aMMusing

• Because I’ve been so busy with work in the recent weeks, my good intentions of learning some basic notions of Spanish have gone out the window for the most part. I say “for the most part” because I did occasionally look up a few words and read a few basic online lessons on conjugating the very important verb ser and memorizing possessive adjectives. However, in the last week or so, El Poema has taken on the role of drill-master; in fact, after tonight’s session, he has even given me some homework! He understands that the best approach for me is grammatical; there’s no use in throwing a lot of vocabulary my way if I don’t first grasp the mechanics of the language.

• What’s more, the Queen of Sheba‘s daughter, Ms. R, who majored in Spanish at university, has offered to tutor me as well. She’s invited me over for dinner at her new abode on Friday night, although I doubt that occasion will double as my first tutoring session with her. But I’m looking forward to working on my Spanish with her, as she’s coming at it from the perspective of someone who, at one time, had to start from scratch. While I doubt I’ll be able to hold much of a conversation by Christmas, at least I’ll be able to grasp little bits here and there, and I’ll learn some more while I’m in Mexico. For as Ms. R said to me on the phone last night, Spanish speakers, particularly Latin Americans, are extremely generous towards those who express a genuine desire to learn the language — in terms of teaching as well as tolerating bad, bad grammar from someone who’s at least trying.
• As I mentioned in an earlier post, some positive shifts are afoot at my day job, although I can’t be specific about them just yet. But I’m already having to learn new things there, too, and I’m loving it. There’s more and more variety and, yes, more and more responsibility, but that motivates me because [a] there’s never a dull moment and [b] just when things start getting routine, another new routine comes along and the job becomes new again. At least, that’s how a “glass half full” kind of guy like me tends to look at it.
• Being in a relationship that is SO long-distance requires some learning, too. I’ve done the “long-distance thing” before, but not so far and not with someone who has inhabited my being as profoundly as El Poema. A lot of the learning revolves around acquiring flexibility so that we can think ahead generally but not get bogged down with details that are too time-specific. And that can be hard when the urgent desire to be physically together becomes overwhelming emotionally. Yet — perhaps paradoxically — we’ve individually come to realize that we each need a lot of personal space, so we’ve learned that not communicating for a few days in a row is not a statement on how we feel about each other. It’s just that the communication sometimes only reminds us too much of the distance, which on some days makes us sadder than on other days.

On Thursday, it will be exactly two years since the evening Ex Friend came to visit me with some KFC and who, upon hearing about my plight at the time, encouraged me to apply for what has turned out to be my day job. Two years, and almost nothing is as it was back then. So far, my 40s are turning into my blessed decade.

For indeed, two years ago, if a friend had asked me, “Are you happy?” I might have answered “Yes,” but with much hesitance and a whole bunch of qualifiers. But two years later, I wouldn’t flinch and answer with a resounding “Yes!” For even though everything is not perfect, life is pretty damn sweet right now, and my happiness is both visible and audible these days. So, each and every day in the last while, I thank destiny for the bounty it has graced upon me: a bounty of learning about so much, including myself; a bounty that not only inspires so many hopes and dreams, but that provides the means of achieving those hopes and dreams; a bounty that is so large that one would have to be an unspeakable ingrate not to be deeply grateful for having received it.

– Listen,” I tell El Poema while on Skype last night. “You better make sure you have plenty of really strong coffee when I get there. I can’t function without coffee in the morning.”
– What about some Nescafé?” he replied to get me going.
– Yuck! None of that shit! Or I’ll have to hit you or something.”
– So it has to be really dark?”
– Yep. The darker, the better.”
– No problem,” he said as he poured some chili sauce on popcorn he’d just made. “You’ll just have to keep me fully supplied with chili when I’m in Montréal.”
– ¡Claro! It’s a deal, babe. It’s a deal.”

For the first time in a long, long time, I actually took two consecutive days off. I know I should have worked yesterday, but I also know that the rest and time away from the computer will pay off in the end.

One of the things I did was rent and watch a few movies. But there’s one thing that really bugs me about myself: unlike most people I know, I have a really bad memory when it comes to movies and books. Sometimes it’s as minor as forgetting details of a film, but other times it’s as major as not remembering having seen the movie at all. I’ll start watching a movie and then do a double-take: “Wait a minute… I’ve already SEEN this!” And in addition to feeling stupid, I feel I’ve ripped myself off.

Per El Poema’s recommendation, yesterday I rented Et Tu Mamá También (And Your Mother Too). As it turns out, though, I hadn’t seen the entire movie. But about two-thirds into it, I recognized certain scenes. And I definitely recognized the closing scene. I think the movie may have aired on CBC Late Night a while back and I only caught the last third. So I guess this isn’t a classic case of me forgetting a movie I’ve seen.

