It's Not Nice to Stare...

Jorgh and I were going home last night on the metro at about 11:00 p.m. from his place, having done the laundry (for free... ^_^ ) over there and after a wonderfully home-made supper. Except it wasn't made at home, but at a restaurant (Eurosnack). And it wasn't so wonderful because there was a fry with eyes on it. All deep-fried and scary.

Anyway, I've been in Montreal for four years now, going on my fifth year, and I must say that I find people in Montreal to look more or less a certain way. Sort of hip and crazy, or refined and smelly, or whatever. I mean, all the teenagers here I've seen either fall into two categories: the poser slum wannabes, or the scantily-clad disasters of parents without morals.

Actually, I lie. There's the third category of "other," who tend to be the minority of decent teens.

There's also the characteristic businessmen and businesswomen who are so primp and classy that you hardly ever see them in the metro or bus system, as they would rather not be associated with the rabble of the city. And there's the lower-class but decent men and women who make as honest a living as the poor non-ghettoized students. (Of course, there's the tons of students in Montreal, like ants flowing between school and home in the middle of nowhere with cheaper rent.)

And everyone else is a tourist. So even the strangest of the bunch seem to match the city or fit in, somewhere. I have yet to see the farmers, pig farm or no pig farm. And I had yet to see the mulleted white trash of the boonies (ie. in the bigger-than-pig-farm communities) with their tow of hick kids and trashy parents...

I said had.

Last night, the most ill-fitting people of Montreal speaking french came into the metro car and had the decency to place themselves in front of Jorgh and I. The white trash gang of three kids, their parents (supposedly), and an older woman gawked at things in general, as I stared in disbelief.

The older woman had a mullet. Not just a mistake of a mullet - a real, live, puffing-like-the-80s-never-left, dyed blonde, something-lives-in-my-hair-cuz-I-let-it mullet.

I thought that the older woman was weird, but then I watched the couple. At first, the younger woman seemed content on sitting on the single seat by herself, but then she induced the man to sit on the chair, and then plopped herself on top of him. It's not unusual to see this kind of affection in the metro, as the younger twenty-somethings and teens do this often, but it's very difficult to watch two fourty year-olds do this with their kids running amok in the metro.

The woman of the couple was wearing the stereotypical tight leopard-print clothing, stilleto high heels, and had a mop of a hairdo. The man was undescript, but would remind me very much of the people I have seen during my years living in Chicoutimi.

Then there were the three kids. I shudder to think of what kind of crap they go through at home.

Think of all those television shows. Then say to yourself that television is not reality. Then think of what you would think after seeing these people.

Yeah, I thought so too.

---

It is not nice to point and it is not nice to stare... but when it comes to white trash I don't think they care.

The Party's on the 7th Now.

So you're wondering if I'm having a birthday party, right? Well, initially it was on the 1st, Labour Day, but it turns out that most people aren't even in town or available on that day. As well, it's not even my birthday on that day. So I'm moving it to the actual birthday of myself, on the 7th. ("Good for you," you say.)

Where: the park across the street from my appartment
When: the 7th, at noon
What: a picnic, with possible games and crazy crap happening
Why: 'cuz.
Who: everyone and their kitchen sinks. Especially the kitchen sinks.

Now, why would I make a big deal out of my birthday, as I hardly ever made one every other year... Well, considering the mess that happened this year, and the fact that I won't be staying in Montreal for the next birthday, I figured I would go all out and see everyone together for a possible last round of craziness. And I'm not talking about your namby pamby naked-streaking-drunkenness...

What? I'm not as innocent as I look.

I'm expecting a nice, calm picnic in the park, then a little round of stupid games like the three-legged race and blind man's bluff... then it gets a bit nuttier as the afternoon wears on. May involve togas.

I also want to do the speech. 23 isn't a special milestone year, but it is a very special year for me and there's certainly one issue I want to talk about to everyone. I don't know if it will come across as being self-righteous of me or ridiculous, or being selfish and rude, but if I don't say it then I don't know how much I can keep longer with such a false face.

