Katitude

It crept up on me, the low moment.

I think it started a week ago, when the work at the school couldn’t begin in the time period allocated and slipped into the time period allocated for Manitoulin Island. Disappointing, but the work had to be done, and island plans had to be delayed. We’ll have to  go next week, I thought.

A visit to the Martini Goddess helped lift some of the disappointment, as only time spent indulging in martinis and girl talk and vampire novels can. A trip down-county seemed like a good idea on a rainy Sunday, and we stopped in to Shattered Glass, where a woman named Vanessa happily makes wonderful pieces out of found objects and recovered glass. Everything I saw there inspired me, made me want come home and grab all of my glass and tools out of the storage locker where they’ve been for 10 years and re-acquaint myself with the sound of breaking glass. I mentally reviewed the floor plan of our one-bedroom apartment, and realized that there just isn’t the room to set up even the smallest of studio spaces. Disappointing, but that is an art that requires a room with a door, more so when all inhabitants prefer going around barefoot.  I thought, it will have to wait until I can find some cheap studio space. Someday.

We wend into Bloomfield for tea and scones, and wandered in and out of the kind of shops you find in quaint small towns. I found a jacket that yelled BUY ME from across the room in one boutique. I tried on the purple, knee-length crushed velvet  piece of loveliness and it fit me almost perfectly. I spent a few delicious moments running my hands over the fabric before I turned over the price tag, knowing that as soon as I did, I’d have to put it back on it’s hanger and walk away. Disappointing, but the current cut-to-the-bone budget doesn’t allow for purple velvet jackets. Next year, I thought, all my past bad decisions will be finally paid for and I’ll be able to buy a very impractical coat on impulse.

Monday was spent at the school and both Keith and I were finally finished everything we had to do. I was almost skipping as I walked out of there, ready to spend Tuesday back in vacation mode, reading and writing and knitting in the sunshine. But a call from the tech looking after the printers had us back Tuesday morning.  Disappointing, but no one else is even remotely techie enough to understand his question much less know how the cabling is laid out. Vacation mode isn’t a very good idea anyway, I thought. Work officially begins next week anyway and I still have paperwork to do.

There were other disappointments yesterday afternoon, which when added to the pile of both recent and long-standing disappointments.
disillusionments,
discouragements,
disenchantments,
and general dissatisfactions,
it was like handing the low moment an engraved invitation to come on in and sit a while. How could it refuse?

The low moment whispered small evils in my ear, playing to my insecurities, undermining my confidence. And being in a low moment, I let it.

It was not a good afternoon.

However, there is one thing the low moment forgot. I am no longer a teenager, confused by hormones. I am no longer in my twenties, trying (and often failing) to find a place where I fit. I am no longer in my thirties, grappling with the dawning knowledge of just how much time really is in a lifetime and how quickly it passes.

I am firmly in my fuck off forties, with an awareness and knowledge of what goes on in my head and an understanding of my motives and where they came from. I have family and friends I can count on, all I have to do is pick up the phone, send an email/IM/text and they will be there. But, whispers the low moment, they never call. Because really, they actually don’t like you very much. See? Not only is the low moment evil, but it lies. My friends are not mind readers…they don’t know I need them unless I tell them. So I picked up the phone and sat at the keyboard and told them.

And told the low moment to fuck off.

Technically, I am still on vacation as school doesn’t start for a few weeks yet. Realistically, my summer is kinda of over as the work at the school is heading  into it’s third week. We’re planning for one last gasp of a trip to Manitoulin next week, a four day ride which will be not nearly long enough.

But we did get away, for a reprise of the Great Lakes Circle Tour that we did about 10 years ago:

1: Sudbury/Tyson Lake

The trip started off with a very definite family orientation. My younger brother and his family were visiting from Calgary, and we all went up to Sudbury to hang out with our older brother and his family.

Have I mentioned how much I enjoy being around my family? We all had a great time at my nephew’s cottage, swimming and tubing and generally goofing around. I spent as much time as I could with my two nieces, who I haven’t seen in two years.  Molly is 7 now, and Mia (short for Amelia, long story) is 5. I really admire my brother and his wife for letting the kids be the people they want to be…it must be frustrating as hell, but here are two little girls who are not going to be led down the garden path.

