Funeral for a Friend

I had bought the bag when I was in highschool. It was messenger style, brown canvas, with two pockets on the flap, embellished with blue and brown plaid. However, sorting through my purses today, I realized that I not only wanted to leave this bag behind, but that I no longer wanted it at all. I looked up at my friend Steph, sitting on my bed.

"Hey, do you like this? You can have it if you want."
"Are you giving away all your things? It's like your funeral or something," she said.

And, kids, it very much is. Moving is exciting, but right now, I've found this bittersweet melancholic haze has taken over. I feel as though I'm soldiering toward the move instead of sprinting to it now. I'm giving away all my things, like a living will.

You know how there are distant relatives or friends you only see once someone drops dead? The deal is the same with moving. People you haven't seen for a year. People you've just met, they all come out of the woodwork. You have to say all of your goodbyes. Get some closure, or at least let them know they're welcome to visit your new life once you've settled in.

Thursday, I had coffee with a friend of mine from Starbucks. In the afternoon of the same day, I met up with a guy friend of from my days at Sheridan. I hadn't seen the Starbucks friend in about a week, and it had literally been about a year since I had seen my college pal. I had to say goodbye to both of them. She hugged me and then bequeathed me a set of knives for my new kitchen.. He hugged me so hard he picked me up off the ground. My favourite hugs are the kind that hurt.

Sometimes, moving is like a funeral because you struggle to find closure. Sometimes, you can't see all the people you want to. You can't give them reasons, or get rid of all of the things you wish you could say.  Sometimes, you don't get to spit out all the goodbyes you want to and I think that's going to be the hardest part right now.
ANGSTANGSTANGST vs. excitement, basically.  Je ne sais pas.

Pack a' lackin'

The good news: I'VE FOUND AN APARTMENT TO LIVE IN. The lease is signed and Chez Wiley is a go. It's a two bedroom in what I've started calling "The French Quarter" of Montreal because...well...everyone there only speaks French. Rebekah and I made the choice to live together for the comfort of A) not being swallowed by a big city whole B) cheaper rent, and we're VERY pumped to get our asses out of Waterloo and out into the waiting world.

The bad news is that: It's way past the time where I have the energy or the memory or capacity to blog about my trip to Montreal, house hunting with my mother. I will say that it involved half French babble, LOTS of arguments (least proud moment: I told her to stop being a dick...something you should never say to your mama...), friendly waitresses and waiters, walking EVERYWHERE and getting lost. GETTING VERY LOST. Between us, I was the stronger navigator. Let us all have a moment of silence for the precious seconds of my life that I will never get back as we literally went in circles, struggled with maps and yelled at each other.







Amen.

The other bad news is that I went camping this weekend and I had an awesome time, but I'm also too crazy up in my head to write about THAT because I've started packing. If you want a photo that sums up the experience, this shot is just for you...and everyone on my Facebook:

That's me, next to a fire. I'm roasting a donut, on a stick. You might also notice the bag of kettle chips and the bag of peanut butter M&Ms by left arm. AKA, WE ATE EVERYTHING. Drank some, too. We laughed even more, which was the most important part. Quality time with big sis and laughing my ass off after all the stress as of late. I also got a sunburn on my arse, slept on the ground, peed in the woods, and learned how to set up a tent. Education at it's very finest, my friends.

But now, we're onto packing. PACKING, which involves being calm and organized. I've already scrubbed more pots and pans before shoving them into boxes than I probably have in the past 6 months.

I think as a rebellion against just being so tense, I have constant music playing as I gallivant around the house, slinging kitchenware and fretting about where the hell the plates went. This comes along with stints of manic DIY fever. I've already:

• painted and stenciled my bulletin board
• refaced a retro style clock
• mod podged a collage box for all of my teas and such

These stints of creativity among wrasslin' with newsprint, coffee mugs and appliances are actually making me excited to have a kitschy, snuggly home of my own, with all the weird touches my parents wouldn't care for. I've been sitting here too long. I have to go find my toaster.

Prequels

August is the month of reckoning. The month in which EVERYTHING. GOES. DOWN. (Well, until  September, in which case everything really gets set in motion.) Basically, August is the prequel that will set up the rest of the series which is my life in Montreal. Apartments will be viewed, jobs will be quit, goodbyes will be said and tears will probably be shed. Panic attacks may or may not be impending, sponsored by hormones, pressure and oh yes, drama.

Wednesday, I made the first round of calls around to my list of potential apartments to ask after the availability of them. Some people spoke French over a crackly connections, some were very friendly. Some had a little more to say than I wanted to hear. The superintendent of a student residence building told me that she was booked solid until 2013 and I "should have started looking MONTHS AND MONTHS AGO."

Which I'm sure she didn't mean with any cruel intention. However, filtered through my panic of finding a roof over my head, coupled with my anxiety about moving,
"I started signing leases for September in January."

Sounded like:

"YOU'RE FUCKED."

Be still, my poor, aching heart. Thank you lady, for that little tidbit. Days like that, I try to remember that 'give them hope' is on my arm for me too. Mama and I are headed down on Tuesday the 7th to look at some places. Which should be interesting because my mom thinks most people are out to scam you and loathes big cities.

We live in one of the tamest lamest suburbs in our city, an Olympian shotput throw away from the Mennonites and she's paranoid that I'll be mugged walking anywhere after 10PM. I'm serious. Bringing her into a big, half French metropolis is going to border on social experimentation.


Housing has been the main focus of any and all topics I discuss with my parents lately. When I told mama I didn't want to live downtown, instead opting for The Plateau, NDG or Verdun, 3 nice neighborhoods just outside of the core, her eyes popped out of her head.

When I told her I wanted to be part of a neighborhood or a community my dad stuck his head into the discussion by asking me if that was really important, because I mostly "keep to myself." Which is father for 'anti-social.' My dad also thinks I despise drinking & socializing, and that I'm the smartest of his three children...........................PAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA. 

I'll hopefully post more about my adventures in moving my life around soon!