

Reading reading reading reading reading...

2007-01-15T11:27:00.000-05:00

...reading, reading, reading, reading...

reading.

reading.

reading.

I wish I were a robot so I could just download Canadian Literature.

Hey! How about I send each of you a book, you read it, write a book report, then send it back to me! Why didn't I think of this before?

The Debate Goes Public

2007-01-08T14:05:00.000-05:00

On New Year's Day, I tried to rope you all in to my latest obsession: Battlestar Galactica. Roz, however, expressed her disappointment in my taste, citing her dispproval of television's abundance of beautiful people (does this disapproval apply to Annakin Skywalker, Padme, Aragorn, Eowyn or Arwen, Roz?). She cited a statistic that I'd heard somewhere before:

On average, pretty people earn 12% more than the rest of us. Although this artice states that it's more of a disadvantage to be ugly, rather than an advantage to be pretty.
Meh. Stereotype directionality and attractiveness stereotyping: Is beauty good or is ugly bad? Griffin AM, Langlois JH SOCIAL COGNITION 24 (2): 187-206 APR 2006

To my own great surprise, I find myself siding with the Beautiful People on this one. (What, the anti-Barbie crusader?!) So here are my thoughts on the subject:

Um... Roz? I hate to tell you this (and I'm not just being flattering, I'm being honest), but you hardly qualify as "ugly people." And frankly, if I had to place myself on one side of the line or the other, I'd have to put myself (and you, and Toni, by the way) on the Pretty People side. Maybe it's just because I'm reading Atwood's Survival for my comps right now, but what is it with the impulse to cast ourselves in victim roles? In general, it's an impulse that kind of makes me angry, perhaps because I've been on the ugly end of the victim complex. Twice.

The first time was when a woman from Pakistan (just learning English) didn't understand what I was asking her when I asked for her squid recipe--I was a cashier at IGA. She complained to the store manager that I had made racist remarks about her ethnic food, and I had to apologize or be fired. The second time was when an LGBTQ activist told the Gateway newspaper that I was a homophobe. After I had tried to help him register his organization in order to get campus funding. Don't get me wrong--I'm not trying to tell you that racism, homophobia and unfair advantages for the physically attractive don't exist. I just think that sometimes, our own insecurities make us unduly sensitive.

And yes, there are some pretty people in some of the TV shows that I like to watch, but with the Battlestar Galactica exception of Tricia Helfer, I don't think they're any prettier than the slightly-above-average people I see on a daily basis--by which I mean that I don't think they represent an unhealthy or impossible or unattainable standard of beauty. (I'm as appalled by those scary sticks on the O.C. as much as anyone!) Katee Sackhoff (Starbuck), for instance, has short legs and a bit of a love-handle to her. Edward James Olmos has major skin issues. And the woman who plays the President is an attractive, but very age-appropriate (i.e. NOT plastic-surgeried) 60-ish woman. Frankly, I like looking at a beautiful woman (or man) who doesn't diet to freakdom or undergo unhealthy medical procedures in order to try and be more beautiful. I'd also rather stare out at a great ocean view than, say, at a row of Siding Wonders in east-end Edmonton.

Yes, the people we see on TV are, on the average, more attractive than the people we see in daily life--partly because they have the on-screen advantage of professional stylists, wardrobers, etc. But guess what? The people we see on a university campus are smarter than average. The people we see on professional sports teams are more physically-fit than average.

While I was doing the Play I No Longer Name last fall, I worked with two absolutely beautiful women. Hollywood-pretty. I'm not saying that neither of these women has had a leg up for her looks, so to speak, but I do have to tell you that neither of them are what I would call successful. In fact, I've learned over the past few months that one of them--the more attractive of the two--is so insecure that she makes up bizarre success stories about herself and passes them off as truth.

Not everybody is the same, and certain professions and situations favour certain advantages. We only say it's not fair when those advantages aren't our particular own. How would you feel if, say, you wanted to be a chemist or an engineer, but you had an IQ of 90 or so? Does anybody have stats on IQs, educational levels and lifetime earnings?

I'm not saying, I'm just saying... so what do the rest of you say?

2007-01-08T13:28:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, our next-door neighbour died. I didn't know her--she's been seriously ill ever since we moved in, and I only met her once and very briefly. Her kids (15 and 11, I think) pet-sit for us whenever we go out of town, though, and Trent and I have started to get to know her husband. So it was strange and sad news to get.

On Saturday night, we had to rush Marlowe to the vet again. It seems she's injured her back, and so it's likely not serious, but at the time, I was sure something awful was wrong, and that we would have to put her to sleep. Until Danny, our across-the-street neighbour, came over Sunday afternoon to tell us the sad news, I felt that our veterenary bills and Marlowe's health were an absolute crisis. And frankly, my worry about a little dog has affected me more than the death of a woman who lived next door to me. I know that you might feel that this isn't something I should admit, or that I lack compassion, but it has me thinking about the spheres of our own lives, and the events that shake us.

I have a strange worry. I worry that something will happen to Trent and me--a car accident, or the onset of a disease that kills us both suddenly, and that, not only will we die, but our pets will starve, because no one will know to come and take care of them. It's okay--you can laugh at me. I know it's a very silly worry. In Edmonton, we knew without even thinking about it that if we didn't leave the house for three days, or if we stopped showing up for work, or didn't return phone calls that Greg and Nadine or Myrna or Phil or Paul or Toni and Brad or someone would know to check in on us. But here in Halifax, we're still relatively rootless. Please don't think I'm being self-pitying here. I'm just reflecting on the nature of personal relationships--how they're formed, and how they can root you within a certain community.

I had a really rough time in November. I was depressed and lonely and stressed out, but last month, when it came time to explain to Toni how miserable I had felt the month before, it sounded weak to my own ears--partly because I didn't feel that way any more, and partly also because I couldn't point to an event, a catastrophic happening that could account for how unhappy I had been. Cause and effect.

