greg

+One+

Grace and I quite handily beat Greg and Bobcia at 4 games of Sequencia, mostly, we decided, because of the Polish Diagonal Sight Disorder with which both are afflicted. This, you will have to trust me, is hilarious, and I would explain why, except that by the time I finished explaining, complete with diagrams and flow chart and game plans, it would not be amusing in the slightest.

I love this game, though. I'm not a huge board game fan, having been turned off them at an early age by a childhood friend who cheated like mad, lied about it, and then made fun of me for losing. But I find Sequence - "It's part card game, part board game!" - thoroughly enjoyable. It's enough to keep your hands busy while you're chatting, and not so difficult that you have to pay much actual attention.

Bobcia also called me a boozer all night, as in "Get a load of this boozer here!" because it took me an hour to drink my one and only beer of the evening. I found this also to be hilarious, for reasons that probably do not require flow charts.

+Two+

One of CT's pictures from his trip here in August has been chosen by Schmap for the Downtown Neighbourhood section of their Ottawa site. I'm very excited about this. I was standing right. There. Swear to god.

+Three+

Does anyone want a yowling cat? I've just about had enough.

I've heard her through the earplugs, the past two nights.

If I thought it would make it better, I'd get her one of those automatic feeders. But it would have to have multiple compartments so that she could get fed at 3 am and 5:30 am, and probably 4 pm too, so I didn't have to generally listen to an hour's worth of yowling when I got home.

And sure, I could feed her earlier, but at what point does it stop, yknow? She's on a pretty strict schedule. Between 6:30 and 8 am, 5:30 and 7 pm, and 11 pm and 12:30.

If I fed her every time she started yowling, she'd go through a case of cans in a couple days.

Basically, if you are in the house and she hasn't just been fed, she's either yowling or I'm hunched up waiting for her to yowl.

At 5:45 this morning, I took my earplugs out, wrapped myself in a robe, stomped down the stairs and shut her in the basement. Then I stomped back up again, shut my door, plugged my plugs back in and slept, solidly and deeply, for about 90 minutes.

You know what I want?

I want my pre-diabetic cat back. I want the cat who ate dry food 5 kibbles at a time, who slept with me at night and put me to sleep by purring. Right now, I do not want the wet-food eating, stink-drooling, demon-infested yowl monster that my formerly sweet natured lovely cat has become.

Not much of a salesperson, am I?

+Four+

I didn't go to the Slow Dance Party tonight because the thought of strangers touching me made me want to back slowly out of the room instead.

+Five+

I think my post yesterday came across as less hopeful than I meant it.

It's really quite a relief to have stopped looking, and all in all, I'm pretty happy about it.

I don't really think I'm going to be alone forever, not necessarily, at any rate. Hence the wry half-smile and the murmur.

Maybe I'll find someone, maybe I'll find someones. Maybe I won't find anyone.

But what's the worst that can happen? Most of the women in my family who are over 50 - all but two of them - are single, either through divorce or death. And those are just the ones who are alive. All my great aunts were either spinsters, or widowed young enough I never met their husbands.

I come from a long line of women who have ended up without a partner, though not alone, not by a long shot. They've all lived full and happy lives.

What I need to do is fight against what pop culture tries to shove down my throat as the one true way. Difficult to do, because being coupled in some form or another feels right to me in many ways. But wrong in many others.

So I'll write and I'll knit and I'll run and skate and lift weights and practice yoga. I'll play board-and-card games with my friends while drinking one beer. I'll put on short skirts and go dancing with other friends while drinking several. I'll go to California to visit hot boys. I'll travel. I'll go back to therapy. I'll laugh at good jokes, read good books, eat good food.

And happily, mostly, I'll warrant.

When Fiona and Ruby were born, I offered up my babysitting services. For a long time, the Grs didn't have babysitters, and I was honestly a little scared of putting two wee babies to bed, when I wasn't even used to putting one wee baby to bed.

Since the Grs have started using babysitters, they've called me a couple times to see if I was available. They called tonight.

I didn't make it to the phone.

