A Stitch in Time

Yup. I'm feeling pretty gosh darned good about myself today. First and foremost? It's the best day of the year. The day not yet ripped away from us by our sometimes not too neighbourly neighbours down south. It's the day that our hour is returned. Standard time. The time when one can wake up feeling rested and not late. It's a personal tradition that I wait for as long as possible to change the clocks at home so that I have a continual reminder of this timely bonus. In years past, I've actually waited a week to change the clocks. Try it sometime. It's fun.
I have other reasons to feel good today. The sun is shining. The fall leaves are brilliant. I figured out how to make a tutu for my daughter's Halloween costume (yup. she wants to be a ballerina). My son will be Bob the Builder. J and he will go out later this morning in search of some overalls and a plaid shirt. I have to work a couple hours this afternoon but, afterwards, there will be pumpkin carving and last minute costume prep in order to get ready for tomorrow. The kids will be wearing their costumes for the entire day. I think that I may be just as (or even a bit more) excited about this then they are. Well, I'd best get off this machine and indulge in some more real life. No rush however. I've got all the time in the world!

Pass Me the Mushy Red Peas Please

I love the CBC. Keeps me centred through the very nature of its leftness. I can picture most of the annoucers sitting in my living room drinking wine, scotch or coffee (even beer if it's imported) and engaging me in fierce yet playful debate on all manner of topics. The CBC keeps me in touch with the rest of the country (although I'm always mindful of its evident bias) and provides news and information that interests me as a thoughtful and wanting to be informed Canadian. For example, this particular news item recently caught my eye: purple carrots . It's brilliant. To link a Newfoundland gardener's find to such issues as the Orange Lodge and food manipulation ... I love it. It's also a tad disconcerting. The very idea that carrots haven't always been orange and that the beta carotine that has been used as an excuse to get kids to eat them ('if you want to see in the dark you'd best eat your carrots!') is a pleasant? side effect of cross pollination for aesthetic purposes frightens me. If this is the case for carrots what about my other favourite veggies? Are beets supposed to be yellow? If Communism were to sweep across the nation, would scientists be attempting to make peas red?

A History of Smoking (Part III)

I loved smoking. Loved the feel of forced smokey air filling my lungs. Loved the exhalation. Quick or drawn out. Leisurely. Luxurious. One by one, I introduced my new 'self' to my friends. Their reactions? 'Why would you do this?' and 'Fuck!' and 'Want one of mine?' I met new people because I smoked. There was an entire underground culture sitting in the smoking sections, and standing outside of government buildings of which I had previously been unaware. Conversations were as easy to start as 'Hey, can I bum a light?' Friendships weren't long to follow. I learned to butt out properly so as to not leave a burning ember and, subsequently, I learned to mock those 'posers' who weren't so deft. I smoked a lot. I lost weight. Smoking is a fantastic diet if one is short on funds. I was constantly left to make a choice between food and cigarettes. Rarely did I ever choose the food. Why would I? Smoking made that food craving go away. It is amazing, really, how quickly smoking became a part of my personna. I experimented with different brands. I started with Players Light King Size. King Size made sense to me. More 'bang for the buck' as it were. Then, I shifted to the occasional American cig. These were smokes for tougher chicks. Going to the bars ordering Jack straight and smoking Camels made me feel invincible. I dabbled with Indian clove smokes. Great for after dinner. These made my lips numb. As long as I had coin for smokes, I was set. I began to wonder how I had ever been able to write a paper without an ashtray beside my keyboard? Smoking provided it all. It gave me time to collect my thoughts. It allowed me to relieve stress. It allowed me a social 'in' in group situations. It was the perfect companion to my morning coffee. It kept my bowels regular. It was better than chocolate for dessert. I loved smoking. I even began to love the crunchy spew filled cough that soon developed over time. I looked forward to a bit of hacking in the morning. It jump started my system. Got me ready for a new day. I loved watching my hands as the held, tapped, lit cigarettes. I loved watching the smoke curl from the tip of my fingers as I pondered the meaning of life. My life as a smoker was good.