My next-door neighbour died yesterday. And, even though they were expecting it, I know that her husband and her two sons feel crushed and surprised, but I would be ashamed to try and express what their sorrow might be, and not only because I don't know them all that well.

7 Things to Do in '07

2007-01-01T17:56:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year! 2006 was a hella one, wasn't it? It's hard to believe that so much happened in 365 little days. As my New Year's gift to you all, here is my suggestion for 7 ways to make '07 more fun:

7. Rent Brick. The Good German is posing as the return of film noir, but it's amazing what a perfect fit film noir is with tormented adolescence. You'll recognize the movie's star from 3rd Rock From the Sun.

6. Get your own Blog and stop bugging me to update mine! (I'm kidding. I LOVE that you guys like to read my Blog so much. But I'm not kidding about getting your own. Seriously. Who doesn't want to see the Adventures Soholt or Paul Rocks Lethbridge or Phil & Nancy's Mad Geek Blog?)

5. Go rent the miniseries/pilot for the new version of Battlestar Galactica (it's avaible as "Season 1, Disc 1"). I know, I know. I was skeptical too--in fact, Phil and I used to call Corona LRT station "Battlestar Galactica" because of those awful, 70s-sci-fi-esque lights. Nancy made me watch an episode. And now Trent and I have been obsessively watching every episode available on DVD. Honestly, it's the only thing that's relieved some of the sting left by the end of Buffy. And it almost matches Buffy for witty repartee. My favourite, so far: "No more Mister Nice Gaius!" --Dr. Gaius Baltar.

4. When Outlander comes out, get together a big group of people and go see it together. Cheer madly every time Trent the Viking appears onscreen. Your fellow moviegoers will love you for it.

3. Sign up as an extra in a movie or TV episode. Get in touch with one of these guys to find out how.

2. Go and do something lame and touristy in your home city. Spend a night at the overpriced hotel in Fort Edmonton. Ride the roller coaster in West Ed. See the critters in the zoo. I don't know--something.

1. Book your visit to Halifax!

And Here Are Some More...

2006-12-20T10:57:00.000-05:00

Because all the good phones come with cameras:

2006-12-17T20:09:00.000-05:00

I downloaded some pictures from my phone. And it's D-i-Y captions.

It Tastes Like Stabbing

2006-12-11T10:16:00.000-05:00

Well. Bear and I certainly had an eventful weekend. We did almost all of our Christmas shopping on Saturday. Then, on Sunday, in an effort to make Bear forget about his stress for a while, I talked him into coming for a walk at Crystal Crescent with me and Marlowe.

"Come on--we'll be gone forty-five minutes, an hour tops. You'll still have lots of time to get your work when we get home."

It was a beautiful day yesterday--all the snow from the day before was melted, and it was really warm. We had fun watching Marlowe play "Dig." It's an easy game--you start digging in the sand, and Marlowe gets excited and helps you dig a hole or six. Afterwards, we decided to walk over to the big rocks past the third beach. Marlowe kept disappearing into the woods. Bear and I sat on the rocks and watched the spray as the waves hit the shore. Marlowe had been gone a while, so I went to look for her so that we could head back. She came bounding out of the bushes and ran along the rocks towards Bear, and I followed her.

"Porcupine!" Bear called.

I looked towards the woods. "Where?"

"Here. In her chin. Marlowe tried kissing a porcupine."

Oh shit. Marlowe had a big prickle-beard. So we sat down on the rocks and Bear held her while I started pulling quills out of Marlowe's chin. There were a lot of them. Before too long, I got a little squeamish, and we traded off. Bear got most of them out before Marlowe started fussing and squirming. The last few quills had worked their way in deep, so we decided to take her home and pull them with pliers. (How the hell do you spell "pliers?" With a y or with an i?)

So, in order to try and keep her from working the quills further in, we carry her as far as we can. Guess what? That little dog is pretty heavy. Also, it turns out that Bear sat on some quills I'd pulled out while he was working on the rest. The stuck into his pants and stabbed his bum while he walked. Finally, we get her back to the truck, and I hold her while Trent drives home. Marlowe, of course, is so relaxed that she falls asleep almost immediately. I guess making new forest friends can really tire you out.

When we get home, though, she won't let us get near her chin. She keeps biting the pliyiyiers. By this time, only the tips of the quills are showing. We look up the emergency vet clinic. It's in Dartmouth. Joy. Everybody back in the truck.

I won't tell you about the long wait, the trip to Tim Horton's to kill time, or the crying guy in the vet's waiting room. Long story short, Marlowe got Surgery #4 (for those who are counting), and the vet removed three porcupine quills from her mouth, and three from under her tongue. Then we got to take our very stoned dog home for the night. She cried until I let her sleep cuddled up next to me on the bed.

The good news is, we'd done most of our Christmas shopping the day before, so if you were expecting a Christmas git from us, you probably won't be disappointed. Oh--and, by the way, we think Ozzy has a bladder infection, so he's at the vet today, too. Trent and I are giving each other healthy pets for Christmas.

Becca in Newfoundland

2006-12-06T09:35:00.000-05:00

I tagged along on nother one of Trent's business trips. Today, we're in St. John's, NL. Despite the cold, a massive fall of fresh snow, and The Plague that Trent contracted in Halifax last week, we managed to do some low-grade touristing yesterday. Unfortunately, the weather is too bad, or we would have gone to see the really cool stuff. Now, Manitoba and the territories are the only provinces left on my too-see list.

I'll post a photo of Trent on North America's Oldest Street as soon as we get home.

And don't worry about the monsters--Meg is taking good care of them!

Marking marking marking marking marking...

2006-12-01T10:52:00.000-05:00

...marking marking marking marking. Marking.

