Reasonably Québécois

If Quebec were a reasonable province, Bill 101 would never have passed. Montreal would still be the country’s economic centre. Francophone children would have the right to go to school in English and allophones the right to choose between French and English education. If Quebec were a reasonable province, it would never have built the world’s second largest airport two hours away from the city it was meant to serve. Nor would they have built a stadium that took thirty years of smoking by Montreal residents to pay it off. Were Quebec a reasonable province, two hundred thousand Montreal residents would not spend their national holiday moving. Major grocery stores would be allowed to staff more than four employees after nine pm and bread would be delivered everyday, even on Mondays.

In light of these lapses of judgment, forgive me if I question the goals of a body established to discuss the issue deemed reasonable accommodation. Do I believe that newcomers to Canada should have the right to retain their culture? Absolutely; what would Montreal be without its Muslim population or its Jewish population? It would be a city without Schwartz’s and shish taouk. Diversity characterizes Montreal. Makes the city and the province more rich. In how many other cities of the world could you have ten friends sitting around a table, all of different backgrounds, switching back and forth between English and French as though they were one language? It should go without saying that values guaranteed every Canadian under the Charter of rights and freedoms will also be applied to newcomers. That is what made Hérrouxville’s code of conduct so shocking- that it was denying the newcomers basic rights promised to every Canadian. The Charter is not a buffet. It doesn’t allow us to decide that particular groups are exempt from it. The Charter is part of our culture in Quebec, and in Canada. There is no greater threat to this culture than a proposed code of conduct that contradicts what it means to be a Canadian.

My old roommate, Fajer, on the cover of a Quebec weekly

drawing attention to the reasonable accommodation debate.

The world is changing. Economics and communication are moving people more than ever from one edge of the globe to the other. It is not just Quebec that is changing. Korea has always been proud to have the most homogenous population in the world, but even they are starting to see blue-eyed Korean children. There is no need and no point in fighting these changes- they are inevitable. In a diverse city like Montreal, mixed race couples are now common place and there is no turning back. The argument that society is changing too fast is a weak one. The pace of change around the world has been accelerated, not just here.

As the reasonable accommodation debate heats up, I cringe. In a province that has never been known to be reasonable to any sort of accommodation, I fear the judgments that will soon flow freely. Quebec needs to wake up and realize they are dangerously close to falling behind the rest of the world. While children in China, Japan, North and South Korea are learning English, many Quebeckers are still unable to communicate in the world’s language of business. Bill 101 will not be remembered as Quebec’s saving grace, but rather as the nail in the coffin. If reason resided in Quebec, our street signs would be bilingual and bus drivers would all speak English, if for no other reason than to accommodate tourists. Quebec’s children would grow up perfectly bilingual and unconcerned about the politics of learning to speak English. If the Chinese are learning to speak Japanese, even after World War II, I’m sure we can toss French/English politics aside. But reason, I’m afraid, resides in Toronto. Which is what makes the reasonable accommodation debate so frightening here. If Quebec is unable to accommodate its English speaking population, what chance do other ethnicities have?

Adventures in Vars, Ontario

The last couple weeks have been chaotic. Carrie arrived for her first visit to Montreal, Thelma and Francis arrived for their wedding. Fred and I stepped up to the plate as tour guides and tried to give Montreal a fair showing, which doesn't take much. On Thursday, Carrie and I hopped into our rented Hyundai Elantra and sped off in search of Thelma's farm in Navan, Ontario. Armed with our MapQuest directions, we were sure to get there in one piece. We bravely faced the streets and highways of Montreal, marked not only by potholes, but also by the littered remains of cars that just couldn't go on. Ontario license plates scattered across the harsh terrain- drivers that couldn't handle the stress of driving the streets of Montreal. We sped towards Ottawa and finally an hour and a half later made a quick right onto Rockdale Road in the direction of Navan. Arriving downtown Navan, we realized that MapQuest had failed us (or rather we had failed MapQuest- apparently you need to give it a complete address). The directions were incomplete, so we dialed the farm, hoping that Thelma would be able to give us directions...

The night that changed the relationship between Thelma and I began with Rob and Syd, a lot of homemade wine, and a hot tub. Rob and I had already been dating for a couple months, and Thelma and Syd started dating that night. We were up all night and in the morning, Rob drove me to work and took the car to drive Thelma home. He'd never been to her house before, but I assured him that it wasn't far from where my mom lived. And it isn't. But Thelma's famous sense of direction (or lack thereof) resulted in a good hour of driving around SW Calgary until finally one of them saw something that looked familiar and were able to figure out where to go from there. Thelma had been living in that same neighbourhood for most of her life. This was the girl that I called to get directions from downtown Navan to her farm.

First off, Thelma informed us that she didn't in fact live in Navan, so were in the wrong place entirely. Carrie and I laughed and bickered through the nonsensical directions we were given. Thelma told us the addresses on her street weren't sequential, so not to bother looking at them. The house can't be seen from the street, so don't bother looking. We were told to look for a green mailbox, brown cows in the pasture and a corn stand on the corner. As you can imagine, there is no shortage of brown cows or corn stands in the Ontario countryside. After a heated argument about whether or not there was a fire station on Thelma's street, we discovered that she in fact lived in the town of Vars, and not Navan. Is it any wonder MapQuest and I had a fight about what town her street was in?

We eventually arrived. For the next four days, the Bearbrook Resort Inn was home to us at the incredible inflated rate of 100$/night. That night, we took Thelma out for her Bachelorette party with a group of her high school friends. Despite her best efforts to remain sober, Thelma had a few too many martinis at eighteen. For half the night, she sounded a bit like a broken record- proclaiming that she had too much to do to deal with being hung over the next day. By the time we met up with Francis's stag party, she was having fun and had forgotten about her list of things to do. On the way back to the farm, we enjoyed our last 4am breakfast run for quite awhile and dropped Thelma off at home. We told her we wouldn't leave unless she promised to go right to bed, she promised, so we drove back to our 'cozy' room at Bearbrook. I discovered the following day that my good friend Thelma, who I'd known for eighteen years and was about to stand beside as maid of honour, was a liar. She stayed up for hours after we dropped her off- making center pieces and finalizing the seating arrangement.

The wedding was beautiful, despite all of our fears that there was too much left to do. Thelma finally learned how to delegate the day before the wedding and everything came together. The ceremony was relaxed, simple and beautiful all at once. We were attacked by mosquitoes and Francis, ever the gentleman, was chastised during the ceremony for slapping his bride's forehead to save her from a bite. Both Thelma and Francis were so happy all day and it made me think. When I get married, I think we'll elope.