I spend many of my evenings at my kitchen table in front of my computer. My main floor is pretty small, just living room and kitchen separated by a peninsula of counter. My table sits at the end of the peninsula. Making it an archipelago, I suppose. I sit in the kitchen, facing the living room window that looks out onto the street.

It's a great table, found in the garbage around the corner, in near pristine condition, a round pedestal table with flaps that come down to make the perfect sized-rectangle for my flat surface archipelago. It's marbley brown with chrome.

As I sit at my table, at breakfast, in the evenings, over the course of a few days, the table gradually millimetres its way towards the living room window. The progress is so gradual, I don't notice that it's happening.

Until.

The phone will ring, or someone will knock on the door, and I will try to get up quickly. I'll push the chair back. But since the table has moved forward, so has my chair. When I push, the back legs will get caught in between two floor tiles. The top will keep going. I'll catch myself before I go teakettle over arse, but then I'll rebound back and bang my ribs into the table. Then I'll try to turn sideways to make my getaway, misjudging the space between the chair and the lowered flap, banging my knee and thunking back down into the chair.

I am nothing if not graceful.

So surprise! I didn't manage to get the phone. But I did get the message, and could I babysit on Sunday? No, damn, I couldn't. But I was free tomorrow night! Ha, did they need a babysitter tomorrow night, ha ha.

They did!

So tomorrow night, at 6:30, me and my camera will wander down the street to put two hilarious adorable children to bed, and then we will blog about it after for the pleasure of the entire internet.

Nearly two weeks ago now, during the garage sale, Greg came by for a visit. Jennifer and Michael and I were broiling in the morning sun, sweating. I was also visibly pinkening.

"What you need," Greg said, "is a hat. Yes. A sun hat. Or a pergola. I'm here to tell you what you need and that is a pergola."

I laughed, because it was really funny. But after Greg left, I turned to Jennifer and Michael.

"Do either of you know what a pergola is?"
"Nope," Michael said.
"Me neither," said J. "Should I look it up?"

She did.

Last Wednesday, during the crazy Bikini Expedition, Shelley and I walked over the bridge from the Rideau Centre to the Bay. We saw the perfect thing to shade us at the side of the house. We'd been talking umbrellas and gazebo-like things.

But no. On that bridge, we found exactly what we needed, and what we needed was a pergola.

A Suede Fiji 8'x12' Steel Pergola with Adjustable Top. For 40% off, no less.

Anyone who's spent any time talking to me lately know that I am not my most fun self right now. The details of all the changes going on right now are exhausting me.

There's a constant tickertape of stupidity running in the back of my brain that doesn't let up, so that even when I turn the lights out at 10, I toss and turn for 45 minutes thinking

Don't forget the bars you hang your mugs on. Don't forget to vacuum the ceiling. Don't forget to order the tin. When is the car coming? Will I have enough time to get a bank draft for the down payment? What does CT take in his coffee, I wonder? Cream, I think. I should get some of that before he gets here.

Surely, surely, I don't really need to be worrying about what CT might take in his coffee two and half weeks from now. Particularly since even should I forget to ask, or should I forget to buy whatever milk product it is after I have received his answer, I live less than a block away from 4 places that sell cartons of milk on Sunday mornings.

But there you go, my brain is in worry mode, and marshalling details mode.

Sadly, this is cutting short the disk space available for patience mode. Which is why, when it took me an hour to buy the pergola today, I came back to work nearly frothing.

When I got to the pergola today, not long after noon, there was a sign on it that obscured the price and description. "HOLD FOR JAN, JUL 24th."

Fuck fuck fuck, I thought. This must be the last one. They're holding the display model for Jan. Fuckity fuck. Ah well. What can you do. We'll find something else. But I'll just go ask the Person just in case.

There was no Person.

There was, however, a sign on the counter that said "Please take your purchases to Ladies' Shoes."

Now, maybe you're skimming this post a little, because it's long and I'm whining a lot, so maybe you missed the measurments, and maybe you missed the adjective. They bear repeating: 8' x 12'; steel.

Sit back for a moment and picture me dragging a steel pergola of that size through Ladies' Shoes. Yes, I laughed too.

