Hella Stella

I am always amused by my junk mail.

Today's most awesome titles are: Stun Her With Your Man Hose and Advantageous Relief Store. You Look Really Stupid Info is pretty high up there too. Who on earth writes these titles? Are they really trying to sell something? Who in God's name takes these seriously? They make me giggle, but they don't really make me want to elongate my masculine love stick.

As you are no doubt aware, tomorrow is Canada Day. I used to love Canada Day with all my teenage heart. I enjoyed the crowds on Parliament Hill (I think that delusion stopped after high school) and I loved wandering around the downtown until I was so overcome by sun stroke that I had difficulty locating a bus to take me home.

Then Canada Day went bad. For a few years, it seemed that without fail, something terrible would happen on July 1. One particularly bad year, my grandfather died, and I had to cab home with my very drunk BH to console my very distraught mother. My BH doesn't usually drink much, but this particular Canada Day was an exception to the rule. We stopped the cab twice so he could wretch on the side of the road. He barely uttered an "I'm so sorry to hear about..." when he had to run upstairs to get sick in my parent's bathroom. When I was driving him home later that day, I had to pull over ON THE QUEENSWAY from the fast lane because he was about to hurl all over my folks' car.

Memorable.

Needless to day, I'm no longer smitten with the holiday. I'm happy to keep low key and well boozed, and I'm also happy to do nothing at all. This year should be fun, because we're going to hang out in the 'burbs with beers and puppies to keep us company. We'll probably stuff ourselves with BBQ tofu and then watch Morty's Youtube videos over and over. Greatest way to spend the day? I think so.

Hope your Canada Day is memorable for all the right reasons!

Morty went to his first puppy class today.

I think he did very well, other than the growling and the boner. He is a special boy. But driving to puppy class by myself with Morty strapped into the seat beside me? Hellishly stressful. Remind me not to do that alone ever again.

Now Morty has fallen asleep on my BH, who is also asleep. If you ask me (not that you have a choice in the matter), they are two of the cutest boys in the world. Oh, Morty just upped the cute by eating in his sleep. Now he's licking his chops. Now he's grunting. Holy dang.

To drastically change topics: I've just about had it with strangers coming into my house. This place still isn't rented, and my lovely property manager keeps bringing people over in the hopes that someone will want the house for the next eleven months. The short lease is scaring most of them away, but I am crossing my fingers that someone will just take it already. I detest having people I don't know looking at my stuff. It makes me feel itchy. Besides which, my purse went missing right after the latest strangers left today, and I was momentarily convinced that I was robbed. Thankfully my bag had just been moved during cleaning. Still. They could have been psychos. Psychos with really greasy hair who were happy to chat about hip dysplasia.

I guess the upside to having random people in my house is that I clean a lot more. Today, I soaked my bathroom in vinegar and wiped it right down. Then I swept, folded laundry, cleaned the kitchen, and tidied the office. Sometimes all I need is an excuse and some time alone. Presto: clean house!

It turns out that bell training really works. I can't believe it.

When my Better Half told me that we could train Morty to ring a bell when he had to go outside, I was a bit skeptical. It would be amazing, of course, and it would drastically reduce the amount of in-house accidents we have. But was it possible?

Since we got him, we've been brushing Morty's paw against a bell (which hangs from the door handle) every time we take him outside. The hope is that he figures out he can ring it himself when he needs to go. The other day, my BH called me excitedly to tell me Morty had rung the bell for the first time. I was excited too, but I hadn't seen it myself. Just now? While I was booting up the laptop? Morty wandered over to the door, lifted his paw, and smacked that bell something fierce. I ran over, took him out, and VOILA! Poop! I am so, so excited.

(I just re-read that whole section, and jesus, you'd think I had a human baby.)

Anyway.

Other things have been happening besides Morty's brilliant potty training. For one, my best friend came to visit. The visit itself was exciting enough, since I rarely get to see him long enough to say hello. Our last visit of any length was two years ago in Colombia at his wedding. Before that, it had been years since we had gotten a chance to sit down and catch up. The visit was surprising in many respects, especially when he told me he was hoping to move back to Ottawa. For good. Very soon. Unfortunately, it became clear that his reasons for moving were not cheerful at all, and I've been feeling very sad about the whole situation ever since.

You know those cheesy horoscopes? Mine are always a little wonky, but the one thing they have in common is that they all say I am fiercely loyal to my friends. I've got to agree. Right now I feel like if one more person messes with my buddy, I will fuck them right up.

Today's agenda: puppy, curry and fun party. Yes please.

