is a terrible thing. Have to write my zine tonight.
Bah!
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Jersey Girl in the Ovens with Travel Chests - Part I
The summer is nearly over. The last two days have been horribly cold, for August, and although it is to warm up again for the weekend when we are going CAMPING at the beautiful lake where Himself planted me a rose garden on the lakeside in front of my tent last summer (thus scoring himself an Irish woman forever, poor lad) September will be bitter sweet. Although not as bad as last year, when I totally spoiled the beautiful weather that Nova Scotia gets in that month by worrying about the impending winter.
Not realising that the winter wouldn’t arrive until mid-December.
At least I know what the winter will be like now.
Although last winter was a ‘good’ one.
Thinks about that for a while… shudders… decides not to think about it until November.
Anyways, the summer. I got caught up in domestic stuff recently and left off describing the summer of visitors. I had done the Queen Parents pretty much, and half of Polly’s visit, in other words her weekend in Bear Cove, after which we piled everything and everyone back into the car and came back to Halifax, so Polly could have some of the bright lights of the city.
Of course she had just come from New York, so they were a bit mweh, I’m sure, but she seemed to have enjoyed herself nonetheless. After we all summoned the energy to go out again, which took a few days.
Then it was the weekend all of a sudden again and time to bring her to the airport.
I hate that damned airport. I spend too much time in it crying and not enough being a happy Queenie.
Himself and I had to go down the South Shore then, to meet Jersey Girl and her BH (beloved husband), who had been cycling towards Halifax from Yarmouth all week. They had gotten as far as The Ovens, which was a good bit of the way, so Himself and I only had about ninety minutes drive ahead of us.
I spent most of it wondering how we were going to get JG&BH’s bikes and camping gear in the back of the car, which was already stuffed with our camping gear.
We were past Lunenburg and heading down the last part of the journey when we saw a sign for a yard sale and a lot of interesting stuff in a garden. We sidelonged each other, but nobody gave anybody the nod and we kept driving. After about a mile, Himself slowed down and said ‘I really wanted to go to that yard sale’.
So did I.
We did a quick U-turn and sped back, in case all the bargains were gone.
First thing I saw were three enormous travel trunks; the old square-lidded ones with the brass bindings. One of them was in pretty poor shape with paint on it, but it can be removed and the other two were fine. Two were marked $50 and $40. The smallest of the three wasn’t priced.
I wondered whether it would be totally insane to get the smallest one. I could put some of the camping gear in it I reasoned. So I asked how much.
Fifty bucks for the three of them, the guy said. He was moving to Saskatchewan to be near his grandchildren.
I’ll take them, the insane person who takes over Queenie’s body occasionally had her wallet out before Queenie could say ‘what about the biiiiikes?’
Well, didn’t Himself and I have some fun then, playing our own personal version of The Krypton Factor (note to Canadians – TKF is a long-defunct, but pretty high end game show on UK tv, which tested physical and intellectual endurance, with one round of spatial awareness challenges that I could never figure out).
"This evening’s challenge is to fit these three trunks into an already full Chevrolet Equinox. Which is not a small car."
Eventually Himself, who is genius at stuff like this, put the smallest trunk into the biggest, put all the camping gear into the mid-sized trunk, which is my favourite, and finally got them into the car.
One of them had to be put on the back seat, though.
Finally we got to The Ovens camping site and eventually we found JG&BH’s campsite despite the owners of the site telling me they weren’t there over and over for a half an hour, while I freaked out completely thinking they’d been eaten by a bear or something, and as we were putting up the tent at the site, I looked up and there they were walking towards us!
Hooray! And not a bear scratch on either of them!
We explained about the trunks, which were now unpacked and lying on the campsite. JG didn’t say anything but she had that glimmer behind her eyes she gets when she thinks I’m on one of my little trips down crazy lane.
The apple never falls far from the tree.
Her mother used to spend Saturday mornings years ago trying to teach me (and some other teenage girls) how to play golf, and would give me the exact same look when I’d be trying to explain why it took me 112 shots to get round the back nine.
No wonder JG is a CEO of an organisation, and I’m not.
I must cultivate a glimmer sometime.
Actually, I should just adopt the apple/tree analogy I was using earlier and just inherit the Queen Mother’s. It’s pretty ferocious when it wants to be.
Anyways, enough about glimmering, back to the story…
Himself calls at this point for a chat. Chatting ensues. Time passes. The humour for writing is off me now.
… except it’s late and my hands are sore today from typing, so I’ll go to bed and finish this tomorrow.
Not realising that the winter wouldn’t arrive until mid-December.
At least I know what the winter will be like now.
Although last winter was a ‘good’ one.
Thinks about that for a while… shudders… decides not to think about it until November.
Anyways, the summer. I got caught up in domestic stuff recently and left off describing the summer of visitors. I had done the Queen Parents pretty much, and half of Polly’s visit, in other words her weekend in Bear Cove, after which we piled everything and everyone back into the car and came back to Halifax, so Polly could have some of the bright lights of the city.
Of course she had just come from New York, so they were a bit mweh, I’m sure, but she seemed to have enjoyed herself nonetheless. After we all summoned the energy to go out again, which took a few days.
Then it was the weekend all of a sudden again and time to bring her to the airport.
I hate that damned airport. I spend too much time in it crying and not enough being a happy Queenie.
Himself and I had to go down the South Shore then, to meet Jersey Girl and her BH (beloved husband), who had been cycling towards Halifax from Yarmouth all week. They had gotten as far as The Ovens, which was a good bit of the way, so Himself and I only had about ninety minutes drive ahead of us.
I spent most of it wondering how we were going to get JG&BH’s bikes and camping gear in the back of the car, which was already stuffed with our camping gear.
We were past Lunenburg and heading down the last part of the journey when we saw a sign for a yard sale and a lot of interesting stuff in a garden. We sidelonged each other, but nobody gave anybody the nod and we kept driving. After about a mile, Himself slowed down and said ‘I really wanted to go to that yard sale’.
