Spinster

Check it out

2006-10-30T23:45:00.000-05:00

Best way to reduce your stash

2006-10-29T09:18:00.000-05:00

Be a ball of yarn for Halloween.

Things likely to be said at my funeral

2006-10-27T17:23:00.000-04:00

--"We still haven't figured out how such a small girl got such a big ass."

--"I didn't really know it was possible to check your email 8 times in one minute, but I guess it is. Tasha did it all the time."

--"How can someone spend five hours reading one blog?"

--"Tasha never did know how to work hard. Or smart, for that matter."

The blind leading the blind

2006-10-27T12:04:00.000-04:00

The full-time staff at my workplace (and by full-time I mean responsible enough to not go out drinking/hooking up last night) are away on a retreat all day. I'm manning the desk until 1, at which point M___* shows up to relieve me. Having just seen M___, who looks like something the cat that swallowed the canary just dragged in, and being me, who, while I might look a little less rough around the edges, still feels the way he looks, I can safely say two things:
1. No work will be done around here today, and
2. If anything goes wrong--anything, even if a computer so much as freezes--this entire place is fucked.

*For anyone who even remotely knows who I work with, it is not the least bit difficult to determine who this is.

Why not smoke pot at 8 a.m.?

2006-10-27T09:26:00.000-04:00

I was walking to work yesterday at around 8, and I passed this guy who was smoking a joint. He wasn't a teenager and it wasn't 11 on a Sunday morning. He was in his forties and it was 8 on a Thursday. That is some commitment to wake and bake.

Coffee presents a morning challenge

2006-10-27T09:12:00.000-04:00

In my humbug world, there is a time and a place for choice. When I go yarn shopping, I want choice and lots of it. When I go boyfriend shopping, again, choice is good. When it’s an ungodly hour in the morning and I need to buy coffee cause one of my coworkers broke the coffee pot at work--and, let’s be honest, I don’t make my own coffee* and it’s just me today, so I’d have had to buy it even if the coffee pot was still intact--I do not want to have to choose between six different blends. I just want coffee. Regular, plain old boring coffee.

I tried to order a regular coffee this morning at a coffee shop and the guy behind the counter looked at me like I was nuts. “We have six different kinds,” he said, in that tone that implied his incredulousness at having to deal with someone who didn’t know and doesn’t care about the difference between the full-bodied Amazonia blend harvested by pygmies in the rainforest and the milder Verona grown in organic rooftop gardens in Italy.

It’s a Starbucks** world and we just live in it; I know that it’s impossible to just get regular coffee at one of these places. The struggle has been documented plenty of times, so clearly I’m not breaking any new ground. I mean, I should have known better. But seriously, I’m not a coffee connoisseur (I love that when I typed the misspelled “conoisseur” into Google [a.k.a. "The poor man's dictionary"] it gently suggested, “Did you mean connoisseur?”), and all I wanted was the basic brew.

After the barista chose one of the blends because I am incapable of making decisions at indecent hours, I produced my Starbucks cup for him to fill. I wasn’t actually at a Starbucks and he didn’t know what cup size of theirs would correspond with what I presented. I am not going to quibble with someone over 15 cents at 8 a.m., so I usually just tell them to charge me for a large, even if it actually takes a medium. Even so, he started dispensing the coffee into one of their disposable cups to figure out which size my cup would take.

That drives me nuts. What is the point of having a reusable cup if you have to use a disposable cup in order to fill it?

I tried to say something, and at this point, not only am I the psycho who doesn’t care what kind of coffee she drinks, but she also wants to use a hard plastic cup that doesn’t even fit under the dispenser. I’m pretty sure I was the crazy bitch at 8 a.m. who was a bad omen for the rest of his day. Tough shit, as I say, having worked at plenty of customer service jobs.

Anyway, he filled up his large disposable cup and poured it into mine. Of course, he filled it to the brim with steaming hot coffee. And, of course, as soon as he started to screw on the lid, it overflowed and burned his hand. I could have told him that that was going to happen (guess how I know?). At that point, I could feel his hatred; it was palpable and strong and scary. Did that stop me from giving him $20.06 for a $1.86 coffee? Nope!

*-It's not entirely that making my own coffee is, as an internet friend put it, "For the poors," it's also that I'm not that good at it. My coffee is always too weak or too strong or something. Plus, it's for the poors. I try to distance myself from them whenever possible.

**-I wasn't at a Starbucks but I still consider it to be a Starbucks world.

Treasures

2006-10-24T20:21:00.000-04:00

I spent a ridiculous amount of money at Rhinebeck. Maybe not a ridiculous amount of money for people who have full-time jobs and who aren't students, but for part-time student me, it was a ridiculous amount. However, I *sort of* budgeted the money in. And by "sort of," I mean, "didn't really at all but also didn't care when I got there and saw all of the pretty things."

This is my loot:

Socks That Rock in Laguna (or is it Lagoona?) and Something That Makes Reference To The Colors "Reddish" and "Purplish"

A close-up of Something That Makes Reference To The Colors "Reddish" and "Purplish"

A blurry close-up of the gorgeous silk roving that I got. Colorway: No Fucking Clue, But Isn't It Pretty?

A to-die-for batt from Grafton Fibers

Four Play from Brooks Farm in yet another unremembered colorway

Those are my good pictures. I also bought a skein of Brooks Farm's Harmony in a kaleidoscope of reds and pinks, but I couldn't get a good picture of it. I also bought a beautiful nostepinde that I forgot to photograph that is currently being used to wind some "laceweight" (my "professional" term for "really skinny") Corriedale. Even though I have a swift and ball winder, I really like the nostepinde. Pictures forthcoming!

Rhinebeck

2006-10-23T08:25:00.000-04:00

This is me and my friend Stephanie (sorry, grammar police, my friend Stephanie and I) as we are about to enter the New York Sheep and Wool Festival, commonly known as Rhinebeck. We left on Friday at noon to drive down to Saugerties, NY, which is where we were staying. The scenery

is gorgeous.

