my tragic right hip

Last night I had the chance to attend the swanky Canadian New Media Awards through work. I wasn’t as interested in seeing the awards (which were nice, although somewhat Juno-inspired, right down to the CBC host, a comedian who had appeared on The Royal Canadian Air Farce) as I was in seeing the inside of the Carlu, which has been newly renovated over the past few years.

As I missed last weekend’s Doors Open (one of my favourite things to do in the city) because we were bashing done doors of our own, I went to take a look at the renovated “Art Moderne” splendor. And it’s true, it’s a lovely venue, it’s all golden and shiny, and has a great auditorium. The award ceremony was blissfully short and it’s nice to celebrate the industry even if it’s a bit self-congratulatory (sponsors being nominated and then winning awards, but hey! who cares, it’s all in the name of ‘the work,’ right?).

All in all I had a good time, which is funny because I hate, hate, hate formal-type events where I stand there awkwardly not really saying anything except to the people I already know feeling strange about being chubby and slightly puffy making a pathetic attempt at small talk wondering if everyone else feels as geeky as I do and not knowing if I should talk about movies and books and television and all the other things I’d normally chat about to my real friends but instead being polite and nodding a lot and thinking about how I’d rather be at home eating rice chips and watching Munich because it’s already going to be late until I’ve had a glass and a half of contraband wine and I’m feeling a bit better so let’s dance and keep on going until it’s 3 AM and there’s nothing left to do except drink up the last of your pint and swear that you’ll never do it again tomorrow.

Sigh, if it only happened that way.

…Makes Down in the Valley sound really good in this interview. If only the movie were as lovely as he sounds here. And nary a mention of whether or not he’s dating his adolescent co-star.

I, and everything I own, am covered in a layer of dust. We have finally begun the home renovation in earnest and this weekend, my RRHB and pile of friends, knocked down the entire first floor of my “house.”

Hundreds of collective years of dust (come on, if each particle is a hundred years old, that’s a lot of years!) has now descended upon every inch of the upper floors where we’ve been living. We hauled six tonnes (and I can’t even think about all of that in the bloody garbage; it makes me sick) of plaster, lathe (bundled up to burn at the cottage), drywall, lumber, wire mesh, old insulation, newish insulation, and all kinds of other material out and dumped it into a bin.

I’ve never been so sore in my entire life. And we’re still not done. Today we have to clean up all the mess we made after the past two days of demolition. I am not looking forward to it; but it’s a really, really good kind of tired. It’s a kind of tired I haven’t felt in ages, one that comes from hard work and real energy, no disease exhaustion in sight. How’s that for good news?

Similar in tone and story to Jay McInerney’s The Good Life, playwright Wendy Wasserstein’s Elements of Style follows the intertwining lives of some upper crust New Yorkers after 9/11. But unlike McInerney’s novel, I quite enjoyed Elements of Style; it’s an easy reading kind of novel, perfect for a Sunday morning, sort of like a fictionalized version of Friends With Money. In fact, I think even though the storylines are so similar, Wasserstein’s novel comes out ahead because it’s got hat heart that was sorely lacking in McInerney’s book.

Each chapter is from the point of a view of a different characters, each representing a different sector of life in the Upper East Side of New York. From old money socialites like Samantha, to newly minted ones like Judy Tremont, the lifestyles of the rich and famous are represented with Wasserstein’s keen ear for satire, comedy and reality. The book opens and closes with Dr. Frankie Weissman, a pediatrician to the stars, whose own father is succumbing to Pick’s disease, and slowly evaporating before her eyes.

Frankie is the heart of the story, the character who ties everyone together, and the reason why the novel works. She’s an earnest, good person whose success comes from hard work, something rare to be seen in typical chicklit (damn you Plum Sykes, damn you! [and I’m not talking about Gemma and her ilk either]}. Yet, writing these totally relatable, completely compassionate (as the book jacket tells me, thanks John Guare) characters seems to be Wasserstein’s forte. Even the cruelest, most callous woman in the book has a human edge to her, and that takes talent.

