The Bubbles Mandalay Project

Hell week redux

2005-03-10T20:23:00.000-08:00

What is it about school that every week has the opportunity to become hell week? Okay, this one I'm just coming out of...this one was no surprise. 4 exams, a major paper, a meeting for my contract work and oral surgery, all within the space of 7 days. No, this one I had warning about...and sure enough it came through. The exam I wrote this morning should have been okay. I go to class. I understand what's said, I write my notes. I study, I study again. But it was like my brain was simply full. No more room at the inn it said to me...which is what some of my answers reflected oh so sadly. Way too much white space, way too little substance. C'est lavie. Good thing I'm already accepted at library school - all 4 of the schools I applied to even...nice to have the choice. And nice to have chosen the one that I did. I keep hearing good things about the program and the university and conflicted things about the city. That's okay...program's most important, city least important. Meanwhile in this city, 4 more weeks of classes which is a relief...until that is, I realize just how much I have left to accomplish in that teeny bit of time. So onwards and upwards. Just remember if it's not hell, it can't be a week....as they say.

My kingdom for a kleenex

2005-03-04T22:09:00.000-08:00

It's flu season. I know this not because I myself have succumbed but because every class this past week has had me sitting in front of, or beside, someone sniffing to save their lives. For over an hour, I am subjected to people sneezing and coughing and like the chinese water torture, sniffing at regular intervals. Meanwhile I hunch over my desk facing away from them, obstensibly to better write down my notes, while almost losing the battle to shout out at them, "for god's sake use a kleenex - contrary to what your professors have been telling you, wiping your nose is not a bourgeois act. You are not delaying the revolution one second by refusing to exercise proper nasal hygeiene". But alas, all that happens is I get a sore neck from my contorted note-taking and repressed prissiness, and worse, I feel a sore throat coming on. I think I'd better go lie down.

Bubbles "with a hanky stuffed in every possible pocket" Mandalay

The good, the bad and the ugly

2005-02-25T16:42:00.000-08:00

Figures that I would think to write here only when I've had a hell on wheels kind of day. It didn't start out great when the contract work I'm supposed to have ready for March 1st is not going to happen because according to the people who have had responsibility for it since September, their part is not going to be done until mid-April. Oh really. What about that Christmas time line we've been talking about for 6 months? Why after finally starting to harrass people, is the sum of my achievement being that I have a new time line 6 weeks past the point of being any use to me? Can it get any better? You bet it can. Try going to your oral surgeon for a checkup on the work done months ago to find out you have to have it done again. And for all who know the pleasures of oral surgery, yes, I do get to lie there while someone scrapes away at the tender flesh of my gums, yet again...twice in six months. What a lucky girl am I.

And yet, and yet, the news I have not managed to convey yet, buried as it is under all the victim material, I also got into library school! Both number 1 and 2 choices have given me a hearty yea...which of course sets the decision making twister in action yet again. Still...99.5% decided on where to go and when not pondering my tender gums and tenuous contractual agreements...I'm actually pretty happy about finally getting to go after this thing. "I'm ready for my reference question Mr. Demille."

You want me to do what?

2005-02-13T18:01:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure if it's old age, stupidity or just plain bad handwriting that's got me into this predicament. All I know is that among the items on my list for today is the ever cryptic "bats?" At least that's what it looks like to me. I've squinted, I've looked at it from different angles, I've snuck up on it quickly and the only other options appear to be dats, bots or eels, none of which exactly clarifies the matter. And I don’t even know if it’s something I’m supposed to be doing, buying, finding or maybe it’s someone I’m supposed to call or meet. Whichever it is, it ain’t gonna happen, not unless I suddenly experience the visual version of tip-of-the-tongue syndrome and find it all coming clear, as if I were a miraculously healed sinner of the blogging set. I think the thing that intrigues me the most about it is that while the hesitancy with which I wrote the word seems to have contributed to its illegibility, the question mark is sure and strong as if I knew where it was all headed and punctuated accordingly. If only other parts of our lives worked that way - preparing ourselves unconsciously for our inevitable failure. Wait a minute, that is how my life works. Just call me Bubbles “I may not know what I’m trying to say but I always know how it’s going to be received” Mandalay.

Fingernail chewing time

2005-01-26T21:39:00.000-08:00

Into second semester now of my lovely undergrad upgrade year - all aimed at the coveted Master's Degree in Library and Information Science. The apps are out and we should start hearing in a couple of weeks if I'm accepted. Meanwhile we still have no idea where we should go. We have endless conversations with multiple permutations of possibilities and always end in the same damn place, with a tentative plan...so tentative it's like one of those wispy gossamer dress type things that Stevie Nicks used to whirl around in except somehow it's got the name of a library school on it but no, then it swirls around like a white winged dove and it's the name of a different library school and so on and so on. It's just like when I was on the edge of seventeen with dreams, me and rhiannon, that is...enough with the bad seventies perm shag flit down memory lane. Not a place I should be visiting again in this lifetime...so think I'll just get back to my fingernail biting and looking one more time at the budget that no matter how many times I look at it, still shows way more money going out than coming in...I say ooh, baby, ooh, say ooh.

