B and I went to the ROM today. There was a little exhibition on the way to the Bat Cave about a program called House Calls with my Camera, wherein Dr. Mark Nowaczynski takes care of the elderly, often those without support systems or family to help them, and helps them with whatever it is (someone to clean for them, Meals on Wheels, etc.) that they need to be happier and healthier. He also takes photographs of his clients. In some of them, they are smiling or looking feisty; in others, they have, as one caption reads, lost [their] spark.
Some of these people always lived alone. Others had husbands or wives, children and loved ones, although few had any contact with family (only one couple was photographed and during the time the doctor was seeing them, the husband passed away). All our lives we make connections and, if we're lucky, feel loved. How many of us feel that love at the end of our lives? I'm so far removed from my parents, and even further removed from 99% of the rest of my family. What happens to me if I live to be 70, 80, 90. I'm not lying when I say that thought scares the living daylights out of me.
In some of the prints, people posed with old photos of themselves, taken when they were young and smiling, seemingly carefree. I'm not sure I've ever been carefree; they probably weren't either, but were captured with smiles and pretty dresses all the same.
It reminded me of this song by Big Star:
Take Care (Alex Chilton)
Take care not to hurt yourself
Beware of the need for help
You might need too much
And people are such
Take care, please, take care
Some people read idea books
And some people have pretty looks
But if your eyes are wideAnd all words aside
Take care, please, take care
This sounds a bit like goodbye
In a way it is I guess
As I leave your sideI've taken the air
Take care, please, take care
Take care, please, take care
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Resuming
I can write about a lot of things. Just off the top of my head, I can probably list 500 people/places/events/etc. that I know enough about to fill a page or two. Not just fill a page, but tell a story in an interesting, concise and, I hope, enjoyable way. So why do I have such a difficult time listing and qualifying what I've done with my professional life? Why is creating my own resume such a painful experience? I know it's partly because I've let some great opportunities slip through my fingers. But I do have accomplishments under my belt, too. I've been reading resume-writing blogs for inspiration. Hell, I'm even going to a life coach and she's helping me significantly. Still, when I sit down to do my homework, it feels like my skull is filled with insulation where my brain used to be.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
A Little Fiction
Teenage Hematology
Samantha picks at the scab on her knee, sliding a nail under the flaky edge, then digging deeper, wincing as she hits the soft, red core. Beneath her, the porch swing moans with every shift of weight, every movement. Fluffy clouds move briskly overhead and she wonders how long the sun will keep shining. Samantha pulls her finger out of the wound and examines her work. With one swift motion she tears new flesh from old.
“Sssuh!”
Her knee glistens as Samantha rolls the thick, sticky scab between her fingers, shaping it into a ball. She straightens her leg and watches the trickle of blood wend its way down her shin. She licks the scab ball once, twice, before letting it settle on her tongue. She dances it around her teeth and gums; salt and iron linger on her taste buds.
She considers getting a glass of water, but decides against going inside the house where her brother’s playing video games with his buddy and ignoring his girlfriend’s phone calls. He will go to his summer job bagging groceries later, leaving Samantha alone for an hour or two before their parents come home to make supper and ask her what she did today. Samantha jiggles her leg, which just makes it hurt more.
Two doors down, Kevin Doherty eases his new car into the driveway. The radio, which he’s been blaring, cuts off abruptly when he kills the motor. Samantha watches him take his briefcase from the backseat, lock the doors and run his hand through his hair. “He needs a haircut,” Samantha thinks as she bites into the remains of the scab and grinds it between her teeth. She adjusts her sunglasses and wills herself invisible.
Kevin notices her and waves.
“Hey Sam, how’s it going?”
“I’m OK, Mr. Doherty. How are you?” Samantha smiles, but barely. Still, Kevin approaches.
“Hey, what happened to your leg?”
“Ah, nothing,” Samantha moves to cover her knee. She turns her face away from his.
Kevin tosses his bag on the porch and takes a seat on the swing. Samantha likes her parents’ friend well enough, but she hasn’t invited him onto the porch or to sit down beside her. She can smell his soap, but also his sweat. She’s pretty certain he smells her, too. The thought that right now he is sitting there, smiling, and smelling her crushes her chest under the weight of embarrassment; she draws her knees up and clenches her thigh muscles tight. The swing groans.
