reading

See, the reading in Toronto last night was packed. Fucking packed. There were probably more than a hundred people there, so I figure this had better be a killer post for when they all search me out.

Julia and I were running a little late, having lost track of time over rice and vegetables and shrimp and tofu and kimchi.* When we got there, we could hardly get in the door. My hands started shaking and I offered a prayer up into the universe that they would stop by the time I started and wished that I'd had time to put Eric's suggestion of less flappy paper into play. Luckily my prayers were answered and less shaky paper wasn't needed.

It was amazing to read with Julia. She is a fucking smart cookie and we had a really nice day hanging out. Funnily enough, we talked more about birds and fish** than about gender or her book. I had questions, and the book is thoroughly engaging, but to me, asking those questions would have felt too much to me like the cissexual cross-examining the transsexual.

I have had the luxury - the privilege - of not having to think very deeply about my own gender. Not to say I haven't put some thought into it, and I have thought a fair bit about my experience of going from straight to sorta-butch to sorta-femme, but honestly, it's something I can put away if I want. Whipping Girl provides a framework for thinking about gender and gender expression and sex and the relationship between them that allows for a much more thorough and nuanced examination than has so far gone on in my head. I don't think I've figured out enough about my own relationship to my own sex and gender to keep up a decent conversation on that with someone who has.

It was an honour to read with her.

But I'm a dolt when it comes to promo. I left some chapbooks up at the front of the bookstore, and then thought "Wait, I can't collect the money because I'm leaving for the bus station before Julia's done," and collected them on my way out. Because right, those chapbooks are far more valuable to me sitting in my desk drawer waiting to be paid for than given out free and actually read by people. Sheesh. Also, no email list for people to sign up to. Also, a blog name that is difficult to spell, pronounce and remember. I will go far, it's a sure bet. But hey! Pressure's off.

In other news, pride was fucking great. We got about 350 people out to the dyke march, and there were tons at the parade. I loved being in the middle of all those women marching, and was very happy that I was walking next to someone who laughed when I said "Where?" after reading the sign saying "dyke's rock." Even funnier, from our perspective, it was beside the sign that said "talk nerdy to me." Done and done.

It's great how community-oriented the parade in Ottawa still is. The last couple years I was in Toronto, the parade had gotten so big that you had to get there an hour in advance to see anything, and it felt like most of the floats were booze and make-up and there were big metal barriers to prevent you from you know, being proud if you felt like it for a few minutes. Bah. Ottawa is still mostly community groups - with the odd radio station thrown in. No metal barriers.

I nearly didn't make it to the parade though. I had one or two too many pints of beer the night before, and though I felt okay when I decided that yes, I would go out for breakfast with a group of people, it became very obvious to everyone that I was in no actual shape to be there. I sat beside Christine at the reading that night and she said "How are you? You looked a little green this morning. We could see you fading." So my hard work at keeping it under cover was for naught. Apparently, it's going to be a bit longer before my stomach settles down after the Halifax stomach flu. At least I no longer feel barfy after every time I eat.

And finally, if you want to get in my bad books on a long bus trip, you should alternate digging your knees into the back of my seat with putting your socked feet on the window ledge beside my arm rest and end that delicious set with repeatedly punching the back of my seat at 2 am after your seat mate has gotten off the bus and you have turned to stretch your legs out into his seat. You should also keep doing all of these things after I have turned my 180 degrees as if possessed by the demon of knee-digging-hatred and given you a dirty dirty look. Also, you should try to use your purse with the metal handles on it as a pillow between your head and the window and when you find it strangely uncomfortable, it being a purse full of odd-shaped objects and not actually a pillow full of soft fibres, you should reposition it 10 times and clank the metal handles very loudly against the window each time. Make sure you wait until 1:45 am to do this. And then I will write you up in my bad books. Because you know I have them.

*Apparently, kimchi is my new obsession. When I saw it on the list of things that I could put on my rice, I was really more excited than fermented cabbage warrants.
**The kribensis in Eric's tank have had fry and they're fascinating to watch. I spend far more time than I would have expected sitting in front of his tank, waiting to see what they'll do next. They've cowed the three giant fish in the tank, often herding them into a small corner and even then, the angel fish is in tatters from being nipped. They also herd the fry - if one strays from the school, one of the parents will search it out, scoop the fry up in its mouth and then spit it out with the rest of the fry. It's fascinating enough that I've started looking around my apartment to see if I can fit in a tank.

Overall, I am very pleased with how my WestFest reading went last Saturday. There was a fair crowd there: a nice mix of friendly and new faces. One of my co-workers was there too, though thankfully I didn't know it until she came up to me afterwards. I think that would have really thrown me off my game. I don't really talk about being a writer at work, and in general, my work self is very much different from my self self. Anyroad, the whole thing came off without a hitch - more importantly to me, my bit sounded at least reasonably polished.