You call this a test?

2004-10-26T18:51:00.000-07:00

I knew I was in trouble when after seeing the first two questions, it occurred to me that I must have studied the wrong chapters or I was in the wrong class or my mind had been snatched and replaced with somebody else's, somebody who had not been in class writing every word down so as to be sure that she wouldn't be caught off guard at the next test when faced with questions that seemed to have nothing in common with the course subject matter. But no, a few questions on and the laughably simplistic ones roll in like mist onto a beach as back and forth we go between obscure, trivial sidenotes that only the photographic memory idiot genius freaks would remember and the questions that you'd know the answers to if you simply read the course description in the calendar.

He seems to think that everyone is either a bone brain-dead moron or someone who can recite the entire textbook at will. No in-between regular reasonably intelligent human beings who try to understand the basic concepts of the lectures and readings - oh no, we don't take kindly to that sort round here. Saddle up to multiplechoiceville or skedaddle on back to those wussy courses where you actually have an idea what kinds of things might be asked on a test - like something learned in a lecture or a concept explained in one of them there, what you call, textbook deals.

This is almost getting to be a fun game, in a warped, twisted sister way. I'm actually kind of looking forward to the next test so I can catch a glimpse of what it is he thinks he's been trying to teach us. The fact that it doesn't in the slightest resemble anything I recall from the experience only keeps it interesting. But never mind, in the immortal words of those saucy cheerleader types, I say bring it on. This time, I'm ready for you big guy.

Save me auntie Em

2004-10-19T19:03:00.000-07:00

Loving school. It's a cool thing to stretch your mind in new directions - it's so easy to get stuck in your own viewpoint, your own world, your own insular crap. I am, however, on occasion, forced to remember why it is I like to be on my own most of the time. This may not be a newsflash but people are odd, unpredictable creatures whom I will never, ever understand. And there are times I am happy to be well removed from them.

And what prompted this, you may ask. I recently had the fascinating experience of trying to participate in a debate with 8 other people for one of my classes. It was one weird experience. Now I'm the first to admit I'm an organization freak, that I have little patience for wasting my time but dealing with a bunch of people you don't know, half of whom you've never even seen, to try to do a "group" project together that is ill-formed and chaotic right from the get-go, is a challenging experience at the best of times. These "debates" have absolutely no structure except that there's a topic, two sides and a specific night on which you have to perform. I'm sure you can imagine the hijinks that ensue. The "content" can become mind-numbingly boring as people who have no idea about the issues under discussion are not inconvenienced enough by this fact to actually prevent them from espousing at great length about the "solution" to a problem about which they admit to being ignorant of many of the most basic points.

But before this dyanamite evening of scintillating discussion we 9 first had to have the disjointed, head-butting scrum that passed for planning for this event. Just like the real world we had the power struggles, the backroom maneurevings and the disappearances. Ah, yes, the disappearances. You know the kind - the ones who say, I don't think we should do it like that and then disappear never to be heard from again, till presentation day of course. In the meantime some in the group, who also happen to be on the vague side, never actually producing anything themselves, keep referring to the disappeared's excellent work that sadly, never seems to actually make it to the main event because they've been busy with other stuff. Naturally, none of the rest of us have anything else we have to do.

In the meantime hippie rant girl who has too many ideas to keep track of, some of which actually pertain to the subject at hand, has taken it upon herself to herd the kitties into something resembling an activist posse out to save the world. Me, I just can't wait to get the hell out of it all. I tried to provide structure - that didn't work. I tried to stand back - but couldn't completely manage that either given the directionless chaos towards which it all appeared to be careening wildly.

Then if that wasn't bad enough, the other team, I use the term loosely, apparently never even met before the showdown. They read out some lame-ass vague position that lasted approximately 6 seconds before we began our video clip followed by the cast of thousands presentation, which had to be cut short so as not to completely overwhelm them. Which promptly thrust us into the totally nonsensical and downright useless freeforall that in an actual debate would be called the rebuttal stage, or as one of my teammates charmingly referred to it, the retaliation, but in our chaotic version of reality resembled a stage production of It's a mad, mad world starring the cast of Hollywood Squares.

Please spare me the people who would not recognize critical thinking if it was the only thing standing between them and a luxury cruise liner filled with buff bodies of their own particular persuasion and inclination. And especially spare me those non-critical thinking types who are also of the "I simply can't get enough of listening to myself talk" bent, which almost invariably also includes the extra "and don't expect me to hear a damn thing you have to say" service upgrade package.

Do I sound bitter? Damned straight. Am I grateful to be getting back to my own work, double damned straight. Which is way too much straight talk for this girl.

School-girl at last

2004-10-06T17:34:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm here, I'm schooling and is it ever fun. Theoretically this is just a nothing year - an upgrade time for trying to get into Library school and yet I am digging the whole thing. Lots of stim' for the brain, lots of 'cise for the bod and just a new, groovy world.