Somewhere around my 16th or 17th birthday, my friend gifted me a notebook. It had a hard cover, lined pages, and a spiraled spine. It was a beautiful cranberry colour, with hand-made paper on the outside. I didn't think much about it at the time, and put it away until I knew what I wanted to use it for. I wasn't really one for lists. Yet.

I can't remember what changed, but I think I was feeling particularly angsty about my lack of focus in life. I took down the notebook, and made a small list of my goals. They were pretty superficial - wanting to have certain clothes, collect certain types of music... But some were good, like wanting to save for university, and wanting to get better at songwriting. Slowly, over the following months and years, I reached my goals. Writing them down seemed to help me visualize what I wanted. This is how I became addicted to lists.

Nowadays, you'd be hard-pressed to find me without my hard cover, spiral bound, lined notebook. I replace it every four or five months, and I always have an extra on hand in case I run out of space. When I found an Alice in Wonderland notebook during a recent trip to Montreal, I was thrilled. Alice and I go waaay back, and some of you may remember that my first band was named after Ms. Wonderland, in a roundabout way. I contemplated buying every Alice notebook in the store, but wisely only bought one, since I wasn't sure of the paper quality and the rings looked a little cheap.

Thank God I didn't buy more. This notebook has come apart almost completely in only two weeks. The spirals are all misshapen, the cover is slipping off and tearing, and I can't even open it to reach my precious lists. Not even the little Alice quotes will cheer me up. Luckily, I have a backup notebook that I plan to fill as soon as I can. I'm not sure this story has a moral, but it was a good excuse to explain how I became so attached to my notebooks. And also? Just because it has Alice on the cover, doesn't mean it's going to be stellar. Seems impossible, but it's true.

There is nothing more humbling than playing a gig on a drab Monday night. Despite the low turnout, however, I had a very entertaining evening.

This was partly because I was playing with two other charming acts. Shannon Rose and the Thorns are always lovely to see, and Garner was a treat on stage. It was cool simply watching them do their thing (it was also fun to heckle them a bit, just for kicks).

I think the highlight of my evening though was the spectacularly shitfaced woman who tried (emphasis on tried) to converse with me after my set. She stumbled over to me slowly, but I could smell the booze on her breath from across the room. She told me her name was Alexandra. She was a multi... No, BILLIONAIRE. She lives in New York (later on she said she lived in Venice, so maybe she just has a lot of houses). "I know Paul McCartney," she slurred, getting so close to me that her eyes looked cycloptic. "And I know Jimmy Buffet." She spaced out for a while, in her own world. "I own the Dallas Cowboys too," she concluded. "And you? You're the real thing. I could put you in the same room as Armani." She swore me to secrecy about all this, of course, but you guys won't tell Armani, will you?

Later, when she was rocking out to one of the bands, I saw her suddenly bend over and duck her head behind a table. I thought for sure she was puking, but someone informed me later that she was removing her boots and changing her socks. She followed this by doing a bizarre dance that looked like she was trying to shake water out of her ear canal.

I am never bored at the Rainbow, I'll tell you that much.

Today was the best possible day off. I slept in. Filed a huge stack of papers. Did a few loads of laundry. We took Morty for a walk and came across a big stand with local strawberries. I bought a basket full, and we went home to make pancakes with whipped cream and fresh fruit. Jesus, it was good. Everything went swimmingly, which is great because I was pretty stressed out yesterday and then to top it off, Morty pooped on my sweater. ON MY SWEATER. POOPED.

So, basically, I needed a good day like this. Now I'm going to pop my leftover strawberries in the freezer, and curl up in bed.

Hope you all had a damn fine day.

My poor dad. He was called in to look after Morty while my BH and I were at work. He figured he would pop by, feed the pup, let him pee, play a bit, and stick him back in the crate.

Predictably, I received the following panicked phone message not long after my dad's arrival to the house:

"Hello? Hello? He's, um, eating everything. I hope those notes on human anatomy aren't important, because he's... Aaaaargh! Mordichai! Stop it!"

Click.

"Hello? Are you there? He's tearing around the house like a crazy dog! And he's eating the.... Aaaargh! Morty! Nooo!"

Click.

He finally reached me.

"He has a lot of energy," he said, panting.

"Yes," I said. "He is a puppy."

"He's eating the chair I'm sitting on."

"Perhaps you could stop him?"

"How would I do that?"

"Distract him with his toys."

"Oh. Yes. That worked."

Poor dad. Poor, poor dad. I see that I am going to need to find a dog walker when we move, because Morty has too much energy to spend the day alone. He needs to trot around the neighbourhood a bit. He seems to develop a taste for human anatomy otherwise.