Anyway, bring a beach towel to sit on otherwise you're sitting on grass. And see if it will double as a toga.

I'm Back In Montreal

Well, I've been back for at least two days, so it's not really big news anyway.

Sunday, my mom, brother, Simon, and I drove our way to Montreal and stopped by my place to drop off a lot of foodstuff. Mmm, foodstuff.

We met up with Michelle and Brian and headed off to dim sum in Chinatown. It's so great when it's festival season... it was the mid-August (Harvest Moon) Festival, and there was a crapload of people bopping around. At the dim sum place, the cool dancing dragon thing came by, and my mother told us of the ritual:

The dragon goes by each place of commerce, dancing and more or less annoying/harrassing people. The storeowners, or restaurant owners, have to dangle a red envelope (with possibly more than a hundred dollars in it), tied to a bit of greens. The dragon is attracted to the green, and "eats" the thing, with the envelope, and then spits out the green only because it doesn't digest it well or something. Then it dances away to the next place of commerce.
Much like the mafia, except it's a dragon, really.

The money is meant as something of a compensation for the costumes, as apparently they make new ones every year. We spotted two dragons, in fact, one male and one female. Of course, the dancers inside the costumes are male, and so are the drummers and percussionists.

Sarah!

Saturday, Sarah came over after she got off work, and we went to the Quebec Arts Museum (Musée du Québec) for a while, before supper. I was quite impressed with the Riopelle exposition, as I spent a good ... uh ... long time admiring the long collection Homage to Rosa Luxembourg (L?Hommage à Rosa Luxemburg). Most of the trip was spent examining his works, including the really neat giant abstract canvases with layers of paint so thick you want to squish them with your fingers.

Then we went back to my place for supper, hoping to have a nice calm meal with my family. Then it turns out my mum just finished cooking and then zoomed off to play mah-jong with the chinese ladies. As usual. And then Simon was also over, so my brother and he had the brilliant idea to sit at the opposing closer sides of the table. Directly in the middle. Which left me and Sarah to sit at the opposite far ends. Stupid kids.

But to compensate for such a stupid arrangement, they decided to have the most brilliant conversations about sex using euphemisms that a six-year-old would have pointed at and laughed. Sarah was quite amused, while I almost choked on various food items.

We spent much time reminiscing about CEGEP and things that happened between the last time we were all together. A lot of memories are bittersweet, and it becomes terrible to talk about a few things for long. Memories are like that.

But there are cute stories, like the time I slapped B in the library. Or the time I was so bored waiting at the rehearsal for the Talent Show with my choir, because they kept testing the mikes for more than two hours, that I shouted at the stage (at Dominique), "TAKE IT OFF!" (That was rich. But you had to be there.)

And then there were the millions of shorter stories, like the guys who we had crushes on, the crazy girls who fell for them, the friends we made, the people we hated with a passion (okay, that we didn't fancy much with a passing wind), the professors who were cool, the professors who scared the crap out of us, and so on.

This was before we found out who was married, who was gay, who sadly passed away, who became drug addicts, who got pregnant before their time... Well, those I don't know.

I was very happy to have been able to recall so much, especially with someone who could remember more than I could. I was especially happy to be with Sarah, and hang out like a long time ago (woo, I feel old). All we need now is a barbeque and a lot of mousseux, with a set of badly edited yearbooks...

Whatever Happened to Haggling???

I went to the mall today. *Note to self: "I went to the mall today" not a good impression as a first sentence if you're not a teenager.* My mother works at "Les Delices de Bankok" in the food court at the Galeries. She had called me to come by and shop for Clarks sandals, which she apparently spotted at one trendy franchise shoe store.

So I head inside and I can't find them, then I roam around for another half hour until I go back to where my mother was working. (Indeed, she's working hard at the time. Peeling apart spring roll skins. Very exciting.) She then decides to take her lunch break (at 6 pm). Funny thing about her, in that she likes to argue with her boss about all sorts of things, but he's cool about it. That's the way my mum is.