Ok. So I really wasn't fond of how my fingers would smell after smoking. And, I hated to smell my clothes after taking a shower. I knew I stunk. I was also beginning to get a bit creeped out from my cough. And, when I caught a chest cold, it seemed to stick around forever. Plus, I didn't have the nerve to tell my parents that I smoked. Didn't want that added stress in my life so visits from/with them were frought with tension and subterfuge as I had to keep my secret life as secret as possible. The drain on my spending budget was becoming more evident with each government tax increase. I was also becoming aware how dependent I was. As a person who prided herself in being able to 'go it alone' as an independent spirit, it was distressing to realize how the mere lack of anything smokeable in my home would send me down into a tailspin of panicked need. I began to see my habit for what it was. An addiction. Internal dialogues began to take shape. I would begin questioning my need for a smoke. I would rationalize with myself that it was ok. I would reward my self for having had gone an hour without a smoke with...you guessed it, a smoke. The honeymoon stage was ending. I could no longer enjoy my cigarettes in total oblivious abandon. If this relationship was going to happen, I was really going to have to work on it.

Naval Contemplation

For all those awaiting the next installment of the 'History of Smoking' series, fear not. There will be more. It is interesting, to me, that I can piece together a sort of auto-biography by just focusing on one main thematic element from my life -- in this case smoking. This also illustrates (quite effectively I feel) that biographies and fictional accounts are much closer than one would first presume. Stories are, after all, stories. Fact is fiction when placed in the proper context (and vice versa).

I'm feeling a bit more literary at the moment. I finally finished 'Runaway Mistress' by Patricia Carr. Definitely not literature per se ... junk food for the brain. Good to have on hand beside the toilet. Get the point? Don't know why I was avoiding my McEwan, Turner-Hospital, MacDonald stuff. I guess I needed a break. I'm very glad the break is over. I've missed my friends. My books. My books always seem to link me closer to my friends...especially the ones who love books. It's a cycle that has done me well over the years.

Non sequitor. I bought a new computer today. On line. It will be my very first very own computer (to be shared with J with the express understanding that he is not to open it, reprogram it or, in any way, shape or form, alter it). It should arrive by the end of this week or early next week. It's strange to plop down money in such a cavalier fashion. Yet, I've always known that I'd never really be rich in the monetary sense anyway.

I feel the need to end this post in a witty or thought provoking or end tying sort of way. I'm at a loss. I think I'd rather fall asleep with a good book and then dream of oranges ripening on a tree.

It's a job and a living

Interesting coupla days in terms of interpersonal relationships and the art of compromise. At work, I'm a couple techs down. Like any good td I have a plan b and c ready to go but, it's always a bit stressful getting things organized. Especially when faced with possible last minute cancelations. My crew is not full time. They are a fantastic group of folks to work with but, it's impossible to tie them down. They work free lance for a reason. They like the 'free' part of it. For the most part, I have had no problems. A few times a tech might blow me off for the bigger money offered by a sweet union post but, overall, the people who are working with me accept the 'first call gets the service' mentality. Loyalty is important in this industry. It's not a big enough job pool to start blowing off gigs. It'll get around. That said, however, there are times when I'll get that phone call the night before a gig that goes something like this:
'ummm nk? I just got offered a really cool gig'
'oh yeah? That's really great.'
'Thing is...it's tomorrow night. The night I booked with you.'
'I see. Well, I guess you have a decision to make eh?'
'Well, I don't want to put you out but...well, can you find anyone else?'
Now depending on my mood/level of desparation I will answer in any number of ways.
1) 'Well, you were the last possible choice I had left when I booked you. I'm outta options.'
2) 'I really would rather not put someone else on this. I trust you and know you'll do a great job.'
3) 'I'll call around and see but, the situation doesn't look hopeful.
4) 'Fine' and then hang up the phone muttering profanities and swearing never to call them again.
There are other options but, I guess you can get the idea.


Thing is, as I mentioned above, I always have a plan b. One of my claims to fame is that if any of my crew for some reason or another cannot make it to a gig, I can step in. Lights, sound, front of house, carps you name it and I'll manage. I don't really want my crew to think that as an option though. I kinda like going home when the show starts. And, since I've been here in this position, I've only had to fill in 3 times. Not a bad record and, it shows I have some pretty good crew loyalty. (and it's not entirely the money either...I can't afford to compete with union wages...I do offer more responsibility and...here's that word again 'freedom.')