The only fiber festival I had ever been to previously was some rinky-dink thing in Canby, Oregon (not Black Sheep, duh), and though I knew that Rhinebeck was going to be a HUGE event, I wasn't really prepared for the insanity. We got there at 10 on Saturday, the time it was scheduled to open. We headed straight for The Fold, proud purveyor of Socks That Rock, and it was there that I glimpsed true fiber fever. Unfortunately, I don't have pictures, but I can tell you that by the time we got there, at 10:15 on Saturday morning, that booth was already becoming picked over, and the line to pay was crazy. We waited in line for 20 minutes (during which time I purchased a gorgeous Corriedale batt from Grafton fibers, pictures coming soon), and I have heard accounts of people waiting in line for upwards of an hour to pay. Fiber-induced insanity, I tell ya!

Rhinebeck isn't only an opportunity to empty the contents of your wallet/checking account/children's college fund, it's also a veritable field day of livestock. Check these guys out:

And this is one of my favorite pictures--a close-up of a Lincoln fleece, still on the owner's back:

Pet peeve of the day

2006-10-19T10:17:00.000-04:00

People who take the elevator up or down one storey. Um, hello? Are you that lazy that you won't take the stairs? It takes less time to just walk that flight than it does to wait for elevator, especially in this building. Plus, climbing stairs is good for your ass. Do you think I got this ass by taking the elevator? HELL no. And I bet that you're all, "Oooh, we should go to the gym later and work out on the Stairmaster. [Gigglegiggle]" News flash, princess--if you took the stairs you wouldn't NEED to go to the sweaty dirty gym, AND you wouldn't piss off people like me! Sounds like reason enough to me.

Paperback Writer

2006-10-19T10:03:00.000-04:00

I went on date #3 with the Paperback Writer last night. We went to a lecture on Churchill, which was surprisingly: a) interesting, b) short, and c) well-attended. There was free wine and like six different kinds of cheese, which made the event even better. We were sitting there, waiting for the lecture to begin, and I asked him if he thought it was weird that we haven't exchanged phone numbers. He said no, as we both hate talking on the phone (hey Dad, I bet you never thought your daughter would cop to that) and wouldn't answer it anyway. I told him about Alli's suggestion that we try to conduct our entire relationship without ever talking on the phone. He said that sounded great! So we decided that we would exchange phone numbers in case of emergencies or the destruction of the internet (please, God, even though I don't believe in you I ask you to not let that happen)--but I would only accept his number if it was written on a cocktail napkin. Do you see why I click with this guy?

After the lecture we went for sushi, which was mmmmm good. He let me pick up the check, which was cool. I've been out with guys who never let me pick up the check, and I hate that. I don't make tons of money, but I'm not in the poorhouse or anything, and sometimes it's nice to treat people. I'm not an overly generous person in many ways, and I can be downright territorial about food and stingy with my time, so paying for meals, or cooking meals for people, is something that I can do for someone else. When you deprive me of that, I get a little pissy. It's a red flag, that's for sure.

Anyway, during dinner he mentioned that he wasn't feeling well (he's been courting some kind of bug for a few days) and then asked if I wanted to go out for a drink. I suggested that, since he wasn't feeling well, he could invite me back to his place. He jumped at the idea, and so I got to meet his roommate (who was watching America's Next Top Model which pretty much means that I love him) and the cats (who I automatically love cause they're, well, fuzzy and purry [it doesn't take much]). We watched tv (and by watched tv I mean made out on the couch while the tv was on in the background) and then actually watched tv (The Daily Show was on). It was an EXCELLENT evening.

I don't want to say anything too enthusiastically (ha! As if my pessimism would actually allow THAT to happen), but I definitely get a good feel from this thing, this burgeoning relationship or whatever you want to call it.

The Simpsons 101: What should we be learning in college?

2006-10-16T14:40:00.000-04:00

I was talking with my friend Heather today, who attended the University of California at Santa Cruz. I've never visited the UCSC campus but I know that the school has a reputation for being a hippie school. Nothing wrong with that; my own alma mater has that reputation, too. Anyway, we got to talking about courses we took in college. I was talking about how I'm writing one of those lame touchy-feely papers for my reference course, and she mentioned that she had to write tons of those as an undergrad: UCSC offered courses like the Sociology of Love, Women in Popular Culture, a course on the Simpsons, one on the Grateful Dead, and one on the Muppets.

As an undergraduate English major, most of the papers I wrote were decidedly NOT touchy-feely. I wasn't cracking the genetic code, but I wasn't writing about how television makes me feel, either. I remember taking a gender studies course (that was my first mistake) and having to sit through a presentation that consisted of a mix tape of Ani DiFranco's music. Worst. Class. Ever. Still, though, that was probably the flakiest course I took in college. There were probably other, much flakier classes being offered, probably in the Comm or SoAn departments, but I wasn't on either of those tracks.

It's always seemed foreign to me that people could watch TV or read magazines for college credit and/or a degree. The article that I have linked in the title of this post mentions that the study of popular culture can be made a rigorous academic experience, with connections made between hip hop and history, the Simpsons and satire. I've never taken a course on hip hop or the Simpsons, so I can't say how rigorous or how easy such a class would be. I can't help but think that these courses do not in any way indicate a real education.

And yeah, I know that, with my English degree and requisite courses in Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Virginia Woolf, my peers who have studied the exploitation of women in Cosmopolitan or the politics of the East Coast-West Coast rap wars or whatever will be making exponentially more money than I. Good thing I don't care!

Dating

2006-10-13T12:04:00.000-04:00

So, I had a second date last night. The first date was a lunch date and it went very well, so we decided to go out again. We went to a neighborhood cafe, where I proceeded to eat way more than he did (again). Over a few pints of beer, we talked about date-type stuff--movies, books, past dating experiences. I explained to him how I don't like girls named Crystal/Chrystal/Cristal/Krystal/Kristal (sorry if I'm offending anyone) or excessive displays of other people's emotions. Or sentimentality. And? Ya know what? He didn't have a problem with it! How awesome is that? He doesn't consider being "nice" (synonym for "bland," remember?) to be an attractive trait! I'm so excited!