No time for blogging but then life does that sometimes, it gets in the way of documenting it. Still, the urge to say, yeah, she's good, this path I'm on, this trick I'm tricking for now. See where it goes, how long it holds and what's beyond that big curve up ahead.

Miss the girl but she's on her way for a visit. The rest though, she's all dandy and such. Later.

Anti-boomer boomer?

2004-08-30T13:42:00.000-07:00

In our youth we are horrified by our inheritance, the world bestowed upon us by those who have flagrantly exploited it, then passing onto us, their heirs, the toxic runoff from their vicious destruction of all that matters. Then in our late youth, we are so busy surviving the life that most of us have accidentally fallen into, careers, families, homes etc to have energy for anything as minor as the state of the world.

Next stop, middleage – that cranky time when we decry the world that is clearly going to hell in a handbasket, no fault of our own, mind. It’s those reckless progress seekers who are destroying every institution that mattered, ie every nostalgic memory we have that bears only a passing resemblance to reality. What’s particularly horrifying at this juncture is that we boomers get to take centre stage due not to the wisdom of our outlook but by our sheer numbers and economic clout. Yes we are in charge of most major news outlets - newspapers, TV shows, publishing and as a result we are paid a good wage to cry foul about where all this is headed - okay I'm not, which may explain my bitterness.

Could this boomer-crusted media empire be why we are subjected endlessly to the ongoing kerfuffle about a grammar-stickler's punctuation book, an insult laden judge of perky young divas and divos (the male equivalent?) and an apparently mediocre novelist taking a strip off his more successful peers? While bloggers obsess over hangovers and Paris Hilton, we boomers who are not in charge, sit in our easy chairs and say, you tell ‘em Lynn Truss, Simon Cowell and Dale Peck. And then as a just reward for your cranky dismissal of all those who do not match your exquisite expectations, we shall turn our magnifying glasses on you and burn gaping holes in your work.

How many times has Lynn Truss been accused of bad grammar? How many words have been spent on Dale Peck’s failings as a critic and novelist? Just desserts or holding them up to their own criteria? Or is it just one more opportunity for the self-aggrandizing among us to poke fingers at those who have achieved success even though we're way smarter, and despite, or because of, the fact that they are achieving this success by ruining all that really matters (to us). Maybe it's simpler than that though. Maybe it's yet another example of self-righteous nastiness disguised as fun - lots of that going around too, always has been. Hey, wait a minute, that sounds just like this blog. Or as Emily Litella would say, never mind.

Plan 24B

2004-08-28T16:54:00.000-07:00

We have so many plans, we need flow charts to follow them all. If I get into Library school X, but not Library school Y and it’s a Friday with a slight breeze and a chance of showers during a month that contains an R, then we will do A, unless of course, the peach pit séance suggests that’s a bad idea. Then we fall back on plan 24B, part iii that is only slightly less complicated than getting myself declared empress for life of a small green planet in the next galaxy.

People with children do not have the time for so much navel-gazing and permutation wielding. People who are living through a civil war don’t have the energy or inclination to run through one more time, every possible scenario of our lives over the next two years. Hell even I don’t have the time or inclination but unfortunately that doesn’t prevent my continuing to examine the endless possibilities.

Maybe if I…unless of course S wants to…and then we could always…. but maybe it would be better to…

Is that a PDA in your pocket or are you just panicked?

2004-08-27T14:19:00.000-07:00

I find that suddenly I am panicking about heading off to three years of school after which I have to find a job, build a career, keep my relationship strong, maintain my sanity, avoid going too deeply into debt and try to have a bit of fun out of it all.

After spending all these years trying to build our cabin in the woods and find a way of staying in this remote heavenly place, which we have now achieved, we are suddenly thinking of uprooting so that S isn’t stuck in her job forever and I have some tangible skill to offer the world instead of trying to cobble together contracts doing things I don’t know how to do but am willing to try, for which amazingly, people have occasionally been willing to pay me.

Are we stepping up to an exciting new adventure or embarking on a foolish feat that will only serve to disrupt and disorient our, not perfect but pretty damn fine as they are thank you very much, lives?

Worth and death

2004-08-09T10:43:00.000-07:00

I read a large feature in a newspaper recently that told the tale of a rich white young man struck down in his prime, made all the more tragic for the fact that, let’s face it, he was a rich white young man struck down in his prime. People die everyday – not all of it is news. Not all of it should be news. And tales of accidents with no uniqueness about them except that they struck down a rich white young man in his prime, are not major national news stories, or shouldn’t be.

When they are treated that way, they demean all those other deaths that are not deemed significant because they were not rich or white or young or men. The implication being that if instead of a denizen of Bay Street dying in a high powered water toy at an exclusive resort, it was a dishwasher in a crummy restaurant in Parkdale who died in an industrial accident, his or her life and death would certainly not warrant national attention.

I don’t want to point to a specific article because that would just be cruel and pointless. For the family of the young man who died, it is in fact, a horrific and tragic event and I would not in any way want to insult that. My issue is with the more objective decisions being made about what constitutes news, or more particularly, a particular level of news. Was this an issue on the level of import as Darfur? Then why was it treated as such?

