haircut: a story

(Note: this photo is compliments of the excellent movie-stills blog, Movie Screenshots. It features the wonderful Shirley MacLaine as Ouiser Boudreau, and Daryl Hannah as Annelle Dupuy Desoto, and the color coral.)

The other day Mum and I both scheduled appointments at a member club of the inner sanctum for women's beauty: the hair salon. It's the one my mother's been going to ever since she cut her long, thick curly hair, 20 years ago, from halfway down her back to a smart pixie-like cut. I've gotten haircuts myself from Debbie, starting when I had to sit in a booster seat added onto the normal adult chair. One Halloween when I was maybe 5 or 6, we went to Debbie's and I got my hair poofed right up with hairspray, and then colored green, red, yellow and probably some other colors. I looked like a punk rocker! We took lots of pictures of me in a rock-star-crossed-with-a-feral-cat pose. How I loved that look, and wished I could have it every day.

When I started living in other places besides Cape Breton, from the age of 18, I realized that going to Debbie's -- and other Cape Breton hair stylists -- had sheltered me from the harsh truth of major cities around the world: haircuts are increasingly dang expensive! From Whistler, BC to Sydney, Australia, I routinely paid from $50 to $80 for a good cut. But I liked what I got and I didn't mind paying for it. I never had a great relationship with a hairdresser, like the friendly banter we could have with Debbie, but I figured that was par for the course, the salons I visited being big-city and chic (read: snobby).

Until I moved to Fredericton, and had a hair emergency. I had gotten my hair dyed bright red, at Debbie's, and I guess the dye didn't take in my bleached-out head of hair, because two weeks later Crazy Crimson or whatever it was called had faded to a dull, nasty orange, tinged with light brown. (The one time Debbie let me down!) This coincided with my first week of university in a new town, and I decided I did NOT want to meet new people with a head that literally looked like a pumpkin. So I went to a swanky-looking spa downtown, where I gave the stylist, Melene, a look that said it all: my old shade back, please! She did the job, I was able to relax about my look, and believe it or not, I actually made friends. All through my three years in Fredericton, I kept going back to Sue Lawrence Hair and Spa for Melene's stellar cuts. She seemed to be able to make any growing-out stage look good, and somehow knew how to make my hair (which has the thickness and slight wave from my mother's side, and a bit of straightness from my father's side, but which can easily look like an overgrown, frizzy hedge if not cut right) peaceful. I remember thinking, "Wow, my hair doesn't have to be frizzy, coarse, or bend in weird places when I least want it to?" I know this is a service for which I will be forever grateful.

A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless unless she chooses to come forward and name herself, is doing her Master's thesis on the Sociology of women's beauty practices, and especially on what goes on in beauty salons. There is so much to talk about on this subject that I'm convinced one day my friend could write a whole book on it, if she so chooses. I would definitely buy and then actually read that book, as the subject is rather intriguing: a place where women go freely and happily, at least in the best case scenario, to be modified and beautified, a place which supplies us with ritual, gossip, and some of the best counseling I've ever had, including that of professional counselors! Yet, in the worst case scenario, the ideals of beauty can feel rigid, strict, imposed upon us. Also, a visit to the salon can be stressful, not fun, if the hairstylist is demanding, insulting, a bad listener, or downright incompetent. You can easily get to wondering, how much of our beauty rituals is free choice and how much is indoctrination? How much is pleasurable and how much is harmful?

I certainly don't have answers to those questions, but I think asking the questions is an important step. Deducing the exact ratio of these components can be left to the social scientists, like my friend, but talking about the issues, maybe even while you're in the salon chair, makes you aware that there are issues, and that our everyday actions are just the front for the amazing complexity of our motivations. Also, being aware of these complex motivations allows me, as a feminist, to enjoy the time I spend in the salon, knowing that my enjoyment is just as valid as are my qualms about the beauty industry as a whole, and that going in for a trim and a gab may even do a little good for the soul.

If any of you have seen Steel Magnolias, you'll know what the ideal of the beauty salon is: that perfect, if a little frumpy, room at the back where Dolly Parton gabs while she poofs Julia Roberts' hair, where problems find solutions, where anger gets vented, where mothers and daughters can bond over nail polish shades, where neighbors, no matter how "mad hatter", are taken in and given a good hairstyle. Beauty with humility. Even though the movie is filled to the brim with terrible, 80's style dresses covered with giant floral patterns, I love it anyway, because Dolly Parton's hair salon actually does exist in so many places. It may not be recognizable, because it's had a glamour treatment, and calls itself a "spa", complete with trendy mirrors, artwork and workers with asymmetrical swaths of hair dyed literal rainbows, but don't be fooled. If the workers can gossip with you, laugh at their own mistakes and with each other, and turn you out on the street looking fabulous, it's the real thing.