I Feel Fall

It seems summer comes and goes a bit faster every year. Yesterday I woke up early to make my way to the yoga studio for my weekly reception gig. I tossed on a sarong and some flip flops and left the house, only to be greeted by crisp fall air as I opened the door and stepped into the sun. This first breath of fall is always accompanied by a feeling of dread. I love the fall, but there is always the knowledge that it is about to lead into a cold, long winter. Every winter spent in Montreal makes Vancouver look a lot better.

The last few weeks have been hectic. Today I'm enjoying my first day off since Thelma's wedding. As I have trouble tolerating my position at Brother, I'm desperately seeking a way out- which seems to have led me to substitution work at a school for learning disabled kids. They've taken me on for French and English work, so I've actually gotten quite a few days from them already. If I can find another two or three schools to substitute for, it should become a full time job.


I walked into my classroom on my first day and analyzed the room. On the far wall, large windows looked out onto the playground and the basketball court. The left side was lined end to end with computers, available for use once the kids finished their work. On one wall was a blackboard, and the other was lined with the very same Houghton Mifflin Mathematics books that I remember using in grade six. I checked the publication date; 1980. With all the school board reforms, it seems they are still clinging to the set of now dilapidated books. The large windows were a great distraction to me throughout the day, as students filed by on their way to gym class. The classes are small, usually no more than twelve kids but the work is difficult. It takes a lot of patience, both with the kids and the school itself. Not having been there long, it's hard for me to really get a feel for how their system works, but apart from the small class sizes, it doesn't seem terribly different from a normal school. I wonder about the method. If students are incapable of learning in the conventional classroom, wouldn't it make sense to try other approaches? Perhaps less lectures and more hands on learning? With so many of the students describing themselves as stupid and using a missed pill as an excuse for bad behavior, I wonder what kind of titles are assigned to these kids away from the school and if being here was made to feel like a punishment for bad behavior.

Both my brothers having grown up with learning disabilities, the situation is not entirely foreign to me. But I can't say I ever remember my brothers describing themselves as stupid. I wondered how they ever got anything done in one classroom that I worked in. The chorus of 'I can'ts' was so loud that even I had trouble believing these kids were capable. If the message that you've been fed for so long is that you can't do it, how will you ever get it done? The experience made me wonder how specialized schools such as this one should exist. If even five of the twelve students in your class believe themselves incapable because of their difficulties, will this attitude not catch on with the other kids?

So many thoughts, so tired though. With substitution work, Brother and the yoga studio, I haven't had a day off in nearly a month. So tired!! Time for bed, more later!

Tantrums

I'm afraid I may be allergic to corporate life. My eyes are again swollen for no apparent reason and I blame sitting in front of a computer all day under florescent lights. Years ago I used to pride myself on being able to effectively handle any type of customer, however difficult. Talk them down from their high horse and get them to realize how ridiculous they sounded carrying on about this or that. A year and a half out of customer service and I've lost not only my patience, but also my words in such cases. I sit there, valid arguments forming in my head, but they just won't roll off my tongue. I just can't get past the fact that these people are calling me for help, but yell at me when they don't like the answer I give, the questions I ask or the speed at which my computer operates. I just don't care. I find it baffling that some people have nothing better to do then call up customer service and yell and scream and carry on. All I can think is how spoiled we are. I feel like screaming, "Don't you think there are more serious problems in the world worth yelling about than whether or not your fax machine is working?" Maybe if these people would yell just as loud about things that really matter our world would be a better place. I listen to the other agents, swearing and making a stink with the customer on hold, about how stupid the caller is and I think it's not the stupid questions that bug me. The very fact that technical support exists, at least on the level at which I work, is not because people are not smart enough to understand what they've bought, it's because they're too lazy to try. Too lazy to open the book and follow the basic instructions. Dependant on other people to solve their problems for them, rather than taking a moment to think about the situation. Did I check to see if it were plugged in? Did I turn it on? Is there paper in it? Instead they pick up the phone, dial the 1-800 number on the box and yell about the poor quality of the product, scream about the stupidity of all the companies employees and carry on like a two year old having a tantrum over a side of brussel sprouts. I've become much more adept at dealing with children having tantrums, I realize. Often times all it takes is a cocking of the head, a glance in their direction or a certain tone when calling their name. Their outbursts are also more acceptable, understandable and rarely show the same disrespect as you get from adults. I've intensified my search for a teaching job and will hopefully find something permanent for September. I just haven't the energy to commute to the West Island five days a week, leaving the house at 7am and if I head to yoga after, arriving home only at 9pm. I haven't the energy for the job because it isn't even in the direction of where I'm headed and I hate that this is all I have on my mind on a beautiful Saturday morning. Other than my work and the subsequent swollen eye, I feel fantastic. I feel super healthy thanks to my yoga classes this week and I am happy to see that the hole in Fred's belly is very close to closing. Last Sunday marked our five year anniversary, which is pretty amazing given all that we've gone through together. And the fact that previously I wouldn't have last four months before running away screaming, terrified that I was teetering on the edge of a committed relationship. I have friends in town for the next couple weeks, preparing for Thelma's wedding in Ottawa. I haven't seen Thelma in two year, so it'll be great to hang out and get some Bloody Caesars in us. Hopefully we have the good sense to stop before a Caesar induced hang-over!

Les yeux grand ouverts

Thank you to everyone reading this page regularly, I've just noticed that my page has reached ten thousand hits, which excites me. Secondly, I've decided to begin doing some of my posts in French- below you'll find the first one, with I'm sure, atrocious spelling. My apologies to the French language for the bastardization, it's been over ten years since I've written anything in French...

J'ai décidé que je devrais, de temps en temps, faire des postes en français. Jusqu'à maintenant j'en avais pas fait parce que j'ai tellement peur de faire des fautes d'orthographes. Mais finalement j'ai réalisé que je serais jamais plus comfortable si je ne prends pas quelques minutes pour écrire un petit mot en français. Désolé d'abord si vous trouvez mon texte plein d'erreurs. Ça fait quaizement dix ans que j'ai pas écrit plus de vingt mots en français.