But my heart sank at the same time I was laughing. Poor Ladies' Shoes Person. Really, I wanted to just take a tray and plastic cup set over to her. I would hand them over, I might have to explain the sign, she would ring them through, I would pay her, I would leave, we would both be richer in our respective ways.

But no, I didn't want to buy anything. Or rather, I only wanted to buy something after someone had de-riddled the mysterious Jan sign and answered my questions about shipping in a satisfactory manner.

Best case scenario, I figured, was that I would go over, make my request, and Ladies' Shoe Person would call the Bridge Person and we could proceed apace.

"Hi there. I have a question about the steel pergola over there."
"The pardon? Where?"
"The pergola. Over there."
"Oh, on the bridge." She looked visibly relieved. "You'll have to talk to the person over there."

"There is no person over there. There's a sign saying to come here."
"Really? A sign? To come here? Ummm, I don't usually work in this department. I'm from Ladies' Wear."

So, to recap. Ladies' Shoe Person, it turns out, is not even a Ladies' Shoe Person. She is really a Ladies' Wear Person filling in for a vacationing Ladies' Shoe Person. She didn't even know she might have to ring in a tray and plastic cup set from The Bridge.

"Okay. Hmm. There's also a sign on the pergola saying it's being held for Jan. Does that mean it's the last one?"
"Oh. Umm, I'm not sure."
"Oh."

Stand off. I kept quiet. I didn't go away.

"I can call someone?" She picked up the phone.
"Thank you."

She was a valiant Stand-in Ladies' Shoe Person. She called about 5 people looking for information on the availability of the steel pergola.

I stood by the counter, eavesdropping and trying to relax the lines of frustration out of my face. Poor Ladies' Wear Person, I thought, she is having a bad day. If I am to be a thorn in her side, I will try to be the nicest thorn possible.

While I was waiting, I tried on a lot of shoes.

Eventually, Tania came with her walky talky and purposeful stride. Good, a Manager Person. She called a bunch of people too, but she knew the right people to call. First up, I believe, was HR.

"Where's the Bridge Person?"
Pause
"He what? During Power Hour? You're kidding. Okaaaay."
Click.

She turned to me. "He took a break! Because it's only the busiest time of day! But it's fine. I'll get you taken care of."

Next up: Downstairs.

"Yeah, the computer says we have 8 of these pergolas in stock."
Pause.
"I don't know, it's a pergyula. Like an umbrella. But bigger. On stilts."
Pause.
"No, not an umbrella. A perGOLa. Wait, lemme just give you the code."
Pause.
"Okay, great. Could you put one on hold for me, for -" Her eyes on me. "Megan. Unh-huh. Yep. Megan."

She hung up.

I spoke first.

"It probably doesn't help that I'm asking about something I didn't even know existed until two weeks ago." My laugh was entirely fake, but they didn't know that. They both relaxed visibly. And Tania gave me $20 off shipping.

So thanks, Greg, I owe you a beer. With lots of froth.

It involved two things of note.

+One+

Really, this isn't my thing of note, but I was there, and I was incredibly proud. Greg's launch was a smashing success. There were probably about 35 or 40 grown-ups there, and if you've ever been in Collected Works, you know that 20 chairs put out is 20 people crammed in. The rest of us spilled out into the rest of the store, clustering mainly around the two arches into the back room.

It wasn't a traditional reading. Greg mostly talked about John Ward and his significance both 400 years ago and today, and interspersed it with a few selections from the book. I think it's a testament to the writing that if I closed my eyes I couldn't tell when he went back from reading to speaking. Other people must have agreed, because Collected Works sold all their copies.

Hooray!

And, from all reports, the cookies were delish.

+Two+

After I had gotten home, run to yoga, run back and hoovered some dinner, I hied myself off to Mae's.

She showed me the treasures she troved at the Great Glebe Garage Sale and the Stittsville Flea Market; we drank lavender tea; we sat on the back porch; we commiserated; we agreed that we were both fabulous; we agreed we would continue to be fabulous, sometimes in the same space, but not Together; we cursed bad timing; we agreed we were not yet dead. I talked for too long about tropical fish; I apologized. She said nonsense; poured more tea. And then it was time for bed.

We hugged goodbye, a little tighter than we'd hugged hello.