So did I.
We did a quick U-turn and sped back, in case all the bargains were gone.
First thing I saw were three enormous travel trunks; the old square-lidded ones with the brass bindings. One of them was in pretty poor shape with paint on it, but it can be removed and the other two were fine. Two were marked $50 and $40. The smallest of the three wasn’t priced.
I wondered whether it would be totally insane to get the smallest one. I could put some of the camping gear in it I reasoned. So I asked how much.
Fifty bucks for the three of them, the guy said. He was moving to Saskatchewan to be near his grandchildren.
I’ll take them, the insane person who takes over Queenie’s body occasionally had her wallet out before Queenie could say ‘what about the biiiiikes?’
Well, didn’t Himself and I have some fun then, playing our own personal version of The Krypton Factor (note to Canadians – TKF is a long-defunct, but pretty high end game show on UK tv, which tested physical and intellectual endurance, with one round of spatial awareness challenges that I could never figure out).
"This evening’s challenge is to fit these three trunks into an already full Chevrolet Equinox. Which is not a small car."
Eventually Himself, who is genius at stuff like this, put the smallest trunk into the biggest, put all the camping gear into the mid-sized trunk, which is my favourite, and finally got them into the car.
One of them had to be put on the back seat, though.
Finally we got to The Ovens camping site and eventually we found JG&BH’s campsite despite the owners of the site telling me they weren’t there over and over for a half an hour, while I freaked out completely thinking they’d been eaten by a bear or something, and as we were putting up the tent at the site, I looked up and there they were walking towards us!
Hooray! And not a bear scratch on either of them!
We explained about the trunks, which were now unpacked and lying on the campsite. JG didn’t say anything but she had that glimmer behind her eyes she gets when she thinks I’m on one of my little trips down crazy lane.
The apple never falls far from the tree.
Her mother used to spend Saturday mornings years ago trying to teach me (and some other teenage girls) how to play golf, and would give me the exact same look when I’d be trying to explain why it took me 112 shots to get round the back nine.
No wonder JG is a CEO of an organisation, and I’m not.
I must cultivate a glimmer sometime.
Actually, I should just adopt the apple/tree analogy I was using earlier and just inherit the Queen Mother’s. It’s pretty ferocious when it wants to be.
Anyways, enough about glimmering, back to the story…
Himself calls at this point for a chat. Chatting ensues. Time passes. The humour for writing is off me now.
… except it’s late and my hands are sore today from typing, so I’ll go to bed and finish this tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Whereupon the narrator seems to have Aquaired quite a bit of stuff
Queenie is alone tonight. With no pressing tasks to fill the silence. For the first time in seven weeks.
No visitors from anywhere.
No packing to do.
No furniture to find.
Apart from a table and chairs.
But they’ll happen someday.
Of that I have no doubt.
Himself and Tina and Martin, being from a place where possessions are recycled and handed around to those who need them and not thrown away until actually broken, went on Mission “Furnish Queenie’s House” last night, after we spotted a lovely, original 1960s wall unit on our way home, just sitting on the kerb waiting for the bin men.
It being Sunday night. Which is garbage night in the prosperous South end of Halifax.
Yes, I know this is being posted on Tuesday. Home internet access will be resumed on Wednesday, after which time blogposts will be timely again.
As quick as anything the unit, which needs a little bit of work but not much, was in the back of the van, being hauled round the rotary at breakneck speed and up the hill to the apartment, where it was dropped off with Queenie, who had to cook the dinner while the intrepid visitors went off scouring the south end for more finds.
Just as I was draining the pasta to go with the Bolognese sauce I’d slaved over for an hour, the van pulled up – great timing I thought – and was emptied, before speeding off again.
What????
I went downstairs to investigate. Martin was sitting guard over a pile of stuff that included:
A sun lounger
A sun parasol
Two garden chairs
Two beach chairs
Two red fold up chairs, one plastic, one leather
A stereo unit thingummy on wheels which fits underneath the fish tank perfectly and which means I no longer have a problem changing the water, having only to wheel the tank into the kitchen and park it alongside the sink
A brand new pull-along garden hose thingummy, replete with brand new hose
Three sets of shelves
A little wire vegetable rack on wheels, which contained a brand new apron, two oven gloves, two pot stands, a chopping board, and a packet of bag clips (I swear)
An interesting looking beige footstool with claw legs, which is exactly the right height for resting your legs on, upon which my legs are resting while I type
Two tall uplighters, neither of which appear to work unfortunately
A big bright blue plastic thingummy, the use for which Queenie still cannot ascertain, despite having stared at it for a long time
A desk in perfect condition
A wooden six-drawer bureau that will need to be sanded and stained to put in the spare room (along with the futon and the seafaring chest and the mirror) for all the visitors that will be coming to visit hopefully
A Wilson golf bag (minus the strap which is presumably why it was on the kerb)
Why a golf bag?
Martin and I sat and looked at the pile of stuff, not having yet realised that we had locked ourselves out of the apartment, and reckoned it must be an Aquarian thing, this passion for other people’s rubbish.
Himself and Tina both being Aquarians, d’ya see.
Having said that, once I get the uplighters, the golf bag and the big blue thingummy back into the garbage collection on Wednesday night it will have been a good haul.
And when you add that haul to what Himself had already Aquaired for us - a sofa and chair, a rocking chair, a huge chest of drawers for our room, an end table and a futon mattress – as well as what I have purchased – the biggest bed in the world, three seafaring trunks we got for fifty bucks the lot at a yard sale, and the makings of a pretty well-stocked kitchen and linen cupboard, and then add allathat as Gypsy used to say when she was little, to the free tv and microwave I got from Missy and Shazz, and my amazing basket of stuff which Jersey Girl and her BH gave us when they were here, which fuelled my ongoing amazement at the generosity of people - Queenie is back in the possessions game.