Kevin rocks the swing a bit and Sam feels his anticipation. He starts humming the chorus of the song he’d been blasting on his drive home. He starts tapping out the beat on his legs and Samantha’s eyes lock on the way his little belly shakes. Sam recalls overhearing her mom and Mrs. Doherty about her husband’s padded waistline and how she needs to find herself a hot younger guy. She watches the man from down the street sing this corny song and feels her cheeks sear with shame.
“Oooh… we’re halfway there… Oh-oh… Livin’ on a Pray-yer…”
Pain scorches Sam’s knee and she cringes. Kevin notices the look on her face and stops mid-chorus.
“Sorry.”
“What? Oh, no, sing if you want,” Samantha doesn’t mean to make him feel bad, but now Kevin’s presence is even more intrusive.
“M-my leg just hurts pretty bad,” she adds.
Kevin smiles with fatherly concern, “So, you gonna tell me why there’s blood all over your leg?”
“Hhhhhhh…” Samantha exhales languidly, “Didn’t you ever pick a scab just to know?”
Kevin raises his eyebrows as Samantha peers at him over her sunglasses. Her eyes are almost the same shade as her tanned skin. She tilts her head and lets him consider the question, then moves her face a fraction closer to his; now the scent of his lunch mingles with those other things. “Well?”
He nods and leans back a little. “How old are you now, Sam?”
“Almost thirteen.”
“So, what are you doing this summer? Aren’t you going to camp with Becca and Megan?”
“Nope.”
“Babysitting? Volunteering?”
“No.”
Sam pushes the glasses up her nose. When she was in kindergarten, she liked to paint pictures of houses and horses that looked more like dogs than anything equine. She gave these pictures to her parents and grandparents, who dutifully displayed them on the refrigerator. On Friday nights when Mr. and Mrs. Doherty and Sam’s parents played cards and drank from glasses tinkling with ice and garnished with lemon slices and maraschino cherries, Sam and her brother would watch TV and draw. At the end of the night, the Dohertys would leave with one of her masterpieces. Sam chokes up at the memory, but swallows her tears with a forceful shake of her head.
Kevin’s been silent for a while and Samantha hopes that by staying still and keeping her breathing light and shallow, maybe he’ll get tired and go home. She feels her heart beat in her neck and imagines the movement of blood throughout her body. She closes her eyes and watches the confetti explode behind her lids. Her butt tingles with numbness; she’s been sitting there a while.
Around her, the street breathes. Birds sing and build nests; kids ride bikes and hit each other with badminton racquets; mothers gossip and drink afternoon Bloody Marys. Car doors slam. Keys slide into locks and turn. Televisions hum. Telephones ring and ring. Samantha inhales. Exhales. Listens. Waits. Silent.
Samantha picks at the scab on her knee, sliding a nail under the flaky edge, then digging deeper, wincing as she hits the soft, red core. Beneath her, the porch swing moans with every shift of weight, every movement. Fluffy clouds move briskly overhead and she wonders how long the sun will keep shining. Samantha pulls her finger out of the wound and examines her work. With one swift motion she tears new flesh from old.
“Sssuh!”
Her knee glistens as Samantha rolls the thick, sticky scab between her fingers, shaping it into a ball. She straightens her leg and watches the trickle of blood wend its way down her shin. She licks the scab ball once, twice, before letting it settle on her tongue. She dances it around her teeth and gums; salt and iron linger on her taste buds.
She considers getting a glass of water, but decides against going inside the house where her brother’s playing video games with his buddy and ignoring his girlfriend’s phone calls. He will go to his summer job bagging groceries later, leaving Samantha alone for an hour or two before their parents come home to make supper and ask her what she did today. Samantha jiggles her leg, which just makes it hurt more.
Two doors down, Kevin Doherty eases his new car into the driveway. The radio, which he’s been blaring, cuts off abruptly when he kills the motor. Samantha watches him take his briefcase from the backseat, lock the doors and run his hand through his hair. “He needs a haircut,” Samantha thinks as she bites into the remains of the scab and grinds it between her teeth. She adjusts her sunglasses and wills herself invisible.
Kevin notices her and waves.
“Hey Sam, how’s it going?”
“I’m OK, Mr. Doherty. How are you?” Samantha smiles, but barely. Still, Kevin approaches.
“Hey, what happened to your leg?”
“Ah, nothing,” Samantha moves to cover her knee. She turns her face away from his.
Kevin tosses his bag on the porch and takes a seat on the swing. Samantha likes her parents’ friend well enough, but she hasn’t invited him onto the porch or to sit down beside her. She can smell his soap, but also his sweat. She’s pretty certain he smells her, too. The thought that right now he is sitting there, smiling, and smelling her crushes her chest under the weight of embarrassment; she draws her knees up and clenches her thigh muscles tight. The swing groans.