An ode to productivity

2006-10-13T11:58:00.000-04:00

Time spent at work: 1 hour, 52 minutes
Crappy coffees consumed: 1
Bags of delicious chips consumed: 1
Number of times checked email: 25
Number of celebrity gossip blogs read: 4
Different kinds of new birth control pills investigated online: 1
Number of times Googled self: 1
Number of times Googled date from last night: 1

FO! FO!

2006-10-09T09:44:00.000-04:00

I actually finished this a couple of days ago, but this is the first time I've felt like uploading the photos of it. It's the cotton raglan sweater from Rebecca 31. I didn't even like the sweater in the magazine, but then I saw this version of it and realized that the shape of the sweater is actually very pretty. I used Cascade Quattro, and I bought 7 skeins but only used 4. Having knitted with cotton yarn before and having hated it, I was kind of wary of embarking on another cotton project, but I actually liked this yarn a lot. It's 80% pima cotton and 20% wool, so it has a little bit of give. I wore this sweater to school the other day, and I was wearing a one-strap bag across my chest, and when I got home and took the sweater off, I noticed that the spot where the bag had been rubbing against it had gotten fuzzy. It didn't pill; it got fuzzy. Does that make sense? Anyway, this will probably be my Rhinebeck sweater since I don't see myself finishing the cabled one in the next two weeks. Two weeks! Two weeks! Can't f-in wait.

Picky-picky

2006-10-06T12:18:00.000-04:00

As Heather reminded me last week, I am 6.5 months away from getting my master's degree and having to get a "real job." I mean, the job I have now is fairly real but it's a student position, so once April hits, I'm on my own. Because I'll have a professional degree, I can start applying for jobs in January.

I've been thinking about where I want to live. So far, I've lived in Miami, Portland, Miami again, and Toronto, with a 3-month stay in Glasgow. Miami is the no-chance-in-hell option--I will never, ever live there again (I don't even like visiting). I like Toronto but my options for staying in Canada are pretty limited. It's not like I could get a stop-gap retail job here while waiting for something professional.

So, since I'm not going "home" and I'm not sure if I can stay here, I've been thinking about places I would live. Being me, I have a pretty inflexible list of things I look for in a city, and I'm not really looking to change any of them. They are, in no particular order:
1. Distinguishable seasons
2. Decent yarn store(s)
3. Liberal political climate (even if it means that the city is a blue oasis in a
sea of red)
4. Good public transportation
5. DIY attitude
I can't think of anything else right now, but I'm sure there are other requirements. My father thinks I'm insane. He is a firm believer, perhaps because he's a transplant from England living in Miami, that a person's environment is not important. He figures that you'll find the right people and the right places no matter where you are. I suppose that could be true. However, I never felt like I fit in in Miami and eventually I realized that it just wasn't the place for me. That experience, of feeling like a misfit in my hometown, has shaped my desire as an adult to find the "perfect" city, or at least the place in which I would feel comfortable and healthy.

So far, this is what I've got:

Kansas City, MO (I read an article in BUST about it and it sounds cool)
Portland, OR
Eugene, OR
Seattle, WA
Vancouver, BC
Toronto, ON
Maine
Vermont

And that's it so far. Out of the entire English-speaking North American world, I have 6 cities and 2 states to consider when it comes to living and working.

I never said I made life easy for myself.

PC Load Letter

2006-10-05T14:15:00.000-04:00

I'm just going to go out on a limb here and assume that everyone is familiar with Office Space. After all, it's only one of the greatest movies of our time. I guess if you've never worked in an office or in food service you wouldn't really get it, but for the rest of us who've had nothing but office and food service jobs, it's a goldmine of humor. I think one of the most memorable "characters" in that movie is the piece-of-shit fax machine that constantly gives the Initech employees hell. The fax relentlessly gives random error messages, pissing off Mike Bolton to no end ("PC load letter? What the fuck is PC load letter?"). Remember the scene in which Michael, Samir, and Peter steal the fax, take it to a field, a beat it senseless?

I would LOVE to do that to the photocopiers at work.

I seriously HATE those machines. We got new ones this summer, and they're supposed to be new and improved. They are faster, I'll give them that. But that's about all that I'll give them. They CONSTANTLY jam or misfeed paper or whatever, and the paper is always in a different location. We're using a new TCard system, and if you're trying to adjust the settings on the machine, or perhaps putting down one journal and picking up another one, the TCard reader times out and all of the settings are lost. It seriously gives you, like, 20 seconds. Add to that people not understanding how to duplex (how fucking hard can it be, really?) or feed the paper automatically, or how to reduce or enlarge, and it seems like the goddamn photocopiers take up 50% of my on-desk work time.

I can't really fault people for not wanting to open up the copiers and retrieve the jammed paper, but sometimes I wish they weren't afraid of breaking the stupid machines. I am SO sick of jumping up every two seconds to fix a paper jam. Of course, the real problem isn't the patrons, or the amount of use that the machines receive; it's the photocopiers themselves. Why, for the love of all that is holy, can't someone make a photocopier that can handle large volumes of copying, and that isn't super slow?

And, really? Duplexing? Is, like, the easiest thing in the world. Just read the screen/look at the pictures/glance through our quick and dirty guide to photocopying that is POSTED ON THE WALL ABOVE THE COPIERS.

On boredom, and Veronica Mars

2006-10-04T12:51:00.000-04:00

Actually, let's discuss Veronica Mars (or, as I like to call it in my head, V. Ma) first. The new season (season 3) premiered last night and it was long-awaited. I had to wrestle the remote control out of Dave's hands. He was sleeping and had some kind of crazy death grip on it. In the process of fighting with him for it, we woke up Lorien. Waking up Lorien is pretty much as dangerous as waking up a hibernating bear, and is usually something I go out of my way to avoid. However, this is V. Ma we're talking about. I won't risk life and limb for much, but I will for that show.

