Look what some beautiful soul gave us for Valentine’s day…
But enough of the mushy stuff already.Nomeansno. The sweet sound of my youth. Okay and my adulthood. Nothing makes me happier than listening to these two sounds. Except for maybe listening to the whole album. And God knows I need happy these days. I don’t know. Call it February Funk. Pre-middle age restlessness. Plain sadness. Or even just pedestrian fatigue (although that might not account for a burning desire to run away). But one thing is for sure, my head has become officially unscrewed from its usual common sense and practical matter of factedness.
I usually love my job, but I am letting the fascists in the Revision department steal all my self esteem away. For those of you who might not be aware of this charming quirk in the Quebecois, they take their language very seriously. They even have an Official Government Department to deal with aberrant language behaviour. Yes, Mr. Orwell, you can start rolling around in your grave-we have a language police!
Apparently, I am not as fluent as I would like myself to think. And this causes said revision department to send me back my texts not even deigning to correct them as they are too bad, too laden with mistakes. One wonders-why have a revision department at all if they don’t revise?
The thing is, I don’t really care. Not really. But the way I hyperventilate when I get an email from them has given me pause. What the hell is up with me? When did I become this snivelling fool buffeted by any minutely bullying wind? Because it is not just at work- it is at my kid’s school. The other parents there make me feel as if I am constantly being condescended to, as if I was a child sitting at a table with the grown-ups and woefully too inadequate to participate in any conversation. And it happens with the people I know. My husband is a lot cooler than I- he seems to navigate the shoals of the Montreal artist community with a nary a scrape. I, however, am at all times aware of my lumpy frame stuffed like a badly made sausage into clothes that will never ever fit me properly. This also makes me hyperventilate, which might be attractive if you were sixteen, lithe and shy and not a middle age crazy person who swings between hiding herself in a fridge box and yelling obscenities at anyone who pisses her off (and trust me- a lot of people piss me off.)
Whoah. I make being me sound like so much fun. Maybe I need a vacation. You know. Of the Being John Malkovich kind. Anyway. Thank the absurd and tragic randomness of the universe for Nomeansno…
Lina Branter 
This is why I fear writing anything in French. I’ve explained to French Panic that french is to be learnt through humiliating lessons. Still, when I promised a television producer that I could speak french on camera, it came out all wrong… not because I didn’t know the words, but because I don’t like being in front of the camera while 6 people wait behind the camera. Sadly, it looked more like I had no idea what to say. I hope my stuff hits the cutting room floor.And… you are a yummy mommy. That’s the word on the street.
Do you want to come to the Dominican Republic with Kailey and me? We could have a blast.