You can take me anywhere but the Pat

My mom got a medal from Linda Haverstock yesterday. Go mom! It's a "Commemorative Medal for the Centennial of Saskatchewan" - 44 people got 'em in all. Including Courtney Milne. There were bagpipes and everything, we even had to intermittently stand up, that's how official this thing was. And 100 yr old men in life-assist wheelchairs completely decked out in military garb, berets, and a chest already full of medals. It was pretty cool. I sat alone at the back.



And took pictures. Her dad would have been proud, I told her. And he would have. I of course went through my usual frantic pre-event short interpretive dance about "what the fuck to wear to look nice enough for my mother", because deep in my psyche there is an image of my mom being disappointed that I'm never fancy enough for her. But anyways, I wore my new $20 dress skirt (those are covered buttons all down the front, trust me, it's real purty) and red leather heels.



I volunteered at the Broadway Theatre again tonight for the Rotten Monkeys first ever x-rated comedy "tour". I stopped laughing when I had to hold the crowd of 30 people back for close to an hour from entering the theatre. No seriously, they were funny, they were, but the first key to a first successful show is not pissing the audience off, and not being an hour late on your first advertised start time. Then I call Janelle and Erin to find out where the party's at, but they're fucking going to the Pat. I would go anywhere in the city but the Pat, seriously. Or maybe the Sutherland. But that's seriously it.



I need new drinking partners! I'm home again on the second Saturday night in a row, getting melancholy alone, composing love songs and burning out without notice. (Ed.~ note use of "notice" emphasizing the parallel views of being notified, and being noticed). And I'm going out for a pint with him-of-the-stern heart on Wednesday, the big ex-boyfriend, first time in damn near two years that we will have spoken. There's so much to say. No one else has ever criticized me more.

Anyways, I went and bought myself an "I don't know what you even call it, a super-extra biggie-sized tall boy of Lone Star" (hey, premium-hour booze ain't cheap), and I'll buy another one for whomever can tell me what "North Saskatchewan Regiment ~ A Coy" really means.