the daily snivel

  Collect 'em all

Well, those darn kids have done it again.

My sister was called to the Bar at a ceremony at the National Arts Centre on Wednesday, July 16, meaning that she is an honest-to-gosh lawyer now, and can hereafter sign our passport applications and be pestered at parties for free legal advice. Of course, it also means that four years of tremendously hard work have come to fruition. It goes without saying that I'm extremely proud of my sister (I'm saying it anyway), and that she's been a big help to me as I followed along a year behind her in law school. Along with our brother Scott, we had a great time drinking to her health at the Dominion Tavern later that night ,and our mother was so proud of Tammy's accomplishment that she placed an announcement in the Saturday edition of the Ottawa Citizen announcing both her Call and my graduation. Thanks to the magic of scanners and Photoshop (newsprint is a bitch to scan clearly), I'm sharing it with you:



These are the kinds of things that make me appreciate how special my family is -- especially our mother who, for all her many (lovable) quirks, raised us on our own and has four brainy, talented, well-adjusted kids (none of whom is a serial killer or drives an SUV) to be really proud of. Without help, without privilege, without connections, we've all done really well for ourselves (so, uh, eat that, all you rich, connected, privileged people!). Most importantly, we use our powers for good.

Now if only I had a high school reunion to go to... 

  If it were a horse, I'd shoot it.

Says Rob the vegetarian, who wouldn't really hurt a horse no matter how lame it was. But still, you get the Western analogy.

Nevertheless, my bicycle has been causing me great aggravation this summer, and costing me money to the point where I probably could have purchased a new one and left the old fella out to pasture with a sign that says "steal me" (or as my sister's boyfriend discovered last year, leave it on the balcony of my third floor apartment in Toronto, where the bike thieves are even more a clever a gang of rascals as its legendary raccoons). On the way home the other day, I heard a "ping!" and felt my rear wheel start to wobble madly. I was just able to get it home, but discovered that two spokes had snapped.

It's back on the road now, thankfully only after spending $12 on some new spokes, but I actually spent $80 on a new wheel just a month ago, and it's only a matter of time before I have to bring it in for a $90 procedure to get the gears replaced. Granted, after five years of almost daily rides from April to November, I'm willing to accept that there's going to be wear and tear (like the brake pads I've had to replace), and the fact that my chain skips. But it's been in the shop three to four times each summer for the past three years, which boils down to a lot of time off the road. The guy at the bike shop suggested I now buy a hand-made wheel from him, given the problems we've had back there and the fact that there's no warranty on factory-built wheels.

I think the bike is cursed. At the very least we have a turbulent and Harlequin-esque relationship (you know the formula: "He's so brash and arrogant! I feel nothing for him! And yet..."). I rant and rave like a madman about it when something goes wrong, and pine like a jilted lover when I can't ride it and am forced to take the hated bus. There's nothing quite so frustrating as being stuck in traffic on a hot, crowded, humid bus that is crowded past the point of "standing room only" and moved on to "where do you think you're putting that crotch?" while you watch carefree cyclists roll on by, generally getting wherever they're going faster than you do. When you're traveling downtown, a bicycle is simply the best way to get around. And yet... and yet... I can't help but wonder what new technical difficulties will surprise me on some trip in the not-too-distant future. So far we've gone through blowouts, broken spokes, chewed up tires, bad bearings, clicking pedals, and broken cables together. It's a rocky love affair, me and my shiny red bicycle, but at least it's never thrown me. 

  Rob vs. The Big Freak Out

So I've started to pack.

I've been quietly freaking out of late about the fact that I'm supposed to move in a month and a half, have not yet gone to look for a new apartment, have not yet booked a truck, and do not have the required driver's licence to DRIVE a truck yet, for that matter. I mean, I did actually look at the U-Haul website so that I could reserve a truck, and when I realized it would cost me $600 just to rent a truck to move to Toronto all on my own, I started panicking and required several minutes to compose myself. I closed the site down without making the reservation, wembling as I was over things like "am I really moving on the 31st? What happens if the apartament I eventually get isn't available until the next day? Or is available sooner? I've never driven to Toronto -- I've never driven anywhere. Maybe it would make more sense to hire movers after all?" I also don't have any money, rendering all of these things moot in a way, and causing super duper extreme freak outs on my part. I have to borrow some not insignificant sum from relatives if I'm ever going to make a deposit on an apartment and afford a move, making the process even more daunting and terrifying.

Nor had I started to pack, and as I surveyed the humbling collection of books and knickknacks all around me yesterday, I realized that the only way to escape this feeling of helplessness and panic was to start packing it up. I started with the books in my room. This was something of a challenge, since I have been forcing myself to suppress my packrat tendencies in recent years, but nevertheless have been living here for six years and things do have a way of accumulating. Oh, mercy yes. I had to force myself to look at each and every book carefully to make sure I truly wanted to bring it with me, and would truly have a use for it besides.

It was easiest to cull the herd of textbooks from my undergraduate degree -- in the end I only took two -- and the rest are going to be given away. It's a sad end to what probably adds up to at least $2000 of books over the years, but when you look at those outdated old psychology and sociology texts -- not to mention the dusty (literally) and forgotten linguistics and philosophy texts from those crazy electives, and the computer science books from the abortive cognitive science degree I thought I wanted until third year -- you just realize that they contain naught but apocrypha and clip art. I also found some antiquities nestled snugly in my bookcases, like copies of Windows 3.1 and DOS 5.0 from my very first computer (a 386 that I only finally got around to freecycling last year, thanks to some serious purging with my helpful friend Celeste). I bet if I were ambitious I could unload those on eBay for an entire buck. Sadly, it's off to a box on the curb for you as well, my pretties. Free to a good (or bad) home.

I even found some artifacts from high school. It's been eleven years and I still have my high school binders. Time to throw those away -- though I couldn't bring myself to part with some old stories and things I wrote in OAC (grade 13 to you non-Ontarians).

Hardest of all are the personal books and "this might come in handy someday" materials from law school like cases and coursepacks. I tried to be as picky as possible, getting rid of anything I can find again if I need it, and keeping what I found useful or would enjoy reading again. Most of the personal books came with me, of course, but I recycled the old Adbusters magazines and got rid of a copy of the Book of Mormon given to me by one of their earnest young missionaries several years ago. Anyway, in the end I packed up seven boxes, and my room looks as full as ever, but I feel more accomplished. One of my roommates just moved out (the good one, unfortunately), so his room is serving nicely as a storage/staging area. Had I gotten a job in Ottawa, I had this dream of taking over my 3-bedroom apartment and turning that room into an office. Such a shame that all I can do is move boxes around in it like a big game of Tetris.

I suggested to a friend, of course, that maybe while I have that room I should do something like roll around naked in it and really make it mine. You know, one does what one can. And whatever I do will be nothing compared to the profane rituals I perform once the bad roommates move out.

It's still nice to be feeling like I'm making some progress. I haven't moved in so long that it seems quite daunting, and so the sooner I pack and the less stuff I bring, the better off I'll be.

So -- do any sweet, helpful people out there want to help me purge the accumulated clutter of the past 10 years?