I had dutifully listened to the weather report, and expected it to be a cool 20 degrees when I was reading. So I planned to wear a very stylish light weight jacket with a very plain tank top underneath. Well, it was way more than 20 degrees and not cool at all. Pit sweat does not complement a stylish jacket. So I wore just the tank top. Luckily, Aaron McKenzie Fraser, who is as pale as I am, was on hand to provide the sunscreen.

The tanktop is one that I bought last year before I gained my happy fat. It's a little tight now, and tends to ride up. Halfway through the reading, I glanced down at my notes and saw that my belly was poking out. I tried to tug the tank down surreptitiously, but because I was trying to be quick I did a bad job. So I left it. I figured that what would be worse than having my belly stick out would be to look like I really did not want my belly sticking out.

One of the pieces I read had to do with people having crushes and then not saying anything until after they were over. When my bit was done, I walked off the stage and Lucy van Oldenbarneveld, the "founding host" of WestFestLit, said something along the lines of just having had a conversation along those lines with Matthew Firth. I didn't catch her whole comment, since I was still catching my breath, and I am just not brazen enough to pepper Matthew with probing questions about his former love life. Or lack thereof. I am dying to know the full story, though.

Judging from the number of people that I ran into who said "Hey, how did the reading go? I meant to get there, but. You know..." I got the word out fairly well. I heard that line *a lot* over Saturday afternoon and Sunday. People were always really apologetic, but fuck, I'm just happy they remembered whatever random posting I sent out well enough to be apologetic. I could do worse for sure. In fact, I have done worse.

Friday nights and Saturday mornings are for nerve wracking.

Later this morning, as you'll notice over in the sidebar, I am reading at WestFest. For days I've been saying, "Hoo, yeah, pretty nervous about it." Not really feeling nervous, but knowing that I was and was just refusing to feel it.

My palms started sweating. I'm feeling it.

I've read enough times in Ottawa that I feel I've found a groove - I've gotten used to knowing, if not the whole crowd, then at least a good chunk of it. It's nice and comforting, though can get a little odd when I'm reading the more raw, sexy stuff, and I'm not quite sure where to look. As in "Oh, right, I just made eye contact with a good friend of Eric's as I said 'your cock getting thicker and darker.' Maybe I'll look at the back wall now."

Small discomfort aside, it's usually pretty cozy. Tomorrow, though? Tomorrow there are going to be some friendly faces, for sure. But it's not my element. Frances Itani, for fuck's sake. She's, like, a real writer.

It'll be good for me, I think. The nerves are good news, too. I always perform better when I've had a good case of the jitters.

Last night was a different kind of nerves. I met Eric's family. There was no doubt in my mind that they would be entirely lovely. He is one of the politest and most respectful people I've ever met, and though I'm sure nature played a role, I have a feeling that quite a bit of that is due to nurture. His oldest sister went out of her way to say hi to me on Facebook, which I thought was super sweet and extraordinarily welcoming. And I'm a nice person, and I'm nice to Eric, so there is no real reason for them to not like me. But still. What if I said something stupid? Or out of place, or didn't realize I was trying too hard till it was too late. Or, more likely, what if I couldn't think of anything to say at all and I seem like a sullen brat? Or a snoot? I don't want them to think I'm a snoot.

When we picked his oldest sister up, I clammed up. After Hi, I'm not sure I said one word on the way from her house to his other sister's house. I didn't really say anything for the rest of the night, either, though I could tell I had loosened up by the end of the night, because I told one of my long hand-flapping stories while Karen was in the car. There was one part of my brain telling the story and another part thinking, wow, you've chilled out, eh?

They're such a nice family together. Teasing, but sweet. Really funny. Tanya and her husband Guy had just gotten back from Germany and had a lot of stories. I laughed pretty hard, particularly one that involved them getting on a train that kept reversing direction after one stop. It felt easy to be with them, even though I was too shy to say anything.

I have it good though. Most of my family is really nice too, but my dad? Eesh. While I love him and am very much like him, my father is a gruff, impatient, cranky man. He has little tolerance for bullshit and makes no bones about telling people when he feels they're bullshitting, which sometimes creates what I see as needless conflict. In the past, he has been more likely to grunt at my boyfriends than talk to them. Really though, he's a huge softie. But it took even me a long time to see that.

If you've got the time today, please do come see me pretend to not be nervous on the same stage as Frances Itani. It would be lovely to have a friendly face out there. I promise to do more than grunt at you.