Je ne peux pas dormir. Ma tête est plein d' idées et de pensés qui m'excitent en même temps qu'ils me font peur. Après trois semaines de retour au service à la clientèle, et c'est assez. Ça me tente pas. Ça m'intèrese pas. C'est pas un job bien difficile, mais c'est plate. Je me lève à six heures le matin pour me rendre tout au bout de l'île avec la mère de Freddy. Je passe la journée à lire mon livre à mon bureau, agacé des appèles qui dérange ma lecture. J'écoute les conversations banales de mes collègues et ça m'ennuie. Je pars le soir, trop fatiguées pour mettre sur papier toutes les idées que j'ai eu pendant la journées, toutes les situations qui m' ont inspiré. J'ai faites des demandes d'emplois pour quelques écoles cette semaine et j'espère d'entendre des bonnes nouvelles dans les prochaines jours. Imagine combien de temps j'aurais si je travaille seulement jusqu'à quatre heures! Si j'avais pas à passer deux heures en auto pour me rendre à un emplois qui vaut vraiment pas la peine. Je veux bientôt commencer à faire la révision des articles que j'ai l'intention de soumettre aux journals et aux magazines. Une étape à la fois, premièrement, il faut que je me couche. Il est trois heures et demi du matin et je travaille de bonne heure au studio de yoga. Bonsoir...

The Tender Bar: J.R. Moehringer

Once upon a time, I read everything I could lay my hands on. I'd devour books, even bad ones, simply because they were there. But as time goes on, I realize that life is too short to read bad books. Why waste my time when there are countless classics that I may never get to? Over the last couple years, I've started so many books that I've never finished, and part of me felt guilty for letting them go. But there is a time and a place fo every book you read, and if it doesn't hold my interest now, maybe it will down the road. Or maybe not. Maybe that book will never speak to me. Or maybe it is awaiting my more focused self to come back to it.

Fred and I were en route to the clinic last week-end, him for his daily wound cleaning (gross, isn't it?) and I wanted to have a doctor investigate the cause of my swollen eye. It was itchy as hell and driving me nuts, not to mention the fact that I had spent a whole week looking as though I was about to burst into tears. As we prepared to leave the house, I ducked into our office to find a good book to read during my long wait at the clinic. Fred passed me The Tender Bar and we were off.

Since J.D. Salinger wrote The Catcher in the Rye in 1951, the book has long been regarded as the perfect coming of age story. It's one of the only books I've ever re-read, and I enjoyed it just as much the second time around. But in The Tender Bar I discovered something different. A book that was able to capture the pull between two opposing sides of myself; my drive to succeed and my contentment to sit all at once, my artistic impulses that strive to find every possible medium (even when I'm not conscious of it), and my secret wish that I could find a more direct, obvious path through life. Every now and then, I convince myself that I am deeply interested in law and should attend law school. Not because I care about law at all, but because I want to prove to myself that I'm capable of law school. Because I think about all the travelling I could do if I were a lawyer and had the money to go where I want. Eventually the thought occurs to me that law is often an exercise in semantics and a struggle to find a loophole, neither of which appeal to me in any way. If this weren't enough to disway my application to McGill, I start thinking about how much work law involves, and how little vacation time. All the money in the world but no time to enjoy it. I can relate to the book's author. I understand how excitement to attend university can quickly fade away and your focus can shift, attention can be lost and you begin to question why you decided to be there in the first place. When I was younger, I looked forward to being in my thirties- when all my hard work at school would pay off and I would be well settled in my career. Now that I'm nearly there, I doubt that I will ever reach a point where I feel settled. I can't imagine being able to sit back and say that I had done all I set out, seen everything I wanted to, learned all that I hungered for. I've always been in a rush, but I've never stopped to figure out why. It's not as though I'm running out of time, although I suppose we all are in a way. More than anything, the book helped me to realize that things take time. I've felt frustrated lately, felt like I'm taking a step backwards in doing customer service, particularly since I swore I would never do it again. It's easy to forget that I've acquired a university degree, a year of teaching experience and begun my journey to see the world. I am headed in the right direction, and I need to remember that. I haven't chosen the most obvious career path, but I need to relax and realize that everything about life is a journey and no experience is wasted. I have all the pieces to begin my professional life, I just need to put them together.

All that said, I loved the book. Read it. Time for bed. I just got home from yoga and experienced what 70% humidity feels like. It feels a lot like bedtime.

Hangul

I just stumbled upon an excellent site to learn the Korean alphabet. It even talks! Check it out.

http://www.indiana.edu/~koreanrs/hangul.html

Florescent Lighting Hurts My Eyes (and corporate air makes them swell)

Three weeks have passed since I last posted, I know. I finally recognized that my search for a teaching position was over for the season and would have to be put on hold for the summer. Despite my lengthy cv (or perhaps because of it), I have spent the last two months searching for any job that would pay me to show up... and preferably only to do that. I finally accepted a job as a tech support agent at Brother Canada in the middle of nowhere (Dollard-des-Ormeaux) and grudgingly showed up for my first day of work on July 3rd. Of course, the moment I started, the phone began to ring and all those jobs who had failed to call me back have left me messages over the last three weeks. In any case, the job at Brother comes with such perks as door to door pick-up in the morning and drop-off in the evening, along with fully catered breakfast and lunch, with the occasional snack. These are not, of course, services offered to just anybody- only those who happen to be dating Fred, provided they meet his mothers expectations. Apparently I do, so I enjoy quite the royal treatment. As for the job, it is probably the best customer service position I could ever find. The pay is not bad and the company offers its employees real perks: profit sharing, health & dental benefits, subsidized gym memberships, RRSP, financial recognition for valid suggestions and trips for the employee dubbed the best of the year. The atmosphere is largely laid back- people joke around in the cafeteria and laughter is heard in the halls. It seems there are actually companies that treat their employees well. Bulletin boards in the staff room are packed with activities planned by the social club; trips to La Ronde (amusement park), Super Aqua Club (waterslides), river boat rides to observe the fireworks competition and even a charity baseball game against a local radio station. Charity baseball games? I feel like I've tripped and fallen into a sit com. Except the pay isn't as good and my agent never called.

It all makes me feel a bit guilty that I don't want to be there. My large cubicle sits beside our customer service department; two really sweet women who talk about their kids and puke a lot. My cubicle mate, Joyce, has thus far only spoken one sentence to me. In fact, I'm not even sure her name is Joyce- I've based that entirely on the name card that is glued to her side of the wall. My ears are overwhelmed with chatter. A girl whose name I don't remember sits opposite me talking about her recent trip to Thailand. The boys talk about baseball and pretend they know what they're talking about. They seem to think 'punt hitter' is an actual baseball term. It makes me laugh. The ladies next to me talk more about puke and mucus. I try to focus on the blank page in front of me, though not a single creative or inspired thought leaks from my head. I try to force it, but all I imagine are call center stories about fax machines and silly customers. No one wants to read about that. I definitely don't want to write about that. I need to get out, and fast. The fluorescent lighting hurts my eyes and makes me drowsy, the glare off the computer screen induces paranoia, the empty pale green cubicle walls bring on an odd mix of nausea and apathy. The free coffee keeps me pumped full of mocchacinos, ensuring that I'll be conscious enough to deliver my passionate spiel about fax machines as required.

