prayers for the prairies.

Welcome back to the wild wild west.

...well, minus the wild part. So far Sherwood Park has been, as usual, quaint, pleasant―words sometimes considered synonyms for drab, and dull, but that's a matter of perspective. The pace of the place is, to say the least, a small adjustment from the days of jaywalking the city, but once it sinks in, it doesn't hurt so hard.

Sometimes life out here's like a scene from Full House―with seven people in one house (NOT including a dog named after brand-name amonia), I'm prone to assume the role of Stephanie, the poor middle child who's life is sooo unfair. And as for sleeping in, well, that's not an option when your sister tap dances above your bedroom at 8 a.m. But being woken up my a human sound instead of a machine (I'm talking about YOU, cranes at St. Michael's!) is sorta comforting, as is warm, streaming sunlight that won't be blocked out by a neigbouring condo at 11:01 a.m. (makes afternoon tans tough). 

The suburb's the suburb, it's not worth glossing over. I could spend my months here honing in on what they don't have―which is plenty―but while I'm around, I mine as well take on what they do have to offer. Parks-a-plenty, free and fresh gourmet, old friends, family, and, of course, a room of my own.

Me and the local geriatrics ward Some of the fam who I love very much!

Summer, bloody summer

My summer was all laid out.

Four months in Asia. Fly into Singapore, head North 'till I'd eaten every piece of Pad Thai and Pho on the continent. Hike, skydive, thrill-seek, adventure. Of course, ambition, when planned in pairs, sometimes falls through. I counted up my losses, accepted defeat, and made a compromise.

I set myself out, instead, to head home to lounge with mom and pop, eat Chef Frere's exquisite food, educate my little sister on getting past puberty (now that I think I'm finally over it myself), and, of course, keep a little extra coin in my pocket. I was unreasonably enthusiastic to visit the prosaic prairies, to relax, and sleep in my high school hideout. And then, come July, to rent a flat in Prague, and stroll along the promenade for a month or two. Sleeping in, and drinking Czechvar until I slept again. And I wasn't ever planning to go it alone.

But now, it seems, I am―right here.

Since Sunday, I've hastefully been arranging interviews―of the summer job sort, people pointing the mic at me instead of the school year's opposite―in hopes of earning checks to cover my coffee for next school year, instead of a plane ticket to anywhere the hell outta here. I've stopped trying to sell off my room to some stranger. My little sister will stay stuck to fend for herself at the dangerous age of thirteen. No one will be left to scarf Mike's leftovers at ungodly hours. For me, it's more concrete, more city, more same ol', just with the addition of some occasional sunshine. Those had better be some damn happy rays or I'll be carrying S.A.D. with me all through this sorry summer.

Polly put the kettle on...

all I ever do when I go home, is go for coffee.... catching up on growing up and all the goods and bads that go along with it (in fact, it's gotten so bad that I have to rotate coffee shops so the baristas don't think I'm a caffeine addict... and I'm not, I swear).

... but somtimes, nothing warms the hands (and, *tear*, heart) like a good ol' friend and a good cup o' joe.

dear body...

... sorry for being so cruel to you. I promise to sleep more than six hours a night, consume no more than four alcoholic beverages for day, stop substituting cookie dough for meals, and try to come home before two on school nights.

At present, it's the best effort I can make.... I'm going to bed. Goodnight, world.

quite the fortnight.

In two weeks, I've...

• Cut my hair... twice.
  
• Screamed at my credit card statement after a NY trip where the most common phrase to exit my mouth (even for Orbit at 7-11) was "charge it"... and then again, when I realized all I bought was pretty, frilly summer dresses and went out and decided I needed to buy a week's worth of practical clothing.
  
• Taken on two new jobs. Only one shall remain next week.
  
• Acquired a taste for hip-hop. Yes, even the typical rock-or-bust chicks have their phases. Nothing beats biking to beats a la the Midnight Marauders (this, of course, was aided by an ode to NYC's hip-hop scene circa 1994. Jonathan Levine makes Boyz II Men look whack, er, wiggity-wack).
  
• Bought a television after a year's hibernation. ... And then a splitter, so I can watch t.v. AND read nymag simultaneously, because that's absolutely and entirely necessary.
  
• Drank blueberry beer and a green apple beer float... and actually enjoyed the latter.
  
