I still don't know what I'm doing...

...but I had fun today. I think there may be pictures which I'm too lazy to upload, currently.
I feel very disconnected from almost everyone in my life.
I need to start introducing more structure and normalcy into it. By engaging in the routine I may become accustomed to the routine.
Cause fuck, do I ever love routine.
Ah.

Wow, I look like crap

Let's have some fun today, kiddies, shall we?

I saw a seal today

What's with the tapioca in bubbletea?
I hate powerboats: they're for assholes.
Met a woman from Korea today. I was tired and she caught me off guard and I was friendly to her. As a rule I try not to encourage tourists.
Spent the day with Michael. We tried to analyze the new Batman movie, but instead spent a lot of time talking like Christian Bale and making inane comments.
I don't know what I'm doing.
Once, me and my dad put out crab traps in the bay and we kayaked out to haul them up and we had caught a lot of crabs and as my dad was pulling them out he said, "You know how you cook these, right?" and I said yes, so we pulled all the crustaceans out and dropped them back into the ocean.

Surreality (fiction)

I read about this woman, once, that hated phones. She didn’t have a phone and had to resort to using payphones if she wanted to call anyone. This was because she had twice received phone calls which delivered the news to her that a loved family member had passed away. It would make me leery of phones too, but I’m leery about a lot of things.

I’m leery about the news. It’s all rather irrelevant and blown out of proportion. Wars are being fought, people are being murdered and tornadoes are mowing down trailer parks. That’s always happened throughout history, except trailer parks are a relatively new addition.

Sometimes, when I’m driving down the highway at 100 or 110 or 120 km/hr I think “Why don’t people just steer their cars into incoming traffic?”. The only thing between us and instantaneous death is a line painted down the middle of the road. I find that amazing. Why aren’t more people pushed in front of trains? How come more people don’t scream at the top of their lungs when they’re in shopping malls? And yet we say “Sorry!” when someone steps on our feet.

We all have our realities, and our realities are real only to ourselves. I cannot perceive your reality, though I may be able – through concentration and a lot of surmising – to come close. Your reality isn’t really of any importance to me, anyways. It only affects me to the extent that it infringes upon my reality, at which point I will be motivated to do something about it. Perhaps, then, I will push you in front of a bus or start pulling clothing off the racks of some upscale clothing store and flinging it about haphazardly while stunned onlookers try to discern how this affects them.

* * *

“How are you doing today?” he asks.

“Fine,” she shrugs.

A brief moment of clarity

Yesterday I went for a run. I'm sure there are several instances on this blog whereby I'm in a horrid mood, I go for a run, and I magically work through some issues. I was able to work through at least one issue yesterday (though I still woke up and had a gigantic panic attack at 3am this morning).
I am not moving to Lasqueti (at least, not now). Here is why:

• Lasqueti was my father's dream, and though I love him and I love Lasqueti, it's not my dream to live there.


• Moving to Lasqueti would be a move based on emotion, not on logic. I would lose a job that pays very well and treats me very well and I would not come out ahead at Lasqueti. It needs to be fully renovated and that would take many months and over $100,000: I have neither. If I really wanted to write a book I would write it. What's stopping me? My 35 hour work week or my laziness? It's just like the marathon that I just dropped out of: if I really wanted to run Victoria I would find a way to do it. I would get up at 5am. I would stop getting baked and eating ice cream at 11pm. I would actually show up at the clinic. I would run home from work (remember when I used to do that?). I would make. up. the. mileage.


• It's really, really hard to live there. The last two days that we were there we didn't have power because it wasn't sunny and there wasn't enough water to switch over to the peltin wheel. The electrical system is daunting. It's a big house, and it would be scary and isolated at night. I have already had one nightmare about the woodstove which is hooked up to the hot water tank and the pressure gauge above it that redlines at 160 pounds psi (or whatever it is) and though there is a safety valve on it, I don't really want to test it because if it fails to work you will find little bits of me scattered in the bay.