Happy Moving Day!!

I awoke this afternoon with familiar aches and pains running throughout my body. It was July 1st. It was not only the late night move that we had pulled off last night that was causing me such pain, but also the memories of how every first of July has been spent since moving to Montreal in 2001. I long for the days when Canada Day meant BBQs at a friend's place, or double time pay at a crappy job. But ever since my first moving day, everything has changed. The very thought of July 1st sends shivers down my spine and thrusts me into a cold sweat. I run through the endless list of things to do, complete with ways to avoid the day altogether. Inevitably, I realize I was forgetting something and continue to panic until the day has finished and I'm sleeping on an unmade bed surrounded by unpacked boxes. The feeling of being completely overwhelmed gradually subsides over the days and weeks that follow, until eventually most everything has been unpacked and found its place. By then, school has started for all the students and other concerns take over as the summer comes to an end. Before I know it, Christmas has come and gone and I awake one morning to find that its a new year. In the midst of the coldest, most miserable month of the year, there is a knock at the door and a postal worker presents me with a registered letter. My hands shaking, I sign his clipboard and nervously turn my attention to the slim envelope. Tearing open the envelope, I gaze down at the enclosed papers. Notice of lease renewal. My landlord needs to know if I intend to renew my lease until the following year. But it's January- how could I possibly know what my plans will be for July? Return by February 28th. Hmmm... one month to ponder what I will do for the next year and a half. I have three choices, none of them pleasant. I can;

A) choose not to answer the letter, automatically renewing my lease until July 1st of the following year, and automatically agreeing to any rent increases specified in the notice.

B) refuse the rent increase and agree to present myself at the rental board court room to argue my case.
or C) decide that I want to put myself through another July 1st move.

A is the easiest option and suckered me into spending three years at my crappy St-Henri apartment. B is unpleasant and too much trouble. For the 2% that my landlord is allowed to raise the rent every year, I'm not about to take him to court over it. I couldn't be bothered. Rental court is buried somewhere deep in the East End, where Anglophones don't like to go. Option C. This is the option that makes my blood run cold. Before agreeing to a July 1st more, it is absolutely essential that I understand what hell it is to move on this day. I would have two months to find an apartment. If I haven't signed a lease by April, it's likely that I'll find myself scrambling to sign the lease for the first apartment I can get in to see, for fear of being homeless on Canada Day. My moving truck needs to booked by May, at the latest, otherwise I'll be stuck renting an overpriced U-Haul, rather than an overpriced Discount truck. I can expect to pay about 300$ for a four hour shift with the truck. If I happen to return the truck five minutes late,I can tak on another 200$ late fees. Then I need to book friends. This needs to be done early, particularly since Montrealers answer their phones very tentatively after June. We are familiar with the tone of voice associated with calls for moving help and our hang-up reflexes more developed than other Canadians. I will spend any spare time over the next few months calling my cable, internet, hydro, gas, phone, medicare and licensing offices to report my change of address. I can expect to spend a lot of time on hold. In May, I need to start hoarding boxes. Grocery stores and pharmacies stop handing them out, some even putting up signs to tell their customers that they are not sharing their moving day boxes. As the end of June approaches, I'll be spending every free moment running about to pack up my things. I'll be expected out of my apartment at noon on July 1st, to allow the new tenant to move in that afternoon. No move ever runs smoothly, and Canada Day moves are no different. As people run here and there, desperately trying to be out of their apartments at 12:00pm and still stay within the four hours with the truck- the architecture of Montreal helps to further challenge your average mover. Appliances being carried, ever so carefully down flights of spiraling iron stairs. Old doorways, mysteriously too narrow for couches to pass through. Already memories of the previous July 1st have faded and I can't remember how I got the couch in to begin with. Hopefully I never again live downtown, where I had the added challenge of dealing with the Canada Day parade that shut down the street Fred was living on.

This year,Fred and I were bracing ourselves for a July 1st move. Luckily, however, a bigger apartment opened in our building and we were able to transfer our lease and move in December. We thought we had dogged the bullet. But inevitably in May, the phone rang and our good friends, Claire and Matt told us they had rented an apartment in our building. For a moment, we were excited by the prospect of having friends in the building. Then we realized what that meant. Another move on the first of July. But Claire and Matt had slightly different plans. If they took a van on June 30th, they knew they could get a longer block of time at a cheaper rate. If the old tenants hadn't left yet, they could leave things at our place overnight. So the van was rented from 7pm, to be returned by 6:30am or pay the nasty 200$ fee. To move Claire and Matt from their
3 and 1/2 downtown (complete with steep staircases) to their new 5 and 1/2 up the street in Côte des neiges, it took the four of us working until 6am. At 6am, Claire returned the van and Fred and I went downstairs and crawled into bed. At nine there was a knock on the door. Matt and Claire hadn't quite finished and had planned on renting a car to pick up the last few things. It being July 1st, there were no cars available. Fred called his mom and asked her if she could drive them to clear out the last few things. They did another three trips, and they finished completely at 2pm.

The separatists really have an amazing thing going here. If this is your typical Canada Day, is it any wonder that the Quebec's national party the week before is so successful? I think it's pretty safe to say that Montreal is probably the only city in the world where its residents spend their national holiday with couches strapped to their backs in blistering heat, too tired to appreciate anything but the cold beer and pizza that follows any move... unless of course you finish moving at 6am.

Door to Door War; A Film by Jared Eves

A short film by Jared Eves, a friend from Calgary. Check it out.

No Job, But Free Yoga

A recent lock-out at the cemetery across from our house inspired me to record the unkept state of the grounds.

At 19, when I was young and idealistic, I started a BFA in theater performance. Despite the lectures and warnings of those around me, I was determined to do what I loved, even if that meant waiting on tables for the rest of my life. I dragged out the degree, taking five years to finish it in all. I walked the stage at Place des Arts, wrapped my hands around my degree and was suddenly hit with a wave of fear. I had fought to have the day off of my crappy union job to attend my graduation and realized at that moment that I was no longer a student, but suddenly an out of work actor. I got scared, suddenly realizing what I had done. I called myself a teacher and boarded a plane to Korea, returning a year later with teaching experience and a new outlook on life. I was optimistic, enthusiastic and sure that I could easily secure work back in Montreal.

