I've been sick I've been sick! I'm sorry for not being at blog in so long.
Some highlights from this month:
The marvelous Jamie Gilfoy made myself and Saint Basile sparkle with his presence. He arrived in a humongous Dodge van filled to the brim with loads more of my stuff that had been temporairly stored including my books and MY BED. That night, cradeled by my pillow top mattress, I had the first solid sleep since I moved here. The next morning... *ahem*... afternoon... we drove back to Halifax. Jamie drove the rental Dodge. I drove the Mazda I had been borrowing from Jamie's uncle. Jamie got to listen to stand-up comedy and a wide selection of trance (as well as hip hop, rock and anything in the universe really) music from his rental's satellite radio. I got to listen to ... static mostly... except once in Truro I could pick up two stations, both were new-age country. It didn't even make me cranky. I was too excited to be with Jamie and to be on my way to see my beloved city and friends.
I saw my two best friends get married. Words cannot describe how moving this was for me. I gave a lame speech. For days leading up to the event I was an emotional wreck and on the verge of tears (and the bride was so calm!). For days afterwards, I went over and over the night in my head. It was too much. It was just right.
The Maroon Mobile has been resurrected. Grumbling and smoking from the bowels of the yards of Jesus 2.0 (Jamie's cousin) guarded by the big-headed Hyrda (also known as Blue) the Maroon Mobile rolled out and was back for more. As a birthday present Jamie bestowed me with a second chance at owning a car, in the shape of a new engine. The engine was successfully transplanted and the car is running like an absolute dream. I may or may not have stealthily driven it from Halifax to Saint Basile without plates. Either way it's here and I love it.
I had my 27th birthday. My birthday consisted of me calling in sick to work. Sleeping all day and then driving to Fredericton in the evening. I had a training meeting the next morning. It was the worst birthday ever. NOT because of the training in Fredericton. That was very useful and helped to put my job in context. It was because of the sickness and the driving-ness combined with the sickness. Torture.
Fredericton. I spent less than 12 hours in this very clean city. I slept for 7 of them, got lost twice on my way to the meeting and blew my nose at least 200 times. I met an important technical services figure who's name I had only ever seen in emails, and I got a tour of the provincial office (the provincial public library office). The office was just as I had expected, but the important library figure was the complete opposite of what I had imagined, which was a huge relief actually.
I experienced pink-eye. I always wondered what it would be like. I had a bad sinus cold and was coughing up a whole lot of (insert French accent) "material" . On day three of the cold I wiped my eye and felt some of said "material" come out on to my finger. It was quite disturbing. Under duress (the duress from my concerned boyfriend) I went to the walk in clinic and haltingly explained that some junk was coming out of my eye. The doctor told me I had "conjunctive" to which I replied "grooosssss." Apparently I also had an ear infection. I am much better now and can actually taste food again. Which is wonderful. I was taking it for granted before. I know I will do so again, but for now, there is nothing quite so palatable as a hummus pita with brie and red pepper.
I am learning about how to correct serial catalogue records in WorkFlows (referred to by some as Sirsidynix, or Unicorn, or Symphony, yah it's confusing). P (one of my bosses) was lamenting over the serial predictions for "Women Weekly." He just can't seem to come up with the correct predictions for when the next issues of Women Weekly are set to arrive at the various branches. The issues are supposed to arrive every three weeks, but every month or more librarians are contacting him to complain that so-and-so arrived to soon, or so-and-so arrived late. I hope you all can see the humour in this situation. Get it? WOMEN WEEKLY? I finally had to point it out to P. I don't know if this counts as office sexual harassment or not.
Maybe the above was librarian humour and it's not funny at all. Oh well. I had a good laugh anyways.
There are hummingbirds all over the place in the back fields. I have never seen so many hummingbirds, mostly Ruby Throated, whizzing around like miniature helicopters. I need to take pictures of this phenomenon and of this place in general. You all must be wondering what everything looks like anyways. I will post some, soon, promise.
Nice talking to you! Good night for now.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
work
Our offices are attached to Saint Basile's former fire station. The building is literally thirty seconds from my apartment. I walk out the front door, across a small field and I'm there. I leave at 7:59 and I arrive at 8 am. The HSJ employees are very precise about time. Begin work 8:15 sharp. Break 10 am. Lunch 12 pm. Break 3 pm. Drop everything and leave 4:30 pm.