So. I have to admit, I'm a bit rusty on the nuances of last season. For those who haven't watched it, the show is pretty complicated at times and it's difficult to understand what's going on if you haven't been paying close attention. I think I finished season 2 in May, so it's been a while. I was a bit confused by the plot line involving Veronica's father, but that didn't bother me. I was pleased just to watch Logan (those arms!) be his sexy self (and Veronica be her sexy self, for that matter. She's a hottie!). Soooo glad it's back on...

And, on to boredom. I was sitting in one of my classes yesterday morning and I was bored almost literally to tears. Or death. I think that I was seconds away from stabbing myself with my pen. I brought a non-school book, and read that. I knitted. I drank coffee. Did any of those things relieve the pain? HELL NO. It was so awful that it put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day AND made me skip my afternoon class to go to the darkroom, where problems cease to exist.

Last night, I was ~~talking~~ complaining to my father about the presence of boring classes in my life and how my tolerance for boredom is pretty low. Like, there's not much I hate more than having my time wasted; waiting in line, sitting through class, traffic jams--all of these sort of inevitables of modern life drive me freakin' crazy. I wasn't there when they handed out patience. (Couldn't be bothered to wait in line... Ba dum chhh!)

So, anyway, my dad was like, "Well, do you need to attend the lectures? If you're not learning anything, I don't see why you'd need to go to class." This coming from a professor. It's like being given a "please excuse Tasha" note for all of the classes, past, present, and future, that I have ever and will ever skip. There's that phrase, "Work smart, not hard." I definitely have not been working smart. If I genuinely do not need to attend class to learn what I need to learn, why bother going? I could use that time to sleep in. Or do homework. Or go to work. Or the darkroom. Or whatever.

Thanks, dad!

Procrastination station

2006-10-01T20:54:00.000-04:00

I have a cataloguing assignment due on Tuesday that I'm sluggishly wading through, so what better time than now to take a break from my rigid schedule of work-on-paper-for-two-minutes/fuck-around-on-internet-for-five?

I was thinking today about how sometimes I have these moments of absolute clarity. They don't happen often and they always occur when I'm least expecting them, but sometimes the proverbial light bulb comes on over my head.

As usual, my extracurricular activities of late have revolved around boys. I was discussing the idea of dating last night and, as I'm sure anyone who's read this more than once knows, my normal mantra when it comes to dating and relationships is something like, "I want a boyfriend! I want a boyfriend!" I guess I'm kind of tired of that, though.

This morning, I was thinking about dating and relationships and boyfriends and all of that, and I realized that I'd been repeating the same sad refrain for so long (see mantra, above) that I hadn't actually stopped to consider what I really want. Like, why do I feel like there is something missing in my life? Is there, actually? Cause the thing is, most of the time, I like my life. Sure, I bitch up a storm about school and work and what have you, but I'm not unhappy or anything. I have a decent job and lots of hobbies; and my recent rediscovery of photography has just brought something back, some creative spark that hasn't been there for a while; and I have friends and a great roommate (also friend, of course). I have Six Feet Under (don't laugh--my feelings for that show may be inappropriate, but they are real, damn it!). So what, exactly, is missing? Sometimes I get lonely, but if i remember correctly, having a boyfriend doesn't by definition solve that particular problem. So, maybe I do want a relationship and maybe I don't. I guess that at this exact moment in time, I would have to say that I'm not really sure of what I want. It's so weird to totally reconsider something that you've convinced yourself of for so long, but I feel so free right now, as if I've been released from some weird mental bondage or something.

Bored bored bored

2006-09-30T11:49:00.000-04:00

Oh my God. I am so bored. I'm at work. It's Saturday so there aren't that many people here and the ones who are seem to be able to work independently. The photocopiers aren't jamming or out of toner or anything. There are no computer crises.

I've read all of my blogs. No one seems to be emailing me. I don't have anything fun to "research" online.

I have this stupid cataloging assignment due on Tuesday that I'm half-heartedly working on but it's soooo boring. Not to mention that I don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so anything I do write is complete and utter bullshit.

I am so bored. Stephanie finally got here, so I have someone to talk to, but holy shit it was touch and go for a while there.

So cool

2006-09-27T08:47:00.000-04:00

This sounds so cool. I don't even like video games and it sounds cool. I like classical music and all, but this really livens things up a bit. However, the cheapest tickets are $65. I understand that it's expensive to put on a performance involving live music, but it's so irritating that these kinds of things are prohibitively expensive for people like me. Every time I look into doing something "cultural" like going to the ballet or the symphony or something, I balk at the prices. To be fair, the National Ballet of Canada offers The Nutcracker at reasonable prices, which is nice cause it's such a classic holiday show and everyone should see the Sugarplum Fairy at least once in their lives, and there are a lot of places around town that offer student discounts, but still. It's just annoying that you have to have a lot of money to be able to see the high cultural stuff.

The fat lady, she has sung

2006-09-26T11:18:00.000-04:00

First of all, I'm sitting in my cataloguing class, typing this. I can honestly say that I have paid exactly no attention to this class. It's not because I don't want to, but we went over this stuff (AACR2) in my archival arrangement class last year, and I know that just blabbing about the rules isn't going to help me. Plus, I had some work to do for another class.

Anyway, the title of this post refers to the fact that I am no longer confused about things with me and that boy, military man. It's over. After a couple days of confusingly sweet I-like-you-I-like-you-too emails (and one "I kinda love you" email from him), I decided to take the bull by the balls. If there is one thing I don't deal well with in affairs of the heart, it's indecisiveness. In my mind, if you're not sure about being with me, we probably shouldn't be together. Last night, I called him and demanded that we discuss this, and that he give me an answer to the question, "If you weren't leaving, would you want to be with me?" After asking for more time to think about it and being denied said time (as I say, if you need time it ain't gonna happen), he said he figured we'd be better off as friends. To which I replied, "Ok. Or how about not." I don't really do the "friends" thing well, unless it's someone who I've gone out with for a long time. So, that's that. It's done. It's over.