• Lived out of a suitcase. Not the same bag, mind you, but out of a bag for two weeks straight nonetheless.

Oh yeah. And partied with Kenneth Hotz.... God's gift to womankind.

all washed up

Thursday, 7 p.m. - 3 a.m.

Friday, 9 a.m. - 5 p.m., 7 p.m. - 3 a.m.

Saturday, 12-8 p.m., 9 p.m.- 3 a.m.

Sunday, 12-7 p.m.

                                           

I'm only home because my work got rained out―four hours of downpour, for four short hours of redemption. I could have biked home in the end, the drizzle, but instead I took a taxi, knowing I'll have to walk it tomorrow. I'm spending a good fraction of my earnings to save my legs. Sorry if I've disappeared, I'm just trying to make up for two months of too much. June & July, I loved you, but you're bringing my bank account down and it's time to make it up. 60-hour work weeks on the way, and I don't really feel like myself.

Mostly I think I'm just pretending to be my roommate.

but we're doing it so well

Tomorrow, I'm going to get a fake i.d.

Sure, after many turnaways at Picadilly's, and turn-arounds at the LCBO, it feels legit to be legal here, but it's time I upped the ante a bit. 19? Pff... 21? It's not Vegas, but it'll do. I'll take a gamble with my pride if it means getting into any NYC hotspot or cool dig that I/we choose.

The four of us get in far, far too early on Thursday. We'll probably be groggy like pre-6 a.m. coffee, but unwilling to sleep. Me, I'm unwilling to unpack. It'll be my third ride on the Greyhound in less that a week. I'm not really living at my place, I'm not really living away from home, but for once, I'm really living. I'm not working, nor worrying, I'm just doing it all, and doing it now, as I please.

And as unproductive (and unfamiliar) as this slacker lifestyle may sound, I feel like, for once, I'm getting the most out of summer months.

Vicious Cycle

Last summer and this one as well, I've been considered a "server", dropping, cheap eggs and otherwise mediocre eats. Last week, I vetoed the online shortcut and opted in favour of the full-fledged, 3-hour Smart Serve licensing class. 'Smartly', I biked sans helmet, in a dress too short for walking, showed up sweaty and inevitably tardy, only  to be told things I already know, and have practiced (however illegally) from the comfort of my very own neighborhood restaurant. Someone copied answers from my government-issued exam, and I left my workbook behind at the practice bar in favor of the faster ride to the real thing. I left the TIB and biked Bathurst to Bistro as per usual, where an spiked Iced Tea would sit, ready to refresh me. I learned just a half hour ago how the 4 shots in one drink would put me and my BAC (which is blood alcohol concentration, not consumption by the way) at precisely double the legal limit.... and I saw that drink sitting there in all it's glory, completely disregarding that my chugging would make me an unlawful, illegal cyclist. Not that's thats ever mattered (read: riding through gardens and throwing bikes over suburban fences in the home-town). 8 ounces and 2 hours later means either a) I'm a standard college student, or b) I'm borderline bar ejection. Who knew it was legal to have intoxicated individuals in the bar? Uh, is there any other point?

 Last time I sat my booty (shorts) at Bistro, I was booted.

 This time, the laconic 'tender gave a wink as he called my posse 'smart girls' for cutting off soon after that last pitcher. True, it's tough to make the call when four shots costs a dozen dollars, but with work and working out and never sleeping in? The sky started spitting the second we stood from our chairs, and I hopped on my bike and headed east. The rain picked up quicker than my speed, and I booted it back, catching drops in my bangs and on my legs as they pedaled with a strange drunken confidence down College. Sure, I took a few confused, nay, misjudged turns, but the ending result was undeniable. Biking through the lit-up quad, surrounded by flowers and that fresh, summer rain smell, I felt no guilt, no remorse, just pleasure. I forgot my iPod and instead, sang on the bike ride home. A little solo karaoke never hurt anyone.

SAD (seasonal affective disorder).

*Note: This photo was taken April 22, 2008, in Sherwood Park Alberta.
N.B. Sherwood Park is NOT, for the record, located in Siberia.

