Walking With Hazel: Dad, Get UPPP.

"Dad, it's five-sixty-ten; time for you to get me some yogurt."

This is how the Little Miss communicates.

Today began, well, early. We woke up and we got some breakfast, which consisted of just yogurt and oatmeal, because Dad realized that he'd gotten all the groceries EXCEPT for breakfast stuff, but we were okay. And then the Little Miss noticed a) the huge stacks of clothing that our friend Sherri had brought over for her (thank you!), and b) the tiny piano that Barsky had given her (also thank you!).

Which is why, at five-sixty-ten in the morning, the Little Miss was done up in a pink dress with polka dots underneath a cat costume while hammering down on a small toy piano.

This is to say nothing of how she reacted when she saw the Iggle-Piggle doll that Sherri had also donated. Let's just say that shrieking doesn't do justice to the sound that came out of her mouth.

Since then, it's been a matter of dressing up, sliding down the back of the couch, comparing our feets, playing songs on the piano while Dad sings along (you don't want to hear THAT, lemme tell you...), and, y'know, more yogurt.

Now it's noon, and we have plans, so we have to go. We'll be in touch.

Goddamn.

This is Jasmine.


Two weeks ago, Jasmine was in my daughter's bedroom, reading Hazel a story about cats playing hide & seek. She was eating food in my kitchen, and talking about New York and Colorado and Calgary, and about how much she was in love with her partner. She was here. Right fucking here.


Jasmine was killed in a car accident last night. A stupid, senseless, almost comical sequence of events ended her life.

Jasmine was more than a friend. I have a hard time describing what she was to me. What she still is to me. She's this shining thing in my head that I don't think will ever diminish. Don't get me wrong: she was also kind of a freak, I mean, she got Kathleen Hanna to sign her tattoo and then got Kathleen Hanna's signature tattooed in its place. But that's also what made her so fucking awesome. And it was always good to see her, to be around her.

It might be selfish, but I will not deny that I feel robbed. Cheated. I feel like I want to hold the entire fucking world accountable. I know I'm not the only one to feel this way, either. I don't wish to wrestle some moral or lesson out of her life or her passing, because her life was her own. Her story is her own, and not to be cheapened by having someone else place their own personal philosophy upon it. But if I'm left with anything, it's this: hold your loved ones close. Now, and always.

Today, we spent the day around friends; and while Dad may have gotten a little sad at the beginning, he still let the Little Miss put grass in his hair, and we bought a new winter hat for the Little Miss and tried to avoid all the politicians that were out in the street, and then we splashed around in puddles in the parking lot, and then we went home and played in the front yard, where we blew bubbles and Dad helped the Little Miss climb a tree except for when she felt she was too high up, and then we had dinner and saw some more friends and then we had popcorn and made a fort out of couch cushions and then went to bed. It was a good day as any could be.

And tomorrow, Dad's gonna go to work and try not to dwell on how much he misses his friend, but focus instead on just how much he loves her.

Walking With Hazel: Too Busy To Talk.

Yesterday kinda got away from us. We could sit here and tell you about how we saw a punk cutting the fingers off of his mittens with a Swiss Army Knife, and how Hazel proclaimed, "His fingers broken?!", or the amount of living room gymnastics that went on, or how, when dad's back was turned making both muffins AND cookies, the Little Miss downed 3/4 of a cup of chocolate chips.


We could. Go into detail, I mean. But we've got pancakes to make and living room camping to do, so we're just gonna keep yesterday for us and hope that the rest of you are finding something fun to do on this rainy miserable day.


Peace. We out, yo.

A Message For The Little Miss.

I completely respect your decision to NOT eat the raspberry muffins I just made. That's cool. Maybe they're not that good, or maybe they're just not to your liking. It happens, and I'm not offended. It's not like I'm a culinary genius - I'm knew to this, so not everything I make is gonna be perfect.

