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Mark left for Holland last night. He said it was the worst-prepared departure he’s ever made, putting his clothes out only the day before and still packing less than four hours before the taxi left. (I’m somewhat puzzled: I didn’t know there was any other way. Still don’t.) He’d been working on a demolition/renovation/storage projet for a client fourteen hours a day for the past few weeks which explains his unusual carelessness.

(Historical note: we met exactly three years ago this coming Friday. A week later we lit out for the Laurentians to spend a couple of days tramping around outside. A few days after that – so probably right around Hallowe’en, or about ten days after our first meeting – I wrote to my mother to tell her about this new person in my life who had “thrown me for such a loop.” I listed the things I thought I knew about him at that early date, one of which was that “he has strong opinions on food storage.” Turns out I was being too precise: he has strong opinions on storage generally. Very strong. And they’re generally good ones.)

After seeing him off at the airport I checked out the bookstores for Sara Paretsky mysteries and found one I hadn’t read. This morning saw me staying in bed until after one, cuddling with my dogs under the blankets, reading about V.I. Warshawski vs the Patriot Act and eating apple crisp and ice cream. I can handle this…

[originally transmitted by e-mail October 16, 2004]

Mark became a landed immigrant exactly one year ago today! It doesn’t feel that long.

Oh, yes, that other anniversary. Be inspired to cry/wish/work/pray/vote for peace — whatever it is you do — at this site: http://www.iraqbodycount.net/.

[originally transmitted by e-mail September 11, 2004]

I just bought a serger (overlock machine, that does that stretchy sewing and seam-finishing you see on tee-shirts) about a month ago. I have never used a serger, so was hesitant; I handled my nerves by doing lots of online research. Then I did the exact opposite of the unanimous and excellent advice I was given by going through e-bay instead of a “reliable dealer.” My reasons are long and various, but the short story is that I couldn’t find anyone in my area who met my criteria for reliable dealership. (The long story is in several chapters over the course of the summer and culminates in vomiting into a garbage can in a mall. The short story is enough.)

I am now the proud owner of a used Elna 925DCX in (probably) perfect working order. I paid about $800CAD (about $610USD) total, including shipping and I feel as though I got a good deal. People who know about these things tell me I got a very good deal. I couldn’t say: I haven’t had time to even sit down and thread it yet.

Ever since it arrived in the mail my weekends have been taken up with partying. They tend to be multi-day, friends-and-family, communal-bonding sorts of events that take up the entire weekend. There was that party I was at while the Dog Lady was sneaking around spraying my dogs with Febreze. Then Labour Day weekend we went to the Cherry Valley Harvest Party in upstate New York where my ten year old cousin Addy brought down the house with her rendition of The Band’s “The Weight” (last year was Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight,” and the year before that, when she was eight, it was Loretta Lynn’s “Don’t Come Home A-Drinkin’ With Lovin’ On Your Mind”) and then came back to sing the party’s theme song, “Mustang Sally,” at, oh, I don’t know, one in the morning? Anyway I was in bed by that time, but by all accounts she nailed it. Just like she nailed all the other ones. (Addy Schneider: watch for that name.) Anyway, next weekend is just one local, very normal single-evening party, then the weekend after I’m off to Ottawa to fête a 20/40/60 birthday. (My brother Matthew is 20, I’m 40 and my mother is 60. My nephew Simon — age 0 — will be there, but my mother-in-law — age 80 in October — will not.) The following weekend we’re back to the Laurentians for another cottage party.

So I have joined a bunch of Internet serger mailing lists, but haven’t even plugged the actual machine in.

The serger lists are interesting. One is fairly active, generating about 20 e-mails a day… all on the phenomenon of husbands needing to restack the dishwasher after their wives have loaded it.

[originally transmitted by e-mail September 8, 2004]

This is true: I know because this is how I speak french. People are routinely astonished when I open my mouth and out pours the speech of a cheap hooker. (For what it’s worth, I suppose this means that I don’t look like a cheap hooker.)