Do I seem too rigid with this stuff, with these rules? Perhaps. I'm usually very quick to define things; I like categories, I like certainty--these things help me figure out the world and my place in it. Boys generally don't like that; they don't like being pinned down. Which I understand, but I can't seem to accept. I need to know if you want to be in a relationship with me. I don't do casual sex and I don't do fuck buddies. I am looking for a relationship, and if you're not, we're both wasting our time. As for being "friends," let's be honest about that. It very rarely works, trying to create a friendship out of something that wasn't based in friendship in the first place. The ONLY ex-boyfriend that I have any sort of relationship with currently is Vito, who I dated for three years in college. I wouldn't necessarily call us friends, cause our relationship is much more complicated than that, but we do keep in touch, albeit loosely. He is, quite honestly, the only ex I've ever been interested in maintaining a true relationship of some kind with, perhaps because we shared so much and he knew me so well.

I feel pretty drained from this drama with Military Man. I really liked him, and had hope for our relationship. But once again, it went nowhere. Universe, what the hell are you trying to tell me?

2006-09-24T21:35:00.000-04:00

Last night, I met Heather and her friend Colin at a restaurant on Bloor. Heather and Colin have known each other since they were babies and were catching up after not having seen each other in years. Colin spent a few years in Australia and Papua New Guinea, going to school and then living and working. When I got to the cafe, they'd already had a couple of drinks. I ordered a vodka cranberry and then the three of us shared a bottle of wine. We decided that, even though Heather and I are librarians and Colin spent the past year on a crazy island, we'd do Saturday night some justice and get shitty. We moved to the Green Room at about midnight, and proceeded to get just wasted.

Once you get to know me, I'm not shy. But sometimes I'll open up to someone when I barely know them, and I was so doing that with Colin. The three of us talked about all sorts of things: wacky parents, the trials and tribulations of moving home, sex and love. It turns out that Colin has a girlfriend in Australia and they're trying to decide whether or not she should move here. Somehow, Heather and I figured that we were in the right position to give someone else relationship/love life advice, and I'm pretty sure we poured it on thick. There were all kinds of sentences that started, "___________ (fill in the blank) does not a relationship make," and "How do you know you love her? You know you love her when ___________ (fill in the blank)." Oh man, we were in rare form. I'm pretty sure that we were all one drink away from declaring our undying love for one another. I probably would've made out with both of them at the same time, that's how lovey I was feeling. At the end of the night, Heather and I were both comforting Colin for something or other, and I actually started rubbing his arm. And not in a sexual way--just in a friendly, happy way. I'm never a mean drunk--I tend to get boisterous and outgoing when drinking--but I very, very rarely get all rainbows and puffy clouds on people.

The thing that makes me laugh about it today is that there is pretty much no way in hell that I'm qualified to give someone else relationship advice, and it amuses me that I considered myself to be an expert on such matters. I can't for the life of me figure out my own shit, let alone someone else's.

Case in point: I'm still somehow all tangled up with this stupid boy. Yeah, he gave me the time and space speech. Yeah, we broke up. We haven't seen each other in a week. We haven't talked on the phone. But we have been emailing each other, and I hate to say it, but I might have told him that we should keep emailing, get to know each other, and see how it goes. I also hate to admit it, but when he suggested that we get together before he goes on his epic China adventure, I agreed to do so. I might have told him that I still like him.

Damn it, damn it, damn it. I know intellectually that I should not be doing this. It's like playing with fire, and mama always said that when you do that, you're gonna get burned. And it makes me angry with myself because I can see the goddamn fire. It's not hiding; it's not covered up. It's right out there in the open, and every time I try to step away from it, something pushes me even closer than I was before. I tried to let Madonna talk some sense into me (You deserve the best in life / So if the time isn't right then move on / Second best is never enough / You'll do much better, baby, on your own) but even the Material Girl can't change the way I feel about this stupid guy.

I wish that I could do what's right, what my mind knows is right, and just walk away.

Observations at 8:39 am

2006-09-20T08:45:00.000-04:00

1. My iPod must have been set on "awesome" this morning cause it played only great songs, and only great songs that I was in the mood for. Sometimes I want mopey and whiny; sometimes I want rockin' and raunchy. This morning I was in the latter mood, and I got Led Zeppelin and Guns n Roses. What more could a girl ask for?

2. A girl could ask for NO KEENERS, is what a girl could ask for. I'd like to report that at an ungodly hour (this one) there are 10 people here that I can see. There were four people waiting for me to open at 8. 8 am. No one I know would even remotely consider being here at that hour. Most of my friends are happy when they make it to class, let alone the library. What is wrong with these first year students? I'm not ok with the bar being set super high.

3. I am wearing the red sweater that I made last year, the one with the komodo dragon collar. It's only like the third time I've worn it, cause it's either too hot or too cold out to wear it properly, and with its crazy sleeves and collar I can't wear it under stuff easily. I loooove this time of year--the air is crisp and the leaves are just starting to change, but there's none of the hopelessness of winter with its barren trees and gun-metal skies.

4. Perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something by sending me a string of non-relationships. Maybe it's telling me that I'm not going to remain in Toronto, the way I didn't remain in Portland or Miami. Not that boys are the only reason to live somewhere, but they're a damn good one. Maybe the universe is telling me that I need to go to a windswept island (Scotland, perhaps?) and meet a windswept island man and have lots of dogs. Even if I don't meet a windswept island man, I can still live on a windswept island, right?

Treasures

2006-09-18T09:47:00.000-04:00

So, this weekend I went to the Clothing Show with Alli, Kristen, Heather, and Lorien. It was fabulous. There were a lot of indie designers who sell their stuff on Queen West, but the prices at the show were significantly lower than Queen Street. There were also crafters, particularly jewelry crafters, who were displaying handmade items. It was really cool. I bought a tank top (not pictured cause I'm lazy). This bag was one of my favorite things at the show(note: I might be in love with this bag--it's made of cotton, is reversible, and is machine washable. It comes with two straps for different looks. What's not to love?):

The bag is by Bootyfly Bags. I was talking to the guy at the booth and he said that they are based in Alberta and this is their first foray into the wonderful world of Ontario. Their stuff is really cute.