Marking.

"I don't really think you need to worry about it being any good if YOU write it, Kyle."
--StrongBad.

Big Love

2006-11-27T09:07:00.000-05:00

to all of you guys who cheered me up and gave me good advice when I was feeling so rotten last week. I miss you guys (except Meg, who is here!).

I Should Start My Own Driving School

2006-11-25T21:56:00.000-05:00

My friends, when you pick up your drivers' license study guide, there are a lot of terms that just. aren't. in there. For instance, I learned from Toni that when you're parking in a lot, and there is no car in the space in front of you, so out drive straight through to the far space, and can drive forward to leave the parking lot afterwards, that's called an Innie-Outie (minds out of the gutter, please). Also, if you, say, got your driver's license in a small town, where there were no two cars to parallel park between, leaving you miles of room to perform the manoeuvre (ha! had to look the spelling of that word up. I suck), and no clue on how to do it properly, you seek out double-long spots, which you can then pull straight into, then back up and drive forward until you're close to and parallel with the curb--this is called a Squeak-in. And, when you go through an intersection and have to drive in a loose N-shape to meet the road on the other side, which may or may not be the same road you started on, this is called the Halifax Squiggle. Because there are lots of them in Halifax. Well, guess what. Last night, we found a new one.

The background: yesterday, I was marking papers, and students kept doing that thing where the first, dependent clause doesn't gramatically refer to anything in the rest of the sentence, and I couldn't remember what it was called. I hunted down Trent's old Scribbling for Idiots (Engineering English, folks) handbook, but couldn't find it in there. It's very hard to look up a term whose name you don't know. This applies to people, too. Anyway, I called my friend Meg, who is a grammarphile and asked her. She flipped through her handbooks until she found it: it's a dangling modifier. Happy with the results of my phone call, my day went much better after that (yes, good catch, that is an example of one). By the way, did you know there's such a thing as a squinting modifier? Neither did I.

So. Back to the meat of my story: last night, Meg and I had a date to see a play together. It was in a cathedral on Tower Road downtown. Tower Road stretches from the hospital at South Street to Point Pleasant Park at the southern end of the peninsula. It's a short road, and I used to walk it several times a week to get to the park. That's weird, I thought. I've never noticed a cathedral on Tower Road. So I picked up Meg and we headed to Tower Road in plenty of time. Weird, Meg said when I gave her the address. That's on my running route, and I don't remember a cathedral there...
We parked near the hospital end of the street, and walked down to the other end, and then back up again. No cathedral. I called Trent at home and got him to double-check the address. 1300-something Tower Road. We walked back up to the top of the road, where Hana (my truck, people. Keep up!) was parked. The numbers end just under 1200. We checked the map to see if there was a Tower Road in Bedford or Sackville or something. Nope. We stare at the little streets on the Halifax map. And there, blocks to the North and West of the end of Tower Road as we know it, is a tiny little line also labelled "Tower Road." Gah! We get in the truck, drive like mad to Robie, park, and rush to the Cathedral, arriving about five minutes late!

So. This experience has led Meg and me to coin a new driving phrase.

Dangling Street: A street, road, or avenue which ends, then continues briefly and unexpectedly elsewhere, with no apparent connection to its other section or sections.

I Cheer Me Up

2006-11-25T21:30:00.000-05:00

Actually, Phil cheered me up. I had a bad day yesterday, but fortunately, he'd emailed me this. If it doesn't make any sense to you, that's probably because you missed the original.
M'kay. Now cheer me up please. Post stuff like references to the state that rhymes with Myoming.

By the way, I think I'm going to start posting Beccafacts for the edification of interlopers. Beccafact #62: Becca thinks Trent is the cutest boy ever. Becca hearts Trent.

Viking Update

2006-11-18T12:10:00.000-05:00

It's 1 p.m. and Trent, for the first time all week, is upstairs sleeping for longer than 2 hours at a stretch. He's been on the Outlander set every night this week (minimum 10 hours a night--usually closer to 14!), plus, every day except Friday, put in nearly a full day at the Day-Job. Ech! The good news is he's as in the movie as an extra gets! He is one of Gunnar's Raiders, apparently (insert Phil's trademark "I don't know" sound here). And the alien monster looks like... a big black board with a white X on it. CGI monster. Let's guess what it will look like when the movie comes out! Here are my picks:

Flying Spaghetti Monster
Nancy's walking, gulping monster
Ozzy the Cat
A Big, Scary Black Board with a White X on It.

Interlopers Beware: Dangerous Rant Ahead

2006-11-17T16:32:00.000-05:00

Something has been bothering me lately, but, due to the moderately public nature of my Blog (and to the fact that, as Tania pointed out, I don't make a lot of effort to conceal my identity online), I had decided not to talk about it here. Also, in an ongoing (and, admittedly, not always successful) effort to be a kinder, more respectful person, I decided it was not nice to say not nice things about other people. Today, however, I'm about done holding it in--it's like I've eaten a big pot of beans, emotionally speaking (actually, I did have beans for supper tonight, literally speaking. Castmates beware). So. If you're keep reading, there's a chance that what you read might offend you. Fairly warned.

Okay. You guys have heard me say this before, but I think that the most important quality to possess is respect. Respect other people--their feelings, their time, their possessions, their opinions. This often means that you have to set aside what you want in favour of what someone else might want or need. It's particularly important in professional settings, or in situations in which a lot of other people are counting on you. Y'know, like in the theatre.