It seems I was wrong. After two and a half months of desperately looking for work, I finally landed a job teaching English at a private French school. But it was short lived. The woman I was replacing returned from sick leave and I was job hunting again. This time seemed easier, however. I was only looking for something short term- just for the summer. I hit restaurants with my cv and was sure that I had landed the first job I interviewed for. A friend of mine was a manager there, and on top of that I had run into an old co-worker during my interview who already worked there. He sat down and told his manager all the reasons he should hire me and concluded my interview by informing him of all the hoops he would jump through to get me to work at his restaurant. The manager told me that as far as he was concerned I had the job and he would call me in a couple days. No call. I left four messages, no call back. I accepted that they had passed me over, for whatever reason and hit the street again with a stack of cvs. A new Irish pub downtown interviewed me twice, finishing the second interview by telling me that training would start on Monday and they would call to confirm. No call. I called them and the very laid back manager rudely informed me that they had not made any decisions yet regarding staffing. Click. No phone call back. Next, I interviewed at a language school. The group interview started with some chit-chat, revealing that I was the more experienced of the three in our group. The owner came in, going on and on about the school's new and innovative methods, without ever revealing what was so new or innovative about what they were doing. He was unable to answer any of my questions and hardly looked at me throughout what he called 'an interview'. It was obvious that the school's new and innovative approach included brushing off experienced teachers. I had accepted that I didn't have the job before I left the office. The man called me two days later to confirm that he had hired one of the less experienced teachers. Two weeks later, he called me back to say that they were opening another new class of students and he would like to meet with me to discuss the possibility of working together. We met, talked, and decided that I would start teaching at this 'new and innovative' school starting on Monday. I turned up for a few hours to observe a few classes, in an effort to discover what was so unique about this place.

Sunday afternoon, as I sat on the bus to the the hospital to visit Fred, the phone rang. It seems the plane load of Mexicans that made up the class I was supposed to teach had decided to postpone their trip to Montreal. They would call me when and if the Mexicans in question decided to reschedule their trip. A couple days before, yet another restaurant that had interviewed me had called to offer me a job. It turned out, however, that they only had lunch shifts available now. Since I had secured this teaching job, I had turned it down.



Hearing what happened with the school, Fred's mom called her work. Her boss assured her that there would be a job for me at Brother. A week later, the manager of the customer service department called me to schedule an interview. Despite the extreme sense of condescension, all went well and she told me to expect a phone call from the HR department. A week and a half later, they called to schedule an interview. I bussed all the way out to the West Island to sit in a room with a very simple woman who felt the need to take advantage of her status as interviewer and insist that I tell her about a time when I did something I was not proud of. To my surprise, I was able to find just the right words to tell her it was none of her business, without actually saying that. They told me that I would start on June 18th. Then it was pushed to June 26th. Now the official start date is July 3rd. I've lost my patience with this company, and with the employment options available in Montreal. In no other city in Canada would a bilingual university graduate with teaching experience and a brain in her head have such trouble finding a job. I may have been idealistic at 19 when I threw myself into theater school, but I never imagined that even the customer service industry would want nothing to do with me. Either this is a sign that I'm not supposed to be in Montreal, or I'm being given a very clear indication that customer service is such a part of my past that it shouldn't even be a fall back... Just as my frustration had begun to give way to depression, my yoga studio called. They offered me a position as receptionist on Saturday mornings, in exchange for free yoga classes and towel service. Woohoo!! I may not be able to pay my rent, but at least I'll be relaxed about it.

After spending months trying to secure work in Montreal, my mind is beginning to wander. Thoughts of life in Toronto or Vancouver have begun creeping into my head. I love Montreal, but if being here means being unemployed, I've just about had it. I know that I haven't finished traveling, but I had always imagined Montreal as home. Now even that is being questioned...

A downpour in our backyard.

Ignorance was Bliss

I was a tomboy growing up. I argued with my mother about wearing skirts to church and did much better in shop class than I did in home-ec. I wore baggy clothes and was likely to be at soccer practice after school than at the mall. I saw my strings of flings as reinforcement of my feminist beliefs- the image of the woman alone, refusing to be domesticated. As I got older, things started to change. I gradually began to buy clothes that actually fit and enjoyed wearing a dress every once in awhile. I met Fred and bit by bit began to feel more domestic. I remained quite unable to cook, and was rather proud of my incompetence in the kitchen- largely because it assured me that my roommates would always cook for me. When I moved to Korea last year, it was with a heavy heart- I knew it was inevitable that living alone, I would finally learn to cook. But when I arrived, I found eating out so cheap and easy that the effort simply wasn't worth it. Here I am, back in Montreal and still unable to cook. As Fred went into the hospital for his transplant, I realized this was the ultimate test- if I could just make it through the next three months... Unfortunately the other day, I caved under pressure when Fred complained about his three sandwich a day diet. I bought a pound of salmon, cooked it in maple syrup and served it with grilled vegetables and fettucine alfredo. Part of me hoped it would be a terrible failure, but Fred loved it and has spent the last two days accusing me of being a good cook. Ignorance was bliss. Now it's into the kitchen with me.

These posts are becoming fewer and further between. I'd say I've been busy, but I don't really feel like that's true. Two weeks spent hanging around the Royal Victoria Hospital virtually killed any creative impulses I may have had. I suppose I have been busy, but most of my time has been spent hanging around with Fred- and then all the cooking, cleaning, housework and running about that one would expect when you're the only one doing the work. I don't know how women do it. Three weeks in and I'm already burnt out from it all- while at the same time, I'm giving myself little credit for all the work I am doing. No matter how much work you do, there always seems to be more. That said, I've also taken to reorganizing the apartment.

Fred continues to do well. It's been easy to forget that he's just undergone major surgery. He's up and about, accompanying me on long-ish walks to Queen Mary street. He's exhausted when we get home, but he's getting out a bit. His incision became infected before they released him, so they had to take a few staples out. This resulted in a gaping hole in his stomach about three inches long and an inch deep. A nurse is coming to the house twice a day for the last week to change his dressing, which has been oozing goo. Last week-end I played nurse myself, cleaning the inside of the wound, stuffing the hole with saline gauze and applying the necessary gauzes and tapes. I never thought I'd be able to do that. How many people can say they've seen the inside of their boyfriend's stomach?