Right before we left, I found these really cool zip-up cardigans, by Embody clothing. I love the asymmetrical look of this, and the funky polyester '70s cuffs:

There were a lot of other cool things at the booth, and I wish I'd paid closer attention to the crop tops/shrugs (check out the link to the website).

And, last but not least, check out the progress on my raglan sleeve knit-in-the-round sweater:

Close up of the sleeve shaping:

I stuck my arm into one of the sleeves and it's gonna be too short. I have two options: 1) take out the cuff and knit a few more inches, which sounds easy but would actually be a pain in the ass cause I'd be knitting down instead of up; or 2) tell people it's supposed to be the new style--the 7/8 length sleeve (instead of the 3/4 sleeve). I'm not sure which option is more appealing. I'm a bit reluctant to wuss out, cause I really like this sweater, but on the other hand, I wanna wear it already!

Vagina

2006-09-17T20:46:00.000-04:00

I love Lorien's new MacBook. iSight is so cool--doesn't this look like I'm kissing a vagina that is floating in midair?

Girl power

2006-09-16T22:45:00.000-04:00

So, I got this email from boy today and it basically called into question our compatibility. If you think about it, what exactly is compatibility? Sometimes I think it's sharing interests and viewpoints and having similar values; sometimes, I think it's all about just accepting people for who they are, and rolling with whatever and whomever is sent your way.

With this guy, it was clear from the start that there were some pretty significant differences between us. My life has been fairly straightforward--I've gone from high school to college to grad school. I've done a little bit of traveling and I've lived in a couple of different cities, but I haven't done anything too out of the ordinary. His life, on the other hand, has taken him to some pretty interesting places, both emotionally and geographically. I don't want to talk too much about his childhood, in part cause I am a little fuzzy on the details, and in part because I think it might be too sensitive a subject for the internet. His military career, though, is fair game. He joined at the age of 18 and served for over 7 years. He's seen Croatia and Afghanistan in combat, and has been to various other countries while on leave. He doesn't have any education past high school, and I'd like to point out that this was never an issue with me. I firmly believe that having degrees is not an indicator of intelligence, though I think he sees things a bit differently.

One of the major differences between us is that he is physical and I am cerebral. He makes a very conscious effort to engage in rigorous physical activity and I... well, let's just say that I am not exactly good friends with the inside of the gym. However, I make an effort to eat well, and I walk everywhere and take the stairs. I enjoy hiking and swimming; I just don't go to the goddamn gym, nor do I plan on changing that anytime soon.

Here's what I am--intelligent and irreverent and serious, a lot of the time. Somehow, I think that my seriousness got misinterpreted as sadness--before he left yesterday morning he said that he wanted me to be happy, and when I protested, saying that I didn't see myself as a miserable person, he said (and I quote):
"Well, I guess you don't see it."

Excuse me?

How in the name of hell can someone who has known me for less than a month make such a strong call on what is apparently a fundamental aspect of my personality? Is it because i told him I have depression and anxiety? If so, I'm glad he didn't meet me two or three years ago, when I was really in a shitty place. It may have taken me 25 years, but I am very, very aware of the fact that I am NEVER going to be happy-go-lucky. It's not who I am, it's not how I was raised. If you don't like it, don't be in my life. It's as simple as that.

So, he wrote in his email that he was concerned about our compatibility, and mentioned in his email that he wanted to hear my thoughts and feelings on the situation, so I wrote him this response

How long have you been feeling that our differences equal an inherent
incompatibility so strong that it will end in resentment on both of
our parts? Obviously, we are two different people, but I am having a
hard time understanding when you decided that our differences are that
strong. However, you've made it pretty clear in the past couple of
weeks that I'm not "nice" (read "bland"?) enough for you, nor do I
have the right approach to spirituality and exercise. If you are
looking for a docile, demure, cheerleader-type girl who prays in
between marathons, that's not who I am and I will not apologize for
it. Also, I'm pretty sure that from the night we met, I never even
tried to give you the impression that I was anything other than who I
am. Honestly, I want to date someone who likes me for who I am, even
though I have depression and I'm serious and despite the fact that I
don't work out. You're right—I'm not going to change. As for you, I
never thought you should change. I never thought that the things that
make you different from me were problematic.

I debated being less sarcastic, but how could I resist?

When I received his email, Alli and Kristen were over, and Lorien was home (I have a roommate again, thank God), and I'd like to say that I LOVE my friends. I love that they are so supportive of me. It makes all of this so much easier, knowing that they do like me for who I am, and can call bullshit on someone who isn't willing to accept me.

Not to mention that we (see above plus Heather) spent the day shopping (those of you in Toronto, get thee to my new favorite thing. You can thank me tomorrow, and we'll compare goodies) and ~~eating~~ gorging ourselves at Red Lobster.

So, thanks, ladies, for making my life that much better, and for reminding me that 1) we all make mistakes, and 2) there ain't nothing wrong with me that a little shopping and seafood can't fix.

Space and time: a reflection

2006-09-15T09:42:00.000-04:00

Oh man. I just got the whole "I like you...but" speech. As in, "I like you, but I need some time and space. We're so different. This is so much work, and I just don't know if I have the energy for it right now." Time and space, huh? Would that we all had the luxury to ask for that--"Yeah, master's program? I think I just need a little space right now. I'm feeling a bit smothered by you--the papers and exams, they fly at me so fast and I just don't think I can deal with them at the moment. Can we talk again in a couple of weeks?"

Ugh. I fucking hate this shit. Obviously. I am a little bit confused by how it all happened. As I've written, there was one day with no contact. Then yesterday when I got home, there was a message on my answering machine from him. When we were talking, he asked me what I was doing that evening:

Boy: What are you up to tonight?
Girl: Nothing. I'll probably do some laundry. How about you?
Boy: Well, I was thinking of visiting you.
Girl: Ooh, really? If you do, though, you gotta know that it's all about me tonight.
Boy: What does that mean?
Girl: That means, like, hella massages. [Yeah, I know. "Hella"? What the fuck?] You totally owe me!
Boy [getting a little pissy]: Uh, I don't "owe" you anything. If I come see you, it's cause I want to, not cause I feel obligated to.