——Start of Forwarded Message ———
From: jfa <___ @videotron.ca>
Subject: Dictionnaire Anglais-Quebecois

Anglais – Quebecois
[note to my anglo friends: the french side must be pronounced with the french pronounciation. As an example, “don” pronounces without closing the final ‘n’ and the french A is open as in ‘ah.’ But surely you know all about that. he he :-) ]

Well there you go. – Ben coudon.
I don’t believe it. – Ben wéyon don.
What’s new. – Pis.
Check that out. – Gar.
Look at her. – Gar la.
Look at him. – Gar lé.
What? – Kossé.
What? – Hein.
Do you believe me. – Tume crétu.
Do you think I care. – Quesse tuveux ksam fasse.
Only – Yinque.
With that. – Aickssa.
Really wet. – Trempalavet.
Me and You. – Moé Toé.
I’m gonna yell at him. – J’ma y parler dans’l’casse.
I’m gonna beat him up. – J’ma yarranger l’cadran.
You’re kidding me. – Vatendon.
It stinks. – Sassen chorogne.
I was scared. – Jéu n chienne.
Get out of there. – Aute toé dela.
What are you doing. – Kesse tufai.
I’m spaced out. – Chudanlune.
Right there. – Drette la.
Don’t go out of your way. – Bawd tazempa.
Let’s say. – Meton.
Can you believe it? -Tatu d’javusa.
Move your ass. – Anweille.
It looks that way. – Sadlairasah.
I tell you. – Chtedi.
I am so confused. – Chtout fourré.
I am so tired. – J’coigne des clou.
Look at that guy. – Chek moilédon.
Get lost. – Dégosse.
A fat whore. – Grosse torche.
A lot of trouble. – Un siau’d’marde.
It’s because. – Stacose.
Anyways. – Antéka.
That’s enough. – Sta cé.
See you later. – Woère talleur.
Relax. – Cammtoué.
Damn. – Viarge.
She’s crying. – A braille.
Make believe. – Fairacraire.
He has bad breath. – Y pudanyeul.

[originally transmitted by e-mail November 22, 2002]

But I have two co-workers who have the most irritating laughs. One of them is two desks over and is always on the phone, giggling. The worst part is my own reaction: I’m irritated partly because he sounds effeminate, or out of touch with his masculinity, or maybe just plain out of touch with his body. And I think I shouldn’t react this way, but I do. (He’s straight, straight-looking, straight-acting; but I am morally convinced that his laugh would be just as irritating if he were a flaming queen.) And he’s of South Asian descent, so I worry about those awful stereotypes of South Asian men and their ridiculous attempts at masculinity. Every time I hear his helpless giggle – about every five minutes – I shudder. For both of us. I keep hoping that I’ll get used to it, but I haven’t yet and he’s been here since at least July.

The other guy is just not very bright and has a direct line between his brain and his mouth. There is absolutely no censorship or editing or attempt to be comprehensible: if something resembling a thought has twitched somewhere in the depths of his mind, a running commentary is generated in real time – whether or not there is anyone around to listen. And he sniggers at everything he says. Fortunately someone has moved to the desk next to him so he has someone to talk to now: he used to hang around us a lot and talk – or whatever – to us. So now even when he comes around and does his thing, I know he’s going away again and it doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it used to.

Just thought I’d get that off my chest.

[originally transmitted November 13, 2002]

I got back from my little jaunt across the pond Saturday night and was reunited with my precious doggies Sunday morning.

Poor little Pepe had lost weight – his ribs were not just palpable, but sharp. I put this down to the babysitter feeding them meals instead of leaving food out for them to nibble on all the time, which is understandable as she had several other dogs in the house as well. Anyway, I wasn’t worried.

Then Tuesday he started vomiting. Dogs vomit; I didn’t particularly worry about that either, even when he vomited in my bed. Wednesday I came back from work to find vomit everywhere. In and around the bed and all through the kitchen. Now I was worried. There was no food in the vomit, just gastric juices. Was he eating? Maybe he had an abcessed tooth and couldn’t eat… though when I got home from work he did his usual happy circle dance and then ate from excitement. Maybe he had an intestinal obstruction.

I decided to feed him soft food as a test: if it was a tooth, all would be fine. If his appetite was gone, he wouldn’t eat. If his intestines were blocked he’d just bring it right up again. Each dog got half a can of tuna; both were very enthusiastic; both kept it down.

This morning I woke up with tuna-vomit all through the bed. (The washing machine is running as I write this.) I called the vet from work and made an appointment. I just got back.

Diagnosis, after weighing him, taking his temperature, examining his teeth and gums and other mucous membanes, looking in his ears, listening to his lungs and heart and gut and palpating his belly: heartache. He’s very attached to me and the stress of separation caused increased stomach acidity which resulted in vomiting. Apparently waiting until he got home to have an anxiety crisis is typical. I tend to believe her, because she knew as soon as I brought in a sick dog after a two-week vacation that the problem was vomiting gastric juices.

Why couldn’t heartache take a more picturesque form than tuna-vomit in my bed?

[originally transmitted by e-mail November 7 2002]