Since I started work on the play (you guys know which one), cast members have been dropping out on an almost weekly basis. It irritated me during rehearsals; if you can't commit to something, don't commit to it. At all. Especially when other people are counting on you. It irritated me even more--and, I have to say, rather hurt me--when one cast member in particular, with whom I felt that I was developing the beginnings of a friendship, quit less than 24 hours before opening night. I was really, really hurt and angry when another cast member quit on Tuesday--in the middle of the run, three shows left to go! This one particularly sucked, because he and I had been developing a definite friendship, and, as self-centred as this may sound, I haven't even received an apology or an explanation from him. He and another actress (who very selflessly took on an extra role the day before our originally-scheduled opening night) and I had a key scene together. Can I please also mention that these last two defections meant last-minute, extra rehearsals for me and a few others, in the middle of or right before our performance run? Can I also add that I am really, really busy right now, and don't really have time to give up my evenings at the last minute?

Anyway, the other night, after I left insane-sounding messages on Phil's, Toni's and Meg's answering machines, I talked about the situation with another castmate. She was sympathetic, she was angry too, she is also friends with the defectors and she also felt betrayed by their decision to selfishly and unprofessionally leave the show. Guess what? Today, we all got an email from her. She can't make tonight's show, and can we go on without her? She's sorry, but she was called at the last minute onto a movie set, and, after all, that's her career.

Woah. Despite the obvious hypocrisy and selfishness and inconsiderate and unprofessional behavious, that's her career? Guess what. I have a career too. It's called being a graduate student. I even get paid for it. And guess what else. When I have to attend extra rehearsals because another actor has decided that they decide that they have more important things to do, it cuts into my work time. But guess what else. I made a commitment to the rest of my castmates, to my director, and to the people, who, god knows why, bought tickets to see the show. So sometimes that means I have to make sacrifices.

And you know what else? When I found out that my Mom was going in for hip surgery on opening weekend, the only reason that I didn't beg Trent to cash in our Airmiles so that I could fly to BC and take care of her was that I had made this commitment (am I misspelling that? oh, who cares). So I don't really want to hear about other people's really, really good reasons for not being able to fulfill their commitments right now.

I am so angry right now. Of course, when I get home at midnight, I might repent and delete this entry, so read fast, my friends...

My Viking is so Cute...

2006-11-14T22:06:00.000-05:00

when he's not burning and pillaging.

Trent just emailed these pics from his cell phone--he's on the Outlander set as I type. Viking technology rules!

You'll have to get him to tell you who his Viking friends are, because I have no clue!

Blog Existentialism...

2006-11-13T20:34:00.000-05:00

So. Since I've started posting about The Balcony, either my Blog has been getting a lot more hits, or else I'm just much more aware of the number of people that find it by Googling stuff that I talk about here--the play, for instance. The first weird instance was Paul, a friend of Balcony castmate Veronica, who found me while trying to get info on the show, posted a comment, then introduced himself to me on opening night. Quite disconcerting, actually. To be perfectly honest, I quite enjoy it when some strangers, like Meg's friends Megs and Rice, who followed the Blog trail to me and started to post comments--and I've started reading Megs' Blog and posting to it, too--but... well, maybe I'm just more comfortable with distance. I feel like I'm sharing something intimate here (though not as intimate as what a certain belly-dancing friend of mine shares on her Blog, mind you...) with friends and close family, and sometimes with strangers that I'll probably never meet. Either way, it's a comfortable place. But last week, a theatre group from Montreal found my Blog and followed it to Theatre de Boheme's site, and emailed my director, David. He mentioned the other day that he'd checked out my Blog and, frankly, I was mortified. Now, don't get me wrong--David's a great guy (seriously, if you're reading this David, you rock!) but it kind of felt like getting caught in my underwear (ironic, actually, since, in any non-big-budget theatre production, your castmates will see you in your underwear, and it's not a big deal--everybody has to do their costume changes in the same close quarters!). I like David, but, like everybody that I've met in Halifax so far (except Meg and Nikki), he's not really in my comfort zone yet. At least, I haven't invited him in...

So. All this has got me thinking about why I Blog. I mean, if my director and castmates can find my Blog, my students probably can too... and do I want them seeing, say, my Flying Spaghetti Monster rant about late assignments or my appeal for teaching help? Or what about profs and other students in the department, who might read my Rhapsody on a Rejection Letter? And I remember that, one time, when I was clicking around Tania's Blog, I read a story about a guy who had been fired because of stuff he wrote about his job on his Blog. Maybe it would just be safer to start sending all this stuff in an email. The problem, though, with emails is that, first, mass emails suck. I mean, who wants to get their Inbox clogged up with weekly updates on their friends' lives? It seems so impersonal, too, sending the same message to your best friend, your brother, your mom, your parents-in-law, your former harbour-hitchhiking partner, your new friends, your old friends, your former co-bridesmaid, ... you get the picture. And yet, who has the time to send a gazillion personal emails, all telling the same story about the time you got to be an extra in a movie about Vikings? I mean, I love you all (at least, those of you I know and have met in person more than once...) but I know that, as a long-distance correspondant, I kind of suck. I've never much liked talking on the phone (at least, not since I left my 'teens!) and emailing still seems so impersonal to me. But Blogging has the advantage of being able to tell a story once--like at a party, or over coffee. And you guys know how much I love private parties and going out for coffee. Also, I love it when you guys post comments on my Blog--it makes me feel connected to you, to home, to a community. I love it because it feels like I'm actually having a conversation with you. I know that I'm weird about it, that I'm constantly begging you guys to comment on my Blog, but it's because this way, I actually feel like I'm hanging out with you guys, chatting it up, in a way that email and phone calls just can't manage. (Nones, it's breaking my heart that I haven't heard from you on here in a while!) Also, I can share pics without filling up your Inboxes and making important messages from fake banks and porn sites bounce back (because, as we all know, the internets are not a truck!). Frankly, I really like Blogging. More than anything else, it keeps me from getting too homesick. I like reading other people's Blogs (Mom, Roz, Toni and Julie, even though you haven't posted for months, I still check every day, just in case!) and I get so excited when I see that there are new comments on my Blog. So. I guess that's it. I'm going to have to suck it up and risk having my students try and blackmail me for stupid things I post, or have aquaintances tease me about the dumb stuff I say. Hell, this post alone has furnished interlopers with a fair bit of ammo, I think...