They have very different approaches – one will just look at you and say “no”, and unless you can come up with a really good reason why she should change her mind, the no stands.

The other will look like she’s agreeing with you, but will dance off to go sing and pick flowers, which is what she wanted to do in the first place.

Don’t get me wrong, they are not bratty about it. They are both cheerful and helpful and wonderful. But neither are pushovers, and I like that.

2: Red Rock

After the family gathering broke up, we headed west and checked out the Red Rock Inn, about a half hour before Thunder Bay. It was recommended to us by a biker friend of Keith’s, and why not, the website looked good. I read some of the reviews on tripadvisor.com which said that the website was misleading, it didn’t look that good at all. One review even said it had a bit of a Shining feel to it.

Sign me up.

The reality of the place is that it’s an old building with a past. It’s been a lot of things since it was built in 1937: a dorm for the paper plant workers, a POW residence in WW2, a community centre and now it’s an inn. The look of the place is a bit like my Grandma in her makeup –  looks crisp from a distance, but upon a closer look, the fresh paint really doesn’t hide the cracks and lines. The history is palpable.

Yes, the place is  a little tired-looking and the wi-fi spotty at best, but it was clean, creaky and fun to explore.  The couple running it were incredibly friendly, and directed us to the Walleye Fish Fry that the Fish and Game Club was putting on.  It reminded me of social events in the small town where I grew up, people greeting each other and catching up, kids running around, the sound of old country & western coming through a vintage PA system, lots of smiles and laughter. Add in a dinner of fried walleye with homemade salads followed by a walk around the marina to work some of it off, and you’ve got a definite win of an evening.

3: Betty’s Pies and the Odd Motel

We like pie. So how could we resist a place called Betty”s pies? We can’t.

We ran across Betty’s Pies when we did the Circle Tour before, and the memory of it stuck with us. It was such a good memory that when we figuring out where to go for the summer road trip, “We could have pie at Betty’s” was one of the deciding factors.

The day worked out that we got there for dinner after a sunny day of riding along Lake Superior. It did not disappoint; the beef pastie and banana cream pie were good enough to make sure we go back there next time we do the Circle Tour.

As we finished the pie, we talked about where to stay the night. We could stay close to Two Harbours (so we could go back to Betty’s for breakfast!), but going through Duluth during the early quiet of a Saturday morning was attractive. We pushed on and found the Beach View Motel, or as we now call it, the Odd Motel. The motel was run down, but clean, and our room had a killer view. Our stay there was filled with interesting characters and the night had a slightly surreal twist to it, enough so that the night is a story all on it’s own.

View from the Odd Motel

4: Houghton and the UP

The place was anything but a Down-ner

There was a tentative plan to stop and see Drizz, but thanks to construction in Duluth/Superior (detours, bad signage, wrong ways taken, oh, and I laid the bike down in gravel, yay), we found ourselves going east (by a lot) rather than south. We headed to the Upper Peninsula instead.

We got to Houghton around dinner time and decided to stay the night at the Downtowner, a motel right beside the river with two big decks overlooking the water. We wandered though this very pretty town, taking shots of the old cinema and other buildings before we had dinner at a seafood place. We sat on the motel deck after, reading and watching the sun go down while I sipped on a local brew. Definitely a life is good moment.

The next day was nothing short of brilliant with perfect weather, great roads, and coffee stops on sandy beaches where I could kick off the boots and wade. And what’s a trip to the UP without a visit to the Gay Bar?

There was one holy shit moment as we were riding along the narrow road that twisted along the shoreline – I was in the lead and scared three crows off of something on the side of the road and one veered into my path. I swear a trailing wing feather brushed my helmet.

5: Right place, right time

We missed Drizz, and we were this -> <- close to being in the same town as Bloody P (missed by about 4 hours!), but we were able to connect with Dr Chako and The Wife while they were in Thorpe for a family event. It was all too brief, that hour chatting over morning coffee, but I was able to get some long blogger hugs that will tide me over until December.

6: Bloggers!

OhCaptain and OhCountess

Speaking of bloggers, a HUGE thanks to OhCaptain and OhCountess! Not only did the put us up for a couple of nights, but they took time off work and showed us around Rochester and the Mayo Clinic. Honestly, we had no idea that the Mayo was that big!