As for the movie itself, of course I recommend you should watch it, and I’d say that even if it weren’t a Mexican production, biased as I am these days about Mexico. I won’t give any spoilers for those of you who haven’t seen it yet; however, I will say this: Doesn’t the voiceover narrative remind you that in Jean-Pierre Jeunet-directed films like Amélie and A Very Long Engagement?

Next on my movie list is Amores perros, which one reviewer at imdb writes, “is by far the best film I have ever seen come out of Mexico (far better and more complex than the comparably immature Y Tu Mamá También).”

I only have five months left in Halifax. How incredible is that?! Given I’ve lived here almost all my adult life, just about everybody has come to associate me to this little seaport city. But that, of course, is on the verge of changing.

As a result, I find myself looking at the place differently. No, not with regrets. Not even nostalgia. Just differently. Like, “This is my 22nd but last autumn in Halifax.” So, yesterday I took advantage of the gorgeous weather on one of my rare days off to take these pictures of fall in Nova Scotia, including some in my soon-to-be-former neighbourhood.

Yes, only five more months. But the short time that remains does raise a dilemma as far as Dr. Snake Oil Salesman, the asshole who’s unfortunately my upstairs neighbour. Clearly, the landlord’s office never sent him a notice as I thought it would a few months back. And now, in addition to the music, he has taken to walking like a fucking elephant. What is it about some people who think that just because they’re not wearing shoes, they can stomp as heavily as they want while walking on a hardwood floor? Honestly! There are times when I can actually feel the vibrations!

So the dilemma is: grin and bear it, it’s only five more months; or, it’s five more months, so I have nothing to lose by declaring all-out war so that, maybe, I can get a little bit of peace in that time. The former would be the rational thing to do, but the latter might feel so damn good! What’s more, since the super and the landlord know I’m moving, they’re probably not going to be inclined to do anything for me …unless, of course, they choose to do something for the sake of the next tenant. But I doubt it. That would be proactive, and they’re a 100-percent reactive bunch.

And just as I was typing that paragraph, the asshole just turned his damn music up. Pig fucker!

It’s really been eating at me that I can’t yet publicly say what’s been happening to me lately at my day job, but it’s been really good. It all started just over two weeks ago, and then something unrelated happened on Thursday which is only pointing to better things to come.

I guess there’s one thing I can say without revealing anything I shouldn’t herein. The last contract I signed was to take my employment to 31 December. Well, I now know for a fact I’ll be going beyond that date, and that’s a good thing.

It’s been chillier than normal the last few days in Mexico City. As a matter of fact, lately it’s been only a few degrees warmer there than it’s been here in Halifax. And El Poema has said to me that he heard in the news down there that, due to the effects of La Niña, there’s a possibly it might actually snow this winter in Mexico City.

In his nearly 30 years, El Poema has never seen snow.

I couldn’t suppress my laughter. Just watch: if it does snow, it’ll happen when I’m there and he and his friends will jokingly blame me, the Canadian, for bringing the snow along with me. As if!

What’s funny to me is that El Poema really, really can’t stand the cold. He had no regret leaving Canada many months before the first snowflakes began to fly. But it’s as though La Niña has decided to help me out a little…

If you’re going to get involved with this Canadian guy, you better get used to the snow.

And then there’s me, who hates winter, hates snow, and would rather live somewhere warm if I could. If all of this isn’t irony, then what is?

I’ve been outrageously busy these past few weeks, which is why I neglected this blog once again, but let me pick up from where I left off.

It’s already becoming old news, but it turns out the reason why some (likely biased) members of the media brought up the matter of Pauline Marois’ poor English language skills is because of the bill she has introduced in the National Assembly that would confer a form of Québec “citizenship” that is largely based on immigrants acquiring a certain level of proficiency in French after three years of residency. Therefore, the insinuation — cheap shot, really — is that she expects immigrants to learn another language in three years while she hasn’t been able to do the same in 58 years. Granted, it’s a clever bit of rhetoric, but still fundamentally a cheap shot.

But what raises a lot of questions is whether this policy would form two classes of citizens: one that can’t speak French and, consequently, can’t vote and can’t hold public office, versus one that is fully enfranchised and can vote and hold public office. Critics suggest that would even be counter to Québec’s charter of rights. And at a gut level, I have to agree. I don’t like the precedent this would set.

