The last time I wrote an entry on my birthday, it took the form of a catalogue of everything fucked-up and horrible about the previous year. It was also a defiant announcement that I was not yet beaten; that I was starting over.

This past year has been immeasurably, inconceivably better. When I told myself last year that this was the start of something, that things were about to change, I had no idea how drastic and universally positive that change would be. I have a loving, supportive, crazy family and the best friends in the entire world. My roommates have improved my quality of life more that I could have imagined. I am happier than I could have imagined. The people in my life stun me every day with their generosity and loveliness.

Right now, I am in Los Angeles, where I have been teaching a workshop for the past two weeks. I have also been having one of the best times of my life. I got a sunburn in Santa Monica, went on every ride and saw every show at Universal Studios, and bungee-jumped off a 150-foot bridge in the middle of the Angeles National Forest. Next week I'll see Harry Potter on opening night at Grauman's Chinese Theatre, tour Beverley Hills, and then head off to San Francisco. Today, I wentto the Getty Centre and saw some of the most amazing illuminated manuscripts. Now I am sitting in my hotel with a glass of white wine and some leftover strawberry cake. It has been wonderful.

It has also made me fall even more deeply in love with my life at home. I can't wait to get back to Toronto and keep going. I can't wait to see my family and friends. I can't wait to hug my roommates and snorgle the animals. I can't wait to knock my twenty-sixth year right out of the park.

Since last summer, however, my sex life has been mine and mine alone (remember that key word ALONE), and I've still avoided bringing it up. Now, however, as one horrifying date has past and another approaches, I am breaking this particular blog-rule of mine and talking about it.

So, Family Members who Read This Blog: you've been warned.

I have not had sex for year.

Actually, a little over a year. In April of 2008, my ex and I went on a trip that was supposed to be our honeymoon and ended up effectively being the end of the relationship (though we were not formally separated for another few months). While on that trip, we had sex for what would be the very last time in our marriage. Prior to that, we'd not done anything approaching sex for a good six weeks (a length of time I considered horrifying, but which my ex seemed to have no problem with whatsoever). That one fateful time I got some action on my honeymoon also marked the occasion when I may have been the drunkest I ever managed to get in my life. We both drank a lot; I know I had at least a bottle and a half of white wine myself, and that I needed a lot of help walking back to the hotel, and what once we got to the hotel I couldn't actually take my shoes off my myself and actually laid down on the bed crying and begging for help. I didn't actually remember the sex until weeks later, when my ex brought it up, and I managed to unearth a very hazy memory of something possibly happening. So, really, that last time barely counts, but it was still The Last Time Sex Happened during my marriage.

Initially, I had absolutely no desire to get any action. I was fucked up and sad all the time, and I was aware of myself just enough to know that even something uncomplicated would be a terrible idea. Then, a the very few romantic-ish encounters I did have ended up either fizzling out before they really began, or by ending up being rather terrible ideas. I realize I haven't really written about my love life (ha!) such as its been either, as I certainly haven't wanted to offend or embarrass or even just bug anyone. In any event, what few opportunities I have had have either not worked out, or were opportunities I ultimately did not want to pursue.

But then Spring came, and sometime in mid-May I realized, to my absolute horror, that I'd gone over a year without so much as a shag. There have been longer droughts than this, to be sure. But this realization has brought with it a ravening pack of insecurities gnawing at everything from my body image to my saleability as a hausfrau. While Spring has been a season of love for everyone else, it's simultaneously made me want to get out meet someone and bust this slump, and made me want to never leave my house again.

But it wasn't just the One Year of Nada passing that made me break down and finally write this post. It was the slow and horrifying creep of another anniversary. Whereas I the one year mark snuck up on me, and I only realized it has passed weeks after it actually happened, I can see this point from afar. On my next birthday, in the middle of July, I will have gone my entire twenty-fifth year, my quarter-century year, without a single bit of action. If that's not a terrifying prospect, I don't know what is.