Finally--Viking Pics!

2006-11-10T11:53:00.000-05:00

The Dal computers are letting me do what my laptop won't!

Sadly, Trent's shoot last night got cancelled due to heavy rain (they were claaing the set Atlantis!"). Here's hoping they call him back out there soon...
And, on a completely unrelated note--glad he's not my Premier!

Viking: 29 years in the making

2006-11-09T10:32:00.000-05:00

Yay! Bear got called to the Outlander set for a night shoot tonight! Of course, it's miserable, cold and and raining in Halifax today, so he might regret his Viking tendencies before sunrise, but with a little luck, he'll get close enough to the camera for us to be able to recognize him.

Send your warm, dry thoughts to Trent-Bear tonight, guys.

Some People Are Just Jerks...

2006-11-08T21:01:00.000-05:00

Becca: (after a long day) I love you, Trent.
Trent: (intently playing guitar) I love this riff.

And you guys wonder why I'm not very sentimental?

Not Much to Do in Sydney NS...

2006-11-06T19:51:00.000-05:00

Except Blog, of course. Trent has another overnight business trip and I tagged along. We don't have time to do any of the touristy stuff (like Louisbourg or Glace Bay Miners' Museum or the Cabot Trail) but at least I can say I've been to Cape Breton...

Yay.

Hugs to my Mommy

2006-11-04T14:26:00.000-05:00

Esme officially became a Bionic Woman yesterday! Ron says she's doing well, and that she'll be home from the hospital by Monday.

A Post from Inside the Cathouse...

2006-11-04T13:51:00.000-05:00

Well, The Balcony opened last night. We had an impressive audience... of four. One was Trent. One was Paul Kimball, my castmate Veronica's friend, who posted to my Blog recently,--and, by the way, it's a very surreal experience to meet Blog people in the real world!--another castmate's girlfriend, and the fourth, a reviewer. Eep. However, considering that we've replaced two cast members in the past week--one only two days ago!--I think we did pretty well! I'll try to upload some pics, but I still can't upload the Outlander images. If they do go up--and stay up--know that, sadly, the blonde in the group pic is the one who dropped out suddenly last week.

By the way, here's a story about me having to eat crow: after having spoken to her for a grand total of thirty seconds at our first rehearsal, I decided that I didn't like Veronica. This is due to an unfortunate association--she's acted in a few Trailer Park Boys episodes, as well as in the movie. As some of you may remember, a bunch of TPB actors made my birthday experience a rather uncomfortable one. And so, my brains formed a remarkable equation: TPB actor=jerk.
Nice, eh? Except it turns out that Veronica is a really, really lovely woman. I am a terrible person. Who makes awful snap judgements. And who lives to regret them.

Viking Women Don't Wash.

2006-10-31T13:25:00.000-05:00

Though, apparently, they do wear really cool clothes!

Last week, I got called to do a night shoot for Outlander. So, at 10:00 p.m. on Thursday, I headed out to the second unit set which, fortunately enough, was just this side of Spryfield, only 10 minutes from home, where I sat in a big tent with 20 other extras and waited. First, I waited to get costumed. Then I waited for hair and makeup. Then I waited while the crew had their dinner break. Then, while most of the other background performers slept on chairs and tables, I waited for us to be called to the set. And waited. Finally, around 5 a.m., they told us that they were having trouble with the wind machine, and to please wait a little while longer. Shortly before 7, they told us that they wouldn't be able to fix the wind machine before sunrise, and that they would have to shoot the scene on Friday night, instead. So I went home, showered, slept for just over an hour, then went to school to lead a tutorial on Othello. I came home, got a little more sleep, then headed off to Balcony rehearsal, and, from there, straight back to the set to wait some more. Around 3, while everyone else was sleeping, I tried to read, but discovered that I was so tired that I could actually no longer read. At all. It was weird--like I was looking at Latin or engineering symbols or something. So I put away the book and waited some more. Finally, finally, finally, around 5 a.m., they loaded us up in vans and drove us to the lake--a tiny, calm little lake that stands in for the ocean. They handed me 3 logs (apparently, as far as Viking women go, I'm not all that tough) and told me to carry them into one of the two lodges when they called action. We rehearsed a few times before they took away our coats, cranked on the wind and rain machines--we were villagers fleeing from the storm--and we did it for real a few times. As long as they don't cut the scene, you might just be able to see me walking from a fire into a lodge. Look for the white sleeves and grey tunic-thingy. They built two lodges, but apparently, they're going to CGI more into the background. Actually, the set looked pretty cool, even from close up. Two other extras, Colleen and Joanne, had to carry dried fish in out of the rain. Real dried fish. Fake rain. They smelled great afterwards.
Here are some pics from Joanne's camera in the holding tent. You'll notice that hair and makeup consisted of making us look... unwashed. And that the costumes were meant to make us look busty and sexy (the costumer's words, not mine).
Now cross your fingers that Trent gets called soon!
(Okay, I'm trying to upload the pics... stay tuned.)

Be Beautiful.

2006-10-25T15:26:00.000-04:00

And think a little about what beautiful means to you--not to the advertisers. They're the ones who started the escalating standards of beauty; it's nice to see that now, they're showing us how unattainable those standards really are!

Check it out.

Save Us, Jeebus!

2006-10-23T10:56:00.000-04:00

So. Eomer's out and Jesus is in. Apparently, Karl Urban got dumped from Outlander in favour of Jim Calviezel, and rumours are rampant about whether or not filming has started yet... and Trent and I haven't heard a thing. So cross your fingers for us and hope that we haven't gone out with the bathwater, so to speak.
Meanwhile, I'm really enjoying my time in the brothel for The Balcony.