Sigh…
And to think I arrived a little over a year ago with two suitcases and a computer bag.
The one thing keeping me sane throughout all of this is the fact that the whole lot cost just over $1,000, of which $600 was for the King Size super deluxe Sears-O-Pedic bed with twin boxspring and soft-top mattress.
FOKO/ Ikea/ European Living/ Habitat can go and stick their over-priced Burmese teak futon with Egyptian cotton weave mattress thingummies up their own arse, boys and girls.
Also, note to self, Accent Monkey and anyone else who has ever bought furniture in Ireland – when the furniture people in Canada say they’ll deliver your bed between 12 and 5 on Saturday, which is two days after you buy the furniture, they apologise for the delay in delivery, turn up on time on the day and don’t moan about the stairs. Even if you only bought the furniture because it was being practically given away in the discount depot at the back of the shop.
I have learned two things this week.
The Sears Discount Depot in Halifax is the best shop in the world bar none.
One man’s rubbish is an Aquarian’s idea of a good time.
Anyways, so Martin and I started hauling the loot upstairs, only to realise that we had locked ourselves out of the apartment. Martin got quite anxious. But those of you who know me know that I tend to lock myself out of my apartment quite a bit. So it only took a minute to break in because I had already cased the joint because I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to break in. But we got in before the Aquarians got back, more importantly. And then we all sat around and ate pasta and drank Hemp beer in honour of the occasion and agreed where the new furniture should go.
So here I am, fully furnished, backside ensconsced in Himself’s mother’s former suite, legs resting on the new footstool, looking at the fish swirling around the tank which is resting on its mobile stand.
I feel like Del-boy Trotter. Before he hit the jackpot.
Although the apartment is a little nicer than his.
It’s the second floor of a three storey house.
The floors are all wooden, as they always are here in Nova Scotia. I think it’s real wood though, not laminate.
All the walls are a very boring shade of yellow but Himself is going to paint it when he gets a chance. There are many winter projects in this apartment, sanding and painting and staining, which will be good for both of us as we get a bit restless when the long evenings draw in and there’s nothing to do. Canadian television being awful.
The guy is coming on Wednesday to hook up the internet/phone/cable package. I ordered it today. He’s coming AFTER I GET HOME FROM WORK, so I don’t have to take a half day. He’d have come on Saturday, like the Sears guy, but that didn’t suit me.
Of course it’s probably like this at home now. So I should stop gloating. I just have such dreadful memories of ‘getting things done’ in Dublin. It always involved having to take a day off work and then spend an hour on the phone giving directions to someone who grew up in Finglas which was just down the road, or having to listen to some boring Dubliner millionaire carpet layer bang on and on and on about how he had to live in Carlow because it was so expensive living on the Northside now (because all us culchies were buying up property I supposed, I never used to take the bait) and how the wife didn’t really like it because she always had to drive home from the golf club instead of getting a taxi, but he needed to have a few scoops after all the commuting so he wasn’t going to go halves now ya know ...
The front door is up a narrow set of stairs. When you enter the apartment, the room that will be a study/dining room is on your immediate left. The living room and kitchen are both off of this space. The kitchen has tall white cupboards and a “Canadian Auto Workers circa mid-eighties productivity go slow” fashioned stove and fridge. Think Impact members making laptops – that’ll give you some sense of what level of innovation I mean.
The kitchen window looks out onto the street, which is residential and tree-lined. The living room looks out over the garden, which is mostly just grass, through the trees to the lake. The winter view will be nice I think.
Off the right-hand side of the hall, there is a large master bedroom, the bathroom, which is small and needs some work, and the spare room. Of which I am inordinately proud.
Because I know in my heart of hearts that if I had been able to afford to buy a nice apartment with a dining space and a spare room, instead of a rabbit hutch, I would probably never have left Ireland.
That’s the thing about Queenie: I never really wanted much. Just a nice place to live that I could afford, and a meaningful job with some nice people (part of which I had), and not too many traffic jams, so I could get to the countryside at the weekend. And maybe a nice person to share it all with (although I wasn’t allowed to admit that of course because that would have meant I wasn’t ecstatic about my life, which appeared to be verboten in Tigerland, although hopefully that’s not the case anymore)
But for some strange reason that I will NEVER fathom, that was not possible in the land of possibilities.
And now the fuckers have put my (Irish) mortgage up by $200 a month. Just to remind me of how insane it all is.
And Eddie Hobbs says I should put my SSIA money, what I’m counting the days down to getting just to see the number and translate it into Bahts or whatever, Eddie Hobbs (who the hell went postal in RTE and put the Del-Boy of the NGO sector in charge of the common man’s finances, although I suppose it’s better than that Trot they used to have – what was his name?) Eddie Hobbs told my mother that I should put my lovely SSIA money, which is for following my dream, that I should put the money into the gaping, yawning, greedy, panic-inducing chasm in my potential happiness and Sears-O-Pedic king sized comfy sleep at night that is my rabbit hutch of an Irish property investment.
My ass I will. The difference it would make? Fuck all, boys and girls.
Here, if whisked across the sea by the magic interbank transfer device (which I of course know how to operate, having had to explain it to the lady in the bank some months ago, along with the concept of overseas) and translated from strong EUROs into some of their Canadian dollars, I could use it to buy four acres of land by the sea, and still have enough left to go to Cuba for six months.
Or build the off-grid straw bale cottage with the organic toilet that’ll be flushed by the solar panels we’ll find on the kerb some night no doubt on the land, and just go to Cuba for two weeks.
Living the dream, eh?
I guess the trick is to try to live one. Not three or four.
But those of you who are getting yourselves sorted already know that, don’t you.
It’s difficult though, isn’t it? Managing expectations.
Why is it that we spend each of our decades extricating ourselves from the crap into which we got ourselves in the previous one?