Kevin rocks the swing a bit and Sam feels his anticipation. He starts humming the chorus of the song he’d been blasting on his drive home. He starts tapping out the beat on his legs and Samantha’s eyes lock on the way his little belly shakes. Sam recalls overhearing her mom and Mrs. Doherty about her husband’s padded waistline and how she needs to find herself a hot younger guy. She watches the man from down the street sing this corny song and feels her cheeks sear with shame.
“Oooh… we’re halfway there… Oh-oh… Livin’ on a Pray-yer…”
Pain scorches Sam’s knee and she cringes. Kevin notices the look on her face and stops mid-chorus.
“Sorry.”
“What? Oh, no, sing if you want,” Samantha doesn’t mean to make him feel bad, but now Kevin’s presence is even more intrusive.
“M-my leg just hurts pretty bad,” she adds.
Kevin smiles with fatherly concern, “So, you gonna tell me why there’s blood all over your leg?”
“Hhhhhhh…” Samantha exhales languidly, “Didn’t you ever pick a scab just to know?”
Kevin raises his eyebrows as Samantha peers at him over her sunglasses. Her eyes are almost the same shade as her tanned skin. She tilts her head and lets him consider the question, then moves her face a fraction closer to his; now the scent of his lunch mingles with those other things. “Well?”
He nods and leans back a little. “How old are you now, Sam?”
“Almost thirteen.”
“So, what are you doing this summer? Aren’t you going to camp with Becca and Megan?”
“Nope.”
“Babysitting? Volunteering?”
“No.”
Sam pushes the glasses up her nose. When she was in kindergarten, she liked to paint pictures of houses and horses that looked more like dogs than anything equine. She gave these pictures to her parents and grandparents, who dutifully displayed them on the refrigerator. On Friday nights when Mr. and Mrs. Doherty and Sam’s parents played cards and drank from glasses tinkling with ice and garnished with lemon slices and maraschino cherries, Sam and her brother would watch TV and draw. At the end of the night, the Dohertys would leave with one of her masterpieces. Sam chokes up at the memory, but swallows her tears with a forceful shake of her head.
Kevin’s been silent for a while and Samantha hopes that by staying still and keeping her breathing light and shallow, maybe he’ll get tired and go home. She feels her heart beat in her neck and imagines the movement of blood throughout her body. She closes her eyes and watches the confetti explode behind her lids. Her butt tingles with numbness; she’s been sitting there a while.
Around her, the street breathes. Birds sing and build nests; kids ride bikes and hit each other with badminton racquets; mothers gossip and drink afternoon Bloody Marys. Car doors slam. Keys slide into locks and turn. Televisions hum. Telephones ring and ring. Samantha inhales. Exhales. Listens. Waits. Silent.
Friday, June 25, 2010
My Problem with Cougars
I just read about the National Cougar Convention. Taking place in Illinois, hundreds of people -- assumedly "older" women and younger men -- are expected to congregate to meet, mingle and potentially hook up.
First of all, I have no issue with women being older than their partners. I'm six years older than my husband, which is nothing compared to the age differential between many women who call themselves cougars and the men who date them, but still it's enough that eyebrows sometimes raise or people respond with a 'good for you' when I tell them how old we are. We married young - young for me, younger for him - and at the time I jokingly called him my child bride. Obviously, he was neither. When we met, neither one of us had any dream of weddings and walking down the aisle. But for one reason or another, we decided to make our togetherness legal. We've now been married almost 12 years and it feels fine.
So, what's my issue with cougars? Well, first off, it's the name. Did these women name themselves or did some pundit coin the term? And if it was a pundit, I'm pretty sure it was a man. Why would any woman want to see herself as a predator? Sure, cougars, in their four-legged form, are sleek and beautiful, but they're also ready to spring and attack on their prey, teeth bared and ready to pull flesh from bone. Is this really how women over 40 (actually, I've heard women in their 30s be lumped into this categorization, too) want to be seen? If you're youthful and take care of yourself, do you want to sink your teeth into your "victim".
A woman in the article about the conference says that cougars are a by-product of Kim Cattrall's character on Sex and the City and celebrities like Madonna dating younger men. But while older men have long made a public display of flaunting young women on their arms, there have also been plenty of women who date/marry/have relationships with men their junior. In my own family, my aunt spent many years with a man who was probably 15 years younger. In many ways, she was his mentor, having made a name and comfortable life for herself in the arts. Just as she had been introduced to that life through her ex-husband, she gave him access to her world. They also seemed to enjoy each other's company (although, frankly, how anyone could enjoy my aunt's company, I'll never know).