I went back to Debbie's the other day, now that I'm living on Cape Breton again. We all gabbed, vented, laughed at ourselves and our mistakes, swore just a little, and talked about hair. I got my hair washed by a professional (there's something so pleasant about that), cut with the layers re-shaped, rubbed with a bit of shining polish and mousse, then dried and straightened. Mum got her "usual", and we both left looking fabulous, and feeling just a little bit better. I think this relationship just might be the real thing.

good medicine: a play in two acts

[Dramatis Personae

LEAH, a young woman of 22, soon to be 23.
MAN, a fellow Odell Park enthusiast.
NEIL, an elderly gentleman of 92

SCENE: Fredericton, New Brunswick]

Act One

Scene: Odell Park. The place where three wide paths meet, and form a big open circle underneath tall pines and birches. There is a bench here, and the ground is covered in snow, which is itself covered in bits of fallen trees--needles, bark, lichen. There are footprints in the snow and dog prints too. The sky is overcast and there is a wind that makes the green branches sway back and forth. The deciduous trees' branches are bare, and they sway too, forming silhouettes against the gray sky. LEAH is sitting on the backrest of the bench in a black coat, a black toque, a bright blue scarf, and blue jeans, her feet in brown Doc Marten boots resting on the seat of the bench, because it is covered in snow. Her head is tilted back and she is looking up at the sky through tree branches, thinking about things. A MAN in a blue jacket approaches from a long way down the path.

LEAH looks at him, then back up at the sky. He is still too far away to speak to. When he comes closer, she turns her head and smiles at him, as you do with anyone you meet on Odell's paths. He is middle aged and walking swiftly, looks to be of East Indian origin. He doesn't pause to speak, but keeps walking as the two converse.

LEAH: Hi..!

MAN: Hello there. This is a nice place to rest, isn't it?

LEAH (smiling broadly): Yes, yes it is.

MAN: You look lovely, sitting there.

LEAH: Thank you! (pause) Have a good day.

MAN: You, too.

He is gone down another path, his blue jacket long on his torso, his compliment left hanging in the forest air for LEAH to smile at.

Act Two

Scene: Living room of NEIL's house. NEIL is LEAH's landlord, a man of 92. Up until last year, when he got sick, he still gardened, walked regularly to church, and drove as far as Ottawa. Over the three years that LEAH has been his tenant they have become good friends. Today she is paying a quick visit to impart some news; she does this fairly regularly because soon she will be leaving and she wants to see NEIL as much as she can. NEIL is in a mechanically-reclining chair which he operates with a button. The television is on behind LEAH. After a friendly conversation LEAH is ready to go back downstairs but decides she will ask another question.

LEAH: Do you ever read Maeve Binchy novels, Neil?

NEIL: Nope.

LEAH: They're not Harlequins, you might not like them!

(Both laugh at this. NEIL recently admitted he reads Harlequin romances.)

LEAH: Well, I'll go back down below and curl up with a blanket, a cup of tea and a good book.

NEIL: It's amazing how you don't get sick of that diet!

LEAH: Yes, I know! One thing I'm glad for, out of this whole thing, is having the time...to just sit and read, and do things like watch the crows and squirrels do their thing.

NEIL (agreeing): And just let things happen.

LEAH: Exactly.

after the storm

Wow. Well. Here I am, after a full month of not posting. It feels surprisingly good to fire up the ol' Blogger again, to click on "New Post", to put tentative feelers out into the blogworld --and the world in general-- again.

I can't believe, in some ways, that it has been a month. Each week has brought a fresh batch of challenges, a fresh batch of decisions to make, and feelings to sort through. The "grubby details", as Marlo called them, belong to me and a few close friends, but the truth is simple: I've been sick, am still sick, and am taking time off from school in order to rest and get my strength back. I burnt myself out, more or less, and have had to deal with the consequences, which have been more than I bargained for.

My life has changed since I posted last. The things that remained the same are physical location (Fredericton, New Brunswick, the East Coast of Canada), and the dear friends and family who support this old bean. It's really funny, surreal actually, to stand at the center of your life and watch it change around you, watch yourself stop doing things because you can't do them anymore, and mourn your losses. It's like traveling to a foreign country, not knowing the language or the currency before you get there: you see what happens one day at a time, sometimes one hour or minute at a time, even one breath at a time.

This makes for a more intense experience, for better and for worse. I have certainly become "hyper-aware", as one person put it, of my self, my feelings, my needs and my desires. Having this awareness does not make it any easier to put such needs into practice, but it helps. It also influences what I have to talk about, necessarily! I can't wait for the day when I have a conversation with someone that doesn't include my own issues. But in time, that will come, and I know that having been there for a number of the people who are holding on to the corners of my "safety net" right now means they do, actually, want to be here for me. I'm not a burden as much as I'm just taking my turn at leaning.

