Why I’m still single*

Reason #34: I make men uncomfortable at parties.

Man from Texas: Now, are you from Russia or Bulgaria?
Me, thinking he was kidding: Actually, I’m Romanian.
Texan: Oh, see I spent some time in Russia, so all you Eastern Europeans sound alike.
Me: [yikes, he’s serious] Sorry, I’m really from England. But I know foreign accents can sound similar.
Girlfriend: People even accuse her of being from Australia sometimes.
Texan: Well, Australia’s not so bad, is it?
Me: Not at all, but I think it’s like somebody thinking you’re gay, when you’re straight – it’s not that being gay is so awful, it’s just that you don’t want people thinking you’re something you’re not.
Texan, looking very flustered: Well, that’s quite the analogy…I mean, well….
Me: I’m sorry, have I embarrassed you?
Texan: I’m not gay.
Me: I didn’t think for one moment that you were.
Texan exits swiftly.

*(I’m thinking of making a handy laminated list of reasons for people who ask. Maybe a fridge magnet)

Le Ballet

Marie and I went to the ballet this afternoon –my favourite performance of Ballet West’s so far.

It began with a Balanchine piece – and as the curtain went up, there were audible “oohs” from the audience. It was all floaty pale blue tulle, cool lighting, Tchaikovsky, beautiful lines and movements, and was the kind of thing that made me remember why every little girl wants to be a ballet dancer at at least some point in her childhood. (What’s the boy equivalent? Pro footballer?)



They followed that with a Hamlet and Ophelia pas de deux, also gorgeous, very dramatically lit and choreographed.

The title piece of the program was Nine Sinatra Songs, from Twyla Tharp. I loved it; elegant, sexy, camp, beautiful, like the man’s music. It made me want to put on a sparkly frock and go and dance and drink cocktails at a glamourous nightclub; the kind that doesn’t exist any more, and perhaps never did—an amalgamation of Rick’s Bar in Casablanca and something mob-run in Vegas in the sixties.

Citrine

I’m in a group. A choir. Called Citrine. We sing a mix of folk and modern songs, either written or arranged by Rowan.

Here are some ways in which Rowan has described our singing:

Bouncy.
Leprous.
Hilarious. [As in, “That was hilarious. You must never sound like that in a performance or I will scream with laughter.”]
SUCKNESS!
Too Bulgarian.
Babyish.
Boring.

“Boring” was the one that really cut.

But Saturday night, we sounded pretty terrific. You can read more about that here and here. It’s quite a buzz, singing in front of a big group and hearing all the work pay off.

Here’s one of my favourite giggles from the weekend. As we were packing up the condo, Angie came in to help me with the bunk beds in my room. I was kneeling on the top one while making it (and hitting my head on the ceiling more than once).
Me: I don’t think I’m doing a good job of this.
Angie, trying to make me feel better: It doesn’t look like anyone made a good job of making them.
Pause:
Me: I made them all.

Here's our official pic.


Here's a slightly less official pic.





Here's me all glam.



A couple of pics from the drive down.





Rowan and I just casually relaxing after the performance.



And one more.

A Life of Leisure

I was talking with some friends at work about how you see people out and about town during the day and wonder who they are and what they’re doing. Don’t they have jobs?

For two days, I am of those people. I don’t start my new job until Monday, and went to the spa yesterday, where I had the pleasure of writing “none,” under “Occupation” on their form. This morning I went for a wee run in the park, and observed my fellow layabouts.

Here’s who was in the park, according to my deductions.

A Soviet spy, who was posted here in 1980 and told to await orders.
Two old college friends having a girls’ weekend.
A trust fund baby, wondering what he’s supposed to do with his life.
A young mother, who is SO glad to get out of the house on a beautiful day.
An amnesiac Turkish pianist who comes to gaze at his reflection and try to remember…
A blind man, who feeds the ducks to hear them quacking.
A retired accountant, who walks the park doing sums in his head.
Two nurses between shifts
An ex-trapeze artist.
A woman between jobs who remembers when she could run round the park quite a few times without feeling like either a lung or eardrum was about to burst.
An elderly couple who are more in love with each other than on the day they were married.

And if you're stuck in your office, here's what it looks like outside.

I Am a Cake

You are what you eat, right?