Decisions have to be made as to what to cover and my hope always is that the point of a major story on a personal tragedy is to focus on some larger issue related to that personal tragedy, one that informs and enlightens us, instead of in essence, telling us that some kinds of personal tragedy are more important than others. I did not learn anything from this particular article except that a stupid accident happened and people suffered as a result. Well, yes they would, and they do, everyday. That, unfortunately, is not news. And even more sadly in my mind, is that fact that it is still not news that the lives of some people seem to count for more than others.

Nifty nibbles and tipples

2004-08-05T18:43:00.000-07:00

Whatever happened to the delicacies of childhood? I’m talking the raw weiner and moulded ball of white bread staples of my youth. I’ve had many a fine meal since, but the pure intense delights of food at its most basic has never reached the heights of my halcyon days stripping a perfectly ordinary piece of bread of its crust then rolling it between my palms until it was a lumpy essence of bread blob which I blissfully consumed, après or avec, the pink finger of swirled up meat and not-meat products that was the hot dog of days gone by. We are definitely not talking the pure beef or tofu gourmet doggies with which one is confronted today. Rumour was that the original hot dog's ingredients included the floor sweepings in the plant where they were made. Urban myth or gritty approach to food prep in days gone by? Either way, health food they were not, a realization of stunning non-relevance to a pre-teen wiener nibbler.

This is not to suggest that my mother was not concerned with our culinary habits. We spent a good solid week being subjected to the liver and porridge good-for-you breakfast no doubt being touted in some magazine article of the day that convinced her to adopt it with a vengeance, at least until we made her life a living hell as a result. Our cat ate very well that week as he was tossed little tidbits of finely cut up liver leather, tossed discreetly by the older of us in the crowd, flung gaily by the lest discretion-oriented youngsters. When we were busted at that game and placed in separate rooms, some of us managed to stuff a few of those tasty morsels into heating vents. Sometimes I imagine I can still smell that warm smoky liver odour wafting up from the floor. And to this day I cannot think of oatmeal without conjuring up great gleaming glops of a glue-like substance dumped into our unsuspecting bowls. Even the cat wouldn’t touch that stuff.

Living with an amazing cook means that I have been the lucky partaker of many a wonderful meal – I eat far better than anyone has a right to. And yet it is the vividness of those early delights and horrors that stick with me. Literally. I think I can still feel a year’s worth of wonder bread balls encrusted on my ribs. Maybe I need a little nip of Baby Duck to wash it all away. Now we’re talking.

Shun the dub (wow, just missed by an m)

2004-08-04T08:45:00.000-07:00

I recently read Winnipeg writer Miriam Toews’s book A Complicated Kindness about a dysfunctional Mennonite family and as I was reading it, it occurred to me that the act of shunning, the Mennonite version of “I can’t hear you”, is being wasted on mere dancers, fornicators and card playing infidels.

For the non-Mennonite versed, shunning basically means you are not allowed to acknowledge the existence of the officially shunned individual, even if the shun-victim is your wife, your child or your boss. Fortunately there’s a whole slew of rules for this bizarre turn of events that allows you to continue to function in a quasi-relationship with this person, to cohabitate even with someone who no longer exists. That’s as creative an interpretation of the world as I’ve seen yet, barring the current U.S. administration.

Which makes me think of the natural connection between the two, a symbiotic relationship as it were. And to help stir that concoction up, a new mode of civil disobedience, of political action, of just saying no, is born. Its tagline -“Shunning: It’s not just for Mennos anymore” - the inaugural shunnee, none other than the eminently shunnable George W. Though perhaps just this once, we can have a deep discount for a gaggle of his cabal cohorts. A special three-for-one deal that includes Rummy, Cheney and Georges in one monster shunathon – a shun troika extraordinaire.

Think of it. If the terrible triplets no longer existed, there would be no presidential draft dodgers (no, that suggests an actual thought followed by an action – how about “I didn’t want to go so I didn’t have to because rules, laws and morality are for poor and ugly people, not rich white brats like me”), soldiers would not go off to do nasty things to people or to be killed themselves and the Geneva convention would not be shamelessly flouted, not to mention the constitution of the United States being compromised by White House lawyers trying to wrest power from congress and bestow it where it “rightfully” belongs – in the presidential office. Can you spell Fascist boys and girls? (kudos to Anthony Lewis and his article “Making Torture Legal" in the July 15th 2004 issue of The New York Review of Books – kudos in general to the NYRB for their great articles on the frightening developments under George the Dub).

Granted I am not an American and maybe there’s some basic genetic link I am missing (though my grandfather was American and his son, my uncle, returned there as an adult and is as hard-core American as you can get) that allows me to understand why a person would want to choose someone who is stupid, a liar, a bully and a coward as their leader.

Last time I checked those were not the primary qualities of a good boss-guy. I know there’s a whole whack of Americans who feel the same way that I do, which gives me great hope despite the fact that there remains a large percentage of people who continue to believe what the Dub says just because he says it emphatically in single syllable words.