By the way, when I was sitting on the doorstep thinking about what I was going to say this evening, the title of this blog was to be ‘Whereupon our hero emerges from the wilderness’.
And it was to be a contemplative piece on the concept of heroes. More particularly, an update on the hero for whom this blog was originally established. I mean one Percy, or Sir Perceval as he’s often known: Knight, Dragonslayer, Poet. Who has disappeared off the face of the earth for quite a while now.
But I got talking about myself. as usual.
Tomorrow.
I promise.
No visitors from anywhere.
No packing to do.
No furniture to find.
Apart from a table and chairs.
But they’ll happen someday.
Of that I have no doubt.
Himself and Tina and Martin, being from a place where possessions are recycled and handed around to those who need them and not thrown away until actually broken, went on Mission “Furnish Queenie’s House” last night, after we spotted a lovely, original 1960s wall unit on our way home, just sitting on the kerb waiting for the bin men.
It being Sunday night. Which is garbage night in the prosperous South end of Halifax.
Yes, I know this is being posted on Tuesday. Home internet access will be resumed on Wednesday, after which time blogposts will be timely again.
As quick as anything the unit, which needs a little bit of work but not much, was in the back of the van, being hauled round the rotary at breakneck speed and up the hill to the apartment, where it was dropped off with Queenie, who had to cook the dinner while the intrepid visitors went off scouring the south end for more finds.
Just as I was draining the pasta to go with the Bolognese sauce I’d slaved over for an hour, the van pulled up – great timing I thought – and was emptied, before speeding off again.
What????
I went downstairs to investigate. Martin was sitting guard over a pile of stuff that included:
A sun lounger
A sun parasol
Two garden chairs
Two beach chairs
Two red fold up chairs, one plastic, one leather
A stereo unit thingummy on wheels which fits underneath the fish tank perfectly and which means I no longer have a problem changing the water, having only to wheel the tank into the kitchen and park it alongside the sink
A brand new pull-along garden hose thingummy, replete with brand new hose
Three sets of shelves
A little wire vegetable rack on wheels, which contained a brand new apron, two oven gloves, two pot stands, a chopping board, and a packet of bag clips (I swear)
An interesting looking beige footstool with claw legs, which is exactly the right height for resting your legs on, upon which my legs are resting while I type
Two tall uplighters, neither of which appear to work unfortunately
A big bright blue plastic thingummy, the use for which Queenie still cannot ascertain, despite having stared at it for a long time
A desk in perfect condition
A wooden six-drawer bureau that will need to be sanded and stained to put in the spare room (along with the futon and the seafaring chest and the mirror) for all the visitors that will be coming to visit hopefully
A Wilson golf bag (minus the strap which is presumably why it was on the kerb)
Why a golf bag?
Martin and I sat and looked at the pile of stuff, not having yet realised that we had locked ourselves out of the apartment, and reckoned it must be an Aquarian thing, this passion for other people’s rubbish.
Himself and Tina both being Aquarians, d’ya see.
Having said that, once I get the uplighters, the golf bag and the big blue thingummy back into the garbage collection on Wednesday night it will have been a good haul.
And when you add that haul to what Himself had already Aquaired for us - a sofa and chair, a rocking chair, a huge chest of drawers for our room, an end table and a futon mattress – as well as what I have purchased – the biggest bed in the world, three seafaring trunks we got for fifty bucks the lot at a yard sale, and the makings of a pretty well-stocked kitchen and linen cupboard, and then add allathat as Gypsy used to say when she was little, to the free tv and microwave I got from Missy and Shazz, and my amazing basket of stuff which Jersey Girl and her BH gave us when they were here, which fuelled my ongoing amazement at the generosity of people - Queenie is back in the possessions game.
Sigh…
And to think I arrived a little over a year ago with two suitcases and a computer bag.
The one thing keeping me sane throughout all of this is the fact that the whole lot cost just over $1,000, of which $600 was for the King Size super deluxe Sears-O-Pedic bed with twin boxspring and soft-top mattress.
FOKO/ Ikea/ European Living/ Habitat can go and stick their over-priced Burmese teak futon with Egyptian cotton weave mattress thingummies up their own arse, boys and girls.
Also, note to self, Accent Monkey and anyone else who has ever bought furniture in Ireland – when the furniture people in Canada say they’ll deliver your bed between 12 and 5 on Saturday, which is two days after you buy the furniture, they apologise for the delay in delivery, turn up on time on the day and don’t moan about the stairs. Even if you only bought the furniture because it was being practically given away in the discount depot at the back of the shop.
I have learned two things this week.
The Sears Discount Depot in Halifax is the best shop in the world bar none.
One man’s rubbish is an Aquarian’s idea of a good time.
Anyways, so Martin and I started hauling the loot upstairs, only to realise that we had locked ourselves out of the apartment. Martin got quite anxious. But those of you who know me know that I tend to lock myself out of my apartment quite a bit. So it only took a minute to break in because I had already cased the joint because I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to break in. But we got in before the Aquarians got back, more importantly. And then we all sat around and ate pasta and drank Hemp beer in honour of the occasion and agreed where the new furniture should go.
So here I am, fully furnished, backside ensconsced in Himself’s mother’s former suite, legs resting on the new footstool, looking at the fish swirling around the tank which is resting on its mobile stand.
I feel like Del-boy Trotter. Before he hit the jackpot.
Although the apartment is a little nicer than his.
It’s the second floor of a three storey house.
The floors are all wooden, as they always are here in Nova Scotia. I think it’s real wood though, not laminate.
All the walls are a very boring shade of yellow but Himself is going to paint it when he gets a chance. There are many winter projects in this apartment, sanding and painting and staining, which will be good for both of us as we get a bit restless when the long evenings draw in and there’s nothing to do. Canadian television being awful.