It's hard to do the dance though. I need people to work but, I can't say 'you have to or else.' Worse thing I can do to them is not hire them. But, if I'm short a tech, I'll need to hire them. So, I have to tread carefully with the end goal always in mind. Get the show on!

In a nutshell, the tech decided to do the gig. All is well in theatre for another short while.

Raise your hand

Way back in one of my present past lives I studied history. This probably has something to do with my distrust of all things sociological. Sociology has come to represent, for me, much that is evil in academia and in the world in general but I digress. Back to history. Anyhoo, one of my assignments was to write an essay on the political/military climate existing between the United States and China post WWII. The week after handing in my essay, the scheduled lecture was focused on this very same topic. As I settled into the lecture I became increasingly uncomfortable. In front of me and the rest of the class, the professor was disputing each and every point I had made in my paper. It was as if he had my paper in front of him along with his own notes and had as his intention that day to not only disagree with a few of my points but to utterly annihilate my entire argument. When he finished speaking I felt numb. After a short pause, the professor looked around the class and, I swear, ended up looking right at me. He said 'well, that's it for me. I have a feeling that I may have said some controversial things. But, one of the things you should all know about me is that I love a good controversy. If anyone would like to challenge what I have said, the floor is open. So,...' he continued to look at me...taunting me... 'so, is there anyone who would like to comment upon anything I said? Anyone at all?' No point in staying silent I thought. I raised my hand.

A History of Smoking (Part II)

University. The time to expand one's horizens. The time to try on different 'selves' to see what fits. Basically, in many respects, a snooze button for life 'out there' in the so called 'real world.' I embraced my University career. I also picked up the smoking habit. Unlike before, this time I even inhaled. It took some convincing on my part. My roommate in residence started smoking. I hated it. I thought I hated her. I really didn't though. For more info on that situation look to badminton-going-home-old-friends-part II .

Anyway, there I was stuck in a room with a smoker. Ick. Funny thing happened though. I swear that I became addicted to the second hand smoke. I would start getting headaches when she wasn't around. Still, I stuck with my healthier addictions -- alcohol and caffeine -- and time went by. Flash forward to a frat party. Don't ask why we were there...I still can't figure that one out. Anyway, some jerk cornered my friend. Some people really shouldn't be allowed to breathe. Anyway, we left and, in some perverse need to share in the moment, I asked for a cigarette. I really didn't know much about brands and such so, when handed a camel filter I thought nothing of it. I know different now. I thought I had literally turned green. Nope...smoking just wasn't for me. Or, so I thought.

Enter M. M was a boy. I had a crush on M. He seemed to have a crush on me. We would give each other smirks and come hither looks across the cafe where I worked. He came to the cafe counter one day and invited me out for a drink...as soon as my shift was over. I played it cool. Said 'sure' and, after he left, rushed around like a mad idiot to cash out. We went to Cafe Rosie Lee. No longer around. Best food/server/cook around. We split a bottle of red and giggled and smiled and felt the emergence of an instant bond...the kind that only hunger and alcohol can make. He offered to drive me home. He had to go to Barrie that night to pick up some photographic equipment from his father. When we got in the car, he said 'where to?' I said 'Barrie.' He stared at me, smiled and off we went. It felt like love. When we got to Barrie it was well over midnight. I still hadn't eaten anything since that morning and, the red wine was now doing some nasty impromtu performances in my gut. I wanted food. I wanted sleep. M's dad was up. M and his dad both smoked. A lot. They immediately lit up in the kitchen. His dad was watching late night t.v. repleat with late night escort type commercials. I commented. Negatively. Forcefully. I wish I could remember what exactly I had said. In my defence, I do not normally insult people when I first meet them (not all the time anyway) but, I was drunk, hungry and getting sick off the smoke. M brought me to the guest bedroom and I passed out. I woke up hours later to the smell. The smell of grease. The smell of dead pig. The unmistakeable smell of bacon. I thought I was going to puke right there and then. You see, one of the personnas I picked up at Uni was that of a vegetarian. Needless to say, I declined the meat filled breakfast. None other was offered. M and I got in the car and drove off. I spent the ride home apologizing for my behaviour. M told me not to worry about it. No harm done. He dropped me off at home, kissed my cheek and told me he'd see me later.