What I'm doing right now (along with the physical acts of resting and no longer attending classes, taking a break) is what Clarissa Pinkola Estés calls "homing" or "returning to oneself". She writes about the necessity of this in her bestselling "Women Who Run With The Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype" (New York: Ballantine Books, 1995):

What is homing? It is the instinct to return, to go to the place we remember. It is the ability to find, whether in dark or in daylight, one's home place. We all know how to return home. No matter how long it's been, we find our way. [...]

For some, home is the taking up of an endeavor of some sort. Women begin to sing again after years of finding reason not to. They commit themselves to learn something they've been heartfelt about for a long time. They seek out the lost people and things in their lives. They take back their voices and write. They rest. They make some corner of the world their own. They execute immense or intense decisions. They do something that leaves footprints.

For some, home is a forest, a desert, a sea. In truth, home is holographic. It is carried at full power in even a single tree, a solitary cactus in a plant shop window, a pool of still water. It is also at full potency in a yellow leaf lying on the asphalt, a red clay pot waiting for a root bundle, a drop of water on the skin. When you focus with soul-eyes, you will see home in many, many places. (pp. 283-6).

So I'm homing. I've come through a storm, and now I'm sorting out the mess it left. I'm resting, I'm making good food for myself, I'm taking up things I haven't done in too, too long (writing for myself, drawing with charcoals, pencils, pens, inks, reading a book that isn't for class). I'm mourning the losses, and trusting in something --faith? life? the way things tend to go?-- that the voids will be filled. I'm seeing that indeed they are, one breath, one moment, one day at a time.

Oh and, the picture was taken by Marlo. I like using her photographs to illustrate my writing, because they tend to be of subjects in my immediate environment (since we're room-mates and fellow Fredericton residents and explorers), and she takes such thoughtful and striking photographs. At least, I think so. I also thought that this one, called "iceplants", is both fragile and strong, the kind of strength that comes from remaining, and therefore pertinent. I also really love the colors.

What do you do to go home? What are the endeavors, actions, creations and thoughts that bring you back to yourself? Have you done them lately?

boost YOUR eco

And here is the website: Boost Your Eco 2007! For more info...

Miss Bean's taking a bit of a break at the moment. She--make that I--will be back with ya'll shortly, but there's some resting and some sorting out to do. Don't worry, I'm well taken care of, and taking care of myself as best as I can.

Anyway, if you're in Fredericton, you already know about this, and hopefully you're going out to it. If you're not in Fredericton, check out the link anyway, just to see what I and the rest of the Boosters have been working so hard on all year.

taking the cake

(Image from the kindly folks at Low Resolution)

Fighting the February Funk: Five Favorites

1. Pictures of cupcakes really do help, but real cupcakes are better, I'd bet.
2. Long hot bathtub + lemon oil + candles lit. The best part is leaning your arm against the side of the tub and watching steam curl off it like your breath outside, only better because you're not outside, you're inside, in a bathtub.
3. The music of Angie Stone.
4. Sleeping. It was how we beat November, it's how we'll beat February.
5. Breaking down the work you have to do into manageable chunks (whatever size works for you: from 10 minute blocks to an hour), then spacing these blocks out with enjoyable activities such as: watching movies, going for coffee, lying on the floor and listening to tunes, eating peanut butter from the jar, etc.

And for God's sake, tell me I'm not the only one counting down the days to March Break.

This is not to say there's no beauty in the wintertime, that icicles aren't pretty, or that skating's not fun. I'd have to be half dead not to enjoy the aesthetic pleasures of Fredericton winter--the light at the end of a sunny day, the way the moon looks, trees against snow, all that. I'm just at that point (halfway through the third year of uni? half frozen from the cold? both?) where bathtubs, cupcakes and soul music are necessary.

Et vous?

all quiet on the eastern front

When I started this blog about four years ago--I'm not certain how long anymore, especially now that my archives have disappeared--I was living in Whistler, BC, on my own for the first time at 18. My audience was only Janice at first, and a handful of other friends who wanted to keep tabs on me. When I travelled back across the country and then made plans to travel to Australia at 19, it was a great way for people to keep in touch with me, and I with them, without having to do the mass-email thing, and it worked out pretty good.

Two things happened: I started university here in New Brunswick, and I became more aware of my audience. The first means that I'm now staying in one place, more or less, and spending a lot of my time writing essays and their ilk, so not only do I have fewer exciting adventures to chronicle, but I also have less energy to do the chronicling with. The second means that I realized more people than I thought occasionally drop by Huminbean's humble address, which has an effect on what I write about, or the content. This means sometimes I think a post is too personal, and sometimes a post is not personal enough. The same goes for political.

I'm not professing that I consider myself and my posts boring; I don't. And I think the level of reader commenting attests that I'm interesting enough that people stick around long enough to read to the end. I'm also not saying I don't like having such interest; I love having you here. I guess what I'm saying is that over time I've realized that my topics have become concentrated, due to either having written about something already or to not wanting to write about it because it's too personal and details will expose the guilty and innocent alike. And we couldn't have that!