Still: I am curious as to why I'm not allowed to finish off the three muffins that you've taken single bites out of; because we both know that you're not gonna come back to them, and it just feels like we're wasting food. It kinda feels like you're just punishing me: "Because these muffins are so bad, I decree that NO ONE SHALL PARTAKE OF THEM." And, y'know, that just kinda hurts, so when you go to bed, I'm gonna eat 'em.

Also: this business of eating all the pasta noodles out of my dish while ignoring the ones in your own? Don't get it. Really, I'm stumped. Obviously, in your eyes, my plate imparts magical and divine qualities to any foodstuffs that might come in contact with it, but I'm here to tell ya: it ain't true. The ones in your dish taste just as good (or as bad) as the ones in mine.

Just sayin'.

Walking With Hazel: OhMyGoodnessSoManyThings.

Well, Saturday started off with the Little Miss being in a somewhat less-than-enthusiastic mood, and for the first little while all she wanted to do was lie down in her bed; then Dad asked if he could do anything to make it better, to which she replied by holding out her Spider-man pillow and asking Dad to give it a kiss.

So, of course, he did. And so we began this game of her picking out toys for Dad to kiss, and Dad kissing them, including Hazel's toy hammer, the xylophone, and a small piece of blue fabric.

Then we thought it'd be a good idea to turn everything in to a drum, so we spent a few minutes hitting her toys with other toys to see what kinds of noises they made. Then we looked at the xylophone, and Hazel pointed out that the string was really too short to allow her to wield its plastic mallet properly, and so we began to scheme.

Then we got Dad's screwdriver and began taking the xylophone apart (it's just a toy plastic one, so don't think we were messing around with some great architectural musical instrument or anything, jeez...), and Hazel got to turn the screwdriver quite a few times, too. Then we collected all the screws in a plastic cup so that we wouldn't lose them, and then took the top off of the xylophone, and then we undid the knot that held the string in place.

Then Dad found some cord to replace the string with, only it was too big to fit through the holes, so Dad asked Hazel to stand a safe distance away while he used his drill to widen the hole, and then we put the cord through and knotted the ends and put the screws back in and now the xylophone is all better. Because of TOOLS.

Then it was time for dancing with blindfolds on. We're sorry, we don't have any videos.

Then Hazel spent the next little while with our flashlight, chasing its beam of light across the room, leaving Dad to speculate once again that raising a child is not that dissimilar from keeping a pet, only you probably won't have to take your cat aside in a few years and explain to them why boys are evil.

Then we went to help Crystal move her washer and dryer, which meant that Hazel spent most of the next few hours in the company of wimminfolk, so Dad's not too sure exactly what Amy and Crystal were teaching the Little Miss, but he'd like to think that it had to do with, again, the fact that boys are evil. And creepy. And not fun.

After we were finished moving the washer and dryer, we played a game on the steps of Crystal's new house that consisted of Hazel telling Dad which steps he was allowed to sit on, and then handing him some small berries that weren't good for eating but were very good for throwing down the steps.

Then we went home, and Hazel napped while Dad tried to get ready for (wait for it):


JASMINE VALENTINA COMING OVER FOR A PICNIC.

Which actually took place inside our kitchen, because it was kinda chilly outside, but it was so awesome, because we haven't seen Jasmine since she left to go live in New York, and even though she's a high-&-mighty Big City Person now, she still came to hang out with us. What's more, after all was said and done, she even did our dishes.


Then we decided to go for a bike ride, because apparently they were showing 'E.T.' at the community centre down the street, and we thought it'd be fun to go check it out, but when we got there, it turned out the movie was starting later than we thought, and it was already quite late, so we gave Jasmine hugs and thanked her for coming over and then we went home and went to bed.

And that was Saturday.

So far this morning,well, we've had a lazy morning, consisting of eating our breakfast underneath the chairs in the kitchen, dancing to LCD Soundsystem and The Black Keys, and Hazel standing guard with the flashlight while Dad took a shower, making sure that no monsters bothered him.

We might go see Kathryn's show today, but it's kinda icky out, so we might not. We'll see.

It Comes Back, But It's Never The Same.