Anyway, she and I walked back into the store and then points them out to me. They fit wonderfully and they're very comfy. *Drool*

They're also a hundred bucks, minus 25%. "That's sale price for you, with Clarks," my mum says.

"But isn't there like a discount for you because you work at the mall? Or a student discount?"

"Well, we'll have to ask now."

The guy was so unhelpful in that sense. He couldn't give us a discount because he says that the pair he was giving me was the last pair, and that makes it more in demand. Yeah right. My mum started yelling at him, "Give me 35% discount!" The guy says no. "35!" No. "35!" No. "Yes!" No. "Yes!" ... anyway...

So I got the sandals for the advertised 25%.

Then I wandered by myself to Simons, where they had absolutely no more summer clothes on sale, except in dark corners and scary alleys where they also sell the skanky stuff. I finally picked out a pair of shorts (not as short as my short shorts but still pretty short), a shell top, and a pair of pants where you can roll up the cuffs and tie them with a cord at the hem. As I was trying the pants, I found a disgusting wad of gum spread out all over the cord. I tried pulling off as much as I could, but in the end, it was stuck like ... gum.

I told the salesperson what was wrong. I wanted those pants, as it is very hard for me to make a pair last longer than a change of clothes. But there was only that pair in that size in that colour (I'm tired of beige! I have 4 pairs of beige! Dammit!) with the big gummy cord. The cord is essential! (Not. I could have just brought it home and cleaned it myself, but why eat a bagel outside St-Viateur when you can get it served inside by a waiter/waitress?)

The salesperson seemed really new at this store. She called the service desk to send someone to help her deal with it. Another woman came by and said she'd find out what could be done. So after a while, I was told I could get the cord exchanged with another pair of pants of the same style, and it would only take half an hour. Since I was waiting for my mum, I figured why not.

"Est-ce que je peux avoir un rabais?" (Ah, mother's genes working on me.)

Unfortunately, no because it was already at final sale price, ten bucks (I'm supposed to be a cheapskate, remember) so no rebate.

Anyway, the salesperson rang up the three items, and I paid, expecting two dollars in change. For some reason, she forgot to give me the change, and closed the cash. I then kindly reminded her, to which she then called the service desk again. (Must be her first day or something.) The same woman came back and kindly opened the cash, giving me my change. Ah, the value of a toonie.

---

So whatever did happen to the fine art of haggling? My mother must be one of the last generations of people who had to haggle for a living back when she was younger, at least. She still does it, but with much less success. My sister tries as much as possible to do such haggling, but it's hard.

I blame the multinationals and the big chains of boutiques. The policies may be different at each store, but overall it's been "Here's what we're selling, you pay what we say." It's advertising and accepting these ads that make people brain-dead when it comes to being a consumer. Sure, let's pay 200$ for a pair of torn, faded, acid-washed-in-HCl, short shorts. Oh wait, that's a label? Then make it 500$.

When I was younger I used to be embarrassed when my mother would go arguing each price mentioned, but then I realized how much it makes sense. Of course some kids are embarrassed when they have to talk to older people when they buy things. I never went to the store and never bought anything because I was so damn scared of talking at all (this lasted until wa-a-ay into high school). But anyway, I found that even teens now have much more buying power, and much more inclined to spend on things. So stores set prices for their cute or sexy (*shiver*), trendy things, and the teens will buy it - no questions asked.

No more haggling ever again?

Sure, there's student discounts, and senior discounts, fidelity discounts, and other group-type discounts, but that doesn't really mean you're haggling. It's just letting the stores know what kinds of people are buying what kinds of things. I mean, the company doesn't know who Ms Chow is, but it knows that there are students in Quebec who will buy stupid looking hand-print-on-butt pants that have big holes in embarrassing places everywhere.

