Sentimentality

Last night I heard a priest's whistle echo through an archway of one of the buildings at St. Mike's. I was walking Dexter at the time, and the whole quad smelled of cut grass and lilacs. For various (and ludicrous) reasons, I wished, with all the same vigour of the faith of that man, that God would somehow return me to 1999.

And now, some Edna St. Vincent Millay:

THREE SONGS OF SHATTERING

I
The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw,--it must have been
Very pretty.

II
Let the little birds sing;
Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;--
But not in the old way!

I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And the blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing,
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;--
But not in the old way!

III
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Ere spring was going--ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,--
Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!

Grill Woes

So its been two weeks since the accident, two weeks since I bashed up my grill by falling face-first onto a concrete stair on my friend's porch, sucessfully cracking out the bottom halves of three front teeth. Miraculously, my face emerged from the wjole thing without a scratch. However, my dental nerves are still inflamed and my back teeth hurt from overuse. Maybe this doesn't sound like a big deal, and maybe it isn't, but the psychological trauma that this incident has wrecked has recently had me on edge in a way only charming in the likes of 'Rain Man' or 'The Other Sister'. What happened two Saturday nights ago has made me paranoid, actutely aware of the fragility of my own (fairly young) body-- afriad to walk around without a helmet, and worse-- afraid to look in the mirror and expect to see the memory of my reflection as it was before February 24th staring back at me. All this, and I *swear* its not just because my shrink is on vacation for two weeks.

The armchair psychologist in me (or was this Matthew?) reminds me that, of course, these reactions have been provoked because teeth are a tangible metaphor for mortality. Moreover, that teeth are a primal part of ourselves and how we interact with the world. I guess thousands of years ago, an accident like this may have compromised my ability to stay fed and survive. About one hundred years ago, due to a lack of cosmetic dentists and space-age dental compounds, this accident likely would have compromised my ability to (as a single woman) meet and secure a husband. But now, in 2007, with all the repairs made available to me within 72 hours, and for about the cost of a weekend in Vegas, I am as good as new: sort-of.

While to strangers and friends alike nothing has changed about my grill, when I look into the mirror (which, as it happens, is about 30 times more than average these days), I see a part of myself missing, the fragmented bottom of my real tooth practically glowing a neon sign that reads, "I am broken and damaged and will never be whole again."

So why the sob story? Thing is, I am trying to etch out an upside to all of this, like, "O.K. Dre, maybe this is a reminder that the trajectory of your life can turn on a dime, and often without your say--are you prepared to deal with yourself and yourself alone if (God forbid) some actual trauma were to befall you?" or is it less profound and more seethy, a la, "Dre, you are entirely too vain. What can you count on or like about yourself if part of your physical identity were to be mangled permanently?" (I don't want to mention how long or hard I cried until this mouth-mess was fixed, although I will tell you that at the time I wasn't reaching deeper to ask why--I was hysterical because I was unequivocally, obejectively, for all intents and purposes, ugly). I also covered my mouth to speak to the two strangers who processed the two necessary transactions I made during this time, actually feeling bad for them for very obviously averting their eyes from my mouth.

Either way, its got me a' thinkin, even if it is in a lose-lose way, and even at the risk of having gone overboard with existential inquiry due to toothy catalysts. Between this and the mediocre movie I saw recently, I am wondering what I would do if it was me and just me forever, or if resources and time and vanity and my host of regrets weren't obstacles? If I followed my inner self a little more, and didn't succumb so easily to my shallow, exterior, craven wants and desires? What should I be doing and thinking about, essentially, instead of wasting all this time worrying about what I did, what has happened, what is in the dead past? If I thought more about what could happen instead of what already has?

And I *swear* its not just because my shrink is on vacation for two weeks.

Instead, we have puppies!

Being a "mom," as I am learning, means mondo changes to any responsible person's life. Ever since D. came into the picture, my leisure time is increasingly spent with puppy: time spent taking puppy on walks or to the dog park, deciding which food and toys are right for puppy, and, of course, taking many pictures of puppy. Do I want to go to a movie? Hell ya, but how long is it? Can I leave D. long enough to have dinner *and* a movie? I wonder who's going to watch D. while I'm away? These questions and others pervade.

Yes, my life has become somewhat one-dimensional these past three months, but it's just a faze--like puppyhood itself. Enjoy the pics & I'll emerge soon, a few pairs of shoes the less, but all the prouder that D. is becoming a little man--er--dog.

Job, Maybe.

Good news for me! I am in posession of a good lead that will likely lead to a good *real* part-time job at an *unknown location* that has the potential of becoming a full-time job with benefits! (I knew all that praying to Tom Cruise would pay off eventually). Please join me in my vigil to good T.C. while I meditate on something better than retail drudgery; hopefully ushering in an era of f'real career-building!