I guess I could file this next bit under "DID YOU KNOW???" but the answer would be "YES, DUH" because I think I am the only person who hadn't figured this out. Did you know that St. Jean Baptiste Day is tomorrow? And did you know that in Quebec, you get that day off? Because I suddenly find myself with a day off, and holy shitballs I'm happy about it. It's a good thing too, because I'm playing at the Rainbow tonight and I don't go on until 9:45. And I'm the first act of the night. I'll be wiped by the time I get home.

My ankles are completely swollen with mosquito bites. Seriously. I've been taking the puppy out for his pee during the wee small hours of the morning, and those fuckers have swarmed me each and every time. The ads for Gold Bond Medicated Itch Powder are finally speaking to me.

Today was our orientation for puppy class. I like the teacher very much, except for one small thing. She uses Cheese Whiz to stuff her dog treats. I gagged when she held up the jar. Why anyone would feed that to their dog is beyond me.

One of my best friends surprised the crap out of me by calling me up from Colombia and telling me that he'll be in town next week. Oh, happy day! It will probably be a very brief visit, but I don't care. I'll take what I can get. Our criteria for visiting is really very simple: as long as we can both sit around and argue about the Second World War, we're happy. Total geeks. I know.

This morning was just plain awful. Migraine, bad moods, not enough food. All related, I imagine. Luckily my Better Half suggested we stop by the Green Door for some sustenance, and all aches and pains went away. Healing food. I bought their cookbook years ago and never made a damn thing out of it. An oversight I plan to remedy this week. Or right now? Mmm...

Jo's buy-no-crap resolution is intriguing me.

I always feel surrounded by stuff I don't need. I often wish I had a little extra in my bank account. Although, admittedly, I sometimes need a real wake-up call to do something about it. You would think having a house that looks like a disaster zone would be that wake-up call, but so far? No dice. My housemates are getting ready to move to their new house, so maybe when they truck their things out of here, I'll have a chance at getting my shit together instead of sifting through someone else's stuff. Every time I start to organize, I end up finding boxes of things that aren't mine, and then I get peeved and give up.

The hound dog we've been looking after goes back home today. Poor Morty. Who will he hump when Lucy's gone? Damn well better not be my leg. He's learned a lot about socialization in the past week though, so that's a big plus. I think he actually grew quite fond of Lucy in the end. He even spooned with her at one point!

It occurred to me recently that my lack of a social life may be the reason behind my inability to talk about anything except Morty.

Granted, Westfest was a shining exception to the rule, as were my two very short rehearsals with the band and the occasional brunch. But otherwise? It's hard to make yourself go out when you've got an ever-expanding puppy missing you at home.

As such, I was pleased when I had the opportunity to go to the Highlander for their trivia night with some friends earlier this week. I'm not a rabid fan of trivia, but I don't mind it, and I quite enjoy drinking beer while I pretend to understand the questions being asked of me. I don't know what I was drinking, but it was a dark ale that tasted a bit like coffee. My pints disappeared quickly, which was odd, seeing as how I am a notoriously slow beer drinker.

I digress.

It didn't take long for me to realize that I a. was getting drunk quickly and b. am very bad at trivia. Andi appeared to be in the same boat, and we giggled our way through the first round, convinced that the time would come for us to shine through the trivia-induced cloud. We did shine, although not quite where we wanted to. Andi turned out to be a specialist in the "televangelist" category, while I strutted my stuff in "opera." Instead of wallowing in feelings of dorkiness, we ordered another pint. The night ended not long after I announced to Andi that I felt a sudden urge to buy a fancy push-up bra "so that my boobs can be right up around my face" (she nodded solemnly and said she would like one too).

If this is how I behave when I get to have a long-awaited "social outing," I don't really want to know what's going to happen when I reach the open bar at my cousin's wedding next month.

(Actually, this post is a little short on Morty content, so for all of you addicted to my chubby pup, I introduce: HIS VERY OWN YOUTUBE CHANNEL)

Wow, nothing says "Welcome to my new blog" like a big red couch. Good thing I like it. I'll probably mess with it as time goes on, so don't be shocked if the layout changes as soon as your eyes finally adjust to the furniture.

It's still me, in case you're wondering. I'm still going to be writing the same tantalizing and sexy stories sort of stuff I've always written. I just wanted to try something different, and I also wanted to lift my name off the site. But I'll still be chatting about music, complaining about my cheap rental drum kit, and cutting up my fingers on new banjo strings.

And little Morty? Do you really think I'm going to shut up about him? Not a chance. Certainly not until my Better Half and I are done mopping up his pee off the kitchen floor. So, basically, never.

Please feel free to change your links to the new site... I'd still love to have all you regulars checking in to see what sort of crap I've gotten myself into.

Love (ahem) Stella