I was interested to read Bush’s comment about Kerry’s recent much praised Democratic National Convention speech as being a “clever” speech like this is the worst thing a person could do. You gotta watch out for those clever types, they’re just trying to bamboozle you. This from the man who told us that WMDs definitely existed in Iraq, who declared the hostilities over in that country, hundreds of deaths prior to what continues to be an endless quagmire. And not only in Iraq but also in Afghanistan, that long-ago war he initiated and “won”, where recently Doctors Without Frontiers declared they had to withdraw from the country due to an exceedingly dangerous situation, made more so by the reckless merging of U.S. military and humanitarian actions, thus managing to jeopardize the lives of all engaged in true humanitarian actions.

And as everything gets more and more insane and I fear for the world if the Dub’s brought back into power, whether by declaring no election due to terrorist threat (oh good one – that’s never been tried by a pathetic tyrant holding onto power any way he can) or by an illegal, immoral or just plain incompetent election process like the last one, it may seem a lame, head-in-the-sand approach, but since nothing else appears to be working, I’m willing to take the chance. And I encourage you as well to Shun the Dub. Do it now and do it often. What have we got to lose?

Idio-fools and furbabies

2004-08-03T10:20:00.000-07:00

I have been given very strict orders by S to never refer to her as a “single mom” while I’m away at school. The fact that we have pets as opposed to children seems to be at the heart of that demand. For while we refer to each other that way whenever one of us is away and the other is left at home to care for the “furbabies” (another term I have been forbidden to use) as our little joke, oh the crazy hijinks we get up to, I believe she is worried sick that we will appear to be of the childless ilk who insist on treating their four legged housemates as though they were real live human beings. Not just human beings but stupid, helpless creatures who must never be reprimanded or trained so as not to jar their terribly delicate sensibilities. Never mind the suffering sensibilities of those who live among these spoiled temperamental little beasts as they annoy well beyond their body weight.

Why is it that the direst hippies and anarchists just happen to have the most loathsome beasts as pets? People need structure oh “let them be free” idio-fools; animals need boundaries. Think about it – oh right I forgot, you don’t do that kind of thing – it’s too soul-destroying. Well I’ll do it for you then. If we don’t know how we’re supposed to behave, if we don’t know what’s expected of us, we become a quivering mess of insecurities and have a tendency to flail blindly at the world. Imagine what happens in the case of an animal who, despite your imaginings to the contrary, is really not capable of rational thought.

Virtually every dog I know who has an idiot for an owner (note: not a mommy or daddy, unless you’ve initiated a new procreative technique I do not want to know anything about) has a lunatic for a dog. There are half a dozen of them in my rural hippy haven neighbourhood alone, all of whom have, at one time or another, attacked my dog, who while not the brightest lamp in the room, is a sweet and utterly passive beast. That’s not just cruel to my dog, it’s cruel to yours, for your failure to exercise your responsibility for their well-being may actually cause you to be responsible for their death. If you don’t bother to teach them what’s right or wrong they may end up doing something really stupid like bite a child. Then Marlo Thomas could do a follow-up version of her Free To Be You And Me book, except about irresponsible pet owners like you and it would be called Free To Be Put Down.

Well that’s all I have to say about that. Except, I do happen to have a couple of pictures of my darlings that I can post if you’re interested. Just say the word. I mean, so many animals are vile creatures as a result of their bad owners, but well, our precious pretties are different. They’re special. Thanks no doubt to their excellent upbringing by moms who love their little furbabies – oops, looks like I’m headed to the doghouse.

Newsflash

2004-07-31T16:01:00.000-07:00

Unhealthy people at risk of getting sick. It’s true. The studies say so.

Is it just me or is this stuff getting way out of control. I know a healthy vegetarian who got leukemia. I know people whose habits should have killed them 40 times over and they’re still staggering around. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, sure it’s a good thing to be healthy, it might even reduce your chances of getting seriously ill. But before I go hog-wild following your crazy fad food moment of the day, you better get your story straight.

Remember margarine, that great health food of days gone by which has suddenly been transformed into a trans fat suicide pill? Twenty years later, same product, different story.

It all just looks to me like some people are trying to find a cure for life. If that's what's going down I've got my own version of the game. It includes a sign on my ass that says - I brake for cake –and if you don’t like it, you can kiss my bumper sticker.

New directions

2004-07-30T16:52:00.000-07:00

On a recent trip to the city, S and I were walking down a street downtown when this young woman walked up to us and said, “do you live here?” (okay, she asked S – S always gets approached – she’s the nice one. I’m the one who has perfected the ‘don’t come near me unless you want to give me money’ vibe)

I have to say that I hate open-ended questions like that – it’s like when someone says what are you doing tomorrow and I’m like, depends. Are you going to make some demand on my time or do you want to give me a ticket to a sold-out event I would kill to see because your kid has come down with scabies? Or when someone calls me and says, “who’s this?” True story. And I’m thinking, you called me, bozo. You don’t to get to ask that. I get to ask that, which I do on a regular basis because, nobody, nobody, tells me who they are when I pick up the phone, except S’s mom who announces her name; first and last, in case I might not quite be able to place her after answering her calls for only 15 years. Mind you after having to deal with me all those years, she may well know exactly what she's doing.