Because you know, it’s never going to be good enough. First of all, what’s going to be the standard or measurement of “an acceptable level of French”? I hope to hell the standard isn’t for written French, because what’s going to happen there is that the standard is going to be much higher than what’s expected of Québécois purs laines, who, on average (like their anglophone counterparts in the rest of Canada, by the way), can’t write worth a heap of beans. But let’s say the focus will be on spoken French for day-to-day interactions. Then comes my second concern: I know very well it will never be good enough, and there will result an implicit (if not de facto) second tier of citizens. I base this belief on my observation of how some Québécois — I won’t bother making links — put down the efforts of anglophone politicians who make a very real effort to speak French. For instance, I really don’t like Prime Minister Harper; however, I have to give him credit for how much he has improved his French in the last four to five years. It doesn’t sound “natural” on him and it probably never will, but, as a result, I can already hear the derogatory comments towards someone like him who would reach his very acceptable level of proficiency as “not good enough” and “murdering the French language.” And finally, if the aspired-for standard of spoken French is the variation that has become common in North America — not that there really is such a thing, but rather many variationS — then the same negative judgement will be reserved to those whose spoken French has a more European flavour.

You know, one of the big reasons why I’m moving to Montréal next year is that I want to live in French after more than 20 years in an anglophone region. But I’m one lucky bastard! Because I learned English and French simultaneously at a very young age, the two languages occupy the same area of my brain, whereas with my feable attempts to learn Spanish these days, I’m having to find another area of my brain and hope that, through practice, I will be able to gain access to that part of my brain without needing to go to the first area for translation. There’s absolutely no shifting of gears in my brain when I turn the radio or TV from an English to a French channel. I don’t notice a damn thing. Not even 20+ years of Halifax has killed my French or, more importantly, my sense of identity as a French-speaking Canadian first and foremost.

On the other hand, this could be a tempest in a teapot, for the chances of Marois’ bill passing in the current National Assembly are slim to none. And it’s quite possible the standard will be laughingly low, just as I’m sure some new Canadians learn just enough English to be conferred citizenship. But the polemic Marois’ bill has fuelled in Québec, alongside all the talk of “reasonable accommodations,” is definitely worth noticing, because there are glaring rhetorical inconsistencies on both sides of the issue.

Pauline Marois was crowned the leader of the Parti Québécois a few months ago and has returned to the Québec National Assembly last week following her byelection win in Charlevoix.

Marois is a seasoned and experienced politician, having held several key folios in past PQ governments, including health and finance. Some find her too matronly and condescending, and others hold grudges against her for decisions she has made while minister. Personally, I don’t dislike her personality, and I wasn’t affected by her decisions since I didn’t live in Québec at the time. However, strangely, I think my mother who also doesn’t live in Québec doesn’t like her much, as I remember her bitching about “la Marois” and her policies that she heard about on the news even though they had no impact on her.

Today, she forwarded this link to a TQS news report (in French) suggesting that her poor command of the English language would be a handicap to someone aspiring to become the premier of any province, including Québec. I’m not sure if Mom sent me this link because it’s a jab at Marois or because it reminds her of her own inability to speak English (as in, “See, even she can’t do it!”).

A few things come to my mind as I look at this video. For one thing, I think that a premier would have access to interpreters, so I really don’t think her lack of English is such a big problem. But for me watching this video, I can’t help but squirm for her personally. I don’t think she should be embarrassed; rather, I’m thinking that, as bad as it is, her English is a lot better than my Spanish. And I can so relate to searching and searching for words and only having a long string of “uhs” and “uhms” filling the airwaves. It’s maddening and you feel like an idiot.

I just finished doing a significant transfer with my online banking, which of course is with my “day job place,” and no less than 10 minutes later, the phone rang. They were checking to make sure it was a legitimate transaction and that I had done it. A few minutes earlier, I was on the phone with someone else in another department to help me figure out a recent transaction, and the gentleman at the other end of the line was extremely helpful. All I can say is that if the clients of my department get — or more importantly, feel they get — the same level of service — and my department spot-check stats suggest an extremely high satisfaction rate — then I’m very impressed with my day-job employer. Too bad I draw the line in this blog and make a point of never mentioning it by name. In fact, I’m making a point of turning off comments on this post …not that I get many comments lately. *sigh*

Oh my gosh, what a crazy week! The days at the day job have been long, and I worked on the other job every night except last night. I just had no energy left; I could only flop on the couch, watch bad TV and drink red wine. I was in bed by midnight.

It turns out that El Poema saw my good news from earlier this week as a positive. I can’t get into any of details here — that is, about neither the good news nor the reasons why he might have some reservations — yet I’m sure you’re probably wondering why he wouldn’t view favorably something that’s undeniably a good turn of events for me. Let’s just say some things are never easy.

There are so many “life” things I need to do these days that I simply keep putting off. Very ordinary things, such as shopping for things I need to replace, like my jean jacket. So, since I had to buy coffee beans today, I went to the mall where, lo and behold, there was a big sale. I walked out with not only a new jacket but also a sweater and a new pair of 501s — all for about 80 bucks. Since I can only take so much shopping at one time, I didn’t venture into shoe shopping although I desperately need a pair or three of new shoes.

Man! Too much work has turned me into a total bore. Yet I keep hoping that it’ll be clear sailing once I get over the hump. In other words, the usual story…