Prior to being a fire station, the building was a a town hall (I notice quite a lot of this building recycling happening. There are plans in the works for our relocation to a building that used to be a police headquarters. This fact was actually front page news.) Because of the building's former designation, my office is up on this hardwood sort of stage in the main room. I have to say it's kind of snooty feeling and I don't know if I like it.
On Tuesday and Wednesday this past week I went with the HSJ regional director and another intern to escort a children's author around to libraries in our region. He was promoting his book "At Vimy Ridge" which was up for a Hackmatack Children's Choice award. We visited three libraries where the author gave very entertaining book talks. The kids were putty in his hands as he described in great detail the horrors of war, including vivid descriptions of the living conditions in trenches (rats and excrement) what happens to a soldiers lungs when he inhales mustard gas (they melt and come out his nose) and exactly how Hitler died (shot himself in the head, there's still a piece of his skull on display in Moscow.)
We stopped at Hartland, which boasts the world's largest covered bridge. Yes, we drove over it. It was .... long and... covered and... made of wood. We stopped in Florenceville, which was so clean and quaint it felt like I had become a porceline figurine, part of an eccentric lady's collection of miniatures. The McCain family reigns over the pristine potato fields and picturesque farms in Florenceville, and we even drove by a museum called "Potato World" but didn't have time to visit. We stopped in Woodstock, which has a beautiful old library with exquisite wood-work, it was most certainly haunted. We finally stopped, and spent the night, in Moncton. The Moncton branch has a new regional director and is undergoing big renovations, reorganization and weeding projects. I managed to snag an ALA promotional poster of Patrick Stewart wearing khakis and holding a Shakespeare book. They were seriously going to throw this gem away! It's now on my fridge.
I spend the rest of the week continuing my training in Saint Basile. I'm picking up the technical side of the job pretty easily, but I'm nervous about having to actually be a manager, and schedule *gulp* monthly meetings with my *sweat* staff and develop *shiver* strategic goals. I know, I know, just be confident. And I am. Every day I call Mr. Jamie and channel some of his business charm before I walk across the field with my coffee. So far so good. It's only you who will ever know how small my feet feel in these manager shoes.
But guess what! It's not all strategic goals and monthly meetings in Saint Basile. Oh no! Up next: what to do for fun in the middle of nowhere, and why the weekends are actually quite nice when there's not much going on. Stay tuned.
Prior to being a fire station, the building was a a town hall (I notice quite a lot of this building recycling happening. There are plans in the works for our relocation to a building that used to be a police headquarters. This fact was actually front page news.) Because of the building's former designation, my office is up on this hardwood sort of stage in the main room. I have to say it's kind of snooty feeling and I don't know if I like it.
On Tuesday and Wednesday this past week I went with the HSJ regional director and another intern to escort a children's author around to libraries in our region. He was promoting his book "At Vimy Ridge" which was up for a Hackmatack Children's Choice award. We visited three libraries where the author gave very entertaining book talks. The kids were putty in his hands as he described in great detail the horrors of war, including vivid descriptions of the living conditions in trenches (rats and excrement) what happens to a soldiers lungs when he inhales mustard gas (they melt and come out his nose) and exactly how Hitler died (shot himself in the head, there's still a piece of his skull on display in Moscow.)
We stopped at Hartland, which boasts the world's largest covered bridge. Yes, we drove over it. It was .... long and... covered and... made of wood. We stopped in Florenceville, which was so clean and quaint it felt like I had become a porceline figurine, part of an eccentric lady's collection of miniatures. The McCain family reigns over the pristine potato fields and picturesque farms in Florenceville, and we even drove by a museum called "Potato World" but didn't have time to visit. We stopped in Woodstock, which has a beautiful old library with exquisite wood-work, it was most certainly haunted. We finally stopped, and spent the night, in Moncton. The Moncton branch has a new regional director and is undergoing big renovations, reorganization and weeding projects. I managed to snag an ALA promotional poster of Patrick Stewart wearing khakis and holding a Shakespeare book. They were seriously going to throw this gem away! It's now on my fridge.
I spend the rest of the week continuing my training in Saint Basile. I'm picking up the technical side of the job pretty easily, but I'm nervous about having to actually be a manager, and schedule *gulp* monthly meetings with my *sweat* staff and develop *shiver* strategic goals. I know, I know, just be confident. And I am. Every day I call Mr. Jamie and channel some of his business charm before I walk across the field with my coffee. So far so good. It's only you who will ever know how small my feet feel in these manager shoes.