So, that was summer, huh? That's cool, I wasn't really planning on doing anything this summer anyway, y'know?

Anyway: here's one of those shameless self-promotion things where I talk about how we were putting together a zine for The Straw, and then we looked at what we'd put together and realized that we really didn't like the idea of putting out another collection of stapled copy paper that you'd eventually just use to clean your windows with anyway, and besides, we could do better, so, yes: we're kinda starting over, except it's not so much starting over as it's just giving it room to grow.

We want more submissions. We want a lot of submissions. I mean, we got a lot, but we want more; and not just from our little circle of artistic friends to whom we serve coffee every day. We want submissions from everyone. Seriously: even if you're only glancing at this blog because you think there might be a chance that I say something vulgar about someone you know, or you're waiting for me to put my foot in my mouth once again, or you just like it when I swear like a sailor getting rimmed in a whorehouse, we want something from you.

One page, 8&1/2 x11. You can even submit more than one page, if you want. We may have guidelines, but we're lazy, and if we like it, we'll pretend to forget our own rules. So: draw, paint, write, scribble, anything. Take photographs. Trace your hand on a piece of paper and turn it into a turkey. Do one of those bark rubbings. Type the letter 'e' over and over again on one page. Get arrested and send us a copy of your fingerprints. Hell, if you have kids, get them to draw something. Or write something. God knows I've pimped out my own kid (and a couple of yours, too, I think) for our cause in the past. Get it in to us. We'll look at it and say 'yea' or 'nay', but chances are we'll say 'yea'.

Because we were never about being exclusive. We were always simply about speaking up. And we're pretty sure that a lot of you have something to say.

(I should clarify: when I said 'we could do better', I was in no way referring to the quality of the work submitted. That stuff's amazing. I actually meant WE could do better, as in those of us who were assembling the stupid thing. Sorry if there was any confusion. I say stupid things sometimes.)

Now here is a song about Drunk Girls.

Walking With Hazel: Dad Still Has A Head Cold

So, how did yesterday go?

Oh, right. We went out front so that Hazel could see the new birdhouse, and she found a bunch of large branches that'd broken off, and after yelling "ROBOT FIGHTING!", attacked Dad, who had to fend her off with a large branch of his own, wondering where this giggling assassin had learned such skills. Not that he was mad, mind you, just curious. And a little proud.

Just don't tell her mother.

After that, we went back inside and played with her brand new skateboard, which Dad has to strip and sand so that the Little Miss can paint her own design onto it, as the current graphic is just lame: Then we decided it would be best if we coloured our feet with markers:

Then we went to meet Christina and her little monkey that she calls a child, and Hazel fell asleep in the stroller, so we decided to hang out at the Roasterie, surrounded by 40-year-old goths in top hats and eyeliner, yuppies dragging small wannabe puppies around as accessories, and hipsters on their way to Market Collective. And John, who is always fun to hang out with.

Then when Hazel woke up, we checked out Market Collective, where we encountered a DJ who was playing (I shit you not) Thompson Twins, to which I have to once again say: people. I was actually conscious during the 80's. I remember hearing this shit on the radio. It wasn't good then, and it isn't good now. So stop it.

Market Collective was kinda rad, and we picked up a couple of pictures for Hazel's room, and we saw some friends, and we watched Jeffrey Storey play chess while Hazel tried to smother Eislynn with hugs, and we played in the sandbox that they'd set up in the middle of the market (awesome idea, by the way; no, really, I'm not being sarcastic, it was great fun).

Then we got claustrophobic and decided to go hang out in Riley Park, where Hazel tried to feed Eislynn all the rocks in the world, and we got to listen to lots of parents try and control their children by yelling their respective names over and over across the playground.


Then we went home, and hung Hazel's new pictures up in her bedroom, and had some popcorn, and then it was bedtime.

Now we're going to see Kiarra's show at the Straw Gallery, and maybe check out that Hippyfest/Water Worshipping thing going on at the Bow River. If, y'know, winter doesn't rear it's ugly head today.