• Again, Lasqueti was my father's dream and it was something that he worked all of his life to achieve. He (and my mom) have given my brother and I a tremendous leg up in life: more than he ever had. It would be too easy to simply to ingratiate myself into my father's dream because of my desire to hold on to him and his memory and everything that he held dear. I know that, if Lasqueti were my dream too, my dad would want me to be there. But it's not, so he would want me to define my own goals and to work hard to achieve them, all the while knowing he's already placed me halfway there.

The thing that I admire most about my dad is that he blazed his own trail and found his own happiness. I would be a fraud to take his money and then try to live his dream: I have to find my own. I need to create my own legend, to blaze my own trail, to find my own contented happiness.
And this begs the question: what is my dream?

Well, that was... yeah.

After five days at Lasqueti I have no closure, no more clarity. I have no answers. I have never been more indecisive or unsettled in my life. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. And I don't know what the point of anything is.
That said, I will echo what my brother wrote in a letter to my dad, which he brought up to Lasqueti and shared with us. My dad (and mom) have prepared us for our lives ahead. We had awesome childhoods. We know who we are, and that we're on the right path; and neither my brother nor I would ever wish to be anyone else.
So. Excuse me while I sputter and pause for some days, weeks, maybe months. I don't believe anyone can ever be adequately prepared for the death of a loved one. The concept of closure is absolute garbage: the love and the nostalgia and the memories go on and on.
I am who I am, and right now I am bereft.

Bye

Will be here in less than 48 hours.

Would prefer not to come back.

I don't know what I'm doing.

This is (potentially) a two man job. I'm only one and a half men.

Ha.

Something

I'm having a really hard time sitting still. I want to move. I want to be out of here doing other things that are different and exciting and meaningful. I alternate between staring off into space and forgetting what in the hell I was just doing. Why am I in the kitchen? What was I needing to do in the kitchen? I interrupted myself three times while putting away laundry. Apparently I really needed to reconcile my bank account, freshen up the flower arrangement and eat an apple.
Then, sometimes, things are very beautiful and peaceful. I saw my bedroom like I had never seen it before. It was so calm and serene and quiet and welcoming. So I fell asleep at 6pm.
This is insane, putting off grieving until fucking Thursday. At that point it will be over two weeks since my dad died. It's not normal. I just need to get through two days of work with some appearance of normalcy.
I want to move to Lasqueti and just... live there. I want to cut the lawn and re-roof the house and split firewood and reno the interior and plant a vegetable garden. One of the steps on the front staircase is loose and needs to be fixed. The house needs to be painted. I could learn carpentry and re-do the stairs by the side of the house. I'm not so bold as to pretend to be able to operate the backhoe. I probably wouldn't ride the Honda step-through, but I will ride his bicycle. The cats would be happy that I was there. There a lot of movies to watch.
Should I do it? What's important? Two months ago I had a conversation with my parents about moving up there to try and write a book.
I could do it. I can't stand the thought of the house being idle this soon. It's like abandoning my father or something. I regret not taking more interest in learning how everything works up there. I know that, at some point, my dad gave up showing me how to run things because I didn't show enough enthusiasm and because I only came up once a year. Christ, I thought I had a lot more years to learn how everything worked. I can do it though. I've been able to do everything I've ever set out to do.
I don't know what I'm doing. I wish I had more money and time and then I could go up there and make my peace with everything and take the time to make Lasqueti as beautiful as it could be. I wish someone could go up there with me for a year to set everything straight, cause I don't think I can do it all alone.
My mom and I went through some of my dad's mementos today and I came away with some things, but it was kind of empty. My dad didn't live in South Surrey, he lived at Lasqueti. There are a million things there that he used daily that are so much more meaningful. His clothes in Surrey don't really smell like him.