It is so difficult for us to wrap our minds around what we have just been through. Boxes of insulin sit lonely in our fridge and I pass my days calling charities, hoping someone will accept the donation. Fred takes his blood sugar reading four times a day- lately the reading has been between six and ten, within the normal range. Prior to the transplant, his sugar level could be anywhere between two and thirty. He has had some really rough days in his recovery. Four days after the surgery, the doctors dropped his steroid dose considerably, resulting in an unexpected mood swing and a lot more pain than he had previously had. The tube that had been going through his nose to his stomach, the purpose of which was to suck out the stomach juices, was removed at his insistence. The following day, they had to put it back in because he was vomiting too much. Initially the tube had been inserted when he was under anesthetic, but the second time he was awake. It was badly placed and stuck out from his face at a 90 degree angle. His throat bled, his ears hurt and it irritated his stomach. Four times a day, he pops a handful of pills- two anti-rejection, a steroid, two pills for hypertension and a collection of antibiotics to prevent infection. Sixteen prescriptions in all, which will eventually drop to three. I spent an hour at the pharmacy last week getting the run-down on each drug and left feeling as though I should have the bag shackled to my wrist. Two months worth of Cellcept, one of the anti-rejection drugs, came to 1200$. The Prograf, also an anti-rejection was 4000$ for two months, and the antibiotic Valcyte was 5000$ for three months. Fortunately, the bill was passed onto the insurance company and I paid only for the box of multivitamins.

The last few weeks have been so surreal for me. It's hard to believe that our wait came to an end so quickly and that Fred's surgery and recovery went so smoothly. We've been reminded that although all looks good, we aren't out of the woods yet. There will still be ups and downs as his body adapts to his new organs and as they continue to ease him off his obscene dose of steroids. I've taken to calling Fred 'Triple Threat' or 'Three-Kidney Freddy', but I'm at a loss for pancreas-related nicknames. I'm sure this will result in countless new names, and eventually speculation as to who it was that passed on their organs so that he could live.

All kidding aside, if you haven't signed your donor card, please do. While we waited a short time for Fred's transplant, we were very fortunate. We have a friend who waited two years for a kidney and we met a man at the hospital who had been waiting three months at the hospital (and who knows how long before) for a liver transplant. He was unlucky enough to be a very generous O blood type- universal donor, but picky recipient. In Ontario, it is not uncommon for people to wait eight years for a kidney. In the Netherlands, three hundred people die every year waiting to receive a transplant. Consider for a moment what a difference your organs could make to so many after you pass on. And it isn't just one person that you'd be helping, but possibly as many as ten. Not to mention all the friends and family of those recipients that would also be affected by your generosity. Allow the last thing you do to be the most heroic thing you ever did.

Oh Canada

Being a young Concordia graduate in Canada means that I must do my part to keep up the reputation of my alma mater. Concordia is famous for its politically charged atmosphere- and its students reputed for speaking (or screaming out) their political views. In these rare moments where I contemplate for a moment how lucky we are to be in Quebec, and in Canada, I feel I need to acknowledge them.

Fred waited about five months for his new kidney/pancreas set. Our friend Ethan waited two years for his kidney (also in Montreal). In Ontario, patients wait up to eight years for a kidney transplant and have to be on dialysis before even being put on the transplant list. Fred was fortunate that he is an AB blood type, making him a universal recipient. His age and his diabetes allowed him to move up the list quickly, saving him the ordeal of undergoing dialysis. On top of that, the Royal Victoria Hospital here in Montreal happens to be the only hospital in Eastern Canada that performs pancreas transplants. Had we been anywhere else, we would have had the added stress of flying here for the procedure and dealing with hotel bills for his family and myself, not to mention the absense of friends around us.

Every day this week I have contemplated how fortunate we are not to be living in the US. The base cost of Fred's procedure in the US is broken down as follows:

• Procurement of organs: 118,000$
• Hospital stay: 70,400$
• Physician: 20,500$
• Testing: 12,400$
• Follow-up: 40,800$
• One year of Immuno-suppresant drugs: 31,000$
• Total: 293,100$

Cost to us for Fred's procedure in Canada:

0$

• Cost of Immuno-suppresants in the US over the next fifty years: 1,550,000$

• Cost of Immuno-suppresants in Canada over the next fifty years: 35,000$
• Canadian citizens pay no more than 700$ per year for prescription drugs
• The Immuno-suppresants cost 2,000$ per month, charged to the Canadian government
  

As much as we bitch and complain about our less than perfect system, we need to remind ourselves that the grass is not always greener. It almost makes me wish I weren't spending Canada Day helping people move (yet again).

Mommy, Where Did My Pancreas Come From?

I am not a doctor. My experience with medicine is limited to repeated ankle injuries and an addiction to ER. Yet here I sit, on the third floor of the Ross Pavillion at the Royal Victoria Hospital wondering what could possibly be taking so long. The whole thing seems fairly straight forward to me. Unplug a kidney, plug the new one in. Unplug a pancreas, plug the new one in. I suppose I shouldn't be basing my expectations on a TV show where every problem is resolved within an hour with room for commercials.

The phone rang yesterday afternoon as Fred and I sat down to watch an episode of Lost. I could hear the calm voice of his nurse making small talk and I went back to watching TV. She sounded far too calm for this to be THE CALL. After a few minutes, she revealed that they may have a donor and we should stay close to the phone. The blood type was a match, but they needed to run more tests to be sure. She told us to be ready to come in later that night, likely around 11pm. I checked my watch. Nine hours to kill. Fred hung up the phone and we both burst into tears. Though our wait has been relatively short, it has seemed as though the surgery would never actually take place. We collected ourselves and started to clean up the apartment- the one thing we were capable of doing. We began to make calls- he called his mom as I called his dad. Then his sister, brother-in-law, and my dad. I emailed Thelma. We braved the wind and rain to stock up at the pharmacy down the street, and returned home to pack Fred's hospital bag.

Claire, Matt, Christine, Michael and his mom turned up at dinner time to hang out while we anxiously waited for the call. At 9pm, the phone rang and we frantically rushed out the door, arriving at the hospital a few minutes later. Again, they told us nothing was for sure. We still had to wait to be sure the organs were good. At 11am, fourteen hours and countless tests later, Fred went into the operating room. Matt, Claire, Christine, Michael, Fred's mom, dad, sister and myself had spent the entire night at the hospital- eagerly awaiting the verdict. At 7:30pm, they rolled him out of the operating room to the ICU. We were told that the surgeon would soon be by to brief us on the operation. We waited forty minutes, but no one came. I snuck through the steel doors leading to surgical ICU and crept carefully to Fred's room- expecting someone to pounce on me for entering. No one said anything- so I stood and waited at the door to Fred's private room- I could hear his nurse talking to him, and Fred was responding in garbled words. We all took turns poking our heads in to say hi and the nurse told us the surgery went well. At 10:30pm, we decided to let him (and us) get some sleep.