All in All, A Productive Day

2006-10-21T16:17:00.000-04:00

I chopped a crapload of wood for winter, I learned my lines for The Balcony, and I shaved my legs.

Okay, Trent helped chop the wood (a little) and he worked on my lines with me. But the leg shaving, that was all me. And I did my armpits while I was at it.

Happy Birthday Trent!

2006-10-18T18:20:00.000-04:00

29 Today!

More Lakes and Trees...

2006-10-11T10:53:00.000-04:00

I needed a break from my Early Long Poems of Canada (euch.) yesterday, and it was fabulously warm and sunny out, so I took Marlowe for a walk on Crystal Crescent Beach. As I was enjoying the warm sun, cool sand and ocean water on my bare feet, it occurred to me that my favourite places in the world are the ones where I've gone hiking with dogs: the rural roads and tiny villages up the mountain from the Diots' in France (with Tacot), Elk Island outside of Edmonton (with Trent and Marlowe) and now, Crystal Crescent. The tide was really low yesterday--so low that the place where Nancy slipped on a rock in the water was dry, and there was another small beach beyond the small one where Phil, Nancy Trent and I hung out--but before the nude beach that Julie, Emmet and I walked to when we lost Bob and Trent (yes, please contemplate it, Gentle Readers). And suddenly, it occurs to me why there's so much bad topographical poetry in Canadian Literature--I actually had the urge to rhapsodize on the rocks, the trees, the sand and the ocean! I guess that's something to think about when I feel that I can't possibly read one more poem about lakes and trees...

Silent But Deadly

2006-10-06T15:50:00.000-04:00

Last week, my English 2205 Tutorial was a little frustrating. Discussion was lackluster, so I let my students go home a little early. This week, I prepared a discussion for them about aims and strategies in "The Wife of Bath's Prologue" in The Canterbury Tales. Granted, not the most stimulating text, but I figured we could do a close reading together of a particularly rich section. Now, every Monday and Wednesday, my students sit in a lecture hall with 170 other English 2205 students and listen to the prof lecture on the various texts. Then, on Friday, they are supposed to be discussing the texts in smaller groups--i.e. tutorials--led by a TA (me!). I try to mix things up week to week--one week, I'll prepare a half dozen discussion questions, split them into groups, have them work on their own for fifteen minutes or so, then we reconvene as a group to see what everyone's come up with. Other times, I'll just prepare a class discussion. And the first few weeks went rather well. Last week, as I've said, was a little more difficult. This week, however, was downright painful. First, I would ask what's going on in a certain section. Silence. So then I'd rephrase my question and point to specific lines. More silence. Finally, I would point to a key line and ask what it said. Silence. Who knew that 30 English majors would be completely illiterate? So after about the third or fourth time this had happened, I decided to switch tactics. I asked them to split into groups of about 3, and told them that I would assign them each a few lines to work on. Silence. They just sat there, staring at me, out the window, at their notebooks, whatever.
I kind of lost my temper. I told (yelled at) them that I was sure they could manage forming groups of three. And you know what? They did.
So now I need a favour from you guys. Please--think back to your undergrad or college experiences. What was wrong with the instructors you didn't like? What did the good instructors do that got people talking? For the love of FSM, give me a clue--I am not willing to be that instructor that students actually tell each other to avoid!
(Roz, I'm looking at you here--I know you've won teaching awards...)

His Noodly Appendage

2006-10-03T16:09:00.000-04:00

I've been getting pretty stressed out lately sbout my inability to clip through my reading list as my comps draw ever closer. I've also been growing frustrated by the proponderance of religious and semireligious (like the Pilgrim-instituted celebration of the gradual suppression of Native North American culture and autonomy, Thanksgiving!) holidays that apparently make it impossible for my students to hand in their assignments on time. And then today, Philip sent me a link that has made me realize that, like my students, I am in a position wherein my religious beliefs have provided me with an answer to my current academic anxieties; please see, below, the letter of explanation that I intend to send to my supervisor.

Dear Dr. Dawson,
I must regretfully inform you that, due to a recent divine intercranial intervention by the Flying Spaghetti Monster, or FSM, I will be unable to successfully complete my Comprehensive Examinations in May 2007. As a result of my devout faith, FSM, in his divine wisdom, recently chose me as his prophet, and I must therefore undertake a religious pirating journey in order to prevent global warming. Evidence of His decision to call me to divine piracy is that, while I was well-close to completing my assigned reading, He used His Noodly Appendages to wipe several--in fact, most--of the canonical texts of Canadian Literature from my memory, and indeed, He has chosen to remove many of these books, which I had obtained in a very timely manner last spring, from my library altogether. I am sure that you will accept this most religious of academic excuses and will unquestioningly defer my Comprehensive Examinations to a time that is more pleasing to Him.
RAmen,
Rebecca Babcock,
PhD Candidate and Divine Pirate
Arrrgh...

Administrivia

2006-09-26T10:57:00.000-04:00

I'm a busy woman--I think we can agree on that. And yes, for the most part, it's my own fault. After all, I chose to do a PhD, and with my SSHRC, I don't really need the money I make TAing--I just wanted the experience. And I certainly didn't have to audition for a play, volunteer with DAGS or talk Trent into building a back patio. Granted, a lot of the stuff that takes up my time is my choice. However, one major drain on my time that I absolutely resent is beaurocratic administrivia. Trent and I have seen enough of that, selling and buying houses this year, moving across the country, arranging for new service hookups at two new Halifax addresses now, plus there's the stuff I have to do every year to register for school, manage my scholarship, grant and TAship payments, not to mention keeping track of marks and attendance for the Friday tutorial I lead... add to all this that, every year, I have to pick up, fill out and run around with a stack of forms to keep my student loans in interest-free and non-repayment status. Not that it was ever a pleasant task in Edmonton, but it always seemed a lot simpler; the student loan people would mail me a form, I'd take it to the University to be signed, then drop it off at my bank--pretty painless, in all. It's a little trickier now, though. They didn't send me any forms, so I called the CIBC National Student Centre and asked them what to do. They told me I had to download a form. I had my computer in front of me, so I asked the lady on the phone to stay on the line while I found the form. Good thing too--it was pretty hidden on the website to which she directed me. I downloaded the forms and printed them. Six copies of the same form shot out of my printer. They all said: "Press Hard--You are Making Five Copies." Amazing, isn't it? That website actually injected my printer with carbon paper...