Later. M wanted to talk. He told me that he like me but, we just wouldn't work as a couple. He gave me 3 reasons: I was a radical feminist (based on my comments to his father regarding the late night escort commercials), I was a vegetarian (guilty), and, I was a non-smoker. I looked at him and said 'you're kidding right?' He shook his head. We can still be friends right?

I was furious. How dare he. I needed to leave town. I called a pal up in Toronto and told her to expect me. I jumped on a bus and took off. At the first rest break, I bought myself a pack of Players Light Regular and tried to smoke one. I nearly threw up but I persevered and managed to get most of it down. I started sharing dirty/sexist jokes with my fellow smokers. When I arrived in Toronto, I went to the first hotdog stand I could find and proceeded to choke down the largest polish sausage there was. I spent the weekend going for long walks and smoking like a chimney. I had to take the walks cuz my pal was a non smoker and didn't want me smoking around her home. The cigarettes gradually began to taste better and by the time the weekend was over. I could do this. I could smoke.

Back home, I went out to the local. M was there. I took out my smokes (same brand as his). He lifted an eyebrow and lit my smoke for me. So there, I thought. He just looked at me. It was then that I realized that his reasons for us not being together were, as I had suspected, full of shit. But, as I sat there slowly exhaling it dawned on me. I was hooked.

A History of Smoking (Part I)

Like many a pre/early-teen wanker, I thought it was 'cool' to smoke and drink bad scotch behind the supply shed beside our school. I would sneak into the liquor cabinet at home and swipe some Rothman Kingsize from a pack that my dad had set aside as his 'just in case I'm dying for a cigarette even though I've quit' supply. You see, my dad had been a smoker since his youth. Smoking was cool. My dad was cool. I remember walking into the bathroom and being nearly knocked over by the whoosh of blue haze. My dad would spend what seemed like hours sitting on his throne/ashtray reading magazines. I remember being nearly asphixiated in the car...especially during the winter...especially after having my lungs full of fresh athletically induced air (we went cross country skiing as a family) and...most of all...I remember hating it. I remember taking smokes from my dad and smushing them up in my hands and then flushing the evidence down the toilet. I remember hiding his ashtrays. I remember refusing to kiss him good night cuz he stunk so bad. I remember when he finally quit. Instead of seeing him with a smoke hanging from his mouth, my dad became addicted to life savers. Rum and Butter seemed to be his favourite. He did, however, leave one pack of smokes on the second shelf of the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. He explained that whenever he had tried to quit and not had any smokes conveniently on hand he would start craving them so bad that he would rush off to the store, buy a pack and smoke one right there and then. With a pack in the cabinet, he could always tell himself that if he needed/wanted one, all he had to do was reach for it. He would then promise himself that he could have one in '5min.' When 5 min. were up, he would tell himself to wait another 5 min. The 5 min. gradually became 10...then 20 and so on. He is still, to this day, delaying the pleasure of that next smoke. His pack, however, is no longer waiting for him. You see. I smoked them. All. Well, I didn't really smoke them. I was 13 and wanted to look cool. My friends were smoking. It was something to do that was wrong. We had to sneak. We could be punished. Was anything better? I, however, could not inhale. I 'puffed' the smoke in, held it in my mouth a couple seconds and then blew it all out in what I thought was a slow and sophisticated exhalation. Like in the movies (not that I think that people smoking in the movies caused me to smoke...they just showed me how to smoke 'well.') After the pack was empty, I 'quit.' I left the empty pack in the cabinet. My dad didn't ever discover that it was empty. He and my mom got a divorce and my mom ended up throwing it out without a second thought. I didn't want to try and buy more. My dad wasn't buying more. I was starting highschool and, my friends were changing. There were new ways to be cool. For all essential purposes, I had kicked the habit.