The thunderous crashing

Spent the morning hanging pictures of my father while my brother shored up the steps on the back porch, before we went to pick up the food for today's Celebration of Life for my father.
Let me back it up a bit: I woke up around 8am to the sound of crashing thunder. Call me weird, but I think it was my dad. It was his day today and he probably wanted me to get out of bed. When I lived here (I'm currently in South Surrey) he used to turn on the intercom and loudly announce that he was cooking breakfast so me and Jay would get out of bed. He would then proceed to (seemingly) take every goddamn pot and pan out, making as much noise as possible, while yawning loudly, singing, and making cappuccinos (just in case we had slept through the initial onslaught).
Anyways. Several trays of food later people started arriving. So many people came that my step-grandfather had to direct them as to where to park their cars. I'm not sure how many people I thought might come out, but we're thinking maybe 90 showed up. Everyone was so good. Somehow the food was laid out, people were fed and watered, everything was cleaned up and then everyone disappeared. Everyone had kind words about my father. It was so wonderful to see people that I hadn't seen for years show up to pay their respects and throw in a story or two.
A few things happened which bear mentioning. My aunt (my dad's sister) came. I believe I wrote on my alter-blog that, because she lives near me, I would definitely make the effort to see her, but I haven't. That's lame. She sat next to me and, though it was her little brother that had passed away, told me that she was worried about how I and my mom and Jay were doing. She told me that she had spoken to my father once and he told her that she was the kindest person that he knew. And she is. She was just so bereft, so heartfelt in her grief, so kind in her compassion and though we are somewhat estranged from that side of the family it just re-instituted that desire to re-connect with her and her son - my cousin - who all live a stone's throw from me and would be happy to see me for coffee any day of the week. I will make that happen. My aunt is an incredibly kind person and she is one of the last connections that I have to my father.
The other connection is my uncle, who looks a lot like my dad which makes things pretty difficult. He regaled me and Jay and some other family members with stories that I had never heard. My dad taking him out on his motorcycle and hitting 100 miles an hour on the road out to UBC. How they created "UFOs" out of laundry bags, balsa wood, and candles. How their dog fell down into the towers of the Burrard Street bridge (only to be rescued, of course, and to make the paper yet once again). Inadvertently almost burning down a section of Kits beach. It was hard to see my uncle because he looks like my dad and because they were estranged and because it is so evident in the way that my uncle talks about my dad that he loved him very much and that some of the best times of his life were with my dad.
The photos were everywhere. Photos of my dad on his travels. Posing with the huge cod that he caught that had actually been hunting him. Newspaper clippings of the rescue from the raft when he was a little kid. Write-ups about his time as a lifeguard. Articles about us moving the house to Lasqueti.
My dad lived, man. It is surreal beyond belief to be sitting here writing this. I thought I had more time. I guess that's what everyone says. His sister said, "It's a little like having a dad that was a celebrity" and I said "Yeah, it kind of is".
I remember walking into elementary school with a motorcycle helmet tucked under my arm.
I remember my parents taking me and Jay out of school for a month to go to Mexico.
I remember my dad doing jacknifes off our diving board.
Listening to the mariachi bands in Yelapa. Buying mile-high pies from Dot's Diner on Vancouver Island. Playing pool with him in Puerto Vallarta. Body surfing in Hawaii. Kayaking to Jedidiah Island. Drywalling and kicking carpet at Lasqueti. Him kicking my ass at chess. How he had a cappuccino ready for me when I came downstairs while up at Lasqueti because he must have heard me roll out of bed in the morning. Cleaning out the carburetor of my 1980 Corolla with a toothbrush with him. When he made us tea with lots of milk and sugar which we'd drink with a straw when we were little. The checkout girl that was flirting with him at Thrifty Foods. His penchant for rye bread. His love of the Sally Ann.
Trying to wrap it up. What's my point here?
My point is that I'm just so goddamn mad that my dad wasn't wearing a helmet when he jumped on his motorcycle that day and that I don't remember what my last words were to him, but that I'm grateful I spent a week with him in June and that I'm sorry I never understood him the way he deserved to be understood, but I understand him now. And I understand how easy it is to accept and take for granted certain things every day but how, in a flash those things can be gone.
I understand that no words can adequately convey the experience that was my last 31 years with him.

Things not to forget

Michael said it's inevitable that you start to forget things about someone that's passed away; their voice; what they looked like; specific details. I had a voicemail from my dad that I deleted before he died and I think man, if I had kept that then I would always have with me the sound of his voice.