This post is not an invitation. I am sure that I could go out and find myself a straightforward shag if I really needed to prove something to myself. But what is really behind this my own terror at being single again and, for the last year, not really having any idea what to do. Having time to myself, time to heal and grow and have a really great time, actually, has been both awesome and necessary. But lately I've been feeling to pinch of it, and found myself at a loss for what to do about it.

I haven't brought up my single-and-actionlessness as an issue to many people, but on one of the I think two occasions it has come up, a friend said, "Well. What are we going to do about that?" I joked that I'm not sure I'd even remember what to do at this point, which is both hilarious and a little bit horribly true. As a serial monogamist, I've dated very little, and never really got very competent at noticing when someone was interested in me or knowing what to do if there were (whether I returned the feelings or not). As always, I am sure something fantastic and unavoidable and life-changing will happen. I just need to relax, invest in a plunging neckline or two, and forget about the damn date.

Labels: Le Divorce, Too Much Information, Toronto

My mom visited me for a whole week right at the end of May, and that week was full of an amazing number of activities. We went to the movies, trekked all over the city, and shopped like pros. We drank ice wine and very good coffee. We went out for breakfast and sushi. We even attended B.K.'s Knee Surgery/Jordan's in town party, and my mom was a very good sport.

My mom even gave me an unexpected present: a one-way first-class ticket back to Windsor, so I could ride home on the train with her (because Margaret Walschots only travels first class =)) and spend the weekend visiting my family. I hadn't been home since Easter, and happily took her up on her offer. I napped on the train, ate some surprisingly delicious salmon, had my rye-and-coke refilled at will, and looked forward to a quiet weekend around my family.

First of all, I did have a really nice time. I did some quality visiting, got to indulge in my favourite ice-cream at my favourite ice-cream parlour (hurrah for the Waterfront!), and mate much delicious home cooking.

Now that that's established, here is a list of events that took place in the 72 goddamn hours that I was away from home in Toronto:

- My dad and I got into several heated conversations about: nature v. nurture as it applied to the upbringing of serial killers; bullet entry- and exit-wounds; the type of person who's out at 2am anyway (I responded that "I am!" and my dad was scandalized); the purpose, function, and moral standing of Unions; and who ate the last bag of Cadbury mini-eggs someone had stockpiled in a rather poor hiding spot.

- Regarding Unions: Windsor City works are currently on strike (legitimately -- the two-tiered retirement benefits proposal from City Council is complete bullshit) over a retirement/pension benefits issue. This means that none of Windsor's parks or public spaces have been maintained, and garbage has not been collected, for, at the time of my visit, six weeks. This made the sick, crumbling city look even more post-apocalyptic than usual, with the garbage everywhere, knots of angry people gathered under tarps and around the entrances to public places, and weeds growing so tall it looked like nature was already starting to reclaim a space abandoned by humanity.

- While is a local discount grocery store, helping my grandmother do a little shopping, I felt the unmistakable sensation of a hand patting my ass. Wheeling around, I found the STORE MANAGER standing immediately behind me. When our eyes met, before I could begin the tirade I had waiting for him, he raised a hand to his brow, tipped his imaginary hat in an"afternoon, little lady" fashion, winked, and went back to pricing some produce. I exhaled my angry breath and could only shake my head in wonder.

DESPITE THIS, I managed to get a little nostalgic. Not for Windsor, which has long ago become a place that I happily escaped; I will never live there again. However, the time I spent in Amherstburg was nearly idyllic (maybe in contrast?). The weather was beautiful, all the flowers were out, and the breeze coming off the water was so sweet and cool. For a moment, just a moment, I was won over by its simple wholesomeness.

The universe must have heard my nostalgia, and decided that a reminder was in order. A reminder of how I came to loathe my surroundings during the two months I lived there last summer, when I was stranded and separated and clinically depressed. So just as I was thinking about the prettiness and cheap real estate of the town, sitting in the back of my dad's Jag, when the unmistakable throaty growl of a Harley pulled up next to us.

My dad owned a string of motorcycles over the course of his life, and still knows a lot of aging motorcycle dudes. One such dude had come up next to us at a red light, and started waving to my dad, who rolled the window down. The two yelled greetings over their respective engines. Then, Aging Motorcycle Dude spotted me. I was only about 7-11 when I rode about with my dad, but since my hair is blond again right now he recognized me.