The morning after.
Surprisingly this is not the worst Fred has looked in the morning.

I dragged myself from the comfort of my uncomfortable mattress the next morning, showered and prepared to return to the hospital. Just as I was walking out the door, my phone rang and Fred's voice demanded to know where I was. I anxiously ran out the door- every minute of the half hour trek seeming like days. I was excited that Fred was already capable of bitching at me. On arriving at the hospital, we were briefed on his condition. His brand new kidney had already started working, as had his pancreas. He was in alot of pain, but was alert and quickly recovering. We discovered that his surgeon had been the only one in the hospital the night before and was responsible for the transplants of a few different patients that night. Good for us since he happened to be the only surgeon specialising in pancreas transplants in Eastern Canada... not so good for the guy that got the liver that night. We soon found out that Fred had been passed over several times in his wait for new organs. His doctor was determined to find the closest possible match for him- in age and tissue. As a result, the match on his new kidney/pancreas is very close to perfect.

We have been so lucky it's unbelievable. For so long, both of us have wondered when our luck was going to turn around and it seems as though it finally has (as I knock furiously on wood). Fred is doing extremely well. The efficiency of the kidneys is measured by the level of creatonin found in the blood- the higher the level, the less effective the kidneys. Before the surgery, his creatonin was over 400- this afternoon it was 98 (better than average). After the surgery, he was receiving 35 units of insulin an hour to keep his blood sugar regulated. This afternoon he was down to half a unit per hour. I can't explain, can't put into words how overwhelming the last week has been. Anxiety, fear, guilt, joy and hope have all been around this week. While Fred, his family and his friends anxiously waited for the confirmation that the surgery would happen, we were informed that the family of the donor were still in the hospital. The donor was young, close to our age and I imagined how their family must be feeling. We'll never know who that person was, or anything about them. It is absolutely unbelievable that a complete stranger saved his life- and we'll never be able to explain to them how thankful we are.

I hope that all of you have signed your donor cards and will allow your final good deed to be the longest lasting, most heroic and powerful thing that you've ever done. We have the rest of our lives to be thankful for the donor that allowed Fred and I to build our lives together.

Two days later. Green means morphine.
Thank you, Mr or Ms Mysterious for saving my Freddy.

Montreal: City of Design

Old Anglican church on Côte des Neiges-
the peeling of the bells can still be heard throughout the community

The people at UNESCO have announced what all of Canada has known for so long. Montreal is a uniquely beautiful city. As celebrations for the 40th anniversary of Expo 67 kick off, Montreal was officially declared a UNESCO City of Design, along with Berlin and Buenos Aires. With summer upon us, I've promised myself to really appreciate what we have here. Despite having spent last summer immersed in a different culture and language, the summer came and went without my usual summer activities. Seoul being a rather concrete city, my summer lacked lazing about on the grass and listening to the drums at the tam-tams. This summer I have decided to do my best to record the beautiful city I live in, and remember how it blew me away when I first moved here.

The politics of Montreal are inescapable.

I have also come to the realization that I am quite detached from the Montreal theatre community. When first I arrived in Montreal, I was launched smack into the middle of the mess that is the anglo theatre scene, but as I distanced myself from the Fringe Festival and other grassroots events, I've lost touch. This, of course, makes it difficult when I am occasionally hit by a stroke of genius and realize that everyone I know in theatre has made the move to Toronto (damn you, Toronto!!). So last night Fred and I hopped on the Metro to St-Laurent & Ste-Catherine (the sketchiest corner in the city) and strolled as quickly as we could to Théâtre Ste-Catherine. The theatre was bought by a young Calgarian who moved to Montreal around the same time I did. Though it doesn't yet have the same feel as Calgary's Loose Moose Theatre, it's a start. A few of the actors are imports from the Loose Moose and trained with Keith Johnstone- the god of the improv. world. Some of the skits were good, others were bad, but it didn't really matter. The audience was more engaged and more involved than I've seen in a theatre in a long time. Best of all, it inspired to get my ass back into the theater.

Alliance of Artist Communities

I was super excited to stumble across this site. For years, I've contemplated checking myself into the Banff Centre for the Arts and creating something really amazing. But that takes advanced planning and forethought and we don't get along so well. As I've begun to write more and have spent more time away from the stage, I really that I need to build myself a community. Writing I can do on my own, but acting takes a team of people. I have great trouble auditioning for films and plays because I have a deep and unsettling feeling that I am about to become involved in a bad project. And I'm usually right. Unfortunately, like any field, there are far more half-baked artists than really talented, intelligent and creative people. The discovery of a worldwide artistic community sponsoring internships and residencies is really encouraging. I can't wait to further investigate this...

Stephen Harper is Embarrassing Us!

The Clean Air Act is a total embarrasment to Canada. Our country is not doing enough to neutralize climate change. Please, please, please- click on the link below and send a letter to Harper. The message is already written for you! Just type your name and click send- that's it, that's all.


http://www.avaaz.org/en/harperdotherightthing/

What does David Suzuki think?

http://www.davidsuzuki.org/latestnews/dsfnews04270701.asp

Reuters reports Canada receives international "Fossil" award for misleading countries on climate change:

http://www.planetark.com/dailynewsstory.cfm/newsid/39038/story.htm

What does Al Gore think?

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070430/ap_on_re_ca/gore_canada_warming

Free Hugs in Korea

Feeling that I had been slacking in recent days with my yoga practice, I arrived at the studio early on Friday to properly prepare myself for class. I lay my mat down in the center of the room, stretched out on my back and closed my eyes. I was sweating before the class even started, but was quite successfully focusing on my breathing. As the instructor walked into the room, I opened my eyes and stood up. I was shocked to find that the three people closest to me had laid their mats painfully close to mine. I was annoyed, but class was beginning so there was nothing I could do. The day before my mirror view had been blocked by some girl who seemed intent on always stretching just as high and deep as I did to ensure that I would have the worst possible view. Today, all was well during the hour long standing series, but the last half hour on the floor was a test to my patience. The girl to my right, sporting a black t-shirt with the message `It's all about me', which she seems to believe is ironic, though I suspect that the shirt was probably a gift from an ex-boyfriend with a real message. Over the next half hour, I learned that in fact, it was all about her. She nearly kicked me in the face at least four times during various stretches and I spent the rest of the class flicking, slapping and catching her feet as they came flying at my face. Buddy next to me must have recently broken up with his girlfriend (perhaps Miss Self-Centered?), because he seemed quite lonely. He was cuddled up so close to me that I couldn't properly stretch, and I had to continuously move his hands off my mat. Mr Shaved Head at my feet seemed to have a foot fetish, as he took every possible opportunity to fondle and play with them. I kept snapping my feet closed on his hands and kicking them away from me. By the end of class, I was worn out from defending my space and dealing with the 'Plateau People' (a special breed of Montrealer that attends McGill on their parents dime, lives in an overpriced apartment in what is sarcastically referred to as the ghetto).