I flew from sandal tans and shoulder sunburns, not to be measured in miles, but degrees—all 35 of them.
-10 snowy, and all-around-gloominess in Edmonton, +25 and tropical in Toronto.
I left the house once day, to find a pair of rainboots (which I have a pair of, in Toronto, but foolishly didn't think I would need for my short stay out west). Maybe now that I have the means to go outside, I will do so tomorrow.
I'm generally an active person—I walk (almost) everywhere, I get full use out of my free gym membership, I can't stand to spend a whole day indoors. Today, I slept 10 hours, watched t.v., read the paper, read a magazine, read a book, napped while my mom drove, and napped while my mom cooked summer. After dinner, I read in bed and only got up to sit at my desk.
Alberta folk speak of the "gorgeous weather" when the snow (sorta) turns to slush, some sun pokes out, and the mercury hovers 'round 0. It's safe to drive when your round-the-corner skid time maxes out at two seconds instead of six or seven.
Drinking grey tea instead of pink lemonade, eating chili cause its too chilly for sorbet.
I went out for a week straight, bare-legged in the city. Now I won't leave the house bare-fingered for fear of losing feeling.
Pity me.

eeyaaaawn.

Tonight I came home and changed my alarm from 4:35 p.m. to 12:00 noon. The sun wakes me up each day but I greet it by raising the middle covers and giving the big 'f u' to the morning.
I'm spending more hours out than in, and more nights awake than asleep. I wake only for books and beer.
My mood is set by the thermometer. Perhaps by thermostat has an anti-lethargic setting...

Read, write, repeat.

I remember the day when I first discovered the word "repetitious".
'Twas once upon a time when my age was just one digit, in my neighbour's living room, listening to a little Marvin Gaye ditty, a song I thought was entitled "Sexual Feeling". I didn't found out its actual title 'till a couple years ago, but what I did learn was that when the same words (or as I would later see, activities) repeat themselves over again and again, and this means they are "repetitious".
Now, I can only dream that repetition means simply listening to Marvin Gaye on repeat.

Every day, I wake up and write (at least some) notes in class, read my 'readings', write for a blog, read books for English, write down orders at work, read e-mails, write replies, read news, write my own version of news, repeat. My life as of late resembles some never-ending laundry cycle—brain-wash, rinse, repeat.

I started reading for pleasure (about pleasure) in I'm With the Band, the Pamela des Barres epic where she reveals vivid detail of the sexual feelings and healings of her wild-child, effortlessly-cool, hippie-chick youth. Not only have I had to cut myself off from social life and living in general, but I had to cut myself off from living vicariously through the enticing life of a groupie extraordinaire. School and serving have me home(and)working all the time, and no time remains for workouts or working the rest of my life out.

TSN turning point (and possible internship, but more on that later):
Forecast for tomorrow: 13 degrees. So what if its raining, I'll sing in it. 19 days, nine-teen days 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19. I'm going to be such an optimistic person.... soon...

Go your own way.

For so long I've wished I could stretch my too-long legs further and straddle the two cities where my life lies. Sherwood Park, home sweet home, place of all good things old and nostalgic, and a select few of the most perfect people.
Alas, one can only reminiscence on the "glory days" for so long (and preferably no longer than a year or two, lest I be caught dead wearing my grad sweats on the streets anytime in the future). Scrumptious summer is starting to spring out of this half-hearted sunshine, and I can't see it the same driving around in SUVs, staying stagnant inside, and coming home to curfew. Especially the curfew.

Toronto offers work, weather, and a thousand-and-one more ways to enjoy it all. I can't imagine deserting this haven, how could I leave behind an entire summer's vacation? I've already begun two to-do lists, of wants and wishes. Suite 1005's staying alive for a sweet, sweet summer.

It's a girl!

Oh, hello there.

I suppose I can't christen this site a newborn, however I can dedicate the baby as a rebirth. It's a little-known-fact that I'm no stranger to life online, in fact I've spent summers in this other dimension, pale, chilled summers in the basement on everything from Neopets to Nexopia, Dollz to Don't Panic, before getting a little more personal. I've kept the blog running since junior high, but it's remained in the private sphere for years and years.

But at a time of Facebook, Digg, youtube, Flickr, etc etc etc..., the facade of online privacy is falling through—I figure if my writing is subject to critique, or at least some form of loyal fan base readership, then—I 'm coming out, I want the world(wide web) to know.

And now, it's time that I let you all into my life, in photos, in rants and raves, in relentless banter about nothing and everything... and into my little corner of the world.