"Hey sweetie! Given your dad any grandchildren yet? Got a bun in the oven?"

I was silent, and my dad managed to blurt out something helpful:

"She's working on it!"

Then the light turned green and the Harley roared away.

My Sunday, I was back in Toronto and felt this enormous rush of happiness to be home.

Labels: Clashes with Dominant Culture, Family and Friends, Toronto

Both of my parents retired early. My dad decided to retire the summer when I was between seventh and eighth grade, and my mom was offered a killer package while I was in grade ten. Also, more than once when I was growing up, my dad took a year off (once when I was in kindergarten, and again when I was in grade four). While I certainly have a lot of memories of my parents working -- babysitters, my own house key, calling them at work to complain about my brother -- I have an equal amount of experience with my parents not working.

Shortly after both my parents through in the towel on the whole working thing, I remember a conversation. We were sitting outside having a cup of tea on a rather glorious day, and they both remarked on how unbelievably busy they were since they retired. I remember distinctly my dad saying "How did we ever find time to work?"

I feel a bit of that right now. Barring one day when I think I was awake for a grand total of eight hours, it's been crazy around here. Last weekend was a mission. Trash Palace on Friday (Christopher Plummer! John Candy! the Eaton Centre! pulled pork sandwich stains!), Free Comic Book Day/Dinner/Wolverine Saturday, the Clothing Show and a BBQ on Sunday. Then there was sleeping for sixteen hours and poetry reading (hearing Jen Currin, Christine LeClerc, Kim Mikus and Kevin Connolly read at the National Poetry Month Hangover was spectacular) and OMG I ACTUALLY WROTE SOMETHING I DON'T HATE. There have been cleaning missions and a day of cooking (mm..carrot cake). I've actually no idea how on earth I structured my time before.

This weekend is shaping up to be a dozy too. Not only is it the Toronto Comic Arts Festival, but the Trash Palace is celebrating it's second anniversary with a dusk-til-dawn 5-feature extravaganza. It's like the world's coolest, smelliest slumber party. Cactus Press is also having a launch tonight, and there's some black metal happening at Smiling Buddha Bar. I don't really even see enough time for sleeping in there.

For the last several months, BK has been teasing me about my lack of party. He found my going-to-bed-early and getting-up-in-the-morning and not-drinking-all-the-time schedule somewhat at odds to the person who made grilled cheese in his kitchen at 4:30 am. The other day, I got teased for my endless string of "let's do this cool thing!" facebook invitations (I believe he suggested I put together a weekly Natalie Zed Activities Newsletter). While I did feel a little sheepish, it also made me feel like I was doing something right with this time.

Outside it is gloriously sunny. The trees have finally broken. Everything is warm and green, and I think I hear a patio calling to me.

Labels: Literary Events, Toronto, Unemployment

After my initial "I am going to starve and get evicted and have to pan-handle *weep*" freak-out when I was first laid off, being unemployed started to look okay. Today, as I handed in the last of my class materials and said a temporary goodbye to my coworkers, unemployment started to look AWESOME.

Here are a few reasons why:

1) Movies

In May alone, I have X-Men Origins: Wolverine (Biceps!), Terminator: Salvation ("Do I go around messing with your lights?!"), Star Trek (Sylar and Spock!), Up (Pixar!), and Drag Me to Hell (Sam Raimi!) all making me squee with joy. I Plan to see most on opening night or thereabouts, which I could have done while still being gainfully employed. But, after the opening-night nerdfest experience, I might want to review certain points, so as to participate more effectively in a deep conversation about the size of Hugh Jackmans's biceps. And for that, there's nothing like a matinee (avec flask).

2) Comic Books

Free Comic Book Day and the Toronto Comic Arts Festival are also both rocking in May, and I am going to need days to prepare. Also, I'll now have all the time int he world to read my new acquisitions.

3) Patios

Spring seemed to be giving us all the collective finger. Then, I taught my last class at Hogwarts, and something miraculous happened: it got freaking beautiful out. The next three days feature highs in the mid-twenties. I plan of ordering me some coronas, planting myself on a patio, and not moving for several hours.