The guy is coming on Wednesday to hook up the internet/phone/cable package. I ordered it today. He’s coming AFTER I GET HOME FROM WORK, so I don’t have to take a half day. He’d have come on Saturday, like the Sears guy, but that didn’t suit me.
Of course it’s probably like this at home now. So I should stop gloating. I just have such dreadful memories of ‘getting things done’ in Dublin. It always involved having to take a day off work and then spend an hour on the phone giving directions to someone who grew up in Finglas which was just down the road, or having to listen to some boring Dubliner millionaire carpet layer bang on and on and on about how he had to live in Carlow because it was so expensive living on the Northside now (because all us culchies were buying up property I supposed, I never used to take the bait) and how the wife didn’t really like it because she always had to drive home from the golf club instead of getting a taxi, but he needed to have a few scoops after all the commuting so he wasn’t going to go halves now ya know ...
The front door is up a narrow set of stairs. When you enter the apartment, the room that will be a study/dining room is on your immediate left. The living room and kitchen are both off of this space. The kitchen has tall white cupboards and a “Canadian Auto Workers circa mid-eighties productivity go slow” fashioned stove and fridge. Think Impact members making laptops – that’ll give you some sense of what level of innovation I mean.
The kitchen window looks out onto the street, which is residential and tree-lined. The living room looks out over the garden, which is mostly just grass, through the trees to the lake. The winter view will be nice I think.
Off the right-hand side of the hall, there is a large master bedroom, the bathroom, which is small and needs some work, and the spare room. Of which I am inordinately proud.
Because I know in my heart of hearts that if I had been able to afford to buy a nice apartment with a dining space and a spare room, instead of a rabbit hutch, I would probably never have left Ireland.
That’s the thing about Queenie: I never really wanted much. Just a nice place to live that I could afford, and a meaningful job with some nice people (part of which I had), and not too many traffic jams, so I could get to the countryside at the weekend. And maybe a nice person to share it all with (although I wasn’t allowed to admit that of course because that would have meant I wasn’t ecstatic about my life, which appeared to be verboten in Tigerland, although hopefully that’s not the case anymore)
But for some strange reason that I will NEVER fathom, that was not possible in the land of possibilities.
And now the fuckers have put my (Irish) mortgage up by $200 a month. Just to remind me of how insane it all is.
And Eddie Hobbs says I should put my SSIA money, what I’m counting the days down to getting just to see the number and translate it into Bahts or whatever, Eddie Hobbs (who the hell went postal in RTE and put the Del-Boy of the NGO sector in charge of the common man’s finances, although I suppose it’s better than that Trot they used to have – what was his name?) Eddie Hobbs told my mother that I should put my lovely SSIA money, which is for following my dream, that I should put the money into the gaping, yawning, greedy, panic-inducing chasm in my potential happiness and Sears-O-Pedic king sized comfy sleep at night that is my rabbit hutch of an Irish property investment.
My ass I will. The difference it would make? Fuck all, boys and girls.
Here, if whisked across the sea by the magic interbank transfer device (which I of course know how to operate, having had to explain it to the lady in the bank some months ago, along with the concept of overseas) and translated from strong EUROs into some of their Canadian dollars, I could use it to buy four acres of land by the sea, and still have enough left to go to Cuba for six months.
Or build the off-grid straw bale cottage with the organic toilet that’ll be flushed by the solar panels we’ll find on the kerb some night no doubt on the land, and just go to Cuba for two weeks.
Living the dream, eh?
I guess the trick is to try to live one. Not three or four.
But those of you who are getting yourselves sorted already know that, don’t you.
It’s difficult though, isn’t it? Managing expectations.
Why is it that we spend each of our decades extricating ourselves from the crap into which we got ourselves in the previous one?
By the way, when I was sitting on the doorstep thinking about what I was going to say this evening, the title of this blog was to be ‘Whereupon our hero emerges from the wilderness’.
And it was to be a contemplative piece on the concept of heroes. More particularly, an update on the hero for whom this blog was originally established. I mean one Percy, or Sir Perceval as he’s often known: Knight, Dragonslayer, Poet. Who has disappeared off the face of the earth for quite a while now.
But I got talking about myself. as usual.
Tomorrow.
I promise.
Monday, August 28, 2006
It was to have been the second last night in the little yellow house...
This should have been posted on Friday night, but the lack of internet access in my new apartment has meant it is late.
It’s funny how everything always turns out exactly the opposite to what I have planned these days, but it’s generally okay anyways.
This was to be my second last night in the little yellow house on the tree-lined street, beside the Montreal train line, at the edge of the peninsula, beside the sea, close to the university, where the first year in Canada took place.
I was to have two more nights in this gorgeous little house that took me in a year ago and got me through my first Nova Scotian winter.
I had it all planned in my head.
Had it visualised.
Saw myself doing it.
Himself had other ideas of course.
I had gotten rid of him for the weekend. He was gone back to the island with the children, who were wonderful if a little tiring for a girl who’s not used to children.
I was going to chill out Friday night, and by chill out, I mean sit and have a few drinks and blog and worry about the packing in the morning, because I’m going to be a bitch tomorrow, because Lady Moonbeam has announced her imminent arrival in the form of a low, grinding pain in my abdomen. So I was going to slowly drink everything left in the house to dull that ache, and then wake up with a hangover, and three ‘drunken landlady and her friends’ people in the house to deal with, and I was going to finish the packing.
But it was okay, because it was a challenge, and then I was going to go over to the new place, and wait for my super deluxe king-size Sears-O-Pedic bed to arrive, which I got for one third of the price for some strange reason, and then I was going to think about going out for a long time before hitting the shower/ clothes/ make up routine I haven’t engaged in for about four months, and head out with Hotspur, the Goddess of Spin.
For one of our evenings.
Because her man will have gone back to Maine for his university course. And she’ll be feeling a bit lost.