Anyway, so the young woman says, do you live here? We say we used to. Then she says something about everyone around here being liars and that nobody will tell her the truth. She wants bus directions to a specific spot that doesn’t sound familiar to us, as the transit system has changed considerably since we lived here. We’re sorry, we say, we’re not sure and she almost has a full-fledged breakdown in front of us. She stomps off to a nearby jewellery store, where I’m sure they’ll be happy to assist her, provided she buys a $2000 watch.

The next day I’m headed off to a meeting in an area of town I haven’t been to before. As I’m on my way to catch the train I realize I have a vague idea where the station is but I am not sure exactly which street it is on. So I ask someone walking by me. She says, actually I don’t live here. Interesting, I think. Now this is a place that gets a lot of tourists and S and I had figured that the woman from the day before had been a victim of the downtown core being invaded by visitors. So here was proof.

Then I see someone captive at a bus stop, a transit user who will probably know the whereabouts of the train station. I walk towards her. She is clearly discomfited by my apparent zeroing in on her. I start to ask her about the location and she promptly says, I don’t know anything. Wow, tough way to live, I think, but clearly she is far more unnerved by me than I am in need of the information, so I move on.

A guy on a bike is stopped at the light. Train station, I say and point in the direction I think it is, as if by cutting to the chase I can make it clear that I just want confirmation or correction from him, nothing more. He actually answers me and points me to the right street. At that point I am pretty darn grateful just to have someone attempt to answer my question. Thank you kind man on the bicycle. Thank you for sparing me a complete breakdown on a public street. Speaking of which, I wonder if that young woman is still wandering around cursing out the stupid liars and tourists who won't help her find her way home. Just in case, I think I'll avoid that particular stretch. After all, hell hath no fury like a woman lost.

Hijackers, time travellers and fruitcakes

2004-07-29T11:27:00.000-07:00

When I mention that I’m going back to school with the intention of applying for Library school, I often get an incredulous, you-want-to-be-a-what, look. It would seem that a less than prestigious view of the librarian profession prevails in the general population.

Of course it doesn’t help that even its own early adherents played a significant role in keeping the librarian down. According to Matthew Battle’s Library: An Unquiet History, Melvil Dewey – yes the Dewey of the Dewey decimal system and all round ground breaking librarian – treated the profession as if it was a “girl’s” job and was therefore, rightfully subservient to the almighty academic.

Perhaps its early association with primarily female-type employees at a time when the only women who worked were oh so sadly, the non-marrying kind (as in poor ugly girl – no man - so must take dreary job to pretend to have meaning in life) has contributed to its antiquated image of being an infinitely boring position filled with old-before-their-time women. Aside from the complete inaccuracy of that perception, a far greater injustice is being perpetrated, for as far as I’m concerned, librarians are gods.

They have been strong advocates of privacy, intellectual freedom and civil liberty rights and they provide access to information for everyone – what role could possibly be more important to a civilized society? And yet the poster girl for the profession remains the stern faced shusher – the only apparent alternative being the, whip off her glasses and let down her bun, unleashed librarian touted by cheap wine commercials and cheesy aftershave ads. Given the choice, I think I’ll stick with the lacklustre persona, thanks very much.

But I suspect that public perception is about to undergo a change. An alleged former Black Panther turned reference librarian was just arrested in Toronto. The time travelling protagonist in Audrey Niffenegger’s hugely popular Time Traveller’s Wife is a librarian. Then there’s the new movie called The Librarian starring Noah Wyle. Granted he is described as a “meek librarian” – way to break out of those stereotypes Hollywood – who is apparently forced to rely on the real skills of a martial arts expert. Still it is an action-adventure flick named after a librarian, which should count for something. And how many other professions have their very own action figure?

But for me the real turning point was the case of the librarian hijacker, not a phrase one stumbles across often. Now librarianship, like every profession, is not immune to the bad apple syndrome. What intrigued me about this story was not that he was a librarian hijacker with mental health issues but that he was an EMPLOYED librarian hijacker with mental health issues, at a university no less. Which combined with the story of the Chrono Displacement Disorder sufferer in Niffenegger’s book who managed to retain his position over several years despite his periodic disappearances and naked stumbling through the stacks (don’t ask), has me thinking, wow, this is one accepting bunch. No wonder I figure there might be a spot for me in this illustrious field. If they can accommodate hijackers and time-travellers, not to mention the odd hidden panther – talk about your diversity in the workplace - they should have no problem assimilating a plain old fruitcake like myself.

The reluctant blogger

2004-07-27T15:23:00.000-07:00

In a world already rife with opportunities for self-indulgence I was initially less than enamoured with the idea of the blog. What we do not need are more words, we need more intelligent use of the ones already floating about. While the current system of natural selection for that which is “publishable” is certainly flawed – ask any novelist attempting to sell a book – hell, ask me – the prospect of unfettered, unjuried, unintelligible ramblings from anyone who can wrap their digits around a mouse is a far more frightening prospect than the possibility that some works which perhaps warrant publication, might fail to achieve that end.