We really enjoyed hanging out, catching up and playing with the kids. Guys, thank you again for opening up your home to us…you are awesome!

7: House on the Rock

I’ve wanted to go to the House on the Rock ever since I first read about it in Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, and visiting it figured large in the plans and routing that Keith worked on.

I’ve been staring at the monitor for 10 minutes trying to think of how to summarize the House on the Rock. I can’t. Like the Odd Motel, this place is a story all by itself.  It’s bizarre and dark and noisy and filled with weird stuff thrown together in the most curious way. We were sitting watching a wall of animatronic figures perform the Mikado when Keith said “can you image seeing all this on acid?”.  I laughed and said that this place was making me feel like I was on acid.

We got there late, so were only able to get through two of the three tours (they recommend four hours minimum for the whole thing).  Two things that really stand out in my mind are the Infinity Room and the Carousel. Holy FSM, the Carousel…we sat in the Carousel Room for about 20 minutes trying to take it all in and failing.

Infinity Room

Carousel - this does not do it justice

8: Pie!

We were up around Northport, MI, and looking for a place to have a picnic and coffee. We’d set our sights on the park at the Lighthouse, but decided against when the woman at the State Park entry kiosk said it would $10/vehicle to park.

Umm. No.

Keith mentioned seeing a sign about pie and lead back down to the farmer market. Cherry orchards lined the road on each side and sure enough, the market had two kinds of cherry pie, regular with crust and a cobbler style, but didn’t sell them by the piece. Crap.

I was getting ready to leave when Keith said, “I can fit the pie box in my tail bag”.

And that is how we found ourselves in lake-view lay-bys for the next few days, drinking coffee and eating a truly amazing cherry cobbler. Thank FSM, we’d packed forks.

9: M119 and pierogies

I’ve often written how we’ve found ourselves in amazing and delightful places, quite by accident.  The happy accident of this trip was finding ourselves sitting in the garden at the Legs Inn, dining on delicious Polish food as we watched the sun set over Lake Michigan. We had ridden there along M119, a road that started with a sign that stated “narrow twisting road for 30 miles”, a wonderfully curvy, swervy road that went through tunnels of trees and along the lake shore. If you ride, you’ll understand the joy of that afternoon. If you’re not, I doubt I have words to explain it so you could.

10: fucking bridges

This is not a highlight.

I am getting really weary of this thing I have about bridges. It is detracting from my vacations, because every vacation on the bike means we have to go over a bridge somewhere. On this trip, it meant crossing the St. Clair River between Port Huron and Sarnia at the Blue Water Bridge.

I like looking at bridges; there is something majestic about the way they conquer empty space and connect two places.

That being said, there is also something about them that the reptile brain most definitely does not like. This is not right, it insists, it is too delicate, there is a flaw that will be triggered as we pass over it, the fencing is not high enough and we’ll go sailing over it if anything happens. My palms are sweating as I write this, just thinking about it.

WE’RE GONNA DIE! the reptile brain screams as I begin to ride over it.

Don’t be so fucking retarded, the conscious mind sneers…we’ll be fine as long as you don’t make us do anything stupid. It’s just a piece of pavement.

And that is what I am most afraid of, that the reptile brain will freak out and some day do something stupid.  And since I would like to not do that, I’m going to go and see someone about it before next year’s trip.

It’s no big secret that I am not a girlie girl. I used to joke that if the true extent of my lackadaisical attitude towards clothes, shoes and make-up was ever revealed, I would have my estrogen license revoked.

I am especially lacking when it comes to the shoe thing (I do however have a boot thing, but that’s a post for another time).  It’s not that I don’t appreciate a cute shoe; it’s just that I can never find them for me. I can always find exactly what I don’t like. IMHO, shoe shopping is only one slight step above dental visits….painful, costly, and can only be avoided for so long.

Still, every once in a while I run across a pair of something striking and I get that OMG-I-have-to-have-these! feeling that lets me know that my estrogen license hasn’t been cancelled yet.

I got that feeling on Sunday. I saw these on a sale table in a store in downtown Kitchener, and made a beeline for them. Half Price. Last pair. In my size.

Mine.

My new Skully Converse

The fabulous Chris (aka my writing coach) introduced me to Lorna Crozier’s poems during one of the group classes I took last month.