Well, that little wrinkle had to be smoothed out, and then things were fine. Sort of. I told him a story about work yesterday, and how I tried to bribe one of my friends to get me a cookie with some high demand books, but she was having none of it. He said, "I would've totally gotten you a cookie, but I guess not everyone is as nice as me, including you."

And here is where I go off on a little tangent/rant about the importance of being nice. First of all, if you're looking for "nice," you're seriously barking up the wrong tree. I am nothing if not not "nice." I don't usually go out of my way to be mean, and I certainly don't think I'm cruel, but I'm definitely not one of those people who you meet and go, "Oh, she is so nice." Second of all, what a lame, bland adjective anyway. I'm not sure, and correct me if I'm wrong, but it would seem to me that only boring people are nice. People without opinions, without standards, without actual fucking experiences--those are nice people. I don't WANT to be charming and smiley to everyone. Why? Cause that means that instead of repelling all of the fucktards that I repel, I would actually have to be chummy with them. Clearly, this is not something I am interested in. And third of all, GIRLS AREN'T NICE. News flash? Apparently. Here I was, thinking that everyone knew that already, but I guess not. None of my girlfriends are nice. They can be, sure, and they're all very caring people, but I wouldn't go out of my way to describe them as nice. Girls, women, whatever, are complex and emotional and intelligent and manipulative and caring and funny and about a billion other things. BUT WE'RE NOT NICE. So fucking get over it.

I didn't exactly tell him all of that; what I did say is that I'm not nice, I've never really aspired to being nice, and there's not a lot about that that's gonna change any time soon. Anyway, I convinced him to come over, which he did. He brought a "cheer Tasha up" care package that included: M&Ms (I'm eating them for breakfast as I write this), Cadbury Fruit & Nut, Real Fruit gummies, chocolate milk, and a comic book. I went to the LCBO and bought wine, so we had wine and ate candy. We watched The Office. We went to bed. We woke up this morning. (There is some other stuff that happened in between the last two that I can't write about on this blog.)

He was getting ready to leave, after we'd discussed some issues related to the thing I can't write about, and before he did, he climbed back into bed with me, spooned me and said, "I like you." I said, "I like you too. Is there a 'but' after that?" He said there was, and that's when I got the space and time speech.

So, if any of you see me this weekend (with Kristen from the internet and Alli), I'll be the really, really drunk girl who will be polling everyone, trying to find out what is wrong with me and why I can't seem to keep a guy around for longer than a month.

Hope your Friday is better than mine.

2006-09-14T11:37:00.000-04:00

Once again, class time provides a good opportunity to write out a blog post. This time, I'm sitting in Technical Services, which could be good or could be too basic. I mean, I sincerely hope I don't end up "learning" how to affix labels to the spines of books. I hate the beginning of term class shuffle.

Anyway, I'm sure that no one but me cares about this. Moving on.

I don't really have anything exciting to say or report. I signed up for a step aerobics class that meets tonight, but due to a laundry complication, I won't be able to attend. However, I ate muesli with blueberries for breakfast, so I figure that pretty much counts as working out, particularly if I have sushi for dinner. When I mentioned this concept to Heather, she pointed out that by eating Fiber 1 for breakfast she'd practically run a marathon. Everyone knows that if two girls agree on something, it's pretty much true, so having already done my exercise for the day (<--ha! as if I exercise daily), I'm not gonna feel guilty about doing laundry tonight.

In other developments, several friends have pointed out that perhaps I'm being too hard on boy. Is it inconceivable that he was busy and couldn't call? they ask. To that, I say, "Let's revisit He's Just Not That Into You." In its almighty wisdom, it points out that boys (guys, men, whatever) cannot simultaneously be the rulers of the world and be incapable of calling their girlfriends. That's what I am, folks--a girlfriend, one who believes that a phone call, particularly a returning-you-call phone call, isn't too much to ask. So, I guess my feeling is that there are some mixed messages being sent my way from this guy:
*According to him on Saturday, I am his number one priority
*Phone calls on Monday and Tuesday
*Avoidance on Monday of the question, "When will I see you again?"
*When pressed for an answer on Tuesday to above question, a "party" on Saturday night is produced and an invitation is extended (the word party is in quotation marks because it's not exactly a raging kegger to which I was [half-heartedly?] invited)
*Yesterday's email and phone call went unreturned
Confusing? You betcha.

Meanwhile, Aundra is all a-flutter over a new guy, which is cool and great for her. Unfortunately, when we spoke last night, I advised her--with maybe a touch of bitterness in my voice--to not expect the mutual enthusiasm to last. For that, I apologize--it wasn't very cool for me to project my woes onto her. And yes, I am well aware, having been informed of it twice in the past few days, that I could've been the fifth main character on Seinfeld.

Over and out, kids.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2006-09-13T21:00:00.000-04:00

So, I originally started this blog because it was required for a class, but I'd wanted to start one for a while before that. I had ~~dreams~~ delusions of grandeur of starting the Next Great Knitting Blog. I think that's like writing the next great American novel--sounds easy, but when it comes down to it, it's a hell of a lot of work. And clearly, I'm not the knitting genius I'd like to be. I removed myself from the GTA Knitblogs Ring so that I wouldn't feel guilty about blogging about boys and school and pretty much everything except knitting. I will still show pictures of my projects but "Spinster" now refers primarily to my ability to not attract/keep around decent, cute, non-wimpy boys and not the fact that I have a spinning wheel.