But of course, you can always go to independent and market-type places where employees gladly chat with you, discuss the weather, girls, boys, the state of the world, fractals (I'm serious), etc. and then offer you a discount if you keep yelling percentages at them.

Big news! From Jorgh! Future Shop has a national policy of haggling!!! Go there and talk their ears off with numbers until they give in!!!

Black-out in Not-Quebec

As if Toronto and New York needed another problem...

It’s amazing what’s happened in Toronto/Ottawa/New York today…! My Torontonian cousins are having a barbeque. That hottie Ian Hanamansig guy on CBC looks so haggard... ;p And Peter Mansbridge looks ... weird...! Like Patrick Stewart in Moby Dick, or Star Trek when he was tortured or something. Except not as hot. *double ;p*

Anyway, I spent the day vegging. That's about it. Oh, I finished Vito's site. If it would only send now...

A Title

Indeed, I have not done anything of note today other than untangle the melon plant from the vines, and cut the vines, and throw out the vines, and pull out stupid dandelion weeds, so I don't have much to say today. But I did make muffins. *mmm*

I told my graduation project plans to my brother, and he doesn't think I have enough courage to do it. I am very intent on doing this project, and I told him so. He said to discuss it with Simon. (Ah, yes. The crazy other little brother.)

You're asking yourselves, What's this graduation project plan? Well, I'll tell you in due time. When I graduate, that is.

My Lunch with D

He hasn't changed a bit. He's just as bubbly and loveable as always, since I last saw him four years ago. Perhaps the word is "sweet." But if I use it too much, Jorgh would probably start getting a bit jealous. ;)

I must have talked about an hour straight. It seemed that the time passed too quickly, because a brief lunch turned into an hour and a half, then he had to go back to the lab.

It's funny how people can get me to talk excessively when they ask the right questions. In fact, all D had to ask was how I got on with my in-laws (to be) and I shot off like an electron. (Stupid nerd joke.)

I even forgot to order for a good half hour. Well, not that there was too much to order anyway - it's all grease and deep-fried things. I was somewhat surprised at the greasy diner in that it seems like I've been somewhere similar in Quebec...

D was very happy to have a good long talk with me. I was very happy to have the opportunity to, since he works and I don't. In fact, everyone works, while I sit here getting flabbier. (Actually, I forgot to check on the garden today. I'll have to wake up early tomorrow to untangle the vines in the back.)

After lunch, he offered to give me a lift to Mount Hermon nearby, so I gladly accepted.

The Hour with my Dad

D declined going to the plot with me, not that there's much to see except a pile of rocks anyway. I agree. It's a very personal time and I had a lot of it, while he had to go back to work. D dropped me off at Maguire and Saint-Louis, and I bid him farewell for the time being.

As soon as I walked onto the cemetery grounds, I realized I had to go to the washroom. Really bad. But I wanted to see my father's grave first.

I walked down the hill to the "Q" plot and found the pile of coarse dirt. There is still no monument, as my sister just sent us sketches of ideas on what should be engraved on the granite.

I brought four sticks of incense, one for each family member, and a stupid matchbook that had matches that didn't light, until I set the paper side of two matches on fire. I think I tried at least six times before something would light up.

Not knowing the proper rituals, other than the bowing three times, I basically winged it, and then stayed until the sticks burnt out. It took about an hour. During the time I watched it burn, I talked to my dad.

It's much different when you're alone visiting a grave. It becomes a private conversation between the deceased and the living, with all the questions and comments you can't tell anyone else, spewing out like a broken sewer pipe. And it somehow resembles one as well.

I can't remember what I told my dad, but I did mention how I really had to go pee. And then muttering, "Why? Why is it so hard? And why did the waitress have to bring such a big glass of water?"

I cried a lot, more than I expected, but I tried to convince myself that I didn't have to cry anymore. I mean, tomorrow it will be two months since his death. People lose their loved ones all the time. So I shouldn't have to cry anymore. Right?

