If this is a practical joke...

there will be some crying.

http://www.fireflyseason2.com/

I Want Your Brains! BraaAAAAAIIIIIIiinnsssss!

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

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!

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

Halifax Living

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

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.

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

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!

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:

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

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!

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!

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

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

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!"

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.

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!

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!

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?!

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!

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.