Here are some things that I remember now that I don't want to forget. The buzzing of the inverter in the background when he called me. When he made me a sandwich for lunch when I was there in June and I had already eaten and he had been out working, but came in and made lunch for both of us and I wasn't hungry but I ate it anyways because he made it for me. The trip to John(Peter?) Lindsay's to drop off the wood to be milled for the countertops he was going to put in the kitchen and how I had to direct the dumptruck and the insane border collie that kept on trying to herd his truck. Having dinner with him at the blue roof and the way he was sort of pleased at the way curious people drifted over to our table to see who the infamous Gordie was having dinner with. Him trying to beat the horsefly in the cab of the truck to death in the most violent manner and then turning to me and saying, "Those are the ones that'll take a chunk outta ya" and me looking at him quizzically before he hopped out of the trunk and I subsequently grabbed the glove and hammered it to death and informed him of this when he got back in the truck. Watering all of his trees and plants. Being amazed by the beautiful things he had grown. Sitting on the cement table and chairs that he had single-handedly moved up from South Surrey. The dried rose that was next to my bed in my bedroom that had been placed there long ago (maybe my last trip there) because, when he had time, he would do special little things like that. The electrical cord to the electric barbeque that was too hot to touch so he had to unplug it because it was either the wrong cord or because it was broken. Kayaking out to the Finnerties and seeing a huge group of seals bathing in the sun who all lumped off the warmed rocks into the ocean and then followed us, snorting, at a curious distance. Looking back to see him crack open a beer in his kayak on a stellar evening in the Strait of Georgia with million dollar views. Trying to sell him on the modernist cabin we saw on the way home. Garfield singing to him at the top of the stairwell. Chasing a deer out of his garden. Going for a run and being passed by him in his dumptruck and then catching up to him because it broke down, but he was fixing it and asking if I could throw my hoodie into the cab and he said sure, so I did and continued on. Him telling me that I "walked funny" when he saw me doing lunges after my run. Being agitated that he had shut the water off before I came back from my run, so ultimately I had to rinse the salt off from the water that had been warmed by the sun in the hose out front. Spraying ether (?) into the stack of the backhoe while balanced on some part of that mammoth machine while he tried to get it up and running. Being excited that I had discovered some long extinct bug from when dinosaurs had once ruled the earth, to which he shook his had no, and looked at me like the city girl that I have become. Watching "Trailer Park Boys" with him. The great meals he cooked. Getting vaguely irritated with him when he didn't take the turnoff that I had suggested when we were en route to Supermommy's house. Hugging him at Supermommy's house.

That was the last time I saw him.

I don't remember what we talked about the last time I spoke to him.

I said to Michael and the Newfie today that I was amazed by the way life just keeps on going on around you. It's like I'm in this pit of confusion and despair and everyone should stop and heed what I'm going through, but things keep on moving. I keep on getting up and catching the bus and eating and running and smiling and doing dishes and bam! tomorrow will be the one week anniversary of my dad's death and I'm stunned.

Someone called my mom to tell her that the islanders are leaving flowers at the site of the accident and the island is pretty upset and they may have their own service for him which is really nice to hear.

So yeah. I really miss my dad. I miss the pitch-stained front stairs and the warped and antiquated windows. I smelled his jacket (that was mine once, but he commandeered from me, not unlike the way I stole his belt from him a few years ago) when I was in South Surrey a few days ago.

I am my father's daughter.

Your independence shall bring you bold adventure

I love my dad. It is beyond my current realm of understanding that I won't be getting phone calls from him anymore. He won't be there next time I go to Lasqueti. Every time I close my eyes there are a million memories and details emblazoned there. Sometimes I think that I can't get through this, and then sometimes I look at how much my dad lived his life and I know that that's what I have to do.

There are a lot of things I regret about our relationship and our history together, and there are going to be a lot of unknowns that I'm going to dwell on for the rest of my days, but I don't think that regrets or unknowns are the point. I know my dad loved me and I know that he knew I loved him. I think that probably, somewhere in the cosmos, in the atmosphere, in the air around me he's there and he's saying, "Hey girlie..." and willing me to stop crying. It's just hard, though. It's hard for my mom and my brother and I.