And yet, new media create new creative opportunities and fabulous things can and will emerge. Yes, there will be dross – there always is and always will be until we find a way to outlaw stupidity and bad taste. But within the cloistered world of blogging, I’ve already come across some great stuff that I never would have seen without the surfeit of monomaniacal offerings in this reality based, memoir crazed time.

I'm not a huge fan of rants. I've been known to rant against rants. And yet as with anything, there are always those who take the form to a new place. Eurotrash comes to mind. Angry, funny stuff. And Mimi Smartypants – five years of badass craziness – you’ve got to love that. Then there's the thoughtful articulations of someone like Library Dust – a pleasure to read. Or Jessamyn West – librarian blogger extraordinaire. How many blogs does she have - and how does she get it all done? The blog that started it all for me (I saw it referred to in a writer's discussion group) was Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind – laid out cleanly and clearly, chock full of info and links to one small part of the world – specifically crime fiction – yet another much maligned form. Coincidence? I wonder. And as the neophyte of neophytes I am aware of only the tiniest sliver of all the fab stuff that is out there.

I may be late to the party but I can assure you I'm not headed home anytime soon. Besides my tardy appearance is pretty much business as usual for me. In fact my record for recognizing significant new developments is truly stellar. I hated the idea of the internet at first (I was in my back to the land - I hate that I compromised and got electricity to my cabin in the woods - stage). Again, my concern with the internet was that there would be too much opportunity for the proliferation of garbage.

The natural extension of this particular philosophy is that if I ran the world, nothing at all would be allowed in case it could possibly result in some form of trash. Sorry, no food for you – it’ll only result in crap. Nix on the whole clothing thing – everyone will want some and next thing you know, polyester will be invented. Shelter? I don’t think so. It can only lead to sad puppy figurines and skylights (of course it’s going to leak people – you’ve cut a HOLE in your roof).

My first impulse is to distrust change (oh, oh, this can’t be good), then like a too typical convert, I gleefully adopt it as my own personal saviour and will attempt to recruit all in my path. So, if you’ll indulge this self-indulgent reluctant blogger, I better rest up before my next blog-rant (ooh, that looks way too much like igno-rant – do you think it’s trying to tell me something?)

Activate me baby

2004-07-26T11:36:00.000-07:00

I recently signed up as a volunteer researcher/writer on a disaster response team for a humanitarian organization. We underwent a half-day’s training at the end of which we were asked to keep an eye on the news for any developing or possible disasters in our region, because that would mean we would be activated.

All of a sudden I felt like I was in The Manchurian Candidate meets Night of the Living Dead. It’s as if I’ll be walking along minding my own business one day and then suddenly some high pitched sound that only me and the crazy wire-haired terrier next door can hear will cause us both to tilt our heads and look to the south. The wire-haired terrier will go back to sleep while I turn and walk slowly with that zombie focus which all mind controlled beings exhibit as they strike out to do whatever it is they have been trained to do.

Instead of assassinating a president or chasing down nubile young beings who conveniently trip over small stones or dangerously long blades of grass so I can eat their flesh, however, I will be driving to an office in a big city and working on a computer. Doesn’t quite have the drama of the undead rising from their graves or the glamour of Denzel in a uniform, but it may well be this century’s version of the zombie crushing battle for the fate of the world.

Instead of spouting catchy platitudes like “kill the brain, kill the ghoul,” I’ll be saying things like “let me go online and track that down for you ma’am”. So beware evil info-hiding fiends. Armed with only a keyboard and dialup line, risking carpal tunnel syndrome and preternaturally pale skin, our brave hero will stop at nothing to chase down her data. For she is super-researcher and she always gets her facts.

The name game

2004-07-24T16:06:00.000-07:00

I have learned that it is not wise to do anything on the net without first googling the possible results. My first attempt at this blog referred to a middle aged schoolgirl (me) and suddenly I found myself in the rather unsavoury company of a bunch of twisted squirrels and their porno sites – apparently schoolgirl, once an innocuous word has become a pornography laden concept thanks to the nasty underside of the ubiquitous keyword search.

After a quick dip in a blue-tinged disinfectant to cleanse myself from the near association, I resorted to the delightful Bubbles LaRue, a name I liked strictly on aesthetic grounds. But alas, a tassel-artist beat me to the punch and uncanny physical similarity aside (oh to look that perky yet dangerous clutching a six shooter), well I just had to concede first stake rights to the velvet hammer doyenne.

I do, however, claim flag planting privileges on the good old Bubbles Mandalay moniker. For googling that particular combination takes you to an odd amalgamation of sites that involves, yes it’s true, the see-through spheres that arise from suds, an assortment of resorts in the country that can’t decide its own name, an ode to handmade papermaking and the Vera Lynn tune, I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles, that was featured in a Rogers and Astaire movie in which they apparently appeared as dancing chickens.