I especially loved Carrots, taken from The Sex Lives of Vegetables:

Carrots are fucking
the earth. A permanent
erection , they push deeper
into the damp and dark.
All summer long
they try so hard to please.
Was it food for you,
Was it good?

Perhaps because the earth won’t answer
they keep on trying.
While you stroll through the garden
thinking carrot cake,
carrots and onions in beef stew,
carrot pudding with caramel sauce,
they are fucking their brains out
in the hottest part of the afternoon.

Too lovely not to share:

Your secret from Jean-Sebastien Monzani on Vimeo.

It’s 34 celcius outside, with a humidex value of 44 celcius. To those folks who resist the elegant simplicity that is metric, that translates to 94 degrees that feels like 110-ish.

I had to spend enough time outside today that the heat and humidity have taken it’s toll; I’m feeling slow and draggy and would say yes to a nap right about now.

It’s a shame really, because yesterday was such a great day out riding with Keith and our friend Moose, and I wish I could do the experience justice. However, all I can come up with is something that sounds like a 7-year-old’s book report:

We went on many new roads, some that were curvy and some that were not. There were some gravel roads too, but I didn’t fall down even through it felt like I might. We stopped for coffee twice, both times by water. I almost fell asleep the second time. I got a headache part way through, so I made everyone stop at the Hockley Valley Store so I could buy Tylenol. I also bought a big cookie.

See? It’s crap. I got nothing.

Here’s a couple of pictures instead.

Image by Moose

I know many people who state they have written a book. Hell, I’m working on one myself.

But I only know of three who have taken it beyond just writing. They have gone through the painful editing process and navigated the world of self-publishing.

A few years ago, Scott Gallant (aka Double As) published a poker strategy book called Pressure Poker. I bought a copy; I was new to poker and was trying to wrap my head around the strategies, and I was new the poker blogging community and wanted to support it as it supported me in my sad attempts to understand the game.

Last year, another blogger friend, John Hartness (aka Falstaff), self-published a truly amazing book of poetry, Returning the Favor, that has a permanent place on the end table on my side of the couch. I’ve read it so many times that the spine has cracked and pages are beginning to loosen. Edit: He’s releasing a book today too!

Today another blogger pal has released his creation into the world. Dr. Pauly announced today that Lost Vegas is now ready for purchase on Lulu.com.

Doesn’t the cover look fabulous? (Shameless self pimping, I know, but I am available for any and all kinds of design work.)

I will be ordering my copy today. My summer reading just took a turn for the surreal.

I can’t say how much I admire these three men who have taken the great step forward to fully realize their dream and finish what they’ve started. They inspire me to keep working on my own project. Here’s hoping that I can join their ranks, and not end up standing with the dabblers and dilettantes .

Guys, kudos to you!

Dear various BMWs, Escalades, Lexuses (Lexi?), and Mercedes that I saw on my drive home last night;

You really are gorgeous pieces of machinery, with sleek, lovely curves that enable you to carve through the wind so sweetly. It’s such a pity that you are likely going to end up as crumpled metal and shards of glass and plastic strewn across the highway. We both know it’s unavoidable given the way your owners drive you. They seem to think that luxury cars come equipped with some sort of spaceship force field that exempts them from the basic law of physics which states that two objects cannot occupy the same place in both space and time. I swear, not one of them deserves you; they don’t even know how to use a signal light or a brake pedal.

I hope you get recycled into something noble, like a girder that holds up a bridge, or something fun, like a child’s first bicycle, rather than something that reflects your current owner, like a tampon dispenser at a low-class strip club.

Sincerely;
Kat

**********

Dear iPod Shuffle;

I bought you on a whim, but I continue to be impressed your quality and flexibility. Whether loose in a pocket or clipped to my bad strap, you are rock solid. And I cannot believe you survived, what was it, TWO weeks at the bottom of the my laptop bag with the loose change, gum wrappers and hair clips with only a slight surface scratch to show for it. Incredible!

Honestly speaking, I am not always knocked out by what your algorithm throws at me as “random”, like the drive back from the Martini Goddess’ place when you insisted I listen to the same Billie Holiday song 5 times in an hour and a half. I do like a little Billie now and again, but there were a few hundred other songs on there. I was beginning to wonder why I bother with you.