It saddens me that women's rights are now, in some communities, reduced to having the "right" to wear killer heels, get plastic surgery and a fake-and-bake tan, and go out hunting for men. Yes, people should enjoy their lives, but how long can a woman be a predator before she herself gets shot down or discarded by the pack?
First of all, I have no issue with women being older than their partners. I'm six years older than my husband, which is nothing compared to the age differential between many women who call themselves cougars and the men who date them, but still it's enough that eyebrows sometimes raise or people respond with a 'good for you' when I tell them how old we are. We married young - young for me, younger for him - and at the time I jokingly called him my child bride. Obviously, he was neither. When we met, neither one of us had any dream of weddings and walking down the aisle. But for one reason or another, we decided to make our togetherness legal. We've now been married almost 12 years and it feels fine.
So, what's my issue with cougars? Well, first off, it's the name. Did these women name themselves or did some pundit coin the term? And if it was a pundit, I'm pretty sure it was a man. Why would any woman want to see herself as a predator? Sure, cougars, in their four-legged form, are sleek and beautiful, but they're also ready to spring and attack on their prey, teeth bared and ready to pull flesh from bone. Is this really how women over 40 (actually, I've heard women in their 30s be lumped into this categorization, too) want to be seen? If you're youthful and take care of yourself, do you want to sink your teeth into your "victim".
A woman in the article about the conference says that cougars are a by-product of Kim Cattrall's character on Sex and the City and celebrities like Madonna dating younger men. But while older men have long made a public display of flaunting young women on their arms, there have also been plenty of women who date/marry/have relationships with men their junior. In my own family, my aunt spent many years with a man who was probably 15 years younger. In many ways, she was his mentor, having made a name and comfortable life for herself in the arts. Just as she had been introduced to that life through her ex-husband, she gave him access to her world. They also seemed to enjoy each other's company (although, frankly, how anyone could enjoy my aunt's company, I'll never know).
It saddens me that women's rights are now, in some communities, reduced to having the "right" to wear killer heels, get plastic surgery and a fake-and-bake tan, and go out hunting for men. Yes, people should enjoy their lives, but how long can a woman be a predator before she herself gets shot down or discarded by the pack?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Joanne's Slow Food Revolution
I've been thinking about what to do with my life. I guess I always think about that, but right now, when I'm not working a full-time job and I have lots of solitary moments, I'm giving the meaning of life a lot of consideration.
Before I started my last job, I swore that I was going to have a fresh start and stop thinking almost exclusively about music. Well, I did get somewhat of a fresh start, but it was still a music-related gig. The thing is I love music. I think about it, talk about it, lament over it. But I really do think it's time to let it go. Not in my day-to-day life, but as a subject matter for my so-called career.
So, what do I want to do? Mostly, I want to feed people. No, more specifically I want to help people feed themselves. Since I stopped eating meat in high school, I've spent a lot of time thinking about food and nutrition. During university, while working at an on-campus cafe, I added more cooking skills to the repertoire I'd learned from my mum (who taught me the invaluable lesson of how to make a nutritious meal with few ingredients and leaving nothing to waste). When I was diagnosed with Type 2 Dibetes a few years ago, I started thinking more about blood sugar and the glycemic index. I dream of having enough outdoor space to plant a garden -- or even hanging some upside-down planters. I want to keep bees.
I was really inspired by Jamie Oliver's speech that he gave at his reception for the TED prize(http://www.ted.com/talks/jamie_oliver.html). I've long been a fan of Jamie's no-nonsense approach to cooking, which began with the Naked Chef, which, I think, did a lot to demystify food for a lot of people. But it's Oliver's large-scale projects -- School Dinners, Food Revolution, Ministry of Food -- that are really inspiring. Yes, people without the big name work tirelessly to stop the glut(tony) of fast food and change the way people consume. But having television cameras and Oliver's energy behind these projects has brought them the wide-spread attention they deserve.
So, what does that have to do with me? Well, when I think of what I'd really like to do with my time, the answer is that I'd like to work for Jamie Oliver. He's talked about having grocery store ambassadors, which I think is brilliant: someone to decipher labels and help people make wise decisions about what to purchase. Setting up a program like that would be my dream job. Or bringing a program like Food Revolution to Parkdale. Or educating people about the perils of soda pop (which I think is as insidious as big tobacco). My list of food/nutrition-based interest is never-ending.
