Absence makes the (Pollywog's) Heart Grow Fonder

I'm house and cat-sitting this weekend, as Ben and Laurena enjoy a much-needed vacation. Their weirdly wonderful cat, Hell's Own Pollywog, usually ignores me and spurns my petting advances. She's always up for chasing some yarn, but other than that her favourite activities appear to be meowing raspily in a Fran Drescher-like way and biting things. However, when I've come by in the past few days, often after an absence of 10 hours or more, Polly seems genuinely happy to see me. She demands petting, stays nearby, has actually sat on my lap purring mightily a few times (!), and sits patiently by her string waiting for me to play with her. It's quite adorable, considering how stand-offish she is usually.

So I'm enjoying spending a Saturday here doing various readings while listening to Bob Dylan and Joel Plaskett (not together, although wouldn't that be an awesome duet?) and assuring kitty that she is indeed a pretty Polly.

Weird Weather (for me, not for this city)

As I wandered around today in a long-sleeved shirt, sneakers, and no mittens or hat, I realized that Vancouver really is in a totally seperate zone from the rest of the country. I hope no one east of the rockies will hate me for this, but I walked down to Kitsilano Beach today and walked barefoot in the sand and put my toes in the water. Sure, it was bone-chillingly cold water, but still. It's the middle of February, and my Canadian season-o-meter is freaked out. Enjoying the sunshine and warmth and lack of slush/snow drifts, but freaked out nonetheless. And I had a sudden urge to point out to my Swedish friend that Vancouver, while Canadian, does not represent a typical Canadian experience.

I also re-acquainted myself today with the substance addiction that is preaching. From all accounts it went pretty well, and while I was terribly nervous before and during my sermon, almost as soon as it was done I wanted to do it again. If that's not addiction I don't know what is...

In other news, I've successfully spent most of my reading week not doing the reading my professors expected me to do. However, I got a lot of other things done, and the lovely Brier visited, so I'm not too unhappy with my progress.

I've Still Got It!

I may be a little rusty, but even after about 18 months out of action, it seems I can still write both essays and sermons. Sure, they're both kind of shitty right now, but what else are first drafts for?

I was a little worried, since when I (frequently, lately) bemoan my lack of talent in crafty areas such as seamstressing, knitting, fine arts, singing, and various other arty things, the inevitable come back is "But you can write!" So if I had lost that, I would have been bereft, drifting talentless among a sea of ridiculously talented people. I'd have to rely on my wit and good looks -- which would get me about as far as a pat on the head and a cookie, I think.

Now, back to writing! Shitty first drafts don't turn into brilliant finished products on their own, you know. (Plus, I've remember how much I actually like writing this stuff...)

A Nearly Perfect Night Out

At the beginning of a weekend in which I suddenly, wonderfully, find myself with a social life, I've just had the most wonderful Friday night out. First, an hour or two of pretty lively chatting with Jackie, an Aussie with the most beautiful dark red hair I've ever seen, about travels, relationships, beer, hiking, religion, teaching, and culture shock. Then, her husband Dave (an engineer) shows up and there's more beer and we trade some hilarious stories on engineer stereotypes, Japan, and families over a delicious roast lamb dinner. About halfway through, as the pub fills up, 10 or so people with instruments show up, sit at the front tables, and just start playing Irish jigs like there's nothing to it. Live music, without the fuss and bother of having a stage or expecting people to sit and pay attention quietly (although the music was good enough for us to frequently interrupt our conversation to gawk at them).

After dinner there was some chatting at the parting of ways, with a rather embarassing end on my part when the light changed, the bus rounded the corner, and I took off running down the street (arms flailing) to catch my bus. I really hope my new friends don't think I'm too much of an oddball from that performance. But catching the bus was worth it, since I was among hilariously tipsy university students having a terribly serious discussion about how knowledge is finite but imagination is infinite (my witty reply when I was appealed to as an impartial judge? "That's true... if you're an arts student.").

A quick walk home and here I am, revelling in wireless high-speed and enjoying the thought of many more good pub nights to come.

Oh, and the beer? Oatmeal Stout. Yum.