My family and I talked about my dad a lot today. I asked my brother if he could have imagined our father "old" or in a hospital bed and he said no way. My uncle said he had been thinking about all the adventures that he and my dad went on when they were young and shaking his head thinking about the zaniness and the riskiness of some of their exploits. My mom told the story about him running aground on some rocks near Sisters Lighthouse and having to swim to the lighthouse, stay the night with the lighthouse keeper and wait for the next high tide in order to free his barge from the rocks. I brought up the story about he and I racing to catch the ferry in his Cressida that had a propensity to overheat and how, to mitigate this problem, he carried with him an oven-mitt. When the car started to overheat he pulled into a mall parking lot, put on the oven mitt and took the cap of the radiator, allowing steam and boiling water to spew everywhere (mortified, I had walked over to some shoe shop and pretended to be interested in sandals) before refilling the radiator with fresh water kept in the car for just this purpose.

I have a lot of stories about my dad. The scorpion incident in Yelapa. Crossing the Strait of Georgia in a fishing boat with him, Jay and a couple of our friends in really bad winter weather. The way he loved Twiggy and Garfield and how they followed him around the yard, more like loyal dogs than cats. Having Jay and I pick cherries from the tree in the front yard from the bucket of the backhoe which he had extended up into the tree (and then shook just a little, making me and Jay scream in terror). The way he would rub the bottom of my feet on his beard when I was about four years old which would drive me insane because it tickled so much. Seeing him ski down the mountain as I was taking the chairlift up and being proud of his athleticism when I was in elementary school. His extraordinary green thumb. His contentedness at Lasqueti. Building the rental house on the property there with materials that he had scavenged and squirreled away over the years. The time he left a note on my car that said, "Who loves ya? Your daddy does" on the windshield of my car when I was at work and he had been in the neighbourhood (I never told him I kept it and that it's in my photo album). Moving a house from Marine Drive in Vancouver to Lasqueti Island. Accidentally almost burning down the Finnerties (event recreated on film for posterity further in the blog showing how I doused the flames). The parrot that bit his finger in Puerto Vallarta. His tugboat. Letting me drive the Sea Ray when I was a little kid. Kayaking with him when the water was filled with phosophorous so it lit up every time we put our paddle into it.

These are just things that are in my periphery. He had been around for a long time before I arrived on the scene. He had an amazing life. He travelled, he took risks, he lived a lot, he didn't like working 9 to 5 so he didn't. He did things his own way. I don't like cliches, but he really did: I was the only kid in my school that had a swing set that was about thirty feet high, made out of poles that my dad had driven into the ground somehow with his bulldozer and backhoe. Oh yeah, my dad had a bulldozer, backhoe, dump truck, boats, cars, trucks, solar panels, a peltin wheel and an electric golf cart.

Talking with my mom and Michael today it became apparent that my dad just did what he wanted to do in life. My mom said that he had had a lot of adventures. Rehashing some of the stories it became somewhat apparent that he sometimes lived life like some invincible twenty year old, not contemplating the risks: just doing.

In my June trip up to Lasqueti we did some pretty funny things. He had been waiting for someone to come up and help him clean the chimney. I thought this meant that I would literally help him clean the chimney in some fashion, but my job was to dial 911 when something went wrong. And so I watched my father in his early sixties climb the ladder that was tied to the chimney, and then watched as he dropped the weighted brush into it to try and get some of the creosote off the walls, peering in, dangling precariously into the chimney. After which, we almost lit the house on fire accidentally when things went horribly awry with one of those hand held torches. Then, my dad managed to reposition the wrought iron wood burning stove by lying on the ground and forcing it with his legs (you may remember that this was the stove that I had to "steady" while bashing around in the back of his truck while we hauled ass to catch the ferry off Lasqueti one day which is probably three or four hundred pounds and if it had decided to fly out of the back of the truck there would be relatively little that I could do to stop it). All of this was in the span of one day.

There's still a lot that I don't know about my dad which my mom said she would share with Jay and I went we go up to Lasqueti shortly. What I did learn to appreciate today is that he is the most non-conventional and adventurous person that I have ever known. He seemingly found alternative ways to do most things in life: proof that it can be done. He lived the life that he wanted to live. He took risks and chances and had enough adventures to last a lifetime (most of my adventurous stories involve him). I said to Michael over dinner tonight that I hoped my life, and that of my mom and brother don't become more mundane now. I hope that this is what rallies us to embrace life a little more, to take more chances, think outside the box and to be more adventurous.

