Moot Point

I never really thought that I might live in a bad neighbourhood until I saw a guy getting arrested on the front porch of a house down my street.

I was heading to the subway, late for work, which means basically mid-morning. As I approached the corner, I realized that there were several police cars (like, four by the time I got there), surrounding this one house. I had to walk around the squad cars to get by on the sidewalk across the street. At the house, I could see them actually cuffing the guy. He just standing out there, in his puffy winter coat.

A couple of days earlier, while walking home late from work, I saw these two guys parked in what was obviously an unmarked police car in the vicinity of this same house. (Obviously because they had a bunch of red, siren-like lights at the front). Like they were watching him, because of some ongoing crime. Right down my street. Crackhouse? Opium den?

I guess there were warning signs. Like when the Taber shooter escaped and it was from a halfway house a block away from me.

I’ve never really thought of my neighbourhood as sketchy. I love that there are weirdo Portuguese bridal stores and yard sales every weekend all summer and that it isn’t too hip. I’m in walking distance to tacos, a good used music/book store and a Pizza Pizza. (Though to be totally honest I picked the place almost entirely because it’s close to the subway, a rep cinema, and a Portuguese bakery).

I have never seen any sketchy things going on, though Alex and Rachel and I did have that crazy guy who was talking to himself walk behind us for awhile on the way to the subway.

I don’ t know. It’s not like, Jane & Finch, where I certainly was happy to be accompanied by those tall boys when those drug dealers approached us with their large dog. I’ve never been like, scared, though I did walk really fast that one time when I realized that this guy had stopped his car to watch me straighten my kneesocks. Of course, these are all stories I refrain from telling my mother. Because she lives in the total suburbs, where nothing ever happens.

Right now I am trying to master the art of writing a Letter of Intent to get into grad school and wishing I had warmer socks.

Last night I went to a late show of La Dolce Vita at my neighbourhood rep theatre. I somehow managed to get a BA in film without seeing it, and it was brilliant, but why does every “great film” of the twentieth century seem to revolve around dudes who use women? They are generally beautiful women, who are made objects of the male gaze and they are beautifully shot. But whither my canon?

It’s weird. When I’m sitting in the theatre, waiting for the movie to start, I can see my statement of intent perfectly. It’s well-written, it’s concise, it’s specific and intelligent. When I sit down to write, I find myself totally incapable of phrasing anything and I wind up writing this bizarre personal biography thing.

Well, Alex has a lot of homework this weekend, so I will have few distractions and can hopefully have it finished for Monday morning. Given my first letters of reference are due in like, three weeks, I’d better.

I have never been so scared of anything before ever. (Except maybe a dead mouse, but that’s another post.)

Welcome!

So Alex gave me this space months ago, and for months all that sat in it was this picture:

Now there’s more.

(PS My boyfriend is so pretty with his tie and I certainly don’t feel obligated to say that because he gave me webspace and helped me import all my old posts.)

So, I’m supposed to be writing a CV and all, but it’s scary and hard. (SO MUCH PRESSURE I might EXPLODE).

I feel I should alert you to something, as my blog readership. I’ve often mentioned the inferiority of hot chocolate mix to the addition of cocoa and sugar to milk, but this is a lot of work now that I don’t have a microwave, so the next best thing is the rather expensive but wholly delicious (and liberal guilt-assuaging) Cocoa Camino. It comes in a dark-chocolate variety, which is sweet, but has the bitterness of actual cocoa underlying it.

This recommendation is hearty.

On a totally different note, shouldn’t “Video on Trial” be a way better show? How hard is it to find half-way intelligent people to mock music videos? (How hard is it to dissect the inherent sexism in “My Humps.”*?)

Remind me, why is that song an actual hit? Why would any self-respecting woman allow herself to be shown publicly singing those lyrics? “I will force you to do things with my body, because I am woman, and my only power is my sexuality.”

Ugh, I’m so cranky. I feel like a post-feminist Andy Rooney.

PS I kind of have a sort-of internet connection at home again, so if you wanted to start checking my blog more frequently, it might actually be rewarded.

(Last) Health Update: I decided not to go to the doctor because I sort of felt better. I now feel 70% more like myself, so I’m semi-officially on the mend.

My new official focus is getting grad school applications done as quickly as humanly possibly, since I probably should have been doing them instead of laying around being sick for like, three and a half weeks, but hey, no one can bat 1000.