Okay, it didn't. So I just filled out the top copy and figured I could make five photocopies once all the beaurocrats had signed it. So on Friday, I took it to the Dal FGS (queue #1), and they sent me down to the Student Loans booth in the basement (queue #2). The lady there told me that I first had to get it signed by the Registrar's office, then come back down to her, and she sent me back upstairs. Queue #3 at the Registrar's Office was, by far, my favourite. It snaked down the hallway, and really only moved when students got sick of waiting and left. You see, there were only two staff members in the registrar's office. It's refreshing to know that Dalhousie University isn't wasting my tuition money on frivouous expenditures like support staff. Finally--with Philip and Nancy waiting to pick me up on campus (I had told them my errand shouldn't take more than 15 minutes. Ha!)--I get to the front of the line, where the lady tells me I've filled out the wrong form! She hands me an identical form (Schedule 2), except that this one really does have carbon paper, plus one more (Form B) to fill out. So we fill them out and I take them back downstairs... to discover a "Back in One Hour" sign on the Student Loan booth. Rrghh...

So I get in the truck with Philip and Nancy, and we go to CIBC so that they can fill out the section on both of these forms "To Be Completed By Lender." See, the College Plaza CIBC had always done this for me in Edmonton, and they would also mail them to the CIBC National Student Centre. Except that the CIBC branch here in Halifax (queue #4) had apparently never even seen these forms before and tried to insist that CIBC didn't negotiate student loans.

"That may be true now," I explained, "But when I was a student, you did." In fairness, the nineties were a very long time ago. In fact, it's really incredible that there is someone on living record with student loans negotiated in the nineties at all.

"We don't know what to do with these forms," the teller explained apologetically.

"Well, I think you fill out and sign the section labelled 'To Be Filled Out and Signed by the Lender.' Then either you or I have to send them to the CIBC National Student Centre."

So they run around the branch with the forms for a few more minutes, take a bunch of copies and hand them back to me. "But you should probably call the National Student Centre to check on these," she adds as I'm about to leave. "We don't know if we did this right." And, as I discovered in the truck, she stole my pen.

So I get home and realize that one of the copies of one of the forms (Form B) that they returned to me says that it has to be sent to Alberta Student Finance... only the bank has forgotten to fill out and sign the "To Be Filled Out and Signed by the Lender" section. Sigh. So this morning, I phone the CIBC National Student Centre (call #1), bounce around their automated service for a while, then mash the keypad with my palm in the hopes of reaching an agent.

"Thank you for calling the National Student Centre. How did you find the automated service?"

"Great. Very helpful," I say, and then I explain my predicament. "What do I do now?" I ask. "I don't want to send the form to Alberta Student Finance without that signature. Should I bring it back to my bank, or should I send it to you guys to sign?"

"No, your school needs to sign it."

"Um, no. The school already signed it. It says I need a signature from the lending institution. That's you guys."

"Then send it to the Alberta government. We don't negotiate Alberta Student Loans."

"Not any more, but you did in the nineties, when I got my loan. And I don't want to send it to the Alberta government without that signature."

"Then get your school to sign it."

"No. I don't think you're listening. I need CIBC to sign it. Should I get them to do it at a bank branch, or should I send it to the National Student Centre."

"I don't know. Try phoning the government."

At this point, I called the guy useless and hung up on him. Then I had a bit of a temper tantrum, calmed down a bit, and I called the Alberta Student Finance Board (call #2). The lady was actually very helpful, but she explained that I really did need my lender's signature on the form. "Try calling them back. Ask for a supervisor this time."

So I do. I call CIBC back (call #3). Again, I wander around the automated phone service for a while before I mash the keypad again. A guy answers.

I'm wary. "Um... hello. Did I just talk to you?"

"No, I don't think so. I can check."

"Don't worry, I think you'd remember." And I tell the story. Again. And he's not really sure what to do.

"Would you mind if I put you on hold while I ask my supervisor?"

"By all means, please put me on hold. Ask your supervisor. I can wait all day."

He laughs. I wait. Finally, he comes back. "So the bank has copy 22A of your schedule 2?"

"Yes."

"And all parts are signed and filled out?"

"Yes."

"Then you didn't actually need Form B--that's for people who have Alberta Student Loans only. Since you have Canada Student Loans, you can just fill out the Schedule 2."

"Really?"

"Really. And--maybe next year, instead of going to your bank, you might want to send the forms straight to us to sign."

Roger that. Over and out.

I am Worth More than $0.25/Share!

2006-09-20T11:50:00.000-04:00

A lot more, believe you me! And yet...
Trent found this site the other day: http://blogshares.com/industries.php?id=971
Scroll down the list. Apparently, what you are now reading is #32 on the list of Top 100 Halifax Blogs! (32? I should be in the Top 10!) And I trade for $0.25/share. So. I have no idea what the what all of this means... but I think you, my loyal readers, should definitely, definitely invest in some shares in me. Drive up my price. Way up. Think: Enron (before the crash)...

Now I'm Sad... Now I'm Happy!