So I had gotten home and dealt with the ‘excited because she was soon to be drunk with her best mates’ landlady I had found sitting in my living room (her friend was over from Ottawa and they were staying here tonight to see could the landlady possibly live here for tax reasons for a year – of course, I thought, it’s the most beautiful house in the world – I do love my landlady, I have a bastard landlord now… but he has an Irish peasant which is probably worse) and I was sitting upstairs listening to my new Keane album and contemplating the packing (in other words the evening) when I got a text from Himself.
It said:
What are you doing
were coming up
tonight tiny martin I
help ya cleen going
on tear tomorrow
night
5.38pm 25/8/06
Even I, with my miraculous powers of understanding Himself’s texts, was baffled by this.
So I called him.
So Himself and Martin and Tina are coming up to move me into the new flat tonight and help me clean both houses tomorrow and then we’re going to Tammy’s sister’s fortieth in Kentville tomorrow night.
Whatever about Tammy’s sister’s fortieth, which I’d rather not go to it being in Kentville which is miles away, I saw the plan for what it was.
My last night in this house was Thursday night.
So the year in Canada will be over in about an hour.
It was a little more than a year of course.
But this is the last night.
I can feel it.
So I packed like a mad one for about an hour.
And now I am sitting on the smallest deck in the world for the last time drinking a raspberry swirl cooler I acquired at some bonfire this summer, and all the last bits of me in this house are packed and ready to go.
Except for the laptop of course.
I have finished the bottle of wine and all that’s left to drink before Himself arrives to find me drunk and maudlin is the leftovers of the bottle of sloe gin I got from the Queen Dad at Christmas.
That should do it.
The new bottle is in the new apartment.
You gotta reward yourself for change.
So I sat on the deck and looked at my trees, each one of which I know so well now, and listened for the last time, and looked at the golden light on the trees, which are thinking about turning now it’s nearly September, and thought about all the times that I sat here and whom I sat with and all the people who never sat here but whom I thought about while I did, whether thinking about them made me sad or happy or both.
Then the jays landed in their various gardens and screeched at each other for about an hour. They’re black and white and they scurry up and down the branches like they can’t fly, occasionally taking off like helicopters to gain a bit of height. I think there are three of them. The one in my garden hops from tree to tree so I suppose he/ she is marking out its territory.
I love to listen to their screeches. And imagine what they’re saying to each other.
How was your day, honey?
Disastrous! Thanks for asking but. I totally fucked up on that final part of the presentation.
Then the squirrels started up and nibbled at each other in a high-pitched tone for a bit. Clarence the tree surgeon came by a couple of weeks ago, when Polly was here, and took down their two favourite trees. So they had to move too.
I felt so bad for them, knowing as I do how traumatic change is.
Now it’s just the crows. Everything else is asleep as it’s almost dark. Except for the crickets are starting up.
They only arrive here in August. Do they sleep for eleven months of the year?
Their relations in the Mediterranean must think they’re crazy, moving to Canada.
Anyways, Himself will be here in less than an hour, with our friends, to move me into my second year in Canada.
How lucky I am to have such wonderful people to move me.
How I wish all the wonderful people in my life could meet each other, under my benevolent eye.
(yes, yes, I know I’m a control freak)
Is that why people get married?
I have always assumed it was so.
I have a sneaking suspicion some people do it for the presents.
But you can always tell those people, can’t you!
When I get married you will all have to bring a sleeping bag.
It’s up to you whether you buy one in the autumn sales.
Oh! There’s the first bat of the evening!
Talk to you soon, boys and girls.
It’s funny how everything always turns out exactly the opposite to what I have planned these days, but it’s generally okay anyways.
This was to be my second last night in the little yellow house on the tree-lined street, beside the Montreal train line, at the edge of the peninsula, beside the sea, close to the university, where the first year in Canada took place.
I was to have two more nights in this gorgeous little house that took me in a year ago and got me through my first Nova Scotian winter.
I had it all planned in my head.
Had it visualised.
Saw myself doing it.
Himself had other ideas of course.
I had gotten rid of him for the weekend. He was gone back to the island with the children, who were wonderful if a little tiring for a girl who’s not used to children.
I was going to chill out Friday night, and by chill out, I mean sit and have a few drinks and blog and worry about the packing in the morning, because I’m going to be a bitch tomorrow, because Lady Moonbeam has announced her imminent arrival in the form of a low, grinding pain in my abdomen. So I was going to slowly drink everything left in the house to dull that ache, and then wake up with a hangover, and three ‘drunken landlady and her friends’ people in the house to deal with, and I was going to finish the packing.
But it was okay, because it was a challenge, and then I was going to go over to the new place, and wait for my super deluxe king-size Sears-O-Pedic bed to arrive, which I got for one third of the price for some strange reason, and then I was going to think about going out for a long time before hitting the shower/ clothes/ make up routine I haven’t engaged in for about four months, and head out with Hotspur, the Goddess of Spin.
For one of our evenings.
Because her man will have gone back to Maine for his university course. And she’ll be feeling a bit lost.
So I had gotten home and dealt with the ‘excited because she was soon to be drunk with her best mates’ landlady I had found sitting in my living room (her friend was over from Ottawa and they were staying here tonight to see could the landlady possibly live here for tax reasons for a year – of course, I thought, it’s the most beautiful house in the world – I do love my landlady, I have a bastard landlord now… but he has an Irish peasant which is probably worse) and I was sitting upstairs listening to my new Keane album and contemplating the packing (in other words the evening) when I got a text from Himself.
It said:
What are you doing
were coming up
tonight tiny martin I
help ya cleen going
on tear tomorrow
night
5.38pm 25/8/06
Even I, with my miraculous powers of understanding Himself’s texts, was baffled by this.
So I called him.
So Himself and Martin and Tina are coming up to move me into the new flat tonight and help me clean both houses tomorrow and then we’re going to Tammy’s sister’s fortieth in Kentville tomorrow night.
Whatever about Tammy’s sister’s fortieth, which I’d rather not go to it being in Kentville which is miles away, I saw the plan for what it was.