Well, it was my b'day yesterday, and I was spoiled deliciously, to the tune of:

Cake the night before from a special bundt cake shop that Arthur and I had considered knocking over last week (not for money, we just wanted cake, and it was shut. Wouldn't you like to hear THAT story on the news?).



Cookies mid-morning from my co-workers -- who sang (festively, if not tunefully)

Cookie at lunch

Cupcakes post work from my roomie, who tracked down one of my favourite cupcake destinations online and got me these pretty things when she should probably have been studying how to treat diabetes, not cause it.



Big beautiful trifley thing at choir practice (choir members sang not just tunefully but in multiple parts)


I also have it on good authority that my mum is working on dessert.

For my next birthday, I would like insulin and needles. Thank you.

Ever-decreasing Circles.

I have been doing a lot of running around recently. Church, work, choir, social stuff. Good but a little overwhelming.

But this weekend was really fun. Friday night I met Arthur for dinner and we went to a concert in someone’s basement, followed by friends n' s'mores at Angie's.

Saturday was the spiral jetty. A group of us drove halfway across Utah to see it. You drive and drive and drive north, and then you drive west, west, west, on increasingly rough, dusty roads, waving at jealous cows as you drive over cattle grids. Then you can’t drive any more, so you walk, and over the hill you see…the spiral jetty.

Several people have asked me what it is. It’s…well…it’s a jetty…and it’s in a…spiral shape. It’s a spiral jetty. It’s an art installation in the Great Salt Lake, made of dark volcanic rock, contrasting against the bright white salt that spirals with it. It’s been covered by water for a long time, but the lake is low enough that you can walk on it now. It’s also edged by what, from a distance, we thought were lumps of salt, but turned out to be clumps of white, salty foam.

You expect the salt to be slushy, or like a layer of ice that will crack when you walk on it. But it’s pretty firm and smooth. We played with the foam, tasted the salt (salty!), took our pictures, and made our way home. It was a fantastic day for it, with good company, and it felt a little like an excursion to a different planet.

A good few hours away from running in circles.

Scratchy Like a Burrito

I went to the dentist (three more weeks of free dental ins!) today, and got a "fluoride treatment." I will have to google this and find out if it's of any use. I suspect it's like those "engine treatments" the guys at Jiffy Lube are always offering me, which bump up my simple oil change to the price of a porsche payment whenever I'm weak enough to accept them. Probably no more useful than fluoridated toothpaste. To the car or my teeth.

Well, as the hygienist was finishing up, she told me I could eat and drink that morning, but "avoid anything sticky, like caramels, or scratchy, like burritos." Now, I can think of many things that are scratchy foodstuffs, like shredded wheat, or fortune cookies, or the top of creme brulee, or those things that claim to be "Hawaiian haystacks," to which I was introduced in America, and I will give a million pounds* to anyone who has actually eaten one in Hawaii, because I DON'T THINK SO.

But a burrito? A yummy, refried bean-filled, salsa-edged, cheesy, pillowy burrito? I would use a burrito to polish my shoes. They are not scratchy. Just think, she probably says that to dozens of people every day. Do you think any of them question her out loud? I didn't. But I did have a crunchy eggroll for lunch.

*You know when you're little and betting people "a million pounds" about something or other? Did American kids just bet a million dollars and feel slightly less confident about their bet, or did they bet "one point five million dollars" or whatever the exchange rate was? And how would they know the current exchange rate when we didn't have the internets back then? It must have been hard growing up in America. You guys didn't even have this...

Free Falling

I have a new job. Starting in three weeks. I’m quite scared about that. It doesn’t really help that (very well-meaning and dear) people keep giving me kindly warnings about how it’ll be “a change of pace,” and “quite a culture shock,” and pointing out all the sucky things about my new job. I did actually work fairly hard once in a while in my current job, people. And I did not grow up in a convent, despite my clean-living and innocent ways.

I feel really good about it, SO THERE. I have loved my job, but I’m excited about branching out, learning new things, a change in environment. Having said that, I am fully expecting that the next few months will be somewhat miserable, as I flounder around trying to find the photocopier and getting used to tracking my time in 15 minute increments. No longer will I be able to call M. and say, “please take care of this,” because it will now be my job to take care of it.

And I will miss my view. Here it is. Goodbye view. Wish me luck.