Blogdom's an interesting place, to say the least. Where else do you have the confidence and confidantes of a personal journal, combined with the somewhat-widespread publication and the lack of control over readership of an actual publishing deal, besides in an autobiography? And aren't those usually published after the author dies? Yikes!

So if it seems quiet on this eastern front, it's only because I've either written about a form of what I'm doing right now, before, or because the real news is too personal to write about. This is what's going on in my life right now; if you're particularly interested in a subject, leave a comment and I'll see what I can do. And yes, that's a request for your interest.

• University. Third year--lots of work to be done! I'm studying Sociology--Modern Theory, Sociology of the Family, Statistics and Research Strategies--as well as English--American Literature. We're reading Walt Whitman for that at the moment, but I just finished a paper on Chaim Potok's "The Promise", which is all about Judaism in America after WWII. As for the Sociology, I'm gearing up to do my Honours Thesis next year, and I'll be planning the proposal in the Research Strategies class. I want to do it on food and the sourcing of that food, networks, and some other stuff I haven't quite sorted out yet.
  
• My relationship with the "soyfriend", Dan. This one falls into the category of "my own personal business", but I can tell y'all that it's good, he lives here now, and I think it's pretty rad. I get to see him nearly every day and I can't think of anything else I'd want more.
• Figuring out what to do next year/this coming summer, in terms of an apartment (I might have to move because my dear old landlord might need to live in a retirement home) and a job/potentially travel (for the summer). This is all up in the air right now, but I'd love to make it out West for Dan's graduation, and see some of the West coast again, and maybe even spend a little time on a WWOOF farm again. It would also be pretty cool to work with a professor and gain some experience as a paid lackey in academia. We shall see what we shall see.
  
• The Boost Your Eco film fest, being planned by a group of lovely/hilarious students, of which I am one. It's going to be on the 9th and 10th of February, and soon there'll be a website I can point you to.
• Staying balanced and happy and spending enough time on my own, too.
• Being in Fredericton in winter--mornings walking to class with longjohns on, watching your breath make clouds and come out your nostrils like a dragon's, hopping over and around snowbanks, having your boots make puddles on the floor in classrooms.

cold, snap!

It was so cold today that...

...I wore longjohns under my jeans, and on top, a long underwear shirt that luckily looks like a real shirt (both by Stanfields), which I then covered with a zip-up hoodie. And then, of course, my warm winter coat, my scarf, my hat, and the hood of my jacket. My hands warm up fast when I'm walking so they were fine glove-less; actually, when I wear mittens and walk at the same time I get irritated. I let Dan wear them, though, and he took pictures of Fredericton's hot springs (a vent of some sort) and me daring to breathe into the frosty -22º morning air (with a windchill of -40º, which I certainly felt later on in the afternoon when the wind picked up).

...the snow squeaked underfoot, all day long. The sun shone, though, so that was nice.

...walking outside for more than 20 seconds, my nose began to hurt. Hurt!

...all the doorways on campus had a little bubble of cold around them, on the inside. The windows in the cafeteria were frosted up. My windows here at home have a little rim of ice on the inside, at the bottom. I'm still wearing my longjohns under my jeans.

...I stopped to talk (briefly) to a professor friend in the courtyard and he wasn't wearing a hat. "Are you crazy?" I said. "Yes!" He replied, then went on: "Also, I kind of like this weather. It makes it so Alberta can't make fun of us!" I suppose so. Part of why I'm enjoying this cold Arctic front is that it makes me feel tough--I'm not dead yet! I'm still running around on the squeaky snow, red-cheeked and alive!

...my archives got frostbite and fell off. I'm working on getting them back, though, so worry not.

Did you leave your house today? If you don't live in Fredericton, what's the coldest it's ever been where you are?

on getting on with things

Well, that last post has been up long enough, I think, and even though I haven't got a fantastic one to take its place, this one will have to do.

So it's 2007! My dad says he likes the sound of it better than "2006", and part of me agrees. There's something aesthetically pleasing about 7 that you just don't get with 6. 6 is fair, it's balanced, it's divisible by nearly everything, so you'd think it'd be more likeable, whereas 7 is a little more bad-ass, and to quote Stevie Wonder, "very superstitious". However, when it comes to the year, there's a zingy ring to 7 that pleases the ear. Hard to explain, and highly subjective.

My transition into the new year was a lot of fun, although I paid for that fun the next day by having a hangover that I couldn't quell even with my classic Club Sandwich with Fries Covered in Gravy (no culinary delights there). We partied in Sydney with some friends and made it to several different parties, not really sure where we were at times or whose house we were in (or whose Toblerone bar we were stealing), but that's all part of the fun. The next morning when I woke up there were five kittens to play with, which were the very same ones Kevin tried to eat the night previous. Cuddling with kittens (not eating them) on New Year's Day is a pretty awesome tradition I might just have to start.