My last night in this house was Thursday night.
So the year in Canada will be over in about an hour.
It was a little more than a year of course.
But this is the last night.
I can feel it.
So I packed like a mad one for about an hour.
And now I am sitting on the smallest deck in the world for the last time drinking a raspberry swirl cooler I acquired at some bonfire this summer, and all the last bits of me in this house are packed and ready to go.
Except for the laptop of course.
I have finished the bottle of wine and all that’s left to drink before Himself arrives to find me drunk and maudlin is the leftovers of the bottle of sloe gin I got from the Queen Dad at Christmas.
That should do it.
The new bottle is in the new apartment.
You gotta reward yourself for change.
So I sat on the deck and looked at my trees, each one of which I know so well now, and listened for the last time, and looked at the golden light on the trees, which are thinking about turning now it’s nearly September, and thought about all the times that I sat here and whom I sat with and all the people who never sat here but whom I thought about while I did, whether thinking about them made me sad or happy or both.
Then the jays landed in their various gardens and screeched at each other for about an hour. They’re black and white and they scurry up and down the branches like they can’t fly, occasionally taking off like helicopters to gain a bit of height. I think there are three of them. The one in my garden hops from tree to tree so I suppose he/ she is marking out its territory.
I love to listen to their screeches. And imagine what they’re saying to each other.
How was your day, honey?
Disastrous! Thanks for asking but. I totally fucked up on that final part of the presentation.
Then the squirrels started up and nibbled at each other in a high-pitched tone for a bit. Clarence the tree surgeon came by a couple of weeks ago, when Polly was here, and took down their two favourite trees. So they had to move too.
I felt so bad for them, knowing as I do how traumatic change is.
Now it’s just the crows. Everything else is asleep as it’s almost dark. Except for the crickets are starting up.
They only arrive here in August. Do they sleep for eleven months of the year?
Their relations in the Mediterranean must think they’re crazy, moving to Canada.
Anyways, Himself will be here in less than an hour, with our friends, to move me into my second year in Canada.
How lucky I am to have such wonderful people to move me.
How I wish all the wonderful people in my life could meet each other, under my benevolent eye.
(yes, yes, I know I’m a control freak)
Is that why people get married?
I have always assumed it was so.
I have a sneaking suspicion some people do it for the presents.
But you can always tell those people, can’t you!
When I get married you will all have to bring a sleeping bag.
It’s up to you whether you buy one in the autumn sales.
Oh! There’s the first bat of the evening!
Talk to you soon, boys and girls.
Friday, August 11, 2006
What mythological creature are you?
I went to see the Chimera the last time I was in Turkey, and very beautiful it was too.
Here's another personality test from Myles' blog.
What Mythological Creature Are You?
Here's another personality test from Myles' blog.
| You Are a Chimera |
 |
Anti-terrorism restrictions designed by men
Great.
Now if Queenie wants to fly somewhere, which she doesn't think she'll be doing anytime soon due to the awfulness of the security measures now, but if she does, and she has her period, she will be forced to walk around the airport before she boards with all her tampons in a see-through plastic bag.
In case she's a terrorist.
This society is becoming more and more of a nut job every day.
Now if Queenie wants to fly somewhere, which she doesn't think she'll be doing anytime soon due to the awfulness of the security measures now, but if she does, and she has her period, she will be forced to walk around the airport before she boards with all her tampons in a see-through plastic bag.
In case she's a terrorist.
This society is becoming more and more of a nut job every day.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Whereupon nature conspires to make everything perfect
So, the Queen Parents left last Monday, which is why Queenie was upset in her last post (for those of you who are NOT PAYING ATTENTION closely enough due to the having of lives of your own), and last Friday Polly arrived for a little visit.
It was great. We went to the airport and Queenie jumped up and down in a fit for half an hour while the planeload moved slowly through Customs, and eventually Himself got Queenie sat down and calmed down a little, and of course as soon as he did the door opened and there was Polly. Much screaming and yakking ensued until eventually everyone was very tired and had to go to bed around two.
Next morning, after some blueberry pancakes and maple syrup, and an hour’s chaotic packing, Queenie and Himself brought Polly down to the island for a weekend’s camping, it being the Natal Day holiday in Nova Scotia.
And Shazz and her boy, who were making their first trip to the island, came too. Five people, five tall people, all their tents and sleeping bags and camping gear, plus all the food and all the drink, plus all the clothes and hats and coats, in one 4WD. We just about all fit in.
We got down to the island and unloaded all the gear and it was only then that the other passengers in the car realised that the cove where we were camping was quite a ways on foot down a rocky track from the car park. We let Shazz’ son spend a minute freaking out about it before we told him that Himself had transportation organised so while he went off to get his lot and to organise everything, we brought enough stuff to pitch our tents and make a cup of tea.
Everything except the propane and the water of course. Queenie always forgets something. So she had to hike back for those.
Anyways, we got to the cove, which I’ve written about before and which is quite the nicest place in the world bar none, and the first thing that happens is that a little minke whale buzzes into the cove for a blow and a breather. She came in every day we were there at the same time. So we’re standing on the flat green ridge above the cove that is perfect for camping, looking down at the beautiful rock formations that tumble along the shore, with the blue, blue sea twinkling and pushing gently against the rocks under the hot August sun, just admiring the beauty of the cloudless day, when we hear bbbsssccchhhh!!!
(Queenie’s version of a blow, doncha know).
WHALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I screamed. And there she was, a smooth black shadow gliding through the water.
I thought Polly was going to burst she was so thrilled.
And that was the weekend for us pretty much. If I had sat down to write a story about the perfect weekend for a girl from Ireland to experience on the island, I would probably have left some of it out as being too OTT.