I don't have yer fu%#-ing blue book with purple on the cover, suckers!

I say!

Decorum--

Just because you know what it means doesn't mean you exhibit any sense of it.

Thank-You, All.

On Wednesday June 14, 2006 I graduated from the University of Toronto after having been through seven years of study and three changes of program there. You know, a lot of people go to University for seven years. They're called doctors. (Thank-you David Spade) Well, I'm not a doctor, not yet anyhow, but I am just a little but proud of myself. And thankful, too. Not only to the University, who charged me the equivalent of a good down-payment on a house for my fancy piece of paper, and certainly not to the school's representative, who at the graduation ceremony urged me "not to forget" the school after graduation (read: not cheap-out when making alumni contributions). I am thankful, rather, to all those who actually and very practically made the completion of school possible.

Many of you whom attended this fine institution are holders of a liberal arts like mine. I'd wager that a great proportion of you are familiar then, as I am, with the massive impersonal structure of the University and its inadequate attempts to create and foster community among its students, who number in the tens of thousands. It was overwhelmingly depressing at times to attend classes without knowing a single soul; to be students of professors who could not remember your name, despite an unblemished attendance record. Moreover, it was downright discouraging at times to be constantly reminded by some instructors of the better, more important things that they could and should be spending their time on rather than lecturing a bunch of half-wit undergrads. Sadly, such behaviour was too widespread in many of the courses I was enrolled in. The noteworthy exception to this seemingly pathetic norm was found in the "Christianity and Culture" department of Saint Michael's college: the program from which I recieved one of my two majors. So to all of those instructors who made my scholastic experience an academically challenging (and at times) spiritually enlightening one, my hat goes off to you.

Nonetheless, the bulk of my gratitude of having reached this milestone in my life goes to my real support system: not to the college into which I was shepherded (Innis), not to the Hart House pool, where I spent many an afternoon decompressing after lectures, and not to Pauper's Pub, where I spent many an evening fretting about upcoming essays while guzzling massive quantities of beer, although this was a) exceedingly fun and perhaps b) did not contribute to, say, to degree completion within five years.

A big THANK YOU, then:

To my parents, my brother and my sister: who would often happily read copies of essays at my encouragement, even if they were long and boring and esoteric at times, and who were always in amazement at my perserverence through such a long academic career.

To my aunt and uncle, who financed much of my education and were always sweet and encouraging.

To Kate, my first "University" friend, a person to whom I am grateful for having developed a friendship that has lasted beyond our initial swimming dates at the pool.

To Dear Matthew, who coached me through many an anxiety attack and helped keep me on track when life got in the way of school or vice versa.

To my Dears Nicole, Mary, Susannah, Andrew, Heath, Helen and Sam: for being such supportive friends, whether over pints, out dancing, or getting down to brass tacks about what school should mean to me in general.

To D., my love: for running to the corner store for cans of Red Bull at 2am while I finished an essay, for wiping away tears of anxiety as I struggled to put an essay "to bed", for tirelessly insisting that I was intelligent, that I could 'do it,' for being proud of me no matter what, for listening to my boring presentations 4 hours before I made them, for the countless cups of tea, making sure I ate, for stern insistance that I "do work" that night, for being interested (or at least feigning) in Irenaeus, Chidester and Linenthal and Canon Law, and for helping me come up with the best title for an essay ever: "Desdemona and The Duchess: The Imperative of Self-Preservation among Whores from Outer Space." I owe much of my success over the past year and a half to you-- my motivator, my rock, my kissable manatee.

Again, thanks to all.

p.s. if there are any spelling or grammatical errors in the body of this post, suck it English Department!

Everybody Salsa!

I made my own salsa this week for a barbeque, using only intuition and fresh ingredients as my guides. And despite my reputation for lovin' the spice, this dre-made recipe is decidedly moderate. It does, however, come with this warning: high levels of fabulousness!

Salsa de Dre

Ingredients:
3 ripe Italian plum tomatoes, chopped finely
1/3 medium-sized yellow bell pepper, chopped finely
1/4 medium-sized red onion, chopped finely
1 jalepeno pepper, chopped finely, seeds and all
1 orange Hot wax pepper, chopped finely
3-4 pickled red jalepeno peppers, chopped finely
bunch of fresh cilantro, chopped
juice of 1/2 fresh lime
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

Instructions:
Throw it together in a bowl, yo!

I served it with Tostitos brand "Hint of Lime" chips, and it also worked as an excellent side/topper to barbequed chicken. Enjoy, my friends!