My new unofficial focus is yay! almost Christmas! It’s sweater weather.
Plans are being laid, gifts are being considered. Alex is possibly the hardest person to buy for in the history of the world; I’ve already given him sweater vests and cufflinks, what’s left? Dan and Tim, whose birthdays I totally missed after they gave me things, and then I failed to come through on promised make-up baked goods, what of them?
Maybe this year, since I don’t have exams and essays due up until the week before the big day, I will have gifts bought in advance.
I want to go out and make egg nog, like, yesterday, but really, you only get a couple weeks a year where it’s not totally ridiculous to drink something made of whole milk, eggs, vanilla, sugar and rum, with a generous sprinkle of nutmeg on top. Sadly, it’s not those weeks yet.
I want to start baking cookies and squares and melting chocolate and the like, but again, it’s way too early and I know I could theoretically mix the dough and freeze it, but where’s the fun in that? (Plus my freezer is barely big enough for all my ice cube trays).

Apparently my many mono symptoms are caused by… not-mono. Bizarro-mono. Anti-mono, which explodes when it touches mono. I called the walk-in clinic where I’ve been going for medical care (because I don’t trust them to call me back properly, because they had my chart wrong last time), and apparently they didn’t call because I actually don’t have mono.

Which is good, I guess, except, what the hell is wrong with me? I’m not just like, inventing the fatigue part. I was having serious trouble getting out of bed in the morning before mono was even suggested as a possible diagnosis.

Presumably I have some other bizarre virus thing. I guess. I’m going back to the doctor, because, uh, I think we both thought it was mono, so he didn’t really tell me what else it could be. This clinic is going to think I’m a hypochondriac or something. This will be my third visit in four weeks. (I should really find a better doctor.) I still have bizarre swollen glands (in two places) which haven’t gone away and I still have serious trouble getting up in the morning.

I can’t believe I’m disappointed I don’t have mono.

I still haven’t heard back from the doctor’s office about my bloodwork, so I don’t technically know I have mono, but I’m completely positive I have it because I have basically all the symptoms. Except loss of appetite.

I never get loss of appetite.

I spent the weekend mostly hanging out at Alex’s, by which I mean shifting from Alex’s dining room table to Alex’s living room couch to Alex’s bed and back, mainly eating cookies and patting Ted* and watching Six Feet Under.

The highlight was when Alex made me guacamole. He is not a very good cook (he once burned bacon and destroyed my spatula), but he is a master of dips.

*Which is a sort-of joke, because it sounds dirty and then you click on the link and realize Ted is Alex’s dog, and just has a person name. It’s not really even a joke, but I’m tired. It’s a monojoke. Petting dogs is therapeutic, though.

So when I thought I had strep throat? It turns out to not so much be strep throat as mononucleosis. (This is not official, as I don’t get my test results for another 2-4 days, but I’m pretty sure, as I have almost all the symptoms, including tenderness of the liver.)

It sort of explains why I’ve been having so much trouble getting up in the morning lately. Here I thought I was just depressed.

Despite my increasingly suspected mono, I had the two most contrasting nights out ever. Wednesday Alex and I saw the Constantines (with the Hold Steady, who I think I may have liked better, opening). We sort of accidentally wound up really close to the stage and got nudged and occasionally actually shoved by a lot of annoyed teenaged superfans. This one (obviously not teenage) seven-foot tall guy actually leaned over me to poke his friend and then started shoving me in an attempt to get me to move so he could stand in front of me. This didn’t work because a) there was no room and b) I am five foot four and I can’t see over your shoulder, you jackass. He stayed behind me for awhile and I could feel my hair moving from the breeze every time he clapped. Also, I was tired from the standing because of you know, the mono. So when this group of about ten people starting literally moshing despite the fact that the people around them obviously did not want to join in the moshing, you can imagine how thrilled I was.

Which is why actually had more fun at night number two, a trip to the symphony. (Which Kevan got us some cheap tickets to.) No one pushed me, elbowed me, or repeatedly hit my arm with her purse. (I’m looking at you, girl who kept standing increasingly close to me and then told her friend “hey, come stand in front of me,” when she in actuality meant, “in front of this short girl next to me who, by the way, can’t see over your stupid fluffy hair”.) Also, the big loud finale of “Pines of Rome” totally brought the rock.

Tired now. I’m going to Alex’s, where he will presumably be nice to me and bring me things.

I hate (theoretical) mono.