But guess what! It's not all strategic goals and monthly meetings in Saint Basile. Oh no! Up next: what to do for fun in the middle of nowhere, and why the weekends are actually quite nice when there's not much going on. Stay tuned.
Monday, May 4, 2009
mactaquac
I get absurdly happy when I hear or read the word "Mactaquac."
Mactaquac is the name of a community near Fredericton. I think it's quite possibly the best, most wonderful word I have ever heard.
Mactaquac is the name of a community near Fredericton. I think it's quite possibly the best, most wonderful word I have ever heard.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
mon apartement
If you take the Rue Prinicpale exit off the Trans Can and drive for about 15 minutes you will enter Saint Basile. Mon apartement is one of eight units in a long blue building that at first glance, looks like a run down motel. All the doors face the road, and you can park a car directly in front of the door.
But when you come inside and up the stairs what you see is a very pretty, well maintained and dare I say "girly" little place. Little, but still by far the biggest place I have ever lived in on my own, and definitely the most grown-up apartment of all the (count,count,count) twelve (!) places I have lived in since moving out of the rent's.
It has fresh paint in each of the rooms. One room is lavender, one room robin's egg blue, one room taupe and the bathroom is pure white. It has an antique-ish light fixture in the hallway. It has a little balcony in the back that looks out onto the train tracks and the lush green hills beyond. It's, well, it's pretty romantic I guess! I feel mysterious and solitary sipping wine, reading french newspapers and trying to figure out what the train schedule is.
I also feel like a squatter. I arrived with only a car full of things. More things will be arriving later thanks to a friend with truck, but even then I know I won't have enough to fill this two-bedroom flat. I'm in the front room, which attaches to the kitchen, sitting in the one chair in the whole place and making good use of the one table. Both items were left for me from the previous renter. I sleep on the floor. My unpacking has consisted of taking things out and spreading them around, basically making a big mess. But I have plans for minimalist decor. I don't really want to acquire any more than what is absolutely necessary. I just have to find a creative way to use each room sparingly.
Uhm, I also have plans for pennies on the train tracks. To be made into some kind of a mobile. Maybe I can have a "mobile room."
Oh! and I also have plans for a dark room (eee!) because my bathroom is absolutely ideal for this purpose. So I'm sure as I begin hanging up prints to dry I will be happy for all the empty space. It's all going to work out nicely I believe. I can't wait for you to come visit me!
But when you come inside and up the stairs what you see is a very pretty, well maintained and dare I say "girly" little place. Little, but still by far the biggest place I have ever lived in on my own, and definitely the most grown-up apartment of all the (count,count,count) twelve (!) places I have lived in since moving out of the rent's.
It has fresh paint in each of the rooms. One room is lavender, one room robin's egg blue, one room taupe and the bathroom is pure white. It has an antique-ish light fixture in the hallway. It has a little balcony in the back that looks out onto the train tracks and the lush green hills beyond. It's, well, it's pretty romantic I guess! I feel mysterious and solitary sipping wine, reading french newspapers and trying to figure out what the train schedule is.
I also feel like a squatter. I arrived with only a car full of things. More things will be arriving later thanks to a friend with truck, but even then I know I won't have enough to fill this two-bedroom flat. I'm in the front room, which attaches to the kitchen, sitting in the one chair in the whole place and making good use of the one table. Both items were left for me from the previous renter. I sleep on the floor. My unpacking has consisted of taking things out and spreading them around, basically making a big mess. But I have plans for minimalist decor. I don't really want to acquire any more than what is absolutely necessary. I just have to find a creative way to use each room sparingly.
Uhm, I also have plans for pennies on the train tracks. To be made into some kind of a mobile. Maybe I can have a "mobile room."
Oh! and I also have plans for a dark room (eee!) because my bathroom is absolutely ideal for this purpose. So I'm sure as I begin hanging up prints to dry I will be happy for all the empty space. It's all going to work out nicely I believe. I can't wait for you to come visit me!
Friday, May 1, 2009
getting here
I can do this I can do this I can do this I can do this. I made it! MAN what an ordeal getting here!
I bought a 1994 Toyota Tercel for 850 bucks. Colour: Maroon. Original asking price: 1150. Rebuilt engine (major selling feature) and a rusty body (embarrassment enducing feature). After some car savvy gents approved of the rust bucket I spent some more change getting it ready for the road. I loaded it up to the brim with all my dishes, trinkets, milk crates, used clothes, sleeping bags and other ghetto accoutrements that I had been acquiring in Halifax. I began the seven hour drive to Edmundston, New Brunswick with anticipation. I completed the obligatory cry as I crossed MacDonald bridge and watched the city fade in my rear-view mirror.