I tossed out the burnt sticks and proceeded back to civilisation. I couldn't figure out where I could go, as I had such a full bladder that I would have peed on the street if no one was watching.

Somehow, I made it to University Laval, which is quite a distance on foot with a crazy full bladder. The sun beating down on me wasn't really helping, but I'd rather it was really hot than really cold (thus contracting all my organs...) and I didn't really think about it at that point. What I was thinking about was more like, "WHERE'S THE CLOSEST FREAKING WASHROOM???"

I know what you're thinking. Maguire has all these restaurants. Why the heck didn't I go in one of those? Well, to give you the short explanation, I'm - as my dad would call it - "chicken shit." But I mean, if I could get to Laval campus without exploding, then I don't need to dirty the washrooms in a peaceful, charming, small bistro. Instead, I can void into a university campus washroom where they clean them every other hour anyway.

And it was a refreshing walk. No it wasn't. Man, it was so *not* a refreshing walk. It was refreshing afterwards. Oh, yes... ahhh...

Anyway, that was most of my day. Actually, sitting here and typing everything up consisted of the rest of my day. And finally getting those "Quebec allergies" that I keep experiencing every time I come to Quebec from Montreal.

***Disclaimer***
For those of you who found that the above bathroom mentions, shall I say, gross, please don't hesitate to tell me all about your discomfort.

And as Another Solicitation...

I hadn't gone through the details of the actual funeral because, simply put, it wasn't that great. Let me take the time to explain it today...

First of all, there's this big chain of funeral homes called "Lepine Cloutier" in Quebec. My family is not very well informed about funeral arrangements, but fortunately we had friends around who would be able to help us. The chinese families in Quebec City used LC's services due to their respect for our traditions and such, and as my father was not Christian (rather, he wasn't anything I can think of), it seemed a good idea.

Well, it seems that once we choose the funeral home, the hospital then sends the body to their care. And then the home needs the family to choose the services and stuff. Usually, at these sad moments, the family is too grieved to think like an actual consumer. So the funeral homes tend to offer the most expensive, useless things to them, and they usually accept paying more than they should. So they make a ton of money.

But they haven't met the likes of my mum and sister. Together. Heh.

They went to pick the coffin and services. Knowing my dad, there would be no religious services, except for a relatively short thing with Mia for the burial. That was for my mum. My sister would make sure there wouldn't be too many religious things at the funeral.

When it comes to coffins, they show you the most expensive thing first. Sure it's pretty and all, but it's just a box really. My sister immediately said no to the first half dozen or so, until it came down to a very attractive bronze one. (For probably less than three quarters of the price of the first ones.) She told my dad it was the colour of money, so it was very nice, indeed.

Then it came to the flowers. (Hoo boy.) My mother was rather discouraged that the funeral would cost so much, but this was definitely a put-down. 300$ for a freaking bouquet to put on the coffin, and it would be completely white.

I think she snapped.

She wanted to have a dozen yellow roses. Apparently, the director didn't think there would be such opposition. They told her for a funeral at such "short" notice, it'd be hard to get that many yellow roses. How about champagne yellow?

"NO! I WANT YELLOW YELLOW!" In my mother's very familiar bartering/yelling voice.

Come the wake, there were seven dying "yellow yellow" roses in the giant bouquet of white flowers. We were all seething.

My sister and mother chose the plot on Mount Hermon. It is very peaceful, as cemeteries should be, but the view is, in fact, spectacular. It seems like a bargain to buy such plots in pairs and have "perpetual care" for 99 years. But then we have to contend with a monument, or a tombstone.

Either as a tie-in with their partners, the funeral homes, tombstone companies send their pamphlets like flies to our house. Some are really godawfully ugly. Nevertheless, it is necessary to get their help to engrave things on the stone, even though we have a stone from my brother's friend's father. I figure that we should get that tombstone done before fall.

And those things don't come cheap either.