And now I'm back in Fredericton, back to school, starting new classes for the semester and jumping back into planning the Film Festival with the rest of "Boost Your Eco!" (Which I'll probably write more about as the weeks progress). The classes are all pretty righteous so far, one of my professors is kind of a mad scientist of Sociology, who mutters and rambles and waves his thin arms and quotes Albert Einstein and trembles a little. Another professor is like a very kindly grandfather who likes to tell us stories about Statistics, and who, when he is taking attendance, says a soft "um" before every person's name, like he is considering whether to offer them tea or juice.

I also like how the further I go into my degree and the more Sociology I take, the more people are familiar to me in my classes; we develop a kind of comradeship. Of course there is the flip side of that, that certain people become infamous from other classes, but that's all par for the course, I suppose. (Pun not intended.)

It's easy for me to get all caught up in the schoolwork, in the readings and things due, and be stressed about it, but I think the most important thing for me to remember is that if you just do the thing, and put as much energy into it as you can at the moment, it will be done. And that's what I mean by getting on with things; like this post, for example.

What are you "getting on" with?

(You can also write about "getting it on" but please be aware that's an entirely different subject.)

the break we've all been waiting for

Tintin, Captain Haddock and Snowy are also happy that it's time to go home!

But who wouldn't be...

After a semester like this one, it's both mindboggling that it is actually over (I keep thinking maybe I'm in a dream) and really relieving. I finished my take-home exams on Tuesday, passed the last one in, and since then have taken full advantage of the fact that I have nothing pressing to do in order to lie on the couch, doze off, drink tea, watch silly movies (like Wet Hot American Summer, and 200 Cigarettes--love a good Paul Rudd double bill!), read "The Fiery Cross" (number five in the famed Outlander series that I just can't seem to get enough of, no matter how uncool it might be), and now, pack up some bags and head for home, Cape Breton.

Last night a gang of us went out for Gill's birthday to the Snooty Fox, a local drinking establishment with half-price appetizers on Wednesday nights. It was raining out and the booth I was in was right by a window, so I got to stare at Regent Street and the cars passing and the rain coming down. I said to Neal, who was sitting across from me, that that is something I really like about cities, watching the rain slick the streets, and the colors of streetlights reflected on them. I know I'm a country girl at heart--too long in the city and I feel cooped up, and dream of long rambles on dirt roads, yes, while wearing gumboots--but there are some really comforting things about cities too. Busses to take you where you want to go, cafes to spend hours in, and pubs for half-price red pepper and feta dip, within walking distance of your house.

Today I was downtown running some last-minute errands, and on the walk home I was just looking at everything, soaking it all in. I know two weeks isn't a long time to be away from a place, especially a place I'm getting to know so well, like Fredericton, but time is passing so fast these days that I know things will be subtly different when I return.

Some things will be not so subtle, too--there'll be new classes to get into, particularly Research Strategies which will be getting me into "thesis mode" for next year, my last--and of course, Fredericton will be welcoming a West Coast resident in January. Steph joked the other day, "If I could knit, I'd make him a sweater that says 'Dan' on the front and 'the one you've all been waiting for' on the back!" Part of me is glad she can't knit, but part of me also thinks that sweater would be really funny.

I'm off to Nova Scotia (Halifax first for a stop with the Fuller dames) and then Cape Breton by tomorrow! Hope you are all enjoying a break from something...relax first, then tell me about it.

fun activities

Well, if the Internet is going to be here, it might as well make me happy.

I say this because lately I've been struggling with addiction. Not the kind that robs you blind or keeps you from having meaningful relationships--although as Janice, Kate, P-Len and Cameron can attest, today I did begin my gambling addiction with a little "Set for Life" with the girls. So maybe I shouldn't speak so fast, but as far as I can tell right now, my addictions are relatively harmless. But that doesn't stop them from being addictive! I'm talking about Facebook, blogs, emails, and all the other nonsense on this old web that tends to keep me coming back for more, and not always sure why.

So since I didn't win the little friendly stare-eyes competition with the Internet (it always wins! damn automatons that don't blink) I figured I must concede. But that won't stop me from using it for my own fun and indulging in making lists with all y'all, so without further ado...

Pleasant Diversions!

(i.e. procrastination, what you do for fun on a Saturday morning or a Tuesday afternoon, the little joys in life that are free or else under 20 bucks, treats for the self for passing a really hard test or for no real reason at all, et cetera...)

