Creationist guilt

Sometimes journaling provides me with an opportunity to exorcize my demons, and sometimes it haunts me. I've been told that at some point in a blog's existence, it will inevitably include information about a cat or other furry pet---which is painfully dull for others to read---and that most blogs fizzle and die within the first year of its creation. I'll have you know that although I have gone the way of the cat (just once, give me a break), I will not let my beloved blog die.

Life after midnight

The first of July has very special status in Quebec. It's Canada Day, but you'd never know it. Not unless you mistake abandoned furniture, parking impossibilities and U-Haul ubiquity for a party. I know I've mentioned it before, but not in a way that fully communicates the essence of a singular mass moving day in a city of 3 million.

I, fortunately, did not have to pack all my worldly belongings this year. For once, I've decided to continue my lease for a second year. The junkies, Urinators (yes, I capitalized the title intentionally as I suspect they are organized criminals), the Hippies (another malicious group aiming to drive me to insanity with pan flutes, mouth harps and bongos), and the party-time neighborhood have grown on me---like moss---soft, comfortable and strangely familiar.

Some good friends of mine, however, had to move from one end of town to the other. Since I have access to a car, we decided to make it a little adventure. The so-called adventure lasted until 3 a.m. By the time the move was done, it had become more like a night of the living dead.

The first load was fun. With the car full, my rear view blocked completely by a variety of objects threatening to impale me if I stopped too suddenly, my friend and I set out to settle into the better part of town. What really kept me going was Doug. He, an object of the move, sat perched on her lap and looked as safe and comfortable as an antique stuffed crow can. It was inspiring. Deader than dead, his spirit and ability to spook everyone who glanced in our direction was quite impressive.

If Doug can keep his cool after twenty years of thrift store existence and mediocre taxidermy, I can handle one night of hauling crap across the city.

Prisoner of my own conscience

I want to call my mom. She'll tell me what to do. She loves doing that.

It's Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day here in Quebec - a day of celebration and beer drinking, of hooplah and yahoos, the human kind---and I am trapped in my house, a prisoner of my own conscience.

I'd love to go on a nice bike ride throughout the city, but it's almost Moving Day. Now, it's not me who's moving, but I'm still affected.

Montreal is a city of pet owners and beautiful apartments. Sometimes, the two don't go together. And, when that happens, often pets are left to find their own new residences. One such creature was dropped off outside my livingroom window yesterday. It's currently mewing at me, perched atop my printer.

I thought it was the kitten who lives upstairs that was making all the noise. She's done it before. I'm not sure if her pothead owners believe in spaying/neutering cats. I'm not sure I can tolerate a yowling cat in heat. Regardless, I've become accustomed to ignoring that cat's confused pleas. It wasn't until my downstairs neighbor called and said she'd retrieved a kitten from her yard that I realized who was doing all the cat-calling.

And now, my boyfriend is pumped up on allergy meds and I am caring for this furry infant while the neighbor selflessly searches for its new and permanent home.

A note to the people who abandoned it: May you be neutered.

How many is better than one? Are you sure about that?

It's in the living room now.

Nothing has been said about it, but I know it's here to stay. Its slender profile and well-designed parts earned it a permanent place in my home. There is nothing I can do about it.

Still, there are worse things than having a bicycle balanced against the 1930s, original finish fireplace. Besides, it makes my boyfriend so happy to greet it there every morning. I do wonder where we'll store it when my sisters and their two 10 year olds come to stay for a few days in July.

My house is becoming too small. Essentially we have three rooms. That loosely translates into: not enough. There are only two fo us, and the big balcony adds a significant amount of space in the summer, but I work at home. My living room quadruples as an office (complete with two computers, a printer, and school books and stacks of files), as leisure space to welcome guests, a guest bedroom and, now, as a bike storage facility.

Remember just two paragraphs ago when I mentioned that there are worse things than one bike in the living room? Well, let me clarify.

My boyfriend of nearly six years has become quite friendly with Ebay. He sells as much as he buys, but as you now know that I live in a three-room apartment, you may be wondering where all of this stuff is stored before it's sold. And, that is an excellent question.

Currently, there are eight bikes stored in our landlord's nearby garage. Out of sight, out of mind. I really didn't care how cluttered the garage might be until we received a phone call from the landlord, just hours ago, telling us she'll need it emptied before July 1st (the controversial Moving Day in Montreal).

So yes, there are worse things than one bike in the house. And it comes in nines.

Why do I allow bikes in my living room?

Well, this boyfriend of mine is an ex bike mechanic, ex bike messenger, bikeopheliac, brakeless fixed gear rider, Alleycat organizer, bike race winner, supplier of bikes to all my spokesless friends, and builder of my beautiful '67 Schwinn---so, it's my tortured way of saying, "I love you."

Little Man Syndrome is OK when you're little

My nephew is turning 10 today. I remember the day my sister arrived at my front door to tell me she was pregnant. She was totally freaked out. She was married and settled with a house on the lake already, but she was worried about the huge lifestyle change that would be necessary. She began calculating the cost-per-year of his life/development and subtracted that amount from the Vacations-in-Mexico fund.

A decade later, there is this cool little man destroying her house and her yard, providing hours of entertainment and frustration daily. We love him to bits, and they've manage to bring him to Mexico twice already.

I just hope, that in the next 10-15 years, he doesn't somehow become the type of guy that is here in Montreal for the Grand Prix.

God, if I promise to believe in you, will you PLEASE make sure that doesn't happen?