I believe the engine started knocking about forty minutes later. I didn't notice right away because the radio was way up. I turned down the radio and my heart sank. The little 4 valver was knocking like a mini hammer rattling around an empty coffee tin! It was rattling like it had an old metallic bee in its bonnet! It was shaking in a way that I just knew was bad bad news. Indeed, less than half an hour later the car came to a wickedly dramatic halt on highway 102. I was out like a shot and down the bank thinking the smoke pouring out of the hood meant it was on fire.
So there I was, ten minutes outside Truro crying into my cell phone as I watched the oil chug and vomit out from beneath the car. Later, the mechanic at the Toyota dealership in Truro informed me that an engine rod had suddenly and violently ejected itself from the machine via the oil pan. Hence the hole in the pan that looked exactly like a bullet had been shot out from the inside.
After spending several mind-numbing hours at the dealership a kind soul arrived in his batmobile-esque Civic to rescue me and all my stuff. I doubled back to HRM where another kind soul offered me the temporary use of a cranky-clutched but otherwise ship-shape Mazda for my second attempt at moving. A third kind soul escorted me around as we readied the Mazda for its trip. Throughout the entire ordeal a long-distance kind soul loved me, talked me down, supported and coached me along. So many kind souls are in my world. As horrendous, sweaty, expensive and stressful getting to St. Basile was, it also helped me remember all the wonderful people I know. Thank you!
Epilogue: Engine officially blown, the Toyota now rests at an impound lot in Truro. I screwed up my courage and called the guy who sold me the lemon. I told him my tale and in not so many words blamed him. "Rebuilt the engine" HA. The culprit offered to help me find another engine. That's fine, so long as he pays for it. If all goes according to plan the aforementioned kind souls will insert the engine into the body, and maybe you haven't heard the last of the old maroon-mobile.
I bought a 1994 Toyota Tercel for 850 bucks. Colour: Maroon. Original asking price: 1150. Rebuilt engine (major selling feature) and a rusty body (embarrassment enducing feature). After some car savvy gents approved of the rust bucket I spent some more change getting it ready for the road. I loaded it up to the brim with all my dishes, trinkets, milk crates, used clothes, sleeping bags and other ghetto accoutrements that I had been acquiring in Halifax. I began the seven hour drive to Edmundston, New Brunswick with anticipation. I completed the obligatory cry as I crossed MacDonald bridge and watched the city fade in my rear-view mirror.
I believe the engine started knocking about forty minutes later. I didn't notice right away because the radio was way up. I turned down the radio and my heart sank. The little 4 valver was knocking like a mini hammer rattling around an empty coffee tin! It was rattling like it had an old metallic bee in its bonnet! It was shaking in a way that I just knew was bad bad news. Indeed, less than half an hour later the car came to a wickedly dramatic halt on highway 102. I was out like a shot and down the bank thinking the smoke pouring out of the hood meant it was on fire.
So there I was, ten minutes outside Truro crying into my cell phone as I watched the oil chug and vomit out from beneath the car. Later, the mechanic at the Toyota dealership in Truro informed me that an engine rod had suddenly and violently ejected itself from the machine via the oil pan. Hence the hole in the pan that looked exactly like a bullet had been shot out from the inside.
After spending several mind-numbing hours at the dealership a kind soul arrived in his batmobile-esque Civic to rescue me and all my stuff. I doubled back to HRM where another kind soul offered me the temporary use of a cranky-clutched but otherwise ship-shape Mazda for my second attempt at moving. A third kind soul escorted me around as we readied the Mazda for its trip. Throughout the entire ordeal a long-distance kind soul loved me, talked me down, supported and coached me along. So many kind souls are in my world. As horrendous, sweaty, expensive and stressful getting to St. Basile was, it also helped me remember all the wonderful people I know. Thank you!
Epilogue: Engine officially blown, the Toyota now rests at an impound lot in Truro. I screwed up my courage and called the guy who sold me the lemon. I told him my tale and in not so many words blamed him. "Rebuilt the engine" HA. The culprit offered to help me find another engine. That's fine, so long as he pays for it. If all goes according to plan the aforementioned kind souls will insert the engine into the body, and maybe you haven't heard the last of the old maroon-mobile.
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