My five favorites:

1. Internet coloring books. Save above image and then print it off. Use crayons or glitter pens or if you're feeling particularly adventurous/messy, finger paint with real hot chocolate. You might want to do that last one in the privacy of your own home, unless you are in fact six years old. This ties in with Janice's latest post about how awesome kids can be, and how we often--we being college students, of course--don't see many little kids, and tend to forget that all the other age groups exist.
2. Fashion magazines, whether sassy or conformist. Just make sure you've got a shaker of salt in your Fendi imitation handbag--and maybe some Gloria Steinem for good measure--and you'll be alright.
3. Hot chocolate. Either mixed at home or topped with whipped cream from your local coffee shop. Nothing better.
4. The Red Room at the library--as Jan said, the sense that you're trespassing in some old rich man's personal library, which besides for the trespassing, is true, since it was Lord Beaverbrook's personal collection.
   
5. Sunny days in November. Rare, and short, so I'm going to get out of the house and into one of them.
   

Now you.

whooping it up

Well, Halloween IS over, but I thought I would scare November away by appearing as my true self my Halloween costume. As Janice reminds us, November is actually the cruellest month, not April, and it needs some scaring away. It is, after all, the month of bare branches, cold rainy days and nights, and long assignments and hours spent in front of the computer completing these assignments, energy ebbing as a result.

In order to fend off the November blahs, I...

• drink ginger tea. So spicy, so delicious!
• buy a nice hand-cream or oil of some kind (I haven't done this yet, but I'm thinking I will, and it will smell of nutmeg or cinnamon)
• go to Sue Lawrence with my ladyfriend, the aforementioned Janice
• send silly sailor photos to said sailors
• use crayons, often and without moderation
• put on my devil horns, all glittery and awesome, and hang out with my room-mates pretending not to notice and see how long they give me funny looks.
• take lots of naps--you can't hate a month if you spend half of it sleeping!
  

What do you do? And do you want to come over and bring your own crayons?

Also, I think the following ladyfriend needs a solid round of blog applause: Miss Laura "runs with hotdogs" Nelson-Hamilton. Miss Laura not only put on the wildly successful Trick Or Eat (read all about it! extra, extra!)
but she is also humble about it. I think any whoopie pies consumed in this city, from this day forward, should be consumed in the name of Laura. We drink to Gill, we clap for Nigeria, and from today on we eat whoopie pies for Laura. Any complaints?

So, hip hip hurray for Lozza! And boo to November. Tell me about it.

BYOG on the blog

This pumpkin is from an artist named Kat Beyer who I found on Google just now. I think it's splendid.

Also, I'm going to make pumpkin soup today, I think. Mollie Katzen has a recipe for Arizona Pumpkin Soup that takes one can of pureed pumpkin and by God, I have a can! Left over from Thanksgiving two years ago, when I made three pies of pumpkin and one of pecan. Hopefully it won't pull the same nasty trick that the coconut milk pulled the other day at Laura's house (when we opened it, it had turned to the consistency of yogurt, or maybe even really stiff facial cream). Time will tell. I'll also have to doctor the recipe a little and make it Fredericton Pumpkin Soup, maybe leave out a few of the chiles.

I miss Cape Breton a little today. I miss the slow feeling of Fall there, how you can put on your wool socks and gumboots and take a walk down a dirt road and make soups. I'm generalizing a little, of course--there are non-slow days in Cape Breton and it's possible to slow down in other places, too--but still.

I've really got to find myself some gumboots here so I can stop whining about them!

Oh and speaking of gumboots, when Dan gets here and we all get back after Christmas, we're totally having a Gumboot Party and mixing up some of those drinks. Whiskey and Sambuca, people. It's the new black. And if you want to get a little crazy, BYOCS: Bring Your Own Chocolate Syrup. But definitely BYOG.

In other news, today should definitely be International Django Reinhardt Day. There is nothing like a little gypsy guitar to whimsy-fy the chillest of fall days!

why fridays rock

NEW BE GOOD TANYAS ALBUM!!!

Actually, I should reveal I'm not exactly the kind of indie/music nut who waits for CDs to come out, unless they are by Jill Scott (and seriously, she's got to release something new soon or I think I might have to just go to her house and ask her to sing for me). But it's kinda cool that the one I got is so new that it isn't even on their website yet. And as you can tell, it's good. Just look at that smile on my face! (This webcam stuff is awesome, Laura. I have to say. 100 whoopy pies for you, stat.)

Also why this Friday rocked: Laura and I poked around the shops! I held a baby! (Alphonsus, 7 mos. Big kid! And he held my hair in his little hand and tried to get into my mouth--a little fresh, in my opinion--and we played stare-eyes and he definitely won.) We befriended the record-store guy! I was remembered as "Peanut Butter Girl" by someone who works at Aura!

Enough exclamation points. The real point is that it's been a good day. The kind of weather where you don't want to go inside and do work, you want to wander around the leafy streets wearing a red hat and smiling at people with dogs.

Maybe I'll finally get my bicycle tire filled and go for a riverside ride. Or maybe not...that can be my winter project.