It would have been perfect weather until just after we left. And so it was. We had two days of hot hot sunshine, and when we woke up on the third morning, the wind had changed and was blowing hard enough to make dismantling the tents a bit of a challenge. By the time we got back to Halifax we were in the middle of one of Nova Scotia’s extreme summer storms.
Each night, as we barbecued our steaks and chicken, dusk would have stolen gently over the outgoing tide and a bulbous golden harvest moon would have risen over the ridge and slung itself lowly, slowly across a cloudless night sky, spattered with stars.
And so it was.
The first night, our good friends would have made their way down to camp on the shore with us, and all the children would have disappeared over the ridge to do whatever kids do on the shore, while us grown ups had a few beers and lit the bonfire and watched the seals coming in all nosy to investigate what the kids were up to.
Then later everyone would sit on the beach and watch the fire and laugh at the men and boys as they fed the fire and undertook those strange rituals that men have when they’re engaging in something as primordial as making heat from driftwood to keep everyone warm on an island shore
And so it was.
Polly would have had toasted marshmallows and wieners to roast over the fire (not too primordial), and lots of local boys to chat to, as well as getting to meet all the local women Queenie has met through Himself, who are just like the women at home in Springtown where Polly and Queenie are from.
And so it was.
Next day the sun glared down on us, so Shazz made an Ottoman-style tent with four tree branches and a fly leaf (red), and we lay under it and talked for hours while Himself brought the kids swimming in the swimming hole further up the track. Then we emerged from the woods for a barbeque at Tee’s house before heading back for another bonfire under the perfect moon, where Polly sang old Irish songs that made people want to cry (because the songs were sad, doncha know, Polly’s a good singer).
Then everyone went to bed and Polly and Queenie sat by the fire for a while and told each other all the things in their hearts that they hadn’t been able to tell each other for ages, what with having to be on opposite sides of the ocean for ever such a long time.
Queenie’s very glad she didn’t have to make the weekend up; that it just happened the way it did. We all deserve a perfect weekend once in a while.
It was great. We went to the airport and Queenie jumped up and down in a fit for half an hour while the planeload moved slowly through Customs, and eventually Himself got Queenie sat down and calmed down a little, and of course as soon as he did the door opened and there was Polly. Much screaming and yakking ensued until eventually everyone was very tired and had to go to bed around two.
Next morning, after some blueberry pancakes and maple syrup, and an hour’s chaotic packing, Queenie and Himself brought Polly down to the island for a weekend’s camping, it being the Natal Day holiday in Nova Scotia.
And Shazz and her boy, who were making their first trip to the island, came too. Five people, five tall people, all their tents and sleeping bags and camping gear, plus all the food and all the drink, plus all the clothes and hats and coats, in one 4WD. We just about all fit in.
We got down to the island and unloaded all the gear and it was only then that the other passengers in the car realised that the cove where we were camping was quite a ways on foot down a rocky track from the car park. We let Shazz’ son spend a minute freaking out about it before we told him that Himself had transportation organised so while he went off to get his lot and to organise everything, we brought enough stuff to pitch our tents and make a cup of tea.
Everything except the propane and the water of course. Queenie always forgets something. So she had to hike back for those.
Anyways, we got to the cove, which I’ve written about before and which is quite the nicest place in the world bar none, and the first thing that happens is that a little minke whale buzzes into the cove for a blow and a breather. She came in every day we were there at the same time. So we’re standing on the flat green ridge above the cove that is perfect for camping, looking down at the beautiful rock formations that tumble along the shore, with the blue, blue sea twinkling and pushing gently against the rocks under the hot August sun, just admiring the beauty of the cloudless day, when we hear bbbsssccchhhh!!!
(Queenie’s version of a blow, doncha know).
WHALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I screamed. And there she was, a smooth black shadow gliding through the water.
I thought Polly was going to burst she was so thrilled.
And that was the weekend for us pretty much. If I had sat down to write a story about the perfect weekend for a girl from Ireland to experience on the island, I would probably have left some of it out as being too OTT.
It would have been perfect weather until just after we left. And so it was. We had two days of hot hot sunshine, and when we woke up on the third morning, the wind had changed and was blowing hard enough to make dismantling the tents a bit of a challenge. By the time we got back to Halifax we were in the middle of one of Nova Scotia’s extreme summer storms.
Each night, as we barbecued our steaks and chicken, dusk would have stolen gently over the outgoing tide and a bulbous golden harvest moon would have risen over the ridge and slung itself lowly, slowly across a cloudless night sky, spattered with stars.
And so it was.
The first night, our good friends would have made their way down to camp on the shore with us, and all the children would have disappeared over the ridge to do whatever kids do on the shore, while us grown ups had a few beers and lit the bonfire and watched the seals coming in all nosy to investigate what the kids were up to.
Then later everyone would sit on the beach and watch the fire and laugh at the men and boys as they fed the fire and undertook those strange rituals that men have when they’re engaging in something as primordial as making heat from driftwood to keep everyone warm on an island shore
And so it was.
Polly would have had toasted marshmallows and wieners to roast over the fire (not too primordial), and lots of local boys to chat to, as well as getting to meet all the local women Queenie has met through Himself, who are just like the women at home in Springtown where Polly and Queenie are from.
And so it was.
Next day the sun glared down on us, so Shazz made an Ottoman-style tent with four tree branches and a fly leaf (red), and we lay under it and talked for hours while Himself brought the kids swimming in the swimming hole further up the track. Then we emerged from the woods for a barbeque at Tee’s house before heading back for another bonfire under the perfect moon, where Polly sang old Irish songs that made people want to cry (because the songs were sad, doncha know, Polly’s a good singer).
Then everyone went to bed and Polly and Queenie sat by the fire for a while and told each other all the things in their hearts that they hadn’t been able to tell each other for ages, what with having to be on opposite sides of the ocean for ever such a long time.
Queenie’s very glad she didn’t have to make the weekend up; that it just happened the way it did. We all deserve a perfect weekend once in a while.
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