So, how do I get there? Any ideas?
Before I started my last job, I swore that I was going to have a fresh start and stop thinking almost exclusively about music. Well, I did get somewhat of a fresh start, but it was still a music-related gig. The thing is I love music. I think about it, talk about it, lament over it. But I really do think it's time to let it go. Not in my day-to-day life, but as a subject matter for my so-called career.
So, what do I want to do? Mostly, I want to feed people. No, more specifically I want to help people feed themselves. Since I stopped eating meat in high school, I've spent a lot of time thinking about food and nutrition. During university, while working at an on-campus cafe, I added more cooking skills to the repertoire I'd learned from my mum (who taught me the invaluable lesson of how to make a nutritious meal with few ingredients and leaving nothing to waste). When I was diagnosed with Type 2 Dibetes a few years ago, I started thinking more about blood sugar and the glycemic index. I dream of having enough outdoor space to plant a garden -- or even hanging some upside-down planters. I want to keep bees.
I was really inspired by Jamie Oliver's speech that he gave at his reception for the TED prize(http://www.ted.com/talks/jamie_oliver.html). I've long been a fan of Jamie's no-nonsense approach to cooking, which began with the Naked Chef, which, I think, did a lot to demystify food for a lot of people. But it's Oliver's large-scale projects -- School Dinners, Food Revolution, Ministry of Food -- that are really inspiring. Yes, people without the big name work tirelessly to stop the glut(tony) of fast food and change the way people consume. But having television cameras and Oliver's energy behind these projects has brought them the wide-spread attention they deserve.
So, what does that have to do with me? Well, when I think of what I'd really like to do with my time, the answer is that I'd like to work for Jamie Oliver. He's talked about having grocery store ambassadors, which I think is brilliant: someone to decipher labels and help people make wise decisions about what to purchase. Setting up a program like that would be my dream job. Or bringing a program like Food Revolution to Parkdale. Or educating people about the perils of soda pop (which I think is as insidious as big tobacco). My list of food/nutrition-based interest is never-ending.
So, how do I get there? Any ideas?
Monday, February 15, 2010
I Believe in the Good of Life
Last night was Wavelength 500, the final installment of the weekly Sunday night concert series that first appeared 10 years ago. Back then, its co-founder, Jonathan, and I shared office space at one of Toronto's alt weeklies, so I heard a lot about the series' nasence and I like to think my enthusiasm for bands like The Hidden Cameras and Royal City encouraged those bands to be booked. Hell, even if I'm the only one who thinks that, I stand by it.
It's not an understatement to say that Wavelength coaxed significant change in this city's music scene. It was an event; something that brought people out, even on a Sunday night. The PWYC policy meant that you could take a gamble on an unheard of band without it costing the price of a week's worth of groceries.
An early and avid supporter, I admit that I haven't been much in recent years. There was a time, about five years back, when there was a significant shift in the vibe. Yes, it was still enthusiastic about music, but some of the old faces fell away and to be completely honest, I didn't feel like hanging out with the kids. This isn't a negative thing; it was just time for someone new to take my spot at stage left.
So, last night was the grand finale. For me, the biggest draw -- apart from bidding a fond farewell to this legendary Toronto event -- was the reunion of the band Neck. Neck began as a three-piece - Dave Rodgers, Paul Boddum and Andrew McCallister - and grew to add the aforementioned Jonny "Dovercourt" Bunce and become Christiana. They were the band I took Brad to see the first night he visited me. They played Club Shanghai on a bill that also included the late, lamented Pecola. Maybe ironically, Brad and I celebrated our 11th anniversary on Saturday night. It was a sweet little walk down memory lane. Adding to the sweetness is that I think Neck's songs "Ladybug" and "Daydreaming" are two excellent examples of under-two-minute pop songs. Concise, punchy and full of charm.
There was a lot of happiness in the room last night, which perhaps escalated when Owen Pallet came out for a not-so-surprise set. He gets better all the time and even at a less formal event like last night, his intensity is awe-inspiring.
And when I didn't think anything could cap the night - which also included old shoegaze favourites Mean Red Spiders, Barcelona Pavilion (who I wasn't in love with when they were together a few years ago, but totally loved them last night), Kids on TV and Thomas - better than Owen, he announced (OK, truth be told, I'd been informed earlier) that most of the original Hidden Cameras (plus some later members and friends) would be singing a song.