The costs of all these things together, I figure... 12000 (services) + 2000 (plot) + 2000 (stone) = 16000$

Now, that's a good reason not to die. /morbid humour

The Wake

There's this really eerie feeling when you go to a funeral. Like it should be a whopping party or something, with so many people, but the guest of honour is lying there...

Anyway, what I meant to say is that the funeral was something I haven't ever experienced before. If I think about it too much, I start going numb. But I recall feeling something in between dread and loneliness, and half the time keeping tears to myself and half the time with Jorgh telling him not to freak out with my cousins and relatives. And all the other chinese people.

I mean, the entire chinese community in Quebec City came to this funeral. I have seriously seen few chinese congregations in Quebec with so many in attendance. The place was packed with so many asians that at the peak, they were spilling outside. And in chinese customs, those who are older than the deceased usually can't go to the funeral (I think) so there were many more who would have attended. Then again, we don't know how many people could have attended if we had let the funeral happen in the Quebecois traditional week's time.

A man perhaps less fortunate in life enriched so many even at death.

The body is prepared by the funeral home and placed in the coffin, and displayed during the wake. I have never seen someone dead before in person, and it is definitely much different than a televised thing. It's very cold and somewhat stiff. There's so much makeup on the body that you think they're on a Broadway show. And...

"Hey, he looks sorta weird."
"What?"
"Yeah, he's got this weird little smirk or something on his face. Daddy never smiled like that."
"Well, he's also not that colour either."
"It doesn't even look like him."
"I think it's because they trimmed all his nose hairs and ear hairs."

Okay, I heard that when they prepare the body, they block all the orifices in the face (at least). They somehow seal up the mouth and eyes so they don't open and... ugh...

Then later in the wake, my sister spotted something next to the bouquet on the coffin. My cousin looked and said, "It's probably something they're used to doing." My sister didn't like it at all. I mean, we were paying the home to *not* put religious icons, and this was their thanks?

"I don't think daddy wants to be stuck in the coffin with this thing."

She picked up the crucifix with Jesus on it and tried to hide it somewhere else, but we couldn't do it without people seeing. My mother told us to just leave it be. (?)

Just before they were about to close up the casket, my sister removed it and tried to stash it behind a drawer. It was too noticeable so my cousin picked it up and hid it in the next salon. Heh heh.

It's a big deal to be buried, isn't it?

We realized that we wanted to bury my father with a few items of his that he was hardly ever seen without in life, so we put in:

• a pair of reading glasses


• his Cross pen


• a copy of a 6/49 lotto ticket.

Not that the ticket won anything. I think there was only one number on it. But after the funeral, I realized I forgot his comb. I went down to his room and found five. Sheesh.

Yes, I know the afterlife isn't like taking a plane trip to Las Vegas, but I thought he wouldn't mind having a nice 'do.

The Service

We were all very emotional at the service. Especially when my brother played a violin solo for a good fifteen minutes. Very emotional.

And then my cousin gave a bilingual eulogy. English-chinese bilingual, that is. It was very concise and touching. Extremely emotional.

The Procession...

... Then Jorghnassen found out his bowels couldn't take it anymore, nor could it take an hour for a really slow car ride, and with our permission walked to the bus stop in the proximity. (He went back to Montreal.)

So this is the first time I had a limo ride. I think. And it was very hot. The limo driver definitely was not very accomodating to our "Help we're burning up back here turn on the A/C or help us open the windows dammit" screaming.

We (my siblings and I) learned a lot about chinese funeral traditions. I found them quite interesting:

1. Red is the colour of life, and white is the colour of death. So red is a big no-no during funerals and mourning. No red clothing for at least a month, although my mother said for some places it lasts a year or three.


2. As white is the colour of death, we give out white envelopes ("white gold") with money inside to anyone who comes by to visit the family. There's also a piece of candy that is included in the envelope, but we couldn't find envelopes big enough to fit both the dollar coin and the candy so we made a bunch of envelopes with white paper and a bit of origami.