There are a lot of things that piss me off on any given day. Part of the reason for starting yoga classes was to help me with this, but it can be very difficult to relax in a room with sixty sweaty, tired, cranky people believe it or not. All this to say, I came across this clip the other day, and it seems that Free Hugs is a recent sort of flash-mob, performance art thing that is happening all over the world. This particular video is shot in Hyehwa (the area where my play went up), Seoul. I thought it was beautiful, and no, it didn't piss me off.

PS- Yes, I know this video is there twice, but when your screen looks like this ?????????????????????, it's a little difficult to figure out how to change it. If you like, watch them both simultaneously and pretend that your computer does picture and picture. Or you can imagine that you're at Future Shop looking at all those TVs that play the same thing...

Announcement from Spacey Caycee

Hey all fellow former imaxians

I'm just hijacking Steph's blog to share my news

As many of you already read Steph's marriage rant, I got engaged in Jan while on vacation in Mexico.

Turns out we also brought home a stowaway...

I'm almost 14 weeks pregnant now - passed the dangerous first trimester and baby is doing great!

Baby is expected to make an appearance on Nov 1st, which is oddly appropriate for Kent & I, as that is the first day of Dias de los Muertos ( Day of the Dead festival)

Adiós

Caycee

Congrats Caycee! Rant about the contagious disease of pregnancy to follow soon...

Love, Steph

The End of Stability

I sit at a café on St-Catherine Street- coffee in hand, and watch those passing by the open door. A cool breeze wafts in, mellowing the overpowering stench of perfume that is overtaking my nostrils- assuring me that spring has once again arrived in Montreal. Skeptical Montrealers leave the house in winter jackets, with gloves and tuques- fearful the weather is trying to trick us once again. Hopefuls take to the city's terraces and convince themselves that outdoor beer is here to stay. The bike lanes are open, and rollerbladers far braver than I are taking to the streets to enjoy every moment of sun. The city's notorious pot hole problem/collapsing streets make rollerblading unthinkable for those of us with a brain in our heads.

I awoke this morning at 8:00am, having promised my grade six class that I would come and see their fashion show presentation. I took the bus over the mountain and looked forward to othe long walk from the bus stop to the school. The bus dropped me off at Parc Lafontaine and I made my way through the hoards of cyclists, rollerbladers and strollers till finally I reached the school. It was my last day at l'École St-Joseph. The teacher has returned from sick leave, leaving me to contemplate, once again, where I'm headed. At the moment, I am relishing in my return to unemployment. Montreal is the best city in Canada in which to be unemployed, and there is no better time than the summer.

As the last week in this teaching position drew to a close, I'm suffering from very mixed feelings- as I so often do. On the one hand, I quite like having money in the bank and not worrying about what magic tricks I'll need to pull off to pay all my bills. On the other hand, I fear that such stability is sending me in the exact opposite direction of where I would like to be. You have probably noticed that my posts have become few and far between since mid-February, for a few reasons. For one, working forty hours a week is quite exhausting and has killed any creative impulses I once had. Secondly, the reality of teaching in Canada seems to mean never seeing an end to the work on your desk. I'm not a fan. This may be the most I've ever made, but it isn't very good. I can't imagine what sort of insane person would spend another two years in school to obtain an education degree (that cannot be used outside of Quebec) to make 35,000$/year, with poor benefits and be considered, by the children and their parents, to be a glorified babysitter. I'm so glad that I had the opportunity to see the reality of the profession in Canada before I was tempted by the promise of summers off. Schools have changed. The older teachers predictably discuss each day the differences between my generation and this one in the classroom. They fear the coming of age of these students, many hoping they won't be around to see them children in their adult years.

This experience was invaluable. I realized that I am far too impatient with nonsense and excuses to teach children for a living. I just don't care enough. You didn't do your homework? Whatever, your loss, not mine. English is useless, you say? Okay, sure. You're off to a great start in life. Call me in ten years when you want to work in Toronto. In any case, all this chasing children around and pretending to care wore me out and distracted me from what I would rather be doing- writing and acting. Worse than distracting me, the experience drained me. When I was teaching in Korea, I was exhausted from listening so carefully to everything being said and trying to make sense of it. From reading very slowly aloud every message on the photocopier, hoping that eventually I would understand why it wasn't working. From bouncing kids on my knee and being poked in the eye with little fingers. Teaching here is exhausting because of the atrocious amount of work. It's never ending. And like I said, draining.

So I have the summer to contemplate. The Commision Scolaire de Montréal is still anxiously awaiting the scores from my French test so they can hire me on full time for next year. I've come to terms with the fact that my procrastination is based in fear and I'm going to register for an online refresher course in French grammar, which will do me good. My agent has been put on alert to find me some good work for this summer, and I'm awaiting the announcement of next season's auditions at the English theatres. I snapped last week after another health scare with Fred and bought myself my expensive, over-priced yoga pass. I decided if there was anything that could take my mind off the upcoming transplant for an hour and a half a day, it was well worth the money. Today will be day six of my Bikram routine and I'm loving it. I feel amazingly healthy and my winter tummy is quickly melting away- or should I say thankfully. I'm off to yoga class and promise to be more active in my posts. It would also help if my computer would stop trying to speak to me in Korean- which looks very little like Korean and a lot like this ?????????????????????????????????????????????. There's nothing more obnoxious than having every button and tab on a web page full of question marks. Hopefully the next post will also be more direct, as we say in theatre. I struggle with being shockingly indirect, for which I blame the ADD. But summer is the time for ADD and summer is very, very close. I plan on spending an obsene amount of time under a tree reading a book.

This was the biggest patch of grass I found last summer in Seoul... It was not a comfortable place to read a book.