The song was "I Believe in the Good of Life" and seeing Maggie, Owen, Steve, Magale, Dave, Mathias and Joel, along with Reg and Lex, singing and smiling and jumping around was absolutely the greatest ending any night or music series could've had. I sort of lost my mind with joy and a bit of nostalgia for days gone by. So many friends were there - Steve, Colin, Michael and Helen, all those band folks, Ryan, Katie M, Kat... I'm sure there were more - and from various eras of my life. Realizing I've known Joel for almost 20 years is sort of mind-blowing; knowing that a friend wrote a song as perfect as "Good of Life" makes me realize just how great my life is.
Thank you.
It's not an understatement to say that Wavelength coaxed significant change in this city's music scene. It was an event; something that brought people out, even on a Sunday night. The PWYC policy meant that you could take a gamble on an unheard of band without it costing the price of a week's worth of groceries.
An early and avid supporter, I admit that I haven't been much in recent years. There was a time, about five years back, when there was a significant shift in the vibe. Yes, it was still enthusiastic about music, but some of the old faces fell away and to be completely honest, I didn't feel like hanging out with the kids. This isn't a negative thing; it was just time for someone new to take my spot at stage left.
So, last night was the grand finale. For me, the biggest draw -- apart from bidding a fond farewell to this legendary Toronto event -- was the reunion of the band Neck. Neck began as a three-piece - Dave Rodgers, Paul Boddum and Andrew McCallister - and grew to add the aforementioned Jonny "Dovercourt" Bunce and become Christiana. They were the band I took Brad to see the first night he visited me. They played Club Shanghai on a bill that also included the late, lamented Pecola. Maybe ironically, Brad and I celebrated our 11th anniversary on Saturday night. It was a sweet little walk down memory lane. Adding to the sweetness is that I think Neck's songs "Ladybug" and "Daydreaming" are two excellent examples of under-two-minute pop songs. Concise, punchy and full of charm.
There was a lot of happiness in the room last night, which perhaps escalated when Owen Pallet came out for a not-so-surprise set. He gets better all the time and even at a less formal event like last night, his intensity is awe-inspiring.
And when I didn't think anything could cap the night - which also included old shoegaze favourites Mean Red Spiders, Barcelona Pavilion (who I wasn't in love with when they were together a few years ago, but totally loved them last night), Kids on TV and Thomas - better than Owen, he announced (OK, truth be told, I'd been informed earlier) that most of the original Hidden Cameras (plus some later members and friends) would be singing a song.
The song was "I Believe in the Good of Life" and seeing Maggie, Owen, Steve, Magale, Dave, Mathias and Joel, along with Reg and Lex, singing and smiling and jumping around was absolutely the greatest ending any night or music series could've had. I sort of lost my mind with joy and a bit of nostalgia for days gone by. So many friends were there - Steve, Colin, Michael and Helen, all those band folks, Ryan, Katie M, Kat... I'm sure there were more - and from various eras of my life. Realizing I've known Joel for almost 20 years is sort of mind-blowing; knowing that a friend wrote a song as perfect as "Good of Life" makes me realize just how great my life is.
Thank you.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Auld Lang Syne
Happy New Year! My only resolutions for the year are to stop eating out (except for occasional Golden Turtle bun) and to update this more often. Otherwise, I just want to continue the positive steps (joining the Y and the ROM, giving more to charity, working at a job I really enjoy, signing up for a short story writing class) I took last year. I figure that's all reasonable and likely to last.
2009 was a doozy of a year. I lost my job at the end of 2008 and spent the first few months of the year in a bit of a funk that was only fed by the loss of loved ones. By mid-year I was initially hired for five weeks to do the job I'm returning to on Monday - five weeks to seven months, not bad. Although it remains a contract, it's an interesting job for now and it has done a lot to help me restore confidence in myself. It isn't an overstatement to say I felt a bit lost for a couple of years... actually from 2004 until the end of 2009. That's quite a while. I knew I loved Brad, but otherwise, I was sort of adrift. I feel way more focused now, more confident.
I saw more of my Nana this year, which is nice. She re-told me stories I've heard all my life - about the way she met my Grandad and what things were like during WWII - stories that are part of my internal fabric, stories I fear will be lost one day. I introduced her to sushi and Ethiopian food. Don't tell me you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
I've spent a lot of time listening to Yo La Tengo, Neil Young and The Thermals this year. Today I heard the new Besnard Lakes, which is pretty stunning. I have to admit I like the tv show Glee.
I'm trying to see people I care about as much as possible. I miss Jamie and I don't want to spend my whole life regretting time not spent with those I love.
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