3. The mourning period is a lot like other cultures - we're supposed to wear something symbolising our grief for a long period of time. My mother said that the children are supposed to wear some coloured flower in our hair. If it's a parent, the flower is white. The other colours I can't remember for whom.


4. For the procession, the body has to pass by home first (in this case, in front of the school), and then go to the final resting place.

For that last point, we had to lead the procession from Ste-Foy back to our home in Les Saules/Duberger, and then finally to Sillery. This meant that we have to travel by highway both ways, on the Henri IV first, and then through the Capitale, onto du Vallon.

There are a lot of irate and stupid drivers in Quebec City around 4 pm on Monday. Most of them SUV drivers. During the procession, one stupid motherf^#@er of a SUV tried to cut in between the limo and the *hearse*, driving on the shoulder of the highway and then speeding up to pass the directional car. And my cousins told us later that another car cut in front of them in the procession and pretty much f@$!ed over the line of 20 cars behind them because then they got lost along the way.

Anyway, we all know that average Quebec drivers are stupid.

---

I have a very special message for you, anonymous SUV driver from f#@$ing hell: next funeral procession you cut in, I hope you roll over on that shoulder and get crushed under your own truck's weight in a ditch, leaving you paralyzed on half of your body. And then live like that for the rest of your wretched puny life.

---

The Burial

It seems that LC hires the oldest, frailest men to work or something. We were imagining six well-built (or at least younger, fitter) men to be pallbearers, but we got these guys who almost seemed to keel over while they were lifting the coffin. Well, at least it's done.

LC also hired this old man to take care of the building during the wake, and all he does is stand around and smoke in a little room waiting for us to come and go. Apparently, he's also responsible for the cleaning of the washroom. My sister suggested we make it worth our while to hire this guy by messing up the washroom, like picking our noses or something (worse). I think that's how we got into a discussion about what happened one time while she was working at Second Cup, but I'm not sure.

But anyway, the thing about burials is that it doesn't hit until you see the box going down the hole. And as it slowly heads into its final resting place, it punches you like a boxer delivering vengeance. It's the feeling that the person who you've known for your entire life is gone forever, and the inevitability of your own fate (but not as much). As much as we kept our composure for so long, it really hurts to lose your father. And it still hurts.

So at the burial, Mia was delivering her last... uh, I would say "line" but it doesn't seem polite... prayer, she asked that we all throw in some dirt. The groundskeeper was standing by, having just dug the hole earlier that afternoon, and seemed at a loss for dirt. In fact, the pile next to the grave was all *rocks* so he had to get some dirt from the next grave over (from the Wong plot) to give to Mia to throw. So in the end, the only other person who threw in dirt was my brother, and he got the dirt from the same place. Sheesh.

Then after the service was over, the chinese congregation started staring at the Wong plot and commenting on the monument and plants. Helen Wong had lost her husband a year ago and had him buried at this spot, which is why my mother chose the spot next to his to bury my father. (It seems that they're the only two chinese people buried at this cemetery. Maybe I should check.) There were four plastic bunches of roses nestled in the ground in front of the monument, while there was no actual greenery in front of it. If you ever see television graves supposedly made within a year, they always appear green and lush with grass. So don't believe anything you see on television.

The Reception

We had a buffet reception at Thomas Tam, on Hamel. This was when I felt most awkward and lonely after my father passed away. Jorgh was gone to Montreal, my friends hardly knew what was happening, although Julie and Guillaume came to visit me at the funeral, and my siblings' friends came to visit them. His friends were all people I've hardly ever heard of, while my sister's friends were more spoken of. (Well, in particular, Anne-Marie Withenshaw is one of my sister's old friends from cegep.)