I remember, years ago, being in New York and seeing The Heidi Chronicles with Christine Lahti. I was young, in high school, and all I remember about the play was coming away with how strong the main character was, how she just dealt with life as it was, life (if that makes any sense). That’s the kind of plain truth that Wasserstein brings to the novel, to a world full of people who take the idea of “Turkusion” seriously (a dinner party theme meant to be a mix of Turkish, English and Asian influences, so ridiculous, so funny, so perfect), there’s that sense that reality will eventually catch up to them and of course, much to my delight, it does.

I got home today from teetering around the Home Despot after my RRHB in my fabulous shoes to find a $15.00 cheque in the mail from Taddle Creek. Payment for my poem in their last issue. I am now officially a paid poet. How fun is that?

And I’ve got something to look forward to as well—the next $15.00 cheque coming from my poem in their *new* issue out next Friday. So, money for poetry, free beer (at the June 2 launch party), and great weather—a girl doesn’t need much more.

This morning before I went off to work, I gave myself the needle. Perhaps not the smartest thing to do on an empty stomach, but because I’m sticking it right into my skin, what does it matter?

Here are the side effects I’m noticing, note this is two weeks before any of the “real” side effects are scheduled to happen (because the meds take that long to work in your system):

1. The needle makes me super hot, like I’m running a fever; I’m all flushed and roasting. All day at work I kept saying, “Feel my forehead! Feel how hot I am!” People were shocked. They were amazed. Or not. When I told my RRHB that the needle makes me hot, he said, and I quote, “Like horny?” Heh.

2. My belly burns. It burns! I say it burns! And then gets all itchy, which I’m assuming isn’t so strange because I’m jabbing it with a pin prick-sharp needle full of methotrexate.

3. Even though the nurse at my family doctor’s office showed me what “subcutaneously” is—I’m still not sure I’m getting it right. I do pinch the chubb and then insert the needle, but how will I know I’m not missing an organ (thanks .H for putting that into my mind).

But, on the whole, I like the needle far better than taking a pile of pills that make me throw up. BUT, again, I might be too happy, too soon, because I might end up being dead sick again when the actual side effects kick in. Fingers crossed it doesn’t turn out that way.

As a woman who has gone through her share of health problems, the idea of manipulating my body for the sake of convenience out frightens me. Why on earth would anyone want to do this to themselves?

God knows a visit from your ‘lady friend’ or whatever euphemism you’d like to use, isn’t always a welcome part of the month, but it’s integral to a healthy, happy system. I mean, I know there’s a reason why it’s called “the curse” but that shouldn’t equal treating it and then eliminating it from our lives by drugs.

Yes, the pill changed the lives of women forever. Yes, there are great medical benefits to it and great leaps forward in terms of women controlling their bodies instead of the other way around, but goodness, when is too far gone too far?

What makes women women in the first place? Biology? Psychology? I can’t answer that, all I know is that I’m repulsed by the idea of one pill ensuring that a women never has her “visitor”—goodness, it would be a shame if nature interrupts her busy life to remind her every now and again that she is, indeed, a woman.

They couldn’t just have The Top 10 Worst Songs, oh, no, they had to add that last, ingratiating one and make it 11—anything to stand out from the crowd AOL. Yawn.

And is it a coincidence that 3 out of the 11 had something (at least one appearance, I’m looking at you Meat Loaf) to do with American Idol?

Joan Didion on reading:

What book do you recommend?
“I actually can’t answer this question. One person’s “must read” is another’s “already been there” and a third person’s “don’t care”. Sometimes I think reading is our last entirely personal activity.”

From a great interview on Flare.com.

However, I do think reading has become less personal with the idea of the lit blog, book blog and personal journal-type blogs. I mean, everyone here knows exactly what I think about every single book I read. The only part I don’t share are all the books I don’t read to the end, because I don’t think it’s quite right to list them until I’ve finished them entirely.

But the act of reading is intensely personal, any more so than watching a movie or television? Maybe not, but if only because so much of it takes place in the mind, in the imagination, I can kind of totally agree with what Didion is saying.

The parade of people from my past continues as I got an email from an ex-boyfriend from university today via this very blog. Will wonders never cease?