When I opened my fortune cookie it said "Your independence shall bring you bold adventure".

I hope so. I've got the rest of my life to make my dad proud.

I love you, Dad.

Too much

Was so hot today. So, of course, we went for an eighty minute run during the heat of the day (it was 91 today). Um, stupid. Then lay around the pool today and got too much sun. Went out for dinner with the in-laws and ate too much.

Sat next to my favourite niece at dinner tonight and we kept texting each other because I have the mind of a thirteen year old girl. She's so much fun and I don't even like kids, but she's not really a kid, she's like a young adult that gets my humor and is fun to pal around with. Sigh. Little sister I never had...

Hot enough for ya?

Frick! It was approximately 9 million degrees today. We went for breakfast, flaked out on the beach with three of Michael's sisters and their kids and and then hung around the pool (you're allowed alcohol as long as it's in a plastic cup -yay!) before heading up for an excellent dinner at Michael's mom's.
I had shaved ice. Yummy. Am currently drinking wine out of plastic cup. Yummy. Bonded with one of my nieces (she's one of my favourites, though I know I'm not supposed to have favorites). I think she and I get along because she's older than the boys but younger than the girls and I'm older than all the grandchildren, but younger than all the children: we're both "in between".
Anyways, not to wax poetic about thirteen year old girls what I always do, but she's a super great girl and I love her to death and if she didn't live in Ontario I'd be bugging the hell out of her all the time.
And in dramatic news, because I'm always retarded and dramatic: can't get this stupid marriage thing sussed. It's bothering me and that fact that it's bothering me is bothering me and I hate the whole fucking thing and it's this circular argument that I know that I'm better than, but I keep coming back to it. Like, I'm having a really great vacation so far but it's been eight years that I've been coming here and it's getting a bit weird (though likely only in my head) and I feel stupid. It's hard not to feel like the reason that someone isn't marrying you is because it's not simply the institutution, but that it's you as a person.
That's what wine is for!

Yes, I'm wearing the same shirt

Stopped off at a municipal park on the way up here. Then checked into the Motel de Violence (details later) before heading to Michael's mom's. Three of his sisters were there with their kids, who aren't really kids anymore given that one of them just returned from Europe, another is taking science classes in Cozumel, another was approached to be a contestant in a bikini contest. I hadn't seen the boys since my trip to Toronto when I had an animated argument with that CTV exec because he didn't like my super-cool CBC shirt. Effer.

The trip up was long, but it always is. It hurt my ass. I drove for some strange reason. The municipal park wasn't that great, but it sure was nice to get out and stretch our legs and have a bite to eat in Princeton before the final leg to Penticton.

Michael's sister and his nieces are staying at the same hotel as us and advised us that there was some kind of altercation at the motel last night and that the police had to be called. Suh-weet. And as I write this, some dumb fucking wankers are loitering outside the door of our room smoking and talking (WHO STILL SMOKES?).

Anyways. Ate and drank too much already on the first day. I should pretty much retire from marathoning since I have ceased to be an athlete and have become a huge hedonist.

Right. So after the South Park movie is over, I'm totally going to be drunk and tell those people to shut up and then get into an altercation and be arrested.

We're here

Free wireless. Well, I guess it's not free since it's costing us $120 a night to stay here. Michael is currently playing with the air conditioner. There is a pool in the centre of the parking lot.
Must off to freshen up and then go visit the in-laws!

Here we go again

"Taj Mahal" by Sam Roberts is awesome. Love the piano. Not in bed but should be. Have to be up at 7am tomorrow (I was actually pushing to leave by seven, but Michael talked me out of it by feeding me pulled pork).
My old Running Room leader posted some new photos today. They run out of the RR at 4th and Alma and did the two bridges today: a major run and huge accomplishment. I slept until noon. Looking at the pics I felt no small amount of nostalgia; recognized a few people. There is no possible way I could have run today given the pain quotient, but not running since Thursday is making me goddamn batty and the fact that I had a most unhealthy dinner is agitating.
I'm running like hell in Penticton. The Trans Canada trail goes through there and there is a fantastic trail that goes through people's backyards and farms and heads up towards the wineries that I will absolutely be doing that (have already packed my Sauconys, two pairs of shorts and shirts - one of which is emblazoned with our clinic logo). This will be the first vacation that I've taken where I've packed a fuel belt. Man, times have changed! The drop in fee at the good gym in Penticton is like $8, but I don't care: I'm going there once while I'm up. Have you seen my arms? They're effing pathetic. I can't even do boy push ups and that chaps my ass.
Must go to bed. I made the most awesome playlist on iTunes though, and it's hard to log off. A little Morcheeba, some Dido, Sam Roberts, Joni... sigh.