Feels like home to me. In fact I think I could get to really like it here in this wonderfully off-kilter company. Though of course nothing in this world stays static. Who knows what will turn up at the next search in this ever changing googlified existence. In the meantime...

I'm forever blowing bubbles,
Pretty bubbles in the air,
They fly so high,
Nearly reach the sky,
Then like my dreams
They fade and die.
Fortune's always hiding,
I've looked everywhere,
I'm forever blowing bubbles,
Pretty bubbles in the air

(Jaan Kenbrovin - John William Kellette 1919)

Fear factor

2004-07-23T08:34:00.000-07:00

The subject heading - at risk for drop from PSYC 666 - struck terror in my heart. I had scrambled like crazy to come up with enough courses for the extra year of credits I need to apply for library school and now I was being threatened with having a course dropped because I may not have the prerequisites needed. Well fuck me with a spoon but doesn’t my DEGREE count for anything.

But no, I’m now having to prove that a course I took twenty-five years ago, which has since transmogrified into a new and improved version of itself, bears a passing similarity to the course being touted as a necessary prerequisite for this course, that, let me state this clearly, I don’t even bloody want to take. I only signed up for it because it was one of the few that didn’t have a waiting list of 437. And now you want me to BEG to be let in? What fresh new hell is this?

And even if I had taken the required prerequisite a quarter of a century ago(!) the brain cells that have expired, faded away or killed themselves out of boredom, pretty much ensures that I wouldn’t have the slightest recollection of it anyway, so what’s the point? I curse you academic mandarins and your petty ways. But I take comfort from the fact that while I may not be able to take your stupid course, at least I don’t have to spend my adult life teaching it to a bunch of students who are only there because the good classes are full.

Earth moves. I miss it.

2004-07-22T08:23:00.000-07:00

In the middle of the night a while back, S said, did you feel that? I, in a sleepy stupor, but apparently never in so much of a stupor as to not have a ready answer, replied, I was moving my leg.

I have been known to have restless legs and in my dreamy mind state I incorporated the apparent movement of the bed with a logical explanation, which I promptly provided before falling back asleep. Either that or I have a strange compulsion to take responsibility for anything and everything. It turns out though that we’d had an earthquake.

Then a couple of nights ago, S woke me up. She said we’ve had another earthquake. I said I felt something move. She said that was me shaking you awake. Oh, I said and went back to sleep.

Did I mention I am an incredibly light sleeper? The dog has recently been banished from the bedroom because she breathes too loudly and yet in the past week and a half I have managed to sleep through two earthquakes.

I’m not quite sure what all this says about me. It sure doesn’t fit my, ever alert and ready to leap into action, perception of myself. It does, however, coincide nicely with my ‘oh, yeah, I knew that’ bent. No, siree you can’t be telling me anything I won’t be able to make fit, albeit with a little prodding, into my firmly established worldview. Or at least that’s me in my sleep. Me awake, now that’s a different kettle of fish. I think.

The world according to Colin Farrell

2004-07-21T08:23:00.000-07:00

It turns out we’ve all been wrong about Colin. He is not, in fact, a bad boy. It turns out that according to Mr. Farrell, Hitler was a bad boy, not him. And I thought Hitler was a genocidal maniac. But no, apparently he’s a bad boy. I’m so glad we’ve cleared that up. I hope the historians in the crowd are listening.

I don’t know about you but I’m willing to buy Colin’s version of ‘bad’ because he is clearly a man who knows his way around morality. After all, he’s threatened to punch out anyone who smokes near his infant son. Now that is one touching display of paternal affection. Apparently dad’s addictions to cigarettes, a right good piss-up and shagging anyone with a pulse, are of no concern. But a little second hand smoke, now that’s some pretty bad business, like maybe up there with the antics of that Nazi bad boy I should think.

That whole thumping out scenario has me wondering what the Colin would do if he’d been around sixty years ago. What would he have threatened naughty Adolph with when he learned about his mass killing hijinks? Perhaps a drinking contest mano a mano or a good arm wrestle to settle that whole holocaust nonsense once and for all.

Thank you oh might celebrity world for continuing to bestow upon us the self-servingly trite and pathetic ramblings of those whose sole claim to fame is being pretty and/or amply endowed.

While that whole thinking thing seems a tad out of their reach, at least we can still gaze at them and sigh.

Myopic devotion

2004-07-20T07:33:00.000-07:00

It’s quite cute that S is so worried about me being away from her, about how I will be scooped up by a young filly on the make. Like I’m going to walk into a classroom and they’re all going to look up and think, “Wow, hot babe, how do I get me some of that?” instead of the more likely, “omigod I’m going to school with my mother.” But she is nothing if not devoted and she is convinced that the budding dykettes will be flocking about me, trying desperately to win my hand. Though I suggest to her that this in fact is not likely to happen– as in, not a chance in hell, she is not convinced. So I fall back on my tried and true, “Remember hon, I don’t actually like anybody.” And she smiles, reassured once again.