"Take care of yourself," she said.
"You too, sweetie," I replied, using an endearment I never did while we were dating.

Then a run up Nanny Goat Hill, in the dark, on the clangy metal stairs, under the smell of lilacs turning brown.

Greg is going to be on the radio today! On All in a Day, on CBC Radio One.

If you're in Ottawa, you should tune your radio into 91.5 FM just before 4:15 PM, though knowing radio, you may have to listen for a while longer than that.

If you're not in Ottawa, but still want to hear Greg be an amusing smartypants, you can, of course, always listen to it over the intertubes.

I'll be at work, blasting it out of my office.

This also serves as a good reminder that you should come to the reading on Sunday to be entertained and to meet the cutest! twins! ever! And also that you should buy the book, because it's really very good.

The book I finished while waiting in line at the Passport Office was Barbary Pirate: The Life and Crimes of John Ward, The Most Infamous Privateer of His Time, written by my friend Greg Bak.

I was long overdue finishing it, since I started it about a month or so ago. But I have not cracked the spine of a book in about two weeks. No wait, that would be three weeks. But finish it I did and here's what I thought of it.

First, briefly, through his life John Ward was in the British Royal Navy, was then a privateer, then a pirate and then a Barbary Corsair, mostly sailing from North Africa. His life spanned the reigns of Elizabeth I and King James.

It's true, you may read what follows and think, why, she's biased. She loves Greg. She regularly gets teary at his daughters' swimming lessons. She's thanked in the preface! Of course she thinks it's an excellent book.

I might be biased, it's true, but I also know a well-written story when I read it. Greg's language moves; it's got an active, almost muscular quality to it. He uses big words selectively and well. He uses small words selectively and well. His sentences have flow.

The narrative arc is brilliant. Most readers won't have to hand the knowledge they need to understand good portions of Ward's story. Much of his cultural importance comes as a byproduct of his novel naval tactics, and if you don't know the difference between a round ship and a galley, you'd be fucked to figure out why Ward was on the vanguard.

Greg is able to explain the difference in boats clearly but not pedantically, and carries Ward's life story through and over this digression (and others like it) with ease. He also skillfully switches back and forth between the story of Ward as a person and the story of Ward as a political agent in a time of fairly great upheaval. Greg is good at exposing Ward's humanity. But also good at drawing both how Ward was used as a pawn by the King et al. and how he shaped his own future.

Where I might be biased is that I can hear Greg when I'm reading it. It's his voice, with his rhythms, and his enthusiasm. Anyone who knows him knows that his enthusiasm is infections. If he finds something interesting and important but I don't quite get it, he is always good at explaining why it is interesting and important. Reading this book was like having one of those conversations with him, where I get all excited about something I never thought to care about before.

If you like pirates, if you're interested in views of Islam in the 17th century, if you like a good story and excellent writing: you should buy this book.

Normally, I wouldn't recommend that people go to Amazon, but that's the only place you can get it in Canada at the moment. Alternately, you could wait a month or so and go to Collected Works, because they are ordering a bunch of copies in.

And don't forget to look for me in the acknowledgements.

Got back not too long ago from the Grs house, where I had a lovely play and bathtime with Ruby and Fiona.

What is cuter than a starkers baby being helped to walk from the bedroom to the bathroom?

Not much, I can assure you. I was a bit busy when Fifi had her promenade, but I got a full cute backside view of the Ruster as she went off. Her muscles are shocking - her quads and hip muscles were actually bulging.

After bathtime came story time, which was a pretty short one. And then! I got to give Fiona her bedtime bottle. She schnozzled into the crook of my arm and tapped the cap that had been on the bottle against the side of the bottle and looked up at me as I murmured god knows what at her and then she'd look away and droop her eyes and just was generally delicious enough to make you wish she might never go to sleep but instead snuggle there forever, warm and baby-smelling.

They're so big now. I haven't been over in almost two weeks, and it's totally a cliché, I know, but the fact that babies change so quickly is only a cliché because it is entirely true. Fifi's got so much hair! Ruby looks so different I didn't even recognize her in a picture with her Aunt Carrie.

I do love those babies.