Scary!

Leaving tomorrow, bright and early!
Today. Well, thanks to my endometriosis I spent a lot of time on the couch. Then I went to the park and Michael came over and we talked about "13 Conversations About One Thing". I love watching movies with Michael because we always have in depth conversations about them afterwards (unless they're shit).
Then we went to Memphis Blues for dinner. So not my choice, but I'm trying to be the new, easy-going Duder. But yeah. Don't understand the allure. A lot of men seem to like this place, but I'm just not a huge carnivore and I know Michael wanted me to love the pulled pork sandwich but no, I will take my spicy tuna rolls any day. Plus? I am becoming more rotund and am worried about the upcoming week because it's hard to eat sensibly when on vacation. DAMN. Damn damn damn. Hate the gut. Why does it go to my waist anyways? Why can't it go to my breasts? Stupid fat.
Guilty confession: re-watched the intro to "The Bank Job" again before returning it. Saucy. I divulged this to Michael and he looked at me as though I was missing a chromosome. Well, I guess I won't invite him to my threesome!

And then

Woke up with a mild hangover at my mom's place. For some reason I chose to crash in my old bedroom that now sports a twin bed, instead of crashing in the spare room which boasts a double. Oh wait! I remember the reason: I was tired and drunk.
Went out for brunch with my mom to a place she'd not yet checked out. I'm not sure if it passed muster. My mom made a comment, something to the effect that there weren't a lot of meals that struck her as memorable and, even though I eat out a tremendous amount, I would have to concur. I mean, you consistently drop $30 or $50 for meals, but they're not exactly extraordinary for the most part.
This one was pretty good though. To start out, our waiter had the I-am-so-fucking-hungover-from-last-night shakes, which I could sympathize with. God, if I'd had to be up and serving hungover wretches like me brunch with a grin on my face I'd've been right choked. I had a beer with my breakfast, which I think a lot of marathoners do. Shit. I felt bad since it wasn't even noon, but it's intriguing how one gets over things quickly.
Then I got to watch some guy trying to reverse into a parking stall for three or four minutes. It was like watching a lava lamp: an utter waste of time, but I couldn't tear myself away. Let's do the math here: you just spent three minutes of your life exhibiting your shit driving skills to everyone in the restaurant, while making 16 point turns to try and back your effing Chrysler New Yorker or whatever the hell it was into a parking space. What was the goddamn point? If you had just pulled in and parked, you would have saved three minutes, and then I wouldn't have had to write all these words about what a stupid ass you are. I never back into parking spaces. I guess that I, like this guy today, could do it if for some reason it was critical and I wanted to commit a good three or four minutes to it, but I've got significantly better things to do: like drinking beer with breakfast.
So breakfast was okay. I kept hearing what sounded like kissing sounds behind me from time to time, and I thought that some disgustingly amorous couple had been seated behind me but... um... no. It appears to have been a man and has son. Yeah. And the kissing noises? My mom told me she saw the guy eating pasta with his hands at one point. So. Okay. Wow. Plus? The TVs were all turned to CNN and the sound was off. Why. Why??? CNN is for assholes (see CBC shirt donned in prior post), and what is the point of having the news on, if you don't have any sound? Either show me Mike Weir on the back nine or fuck off. God I love Mike Weir.
Then I came home and called Michael and he was on his bike in Burnaby and was like, "I'll meet you for coffee in an hour". Got home. Dropped my bags. Freshened up and headed out again.
Had coffee in Lynn Valley and then picked up some eats and took them to the park. I underestimated the park. The park is nice. We ate and then watched the honeybees for a while. Okay, I watched the honey bees and commented on how their coloring and markings differ from the honeybees on Lasqueti while Michael smiled wanly and thought, "Why am I dating someone that spends five minutes discussing honeybees?".
We wandered over to a different area of the park (after Michael warned me not to step on any bees) and found a playground so I thought, "Hey! This is a perfect opportunity to get some photos of myself that Squishy approves of!". Dude, it's all about the blog.
Then we rented a movie and I got a wicked foot rub and we ate a lot and Michael went home and I spent a long time uploading shit onto Facebook (hate FB) and blogging (love blogging).
Oh, and the fireworks happened again so I got to show Michael the reflections of the fireworks in the windows of the building across from me. Which is just as good as the real thing, right?