In the meantime, I spoke to my brother's friends, while he seemed particularly annoyed that I was taking room at his table. Then I moved to let his friends sit together, and sat with my sister's friends, who were busy eating as much as possible. Especially Galit, or "Gidgit" (Rebecca was convinced that was her name up to this point). Simon K. was also there, and somehow let out that he was up to his eyeballs in debt... but it's not supposed to get out, so it'll be between you and me, ok reader? :p

But I still felt left out, despite everyone's good intentions. I did receive a bouquet from my friends in Montreal a few days later, which was quite thoughtful and kind of them, but I still had feelings of resentment because of this day. It was mightily hard to tell people what happened, two months ago, but it's even harder to tell them how I'm really feeling. Maybe because I have no idea what I'm feeling.

Stop Whining Already and Get to the Point!

Well, today I am in Quebec again, and we just got a piece of mail from LC. I think I'll just let the scan of their letter tell the story.

EDIT: The link doesn't work yet.

Now I am back in Quebec, and I have been gardening for about an hour and a half. It's frigging hot! I can't believe how much crap there is everywhere when you leave it for a month. I mean, I *really* hate those vines. Sometimes I wish that a plant disease similar to dutch elm will come by and infect all these stupid gfs vines and then the landlord would *have* to come and finally do something about all this stupid overgrown vegetation. GDI!!!

Anyway, I wrote to D and he's very happy to meet with me this week. :) I haven't seen this guy in four years! I'll point you to a really old sketches page. Mind you, I don't have a clue as to if the link actually works. Just poke around or something.

I forgot my drawing somewhere so I'll redo it later. Anyway, let's talk about...

Wedding Fever!!!

So last weekend I found out that an acquaintance of mine from cegep (and a bad memory for Lil V) got engaged with her boyfriend of about three years. She's 21. Hee...

And now tonight, at Derrick's birthday supper at restaurant Beijing, Jorgh and I found out that Ben and Krisztina are getting married as well. They're about 23 at least...

Well, at least I can say that I was at Celeste's wedding, and she was 19 at the time. Heck, she's my age.

So where's my wedding ring? :p

I don't know. I have no point.

Happy Birthday Billy!

As usual, now that I look over my older entry, I regret those thoughts that I had before. I had a very good time on Friday, surprising Billy with the gang. It was lovely to be included in something once again, as it pains me to be alone and it made me felt left out every time there was an outing that I could not attend. It sucks being broke.

Sarah came to town :) and stayed at Rachel's place on the south shore. She discovered dim sum on Saturday, and had such a great time there that they went back on Sunday. Fantastic!

For some reason, Jesse either decided not to abduct Jordi on Saturday, or he did and didn't tell me, so I didn't have plans on Saturday with them. Instead, Jorgh and I went to the dim sum. Then I felt immensely tired from insomnia so Jorgh and I went home.

I guess the highlight of my weekend was on Sunday when I attended the Gay Pride Parade with Felix, and got a terrific sunburn. I expected nothing less after standing out in the sun for three hours without sunblock. Now I'm afraid of going outside. *shiver* #@$! it hurts like %#@$!!!

Insomnia

Since I came back from Quebec City early July, I couldn't bring myself to sleep at a relatively decent time. Say, 1 am. I have been unable to sleep properly, due to all sorts of thoughts floating around my head like a swarm of little black flies that seem to like floating around my head. I like sleeping. Hey, if I had a choice, I'd probaby sleep all day. That way I wouldn't be wasting resources like this.

What to do with insomnia? Read a book. Problem is, I don't have any. Or at least ones that aren't ten kilo textbooks about calculus or physics. The books I recently read were digital, meaning I stayed up until 5 am reading them on this monitor and basking in screen radiation with giant glowy eyes.

What else could I do? Actually, rollerblading every day. I would, but after three days in a row, I got these really small but annoying blisters next to my ankles, all in a row, and then a bruise under one set of them, and then the thing got itchy. So I said screw this and resorted to sitting here drawing webcomics.

Oops. Now I'm stuck. (Writer's block.)

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Sunburn

I'll put up a drawing in a moment of how bad it actually is.
EDIT: Go look at my webcomic. (August 4, 2003).