Last name, first name, date of birth?

Well it was a productive, if not incredibly busy, weekend. I made a chocolate souffle (pictures to follow, my camera is out of reach at the moment) which turned out perfectly. Mike and I decided to make Montreal style bagels on a whim, and it was way too much fun. Boiling breads and baked goods has become my new obsession. It's just so gratifying as you drop those blobs of dough in the water and watch them puff and rise to the top of the pot. Dumplings were never de rigeur in our household, but I've learned to love them. I think boiling wheat/besan/anything products is highly underrated. It's not just for pasta, people!

I'm thinking a lot about school lately. I hope both Mike and I get in, and are given the opportunity by these random arbiters of destiny to fulfill our dreams. How odd is it that some bureaucrat gets to decide this? And it is all based on a couple pieces of paper, in my case. A short letter pleading my worthiness, and a computer printoff filled with numbers that signify, in turn, my intelligence and stick-to-it-iveness. I've always had a bit of an obsession with school applications. In my senior year I applied to thirteen different universities. My parents, clearly not keeping track, kept doling out the application fees.

"How many is that now?" My mother asked offhandedly. I think I mumbled something vague about open opportunities with a dash of world as my oyster rhetoric that I love so much.

In the end, I got into one university, which was perfect because it was the one that I wanted to get into and it saved me the trouble of having to decide. I should say from the outset that my lack of options wasn't from poor grades, but rather, overambitiousness. I had graduated a year early, but my graduation was only going to come through in August. I hurriedly completed the last of my coursework in the chunnel, reading the Great Gatsby beneath the Tour Effiel. I found the contrast of European historicity and feigned American classism most ironic. Most universities weren't willing to give me a conditional acceptance except my alma mater, which did. As time went on, I would continue to love the bendiness of their administration, the flexibility of their manifestos. There was always someone sympathetic that you could wheedle if your tuition was late, or you really really needed to get into that class that was full.

I think those thirteen applications were the harbingers of the future. I learned to fill in my name, last then first, in caps in those tiny blocks. Birthdate, SIN, address, phone number, signature. It's a formula that is the catalyst for all of the hallmarks of life: school applications, marriage certificates, mortgage papers and your child's birth registration. Little did I know, as I pressed out those facts about myself to thirteen different schools through whitened knuckles and ball point pen, that it would eventually determine my entire future. Even if I did only get in to one of them.

On Waiting....

Spring rain always reminds me of Nova Scotia. Our townhome has the lucky and unusual distinction of having a bedroom with a roof above (as opposed to, say, some random person`s linoleum) and when it rains here it makes the most relaxing pitter-patter on our rooftop patio. It lulls me to sleep and makes my body melt into my sheets. We are all sick, taking naps in shifts today. I think there has only been one or two hours in which we have all been awake simultaneously. Blame it on the rain.

The illness is one that was thoughtfully cultivated by some tiny Unitarian, and was seemingly amplified as it was passed along. Ender dealt with it like a champ, I was mildly ill, and Mike is/was knocked off his feet. It was also a fast onset, so we each got the sickness one day apart from eachother, our misery piling each upon the next. Two packages of tissues, one package of menthol cough drops, and a lot of complaining later, we all sit in the faux-gaslight of the living room. Mike reads in the rocking chair, Ender sleeps in my lap, I sit on the laptop bathed in blue light. We all breathe through our mouths. Occasionally someone sniffles. We all listen to the welcome monotony of the rain.

I wonder if everyone else remembers sitting in their parents car, watching fat rain drops slither, join and disperse like mercury. Cars take on a special smell when it rains. I could sit in one indefinitely, appreciating the forced conversation that always occurs in that tiny shelter. In Halifax the rain comes down torrentially, turning east-west roads into pounding rivers, making sidewalks almost unusable if one hasn't worn proper footwear. The sky opens and it pours for days and days, sometimes weeks. Here in Ontario people are shocked when it rains for a few days. Cars careen along highways when there is slight fog, causing huge pileups. In Nova Scotia, the mud, the fog, the rain, the temporary rivers, are all taken in stride. One must wait for the weather. I hope when I'm older I'll have a veranda, where Ender and I can sit and wait on the weather. The rain will drench the wood giving off that heady fragrance of summer as we wait, and wait, and talk. I want him to learn to wait, and enjoy the storms as they come.

Alleluja, spread the cheer

Two days preceding the New Year of 2007, I had returned from winter vacation to my university town, Montreal. The entire city was coated in a thick layer of ice, as Montreal is wont to do, and I sat in my apartment trying to decide what to do while I waited for everyone I knew (including my boyfriend at the time) to return from their respective vacations. So I decided what any sensible twenty-something would do in my situation, that I would get a tattoo.

With ninety dollars in christmas gift money clenched in my apprehensive fist, and a crumpled printed off image in my pocket, I entered Tattoatouage, an ink parlour on St. Denis not far from where I was living. My experience of my first tattoo was very much like the experience of my first cigarette. I did it alone, with only my overactive thoughts as company. Surprisingly, they were able to take me immediately. I motioned to a girl in broken French that I wanted my image on my wrist in the same size. She obliged.

As she buzzed away at my wrist, she asked me the meaning of the tattoo.

"My belief in the apocalypse." I said staunchly.

"L'apocalypse?" She arched an eyebrow, and returned to her work with the same self-righteousness of most non-practicing French Catholics. It was weird, but obviously not weird enough to warrant further discussion.