Amarula/I don't know my sexual literature

Still trying to sort out the last two days, they've been an absolute blur and I'm right knackered. I shall start at the beginning.

Caught the bus to White Rock after work. It took me almost 90 minutes to get there, but that was fine since I was already tired so I was able to nod off a bit. Arrived at Coco's place to find her getting ready to put on a spread like nothing I've ever seen before. This woman is incredible. She is a brilliant cook, a witty and sophisticated hostess, and an all around joy just to know. She had crudite ready to go (pronounced "crew-da-tay", you insolent philistines).

In short order Coco's sister and nieces arrived (identical twins), along with Po and Squishy. Oh, and dessert. These twins were a riot. Oh, I guess I should mention that it was a pajama party which is why, at random people, you will see people in their pajamas. Po thought I was already wearing my pajamas cause I looked like a slob. But back to these twins. When they weren't discussing Einstein's theory of relativity and debating about Iran and Israel, they were playing with stuffed animals. Natch. I'm not the most socially adept creature (okay, let's all just admit that I'm totally socially retarded), but these girls made attempts to engage me in conversation. They were like, "What do you think of Ehud Olmert stepping down?" and I thought about it for a bit and replied, "Pass me my wine, shorty".

Then we ate. After the crudite Coco had made prawns wrapped in prosciutto, followed by salmon sandwiches with herbed mayonnaise and roast beef sandwiches with creamed horseradish. I wanted to get to the roast beef sandwiches, but was stuffed after the salmon sandwich. So, so, so damn good. Then we had homemade dessert, which somehow I got roped into dishing up which was quite a debacle because I'm a moron. But we all knew that. Shortly after Coco's sister and her daughters left and we pulled out the game Sexual Pursuit. Yep. I thought it would be kind of easy, with questions like, "Where do babies come from?" but, er, it was exceedingly difficult and made references to a lot of people that I have never heard of that are important philosophically and literature-wise. I would have felt more guilty about my lack of knowledge except that Coco had given me some Amarula, which is now one of my favourite things in the world. Man, some of those questions were hard. I had the least cock-rings when the game ended, and I was pitied extraordinarily. You know, like most Friday nights that I have...

Ah. As usual, it was really fantastic to hang out with such fun, engaging and interesting people. I had been looking forward to this since Coco announced it, and it was one of the most fun nights that I have had in recent memory. I guess I sound like I'm gushing, but it was just that fun. I probably didn't adequately express my gratitude (or maybe I did, the end bit was kind of hazy... I remember thinking that I should go hug people that had already crawled into bed, but I'm not sure if I actually made good on that or not).

Fack. I am so lucky to have such amazing friends. They are so much fun and I can't think of a better group of friends that I'd like to whittle away my time with. They have interesting stories, they're open-minded, non-judgemental, funny, interesting, smart, kind, considerate, honest, and they let me go off on tangents about running and... running.

Yep, absolutely the best night I have had for a long, long time.

I love my life!

More to come.

Crudite does not rhyme with Luddite

I just got home in time to turn around and go out again.
I'm just glad I have my pants.
I have many, many stories to tell. Stories of food. Stories of wine. Stories of terrifying children. I have pictures, too.
Later.

Red sky in the morn...

... sailor be warned.

Took these yesterday morning. Interesting. The irony. Not until you get the irony.

Things are sorted now, so I'm going to change the secret meaning of these pictures from "harbingers of swollen eyes" to "pretty!".

Heading into White Rock tonight.

Happy long weekend, everyone!