Today's question (because I love asking ya'll questions): if you could go to a record store and root around for an hour or so and come out with one CD, what are you in the mood for right now? If you've done this recently, what was the album?

for whom does the closh toll? it tolls for me

Closh --or Claire and Josh, those two love-birds-- are here on thier way out to Ontario. They've got the Wasabi Princess (Claire's motorbike) and the old white Eurovan, and they're making thier way slowly. Last night they stopped by here and we went down to the Snooty Fox for some grub, and it was so good that it took us twice as long to walk home as it did to walk there. Then they played Backgammon while I read my school readings. It was a good evening. They're off right now exploring Fredericton and will be back to bid me adieu and head off. And meanwhile, I have some porridge to eat and some Reading Notes to write...

Also, yesterday, Bourassa (aforementioned hyper English prof) exclaimed, "Cormac McCarthy put out a new book!" and clutched it with white hands in front of the class. He read us a passage--one eyebrow doing a little dance the whole time--in a deep voice, then when he was done, squealed, "Eeeee! Isn't it great?" And just last week, he was Mick Jagger. Who knew.

this man IS mick jagger

This morning, Prof. Bourassa (click here for a bio and a nice, candid photo, as well as a list of this man's six--count 'em, six--degrees, ye gads!) was in a silly mood.

"I can't get 'Can't Get No Satisfaction' out of my head!" He said. "I think we should all start singing it at the end of class. Today, I am Mick Jagger." Then someone questioned the syllabus, how we had a week of poetry scheduled for now, when in fact we did that the first week and now we're doing Lolita, and his response was, in a British accent: "Fuck poetry, it's all about rock'n'roll!"

Apparently.

Honestly, though, having this one English class floating in the sea of Sociology (forgive the metaphor, but hey) is quite a relief. It helps that the professor occasionally likes to impersonate rock stars. It helps that the view out the window is of the St. John river valley and is quite pretty at 9 am. And I'm not accusing sociologists of being un-fun--Clow and my colleague Fuller are certainly examples to the contrary! But there's something about talking about texts, narratives, books, morals, art, especially with Bourassa, that is such a welcome break from the discussions of contextualization, social theory and metatheory, research methods, and so on. Especially when you can laugh and feel like you're part of a lively discussion (Bourassa should really give tips to other professors on how to engage your students, because honestly, there's nothing worse than a silence aching to be filled after a professor asks something and then stares out at the audience, saying "I've got lots of time! I'll just wait!"), as well as hear exchanges like the following:

Bourassa: So, what else can we say love is?
Student: Love is not lust.
Bourassa: What? Oh god... I owe apologies to more than a few people!

to the honorable ex-premier

Dear Bernard Lord,

We are writing to express our sympathies for your recent loss of employment as premier of the province. While we realize you are still in control of a seat of the Legislative Assembly, it is likely that this fundamental change in your life will shake you up, and we would like to extend an offer of friendship to you. We reside at __ ___________________, Fredericton, NB, and always consider our door open to those who are down on their luck, especially those whose images we already have on our walls, looking at us with loving compassion.

Our offer rests on several conditions, however, which you must meet in order to get our full and undying understanding and hospitality. We realize that you will not find them hard to meet, but we list them nonetheless. They are as follows:

1) You must make the drive across the river to our domicile on an ATV (All-Terrain Vehicle), as per the illustration below. See how happy this rider looks? ATVs are probably the best thing to ride, especially if you are unemployed. However, please take side streets on your way here, as we would not want to alert the police.


2) As you are riding your ATV, drink 3 cans of a 6-pack of Wildcat. We require that you show up at our door holding said 6-pack by one of the plastic loops (which one in particular is not important), and that the missing cans have been (a) drunk by yourself on your transportation device and (b) been dropped by the roadside on the way.


3) When you walk in the door, we will only allow entry if you are wearing sweatpants and preferably a matching, but stained, top. We use the following illustration simply to show what sweatpants are, exactly, but do not expect you to resemble the male model. In fact, it is more to our guidelines if you drink several 12-packs of Wildcat in preparation and develop a substantial and respectable beer belly.


4) Optional: mullet.


We are confident that you will not find these requirements difficult to understand, but if you do, please feel free to contact us further at (___) ___-____. We are looking forward to welcoming you to our home the way we have your image above our dehumidifier, which guides our daily actions simply with the look in its brown, compassionate eyes.

Sincerely,

___________

And just like that, fall is here.

Last Tuesday was so muggy my Deviance professor (not "deviant professor", that would be Michael Clow), Stephanie Bruce, had to open the door that goes outside to get a cross-breeze. We were all melting out of our clothes, even those of us in skirts and tank tops. By Thursday, though, in the same class, we were all bundled up and glad to be inside. The sun was shining but the wind had a bite.