4) Reading

I just picked up the first Definitive Edition of Y: The Last Man, both trades of Nextwave: Agents of H.A.T.E, the first two trades of Sam Keith's The Maxx, and assorted other goodies from the Hobby Star Fan Appreciation Event last weekend. I am also working my way through K. J. Parker's Devices and Desires. In addition, there's a ton of kickass poetry coming out this season, so I think I am going to had to set myself up with some seasonal subscriptions too. Comic books, fantasy novels, and experimental poetry. That's how I roll.

5) Not Having to Go To Bed

This point is key. Poets, you see, see no problem with having an amazing event with tons of cool people and cheap beer on a Tuesday. That has meant that if I could go (sometimes marking DADA reports took precedence) I'd have to teetotal and leave early, which goes against my party style entirely. Now, however, it can be a bloody Monday and I won't have to worry about feeling like death the next day if I have some gin and tonics and close the place down.

Not being a productive member of society isn't such a bad thing after all. I think I'm going to go sit in the sun with some Warren Ellis and start being useless.

Labels: Geekery, Unemployment

(First, a note about my job: I teach in private high school. It is impossible to write this entry without writing a bit about my job, which I have thus far avoided. In order to maintain a suitable barrier of confidentiality [and because my job is weird enough that the metaphor is entirely appropriate], I will refer to my school as Hogwarts and to the classes that I teach as Defense Against the Dark Arts.)

Saturday morning, I woke up to a hangover. I also woke up to an email. My boss, heretofore known as The Headmaster, wrote me to say that a meeting with his boss, The Founder, had not gone as expected. Last week, I was told that I would be teaching at least one DADA class, and would probably be able to pick up a second course in another subject (Potions, perhaps). After spending the week ironing out a schedule, The Headmaster presented his work to The Founder, and was told it had to be drastically rewritten. And by rewritten, he meant cut down. One of the many cuts that was made happened to be to Defense Against the Dark Arts. I went from certainly teaching one class, and probably two, to suddenly teaching nothing this term. As of April 20th, I am effectively unemployed until the end of June.

Up until yesterday, the recession hadn't hit me particularly hard. I am generally poor and underemployed, so an economic situation defined by poverty and underemployment seemed pretty par for the course. Besides, my job seemed removed enough, and strange enough, that no downturn could possibly effect it. I knew that it was a possibility that I would be teaching less (I've even fretted about it on this blog), but I still found myself shocked when I was told to effectively find a way to manage without an income for twelve weeks until Hogwarts could find its way clear to employing me again.

It's not a disaster. I have an incredibly supportive family who are, in a fit of breathtaking generosity, helping to support my unemployment. I also knew that there was the possibility of a layoff, and so for months have been squirreling away cash like a WWII housewife. I will be able to manage. But finding myself in the same situation has made me realize just how many of my friends and colleagues are here with me.

In June, I will be working again. Hogwarts has an amazing contract available for me, teaching a class abroad for a month, and I'll definitely be back into the regular swing for next year's DADA program. But for the next 12 weeks, I am officially laid off.

I'm terrified and poor and not sure what to do with myself. I am also getting excited. I can see a full draft of this manuscript getting finished. I can taste the sleeping in. And above all, I am going to take some very, very good advice and do something spectacular with this time, so that wen my generation finally becomes prosperous again, I'll have something to be damn proud of.

Labels: Anxiety, Rants, Toronto, Unemployment

Every now and then, in a fit of vanity, I scan the internet for any personal detritus that might be clogging up the interweb. There's the usual glut of tour and book stuff, a few pictures and cameos on friends blogs. Today, I happened to find a doozy.

When I was about sixteen or so, I participated in an online poetry/critique message board called Poetry Tonight. The site has long since been confined to an electronic graveyard. One piece I posted on Poetry Tonight attracted the attention of another frequent contributor, Papa Yolk, who included it in an online zine he put together. And wouldn't you know it still exists.

Here's a poem by sixteen-year-old me, complete with bonus author pic. Please look at how skinny I am.

Labels: Ancient History