2006-09-17T19:41:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was a weird day. First, we dropped Nikki off at the airport. She's moving back to Toronto. That sucks a lot, on account of she's my closest friend here in Halifax. So then Trent, Miika (Nikki's boyfirend and Trent's friend who is, of course, moving away at the end of the month) and I got to hang around the airport and be sad for an hour or so... until Phidit's and Nancy's plane arrived! Yay! And I get to keep them for a whole week!

Yay, We're Vikings!

2006-09-06T14:04:00.000-04:00

Both me and Trent, and apparently, the director "wants to use us as much as possible." But I bet they say that to all the extras, don't they?

Oh my gosh, wait a minute! I just searched the movie on imdb.com and guess who the star is? Eomer from Lord of the Rings! Okay, his real name is Karl Urban, but I wonder if he'll let us call him Eomer? Junaid, I'll ask him if he knows Sir Ian McKellen for you...

32 054 400 Seconds

2006-09-04T10:48:00.000-04:00

That's approximately how long I've been in Halifax. Weird, huh? And, like one year ago, we are now enjoying the leftovers of a tropical storm.

I have some good news yesterday: I auditioned for two plays last week and was offered parts in both of them! Obviously, I can't do two plays and go to school and cheer on my Viking husband in his first Hollywood movie role, so I decided on Jean Genet's The Balcony. I was also offered Maggie in Tom Stoppard's A Separate Peace, but that one is being presented by the Bedford Players. Bedford is a rather affluent suburb of Halifax--basically, Upper-Middle-ClassLand. They rehearse and perform in a church, and everyone that I saw at the adition was middle-aged and middle-class. Please don't think I'm judging them, especially since they apparently draw rather large audiences--I think that's great, but I really just want to make some friends and have fun. After all, theatre is where I met fabulous people like Heather, and since childhood friends, work friends, family and neighbours seem to be out as ways to meet people here, I figured theatre is my best bet. And the Theatre de Boheme (the group doing The Balcony) is newer, younger, and more avant-garde. Just cross your fingers that they aren't as horribly pretentious as some of the theatre types I've met in the past (the anti-Heathers) and I should be okay.

So here's the part where I brag a little bit. I auditioned for The Balcony a couple of hours after the Bedford Players left a message offering me a role in the Stoppard play. The Balcony audition went really well, and I told them that I'd been offered a part in another play, though I'd much rather do the Genet. They had another round of auditions yesterday evening, and before those had even started, the director called me at home to ask me to please turn down the other role because, although they weren't sure what part they were going to offer me, they definitely wanted me for the Balcony! See, I told you this was the part where I was going to brag!

Hello, Viking.

2006-08-29T13:25:00.000-04:00

There's a woman in Trent's office, Arlene, and Trent talks about her all the time. Arlene is one of those women who seems to know something about everything. She and her husband are snowbirds, and while spending Christmas in Florida, they learned to deep-fry a turkey. Her husband used to be a Nascar mechanic, and so they told Trent how to install some sort of fuel-saving... gizmo in Grillface. And last week, Arlene discovered that, this fall, they are filming a movie about aliens that arrive on Earth in 500 A.D. and have to fight the Vikings. Don't dwell too much on the plot. The thing that you need to know is that they are casting Vikings. Fair-haired, red-bearded, enormous, klobberbonking Vikings. Here in Halifax.

So Trent and I set up a backdrop and some lights in the basement and take a hundred or so photos of ourselves. A couple of them turn out pretty good, so we photoshop them into headshots, and I fenangle us both some performance resumes (Performance History: Ghouly Doctor, Spooktacular 2001, ...). Then we take them to the film office downtown. Trent has just come out of a big meeting at the waterfront, and is looking particularly hot in his borwn Tristan & America suit. We find the film office, which is on the ground floor (i.e. half-basement) of one of those old Victorian houses at the end of Barrington Street. The ceilings are, of course, about three inches above his head. I walk in first and hand my envelope to a guy at the desk.

"This is for Outlander," I say. "We hear you're looking for Vikings. I know I'm a bit of a long shot, but he looks like a Viking."

"I should," Trent says. "It's in my genes."

It must have been Christmas and Natal Day (Halifax August holiday, folks) all in one in that film office. The two other staff members instantly stop their phone conversations and start firing questions at Trent. Will you be around in October? Will you be available? Is your phone number on your resume? The guy to whom we've handed our envelopes tries to collect himself and shuffles through Trent's resume. "Yes, everything seems to be here. Nothing left out." Boy, am I glad I remembered to include Spooktacular on his performance history. "We can't guarantee you a part in the film," he says, putting Trent's resume on the top of the pile.

"But can you please start growing your beard now?" the other woman adds quickly before we leave the office.

Of course, nothing is set. I know that. But I can't help but feel that things went very differently from the Brad Pitt Jesse James film that Trent and our old neighbours Greg, Nadine and Garry went to audition for in Edmonton. For one thing, we didn't end up drinking mimosas at 9 in the morning instead of auditioning. That's promising, isn't it?

Green Drinks... They Get You Every Time!

2006-08-27T21:04:00.000-04:00

Or so my friend Tannaya says. You see, when Brad and Toni were down, they met Tannaya and Brad fed her a green drink. It's best not to comment on the results.

This is a pic of me, Tannaya, Toni and Brad having cocktails at the Tribeca downtown. Pre-green drink.

And this is me and Toni. This is a different trip--we went for drinks after dinner one night.

Trent and Toni at the Economy Shoe Shop. A bar, not a shoe shop.

And then we started posing for the camera...

Right... about those green drinks...

This is the after picture. The guy in the centre, by the way, is a stranger. He was trying to pick Tannaya up. Don't worry--Toni had the entire dance floor keeping an eye on the situation!

I Swear, I'm in This One!

2006-08-26T13:43:00.001-04:00

It's last Spring's edition, but they just posted it online. I'm in it. Really.

www.roommagazine.com