Half an hour later, I had the omega on my wrist that will be on me until the day I die. Like most things, its meaning has shifted and changed over time. Now, its significance is more that things end. It's an important thing to remember, especially when it seems like you'll be sick forever or that you always fight with your partner. All things have an end, and with that comes a new beginning.

After getting my tattoo and sitting at home alone with it, chanting to myself how awesome it was, I decided to take a bus to Toronto so that I could spend New Years with friends. I packed a bag and headed out. I stayed at my friend Jimmy's place. We went to a very disappointing new years party, and then headed back to Jimmy's apartment to hang out for the rest of the night. Then a certain boy, whom I had met before, came over. We argued about philosophy, anarchy and post-apocalypticism. I proudly showed him my new tattoo, and he reciprocated, showing his tattooed knuckles from when he was a teenager.

Little did I know, that boy would be my future husband and father of my child. So I guess I can thank my tattoo, in a way.

I still believe in the end. I believe that the way things are as we know them are a very temporary state and that we should always be prepared. At the moment I'm putting together an emergency kit for my family. Before you say I'm crazy, you should note that Ontario recommends this. There's even 'emergency preparedness month', though I'm not sure which month that is. I'm sure when we see things like Hurricane Katrina, we think that it couldn't happen to us, but I'm sure they didn't think it would be them either. So here are some tips:

-have at least a three day supply of water on hand for your family. This means one litre of water for each person, each day. Look into proper storage techniques, and remember that water, like food, can go bad.

-a good thing to own is a crank radio, for when the power goes out. Some of these have reading lights too, but keep candles on hand for this purpose also.

-a book, or print-offs, on emergency preparedness. There is often no internet in an emergency!

-non-perishable food stuffs. Mayday makes rations that are good for quite a while, and meet your nutritional requirements. Also Mountain House has canned food that is good for thirty years plus, so you won't have to keep restocking.

-keep small versions of these objects in your car, and make sure your emergency kit in your house can be moved easily in case of evacuation.

I think in Ontario we really assume that nothing will go wrong. Tornados are rare, hurricanes nonexistant, and we aren't over any major fault lines for earthquakes. However, anything can happen, and with a family to protect, I believe it's better to be safe rather than sorry.

So on that note, I'll leave you with my favourite song by Band of Horses, which you can hear here:

The end's not near

It's here
Alleluia
Spread the cheer
And watch the millenarians
Throw a party for a thousand years

You won't see the pious praying
They'll be too busy flaying
All the martyrs with better ways
To stop the world decaying
If you call me I won't be home
I'm hiding from the kingdom come
They can't see everything on earth
With the satellites and the roving drones

This is why hell is underground
Like a reclaimed bad part of town
We don't want to lose our souls
We're the saints who don't want to be found

The Things I Was Supposed to Be

Writing this letter of intent (seemingly endlessly) has set me on the track of thought of all the things I've wanted to be over the years. When I was younger I had such tunnel vision about my future. There was only one possible version, and I thought if I clung to it as hard as I could then it would become a reality. While this is probably true, I overestimated my own tenacity. I think this is a generational issue, though. Most people I know are just now becoming what they think they should be, after a myriad of majors and minors, jobs and volunteer positions. So, here is a list of the things I was supposed to be. Consider it to be a sort of non-traditional resume.

Orthopedic Surgeon
Why: My dad was in a motorcycle accident before I was born, and as a result suffered permanent disability. Simply put, I wanted to fix him.
What: I read Grey's Anatomy when I was in grade three, and announced proudly to everyone who would listen that I was going to be a doctor
Why not: I took a week of grade 13 level calculus and then dropped it. Calculus was a prerequisite for the science program, and I decided if calculus was needed to become a doctor, I probably shouldn't be one. Calculus makes no sense to me.

Model
Why: I was six feet and a hundred and fifty pounds in grade nine. You do the math.
What: I did some photoshoots, learned the runway, trucking myself from my country home to Toronto most weekends.
Why not: In the end, I didn't really care about it as voraciously as was needed. Some of those girls lived and breathed fashion, whereas I did not. Upon quitting the job, I had my lip pierced.

Professor
Why: I was picked out by one of my professors as being 'special' and more apt than some at sociological dissemination.
What: I worked way too hard as a research assistant, burned myself out, and then dropped out of a master's degree six months from completion.
Why not: Became disenchanted with ivory-tower intellectualism, as well as the poverty of academia. Being too poor to buy groceries just so you can argue about Foucault's version of the panopticon is SO not worth it.

Lawyer
Why: It was always a backup plan of mine, even back in the 'I'm gonna be a doctor' days. Whilst not as reputable as being a doctor, it was a profession and therefore good enough.
What: Took courses and interest in constitutional freedoms. Made loud noises in bars about rights and original intent. Worked in a law firm as a lawyer's underling.
Why not: Crappy LSAT scores, which may or may not be a result of complete disinterest in law school on my part.

When I was a kid, I went to a summer camp where we would stay on one of those recreation pioneer villages and 'work' as the children actors. This was legal because it was technically camp, and we were paying to be there. Anyway, for one of the activities, they had us sit down and talk about time and how time changes things. Deep stuff for camp, really. No wonder it was my favourite summercamp experience. They asked us what we pictured ourselves doing in fifteen years, and then we would make a presentation on it. I must have been nine or ten at the time. I gave my presentation about starting med school and living on my own. This is my most certain memory of my picture of my future. Needless to say, my future turned out much differently than that childish perception of what adulthood would be like. Still, I hope she (I) would be proud of me. I've realised since then that it's so much more important to be happy with yourself and what you're doing than to have a job that other people think is important.  That's all you're supposed to be. Content.