Well, here's the update so far.
Right around Christmas, I got the news (as most of you know) that the baby had dropped and melissa was dilated to about 3 centimeters. I figured it was time to get moving up to Montreal. My mother was pretty vehement (that is, she wouldn't stop nagging) about this, and since we all figured it would be a real downer to miss the birth of my kid, I got on the train on Monday morning, December 29.
Well, yesterday marked a week and the kid is nowhere in sight. Melissa thought she was having contractions Saturday night, but they turned out to be false labor or something: whatever the contractions indicated, they didn't continue through the night and she hasn't had any of consequence since.
Montreal is a beautiful city. It reminds me a lot of Philadelphia, or even New Orleans: there's antique ironwork everywhere, the majority of the buildings are old and ornate, and like Philadelphia, there are oodles of three-story semi-detache gabled Victorians. The cold is actually fairly tolerable, and when it's not, you can always go underground: beneath the streets is a subterranean city that puts Penn Station to shame. There's no point in comparing it to the wasted space below Philadelphia's streets.. oh wait, sure there is. What's not happening under Broad Street (and below City Hall) on the Concourse is stupid compared to the variety of shops and things to do under Montreal. And no one can tell me that it's because Montreal is a thriving city: remember, this is a place that lost something like 40% of its citizenry when Quebec passed the language laws requiring everything to be in French.
Even as I write these words, I am missing Philadelphia terribly. It's not that I don't get along with Melissa's folks: they're wonderful people, and so nice to tolerate yet another person under their roof and into their previously empty nest (Melissa hasn't lived at home since she was 18, and her brother's been out even longer). the food is great here, and cheap. The beer is strong, and cheap. The marijuana is super high-quality, and sells for about half the price of the same grade pot at home.
But I miss my house.
I miss wandering around in my underwear, smoking pot
OPENLY IN THE HOUSE and watching the Simpsons.
I miss playing country music at Fiume (after a lot of research, I found a couple of places that host jams in town, but you know it's not going to be the same).
I miss having my own space, and time to myself.
I miss being able to have sex whenever I want, and as loud as I please. As much as I hate having to look for work, I miss being able to look for work.
So everyone, tonight I want you to all get together, join hands, and chant really loud, "SHOW UP, BRENDAN'S BABY. SHOW UP RIGHT NOW. STOP FUCKING DAWDLING."
Addition: This paragraph was originally sent out as an email to several friends, and so had to be tinkered with. Did those chants work? I don't know, but ten minutes ago, Melissa told me she just had a bit of bloody show. KEEP CHANTING! KEEP CHANTING!
Right around Christmas, I got the news (as most of you know) that the baby had dropped and melissa was dilated to about 3 centimeters. I figured it was time to get moving up to Montreal. My mother was pretty vehement (that is, she wouldn't stop nagging) about this, and since we all figured it would be a real downer to miss the birth of my kid, I got on the train on Monday morning, December 29.
Well, yesterday marked a week and the kid is nowhere in sight. Melissa thought she was having contractions Saturday night, but they turned out to be false labor or something: whatever the contractions indicated, they didn't continue through the night and she hasn't had any of consequence since.
Montreal is a beautiful city. It reminds me a lot of Philadelphia, or even New Orleans: there's antique ironwork everywhere, the majority of the buildings are old and ornate, and like Philadelphia, there are oodles of three-story semi-detache gabled Victorians. The cold is actually fairly tolerable, and when it's not, you can always go underground: beneath the streets is a subterranean city that puts Penn Station to shame. There's no point in comparing it to the wasted space below Philadelphia's streets.. oh wait, sure there is. What's not happening under Broad Street (and below City Hall) on the Concourse is stupid compared to the variety of shops and things to do under Montreal. And no one can tell me that it's because Montreal is a thriving city: remember, this is a place that lost something like 40% of its citizenry when Quebec passed the language laws requiring everything to be in French.
Even as I write these words, I am missing Philadelphia terribly. It's not that I don't get along with Melissa's folks: they're wonderful people, and so nice to tolerate yet another person under their roof and into their previously empty nest (Melissa hasn't lived at home since she was 18, and her brother's been out even longer). the food is great here, and cheap. The beer is strong, and cheap. The marijuana is super high-quality, and sells for about half the price of the same grade pot at home.
But I miss my house.
I miss wandering around in my underwear, smoking pot
OPENLY IN THE HOUSE and watching the Simpsons.
I miss playing country music at Fiume (after a lot of research, I found a couple of places that host jams in town, but you know it's not going to be the same).
I miss having my own space, and time to myself.
I miss being able to have sex whenever I want, and as loud as I please. As much as I hate having to look for work, I miss being able to look for work.
So everyone, tonight I want you to all get together, join hands, and chant really loud, "SHOW UP, BRENDAN'S BABY. SHOW UP RIGHT NOW. STOP FUCKING DAWDLING."
Addition: This paragraph was originally sent out as an email to several friends, and so had to be tinkered with. Did those chants work? I don't know, but ten minutes ago, Melissa told me she just had a bit of bloody show. KEEP CHANTING! KEEP CHANTING!
<< Home