I have to say though, last night was awesome! You gave me the perfect mix for my drive out to my meeting out in Milton. The percentage of punk was spot on while I was sitting in rush hour traffic on the QEW and ou seemed to sense when I hit the back roads and gave me a unique blend of new and old, fast and slow, instrumental and OMG-I-have-to-sing-really-really-loud-to-this.

Well done!

Sincerely;
Kat

**********

Dear pimple;

Wow, that time already? Thank you for being my own personal early warning system for these many years. I actually like how I can count on you to let me know when it’s almost that time of the month so I can make sure to get enough sleep and stay away from alcohol for a few days, making it easier to deal with BS during PMS.

That being said, I have to wonder about your current choice of location. It could not have escaped your notice that the end-of-school evening is Thursday night, and not only do I have to hand out awards and perform the cello, but I have to interact with parents. It’s going to be a pretty stressful evening and will be made slightly more so as I wonder if people are staring at the giant, red blob squarely on the end of my nose.

Still, it’s not entirely your fault. After all, there is a whole other body part in charge of the timing. But perhaps you could aim for somewhere less conspicuous next month?

Sincerely:
Kat

**********

Dear black leather chaps;

It almost breaks my heart to say this, but I think it’s time we went our separate ways. I wish I could say that it was me and not you, but we both know that’s not the case.

We’ve had a good run – we’ve been together for over 10 years, and that is a very long time in clothing years. Other than my old punk jacket and the corset, there is nothing else in my closet that even comes close to having that kind of longevity.

They’ve been amazing years, truly. We’ve traveled so many places together, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, Labrador to New Mexico, through any kind of weather imaginable. You made me feel protected and less vulnerable while out on two wheels, and have saved me from all manner of minor injuries. You have come to fit me like a glove, moulded to me through all of those rides over thousands of kilometers.

But let’s face it, since the trip to the Grand Canyon in August where I was sweating like a sinner in church you’ve had a bit of a pong about you. And you know how I’ve tried to get some of that bug splatter off, but I swear the proteins have bonded right into the leather.

True there is cleaning, but I’ve heard so many horror stories of cleaners who make a mess out of leather. I am so afraid that it will change you into something brittle and unrecognizable; too afraid to risk it.

I’ll never forget you.

Sincerely;
Kat

Like some one else I read, I went to the Roller Derby last night for the first time. @PokerVixen was in town and she agreed that this seemed to be a fun thing to do on a Saturday night. Her and her cousin piled into the car, and off we went to the north end of town to Downsview Park, a former air base, where the Toronto Roller Derby is set up with a flat track in the Hangar.

There was something about the way everyone congregated in this industrial landscape reminded me of the after-hours illegal punk shows I used to go to back when I was the kind of girl who went to after-hours illegal punk shows. The music coming from inside was eclectic, alternating between an outfit of three young guys were belting out punk or a guy sitting behind a laptop at a table playing songs that I remember hearing in high school. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who remembered the lyrics to this:

We sat on uncomfortable steel bleachers too close to one of the speakers, making conversation an exercise in lip reading. The people-watching was first rate though. I talked to a woman about their Junior Roller Derby, thinking of at least ten kids who would totally love it.  Beers were drunk. Swag was bought. We all stood for the national anthem. And then it began.

We decided to cheer for the Death Track Dolls. A no brainer on my part; their logo is a skull with a bow and they seemed to have a zombie theme going…what’s not to like? They were up against Chicks Ahoy, and they had the lead for a lot of the game but ultimately lost.

What a blast. I had so much fun, that I can’t even bring myself to complain about the $6 domestic beer.

I left Hangar wondering how much roller skates cost and what would be a good name if I were a roller derby girl. Common sense has informed me that perhaps a 48-year-old blob with no muscle tone or balance might be better suited to being a spectator or a volunteer, but fuck common sense. I feel the same kind of interest I felt the first time I watched the WPT at my brother’s (and we all know how that turned out).  I’m going to go to a few more games and see how I feel. Hey, who knows, this could be the thing that gets me off the couch. And yes I know it could end the same way as the interest in poker, with me either broke and weeping or broke and cursing.

Speaking of going to more games, the next one is a PRIDE week event called the Clam Slam. I’m tempted to ride the bike – the leathers may be a hit.