The air is crisp, you can smell wood-smoke in it, and the leaves are starting to turn. I wear my apple-red Sew Inclined hat and my silver bracelets as I walk along the sidewalks of Fredericton, and every now and again, as it did this morning, the sky spits a little, just enough to get your coat spotty, and bead on the wool of your hat, but not enough to drench, to freeze. I wear Mum's knitted socks inside my Birks and don't care if not a single fashionista would do the same. After all, even Vogue this month is extolling the qualities of Fall:

"In Autumn those sense-memory-charged pleasures are even more intense. You draw a pair of opaque tights (black or maple-red or apple-green) from the package and remember that boy who took your hand at the fifth-grade square dance. You slip a sweaterdress over your shoulders, rub the cashmere sleeve against your cool cheek, and think of Mom. A new tweed coat smells of clean wool. An armful of gold bangles clicks and clatters with the sound of a woman setting seriously back to business. October...couldn't you just shiver?"

For October, read September, and for gold bangles, read silver. What cracks me up about that paragraph --at the same time as the aesthete in me revels in every image in the panoply that is Vogue-- is that as carefree and "Fall"-like as it's meant to sound, it was carefully put together by the style editors, crafted to evoke memories and sensations, and ultimately, use those delightful associations of Autumn with new clothes to part rich and not-so-rich women from their money, in the great big happy wheel of economy that Vogue services so beautifully. But no matter. When this is my weekend treat, I'm not going to scratch too deeply beneath the surface.

The point is, I adore fall. It's my favorite season. The best things about it are free: rosy cheeks, mingling outside among bundled families at the Saturday market, looking at the array of pumpkins, gourds, red peppers, broccoli, apples, cranberries. Making a big pot of soup at home and listening to some spicy salsa music (my suggestion: Jesse Cook) at the same time. And speaking of color, there's also Celtic Colors, where this year I'm going to get to see Flook, that energetic flute-centred band from the UK that Catriona and I adored the first time around. With my red hat on, of course.

So when the weather forecasters say things like "Cloudy with periods of rain, winds South 30 km/hr, High 17", I get excited. I fire up the soup pot. I go walk in Odell. I'm happy to be inside with my books. I turn on the Be Good Tanyas, who are good year round but particularly suited to autumnal weather.

Why do you like Fall?

(PS. Thanks to Marlo for the photograph. She took it in Odell Park, last year. She's a fantastic photographer, and lucky for me, allows me to use some of her images to show you guys.)

keening and moaning

School's back in. It's a little overwhelming to be back in the rush and tumble of academic life, collecting syllabuses--or is that syllabi? or silly busses?--and notes and books and times to meet up with friends and grocery bills and errands to run. However, mostly it is good, it's a good feeling to be back in Fredericton, looking at leaves turning color, everyone's fashions this year (this from a girl who is devoted to Vogue yet whose style remains much the same through the years), catching up with how everyone's summer went. (The go-to response for most people: "Yeah, it was a great summer!" You have to encapsulate it, I guess, for the short conversation. The longer ones leave room for detail.)

My wireless is not hooked up yet, but we're working on it. My classes all seem to be good so far, although I'm working on not being scared of failure. (Hey, don't preach to me about how ridiculous it is to feel that way. I still do.)

My room is pretty much together. There are posters on the walls, new ones and old ones. I seem to decorate a little differently than first year. I'm more selective now. I see the merits of only a few images, spaced out on the wall, as opposed to cramming lots of stuff on there. Old photographs of family members (such as the engagement photo of my lovely grandparents Noble), band posters, postcards, and maps tend to hold forth on this bean's walls.

Today I met up with Kate, accidentally, at the bookstore, and we ended up ranting about keeners. "Down with keeners!" She said. "But wait," I said, "I'm a keener. We're both keeners! What are we going to do?" We decided we're the anti-keeners, or alterna-keeners, as 90's as that sounds. She went off to study her Greek and I went home to do some of my first readings, exhibiting the very paradoxical behaviour that makes us both hate keeners and... succeed.

Hate's a strong word. But still.

How's classes treating all of you? Or, if you're not in school, what are you looking forward to learning about this fall?

Well, well, well. I'm back in the old Freddy-town, back in my bedroom in my apartment on Kings College Road, (the leafy old street), back with old friends, back back back. But, as cheesy as this might sound, moving forward as well. Change is in the air, there's a sense among some of us that we're stepping a little further into adulthood, that this whole University thing is manageable now, that life is opening up in interesting ways.

For example, I am now the proud owner of my first set of real, honest to goodness, new sheets! They are in "Ecru", I bought them from Zellars, and now that they have been washed and dried they are on my bed. It's the little things, really, that make you feel grown-up. It's not so much having money or not having it, as spending it on things that contribute to a more secure feeling, to a house, or to your own happiness as you define it.

School starts Thursday. Til then, I'm acting like a mouse in a nest, busily re-arranging the hay and bits of wood and string til they're just right. Actually, what does a mouse in a nest do? I don't know, I've never observed one. Huh. Well, you understand what I mean.

It's been a whirlwind summer, I don't know where it went, but I have to accept that it's gone, has left some good lessons and some even better memories, and will turn into fall, for better or for worse.