Anyway. I am so fucking grumpy right now. What a goddamn dreary day--when I woke up for work at 6:15 it was pitch fucking black in my room, and I could hear the rain through my closed window. I almost didn't believe that it was actually morning and awake time, but a quick look at two clocks took care of that. It turns out that I own the world's most useless umbrella. Like, fuck you, umbrella, could you even TRY to keep my goddamn THIGHS dry? Cause as much as I love having clammy, wet jeans-clad thighs at 8 am, I actually hate that shit.

After sitting through a fairly boring meeting, I headed home. I WANTED to take a nap, talk to boy, and eat dinner. What I DID was call boy, not leave message, take nap, and wake up in a worse mood than before. What the hell? I emailed him a VERY witty email:

Hi! <--Ok, it may be a bit too early in the morning for enthusiastic punctuation. I'll try to see that it doesn't happen again. Anyway. It was brought to my attention this morning by the weather that it's time to invest in a new umbrella. No more of this girlie, urban, retractable shit. I want the full-on old man New York in the 1940s style of umbrella. The kind that isn't flipped inside out by a light breeze. The kind that keeps both my hair and my pants dry.

I'm drinking what I think is a cup of weak coffee, but all my taste buds register right now is "hot" and "liquid", which seems to suffice, so I guess I don't really care whether it's weak or strong or good or bad. (As you can tell, I'm not the world's best morning person.)

So, because I don't really have anything to actually talk about, I'll bore you with stories of knitting. So I'm making this really pretty cotton sweater in the round, and last night I joined the arms to the body. That is the first time I've done something of that nature, and I have to say, I was pretty damn proud of myself when I finished. Maybe I'll actually complete this project? I'm not gonna guarantee it, cause that would jinx me for sure, so let's just say I can sort of see a light at the end of this particular tunnel.

Anyway. God this email is useless.

Have a fabulous, dry day.

Take care,
Tasha

AND I called him at like 6:30. It is now 9:19, and I have received neither a response to my email (how could you not respond to something like that?) nor a phone call. Um, is it not courteous to call someone back?

This is when my panic mode is in full swing. In my head, we've broken up, we're done, I've made out with, like, two other guys, but on the inside, I'm pretty sad. Why? Cause, fuck man, I LIKE(d) this guy.

...and, end resolutions. Plus some boy musings.

2006-09-12T18:51:00.000-04:00

First week of school and resolutions have already been broken. The procrastination? It has begun (although not too badly, since I did a bunch of photocopying this afternoon and plan on reading tonight). Paying attention in class? I'm writing this from Introduction to Bibliographic Control. (It's not my fault that it's boring, though, right?)

Ok. Let's talk about my burgeoning relationship with my military man. We spent Saturday night/Sunday morning/Sunday afternoon together, and as usual it was great. At this point, we're still learning about each other and I think that the all-too-human aspects of our personalities (and by our personalities, I mean my personality) and differences in worldview have begun to emerge.

I guess that I'm specifically talking about certain traits that I have that aren't wonderful and that can make me a difficult person to get along with. (Although I like to think that these same traits make me a complex and interesting person, but that's neither here nor there.) Can I just be honest for a second? (Hell yeah, I can. This is my blog!) See, I'm not the nicest or most altruistic person on earth: I don't love babies, sometimes I hate people because their clothes suck or because they're too cheerful in the morning (loud girl in class, I'm talking to you!), and I can be really selfish. My boy, on the other hand, is practically the definition of "kind." He reserves judgment, or tries to, until he actually knows a person--I've heard this is called "giving people a chance," but what the hell do I know?--and certainly would never claim to hate anyone simply because they don't hate mornings. He's in between activities at the moment, and so he's volunteering at the SPCA, a nursing home, and a soup kitchen. The last time I volunteered? Was cause I didn't feel like getting a job and needed something to put on my resume. (And it was at a historic house, not a soup kitchen.) Compound these aspects of my personality with my impermeable (so far) tendency to see the glass as half-empty, and I wonder how long someone as good as my boy will be sticking around.

However--and this next bit is simply to assuage my own self-doubt--I hope he can see beyond the crotchety surface. I may not like everyone in the world, or even humanity in general, but I love those I do like. I don't suffer fools gladly, but I like to think that means I have standards. I can be a fiercely loyal friend. I try not to be careless with others' feelings (though sometimes I fail, inevitably). I love animals and hate money. I believe fervently in human rights. I am, at the very least, aware of my shortcomings, for whatever that's worth. Basically, while I may not be the next Mother Theresa, I also don't think I'm a candidate for the fiery depths of hell. I guess that, right now, he's still up on the pedestal--even though he was teetering over the weekend, he hasn't fallen. I kind of wish he would, cause then I wouldn't worry so much about how undeserving I am of my own pedestal.

Inconvenience

2006-09-10T08:49:00.000-04:00

I saw Al Gore's movie, An Inconvenient Truth, last night. I don't even know what to say about it. I mean, I loved it. To me, there's nothing more important than protecting our planet and all of the life on it, and it ~~pisses me off~~ infuriates me that there is so little action being taken about the mess we've made of things. I'm sorry that cleaning it up would require such painful things as switching to fluorescent light bulbs and turning off our electronic appliances when they're not in use. It is tragic that the United States would have to invest in public transportation infrastructure, as well as completely overhaul our gas miles per gallon standards.

I just don't get it.

I don't understand how and why people are so reluctant to believe and understand that global warming is not only real, but is happening currently, and is only going to get worse.

I don't understand why people are so unwilling to accept our undeniable culpability. One of the greatest things about being the cause of a problem? Generally, that also makes it easier to do something about it. And the things that are often proposed really aren't that painful. They're depressingly simple, actually, and that's what makes the specter of global warming so scary to me--if we aren't willing to take the simplest of steps (using fluorescent bulbs, walking every now and again instead of driving, eating locally grown produce instead of fruits and vegetables flown in from great distances), what the hell are we going to do about global warming when it starts to really fuck with us? When the sea levels start rising in earnest? When we see hurricane seasons that mirror 2005 each year?

Why do people refuse to take this seriously???

This is the new year

2006-09-08T11:21:00.000-04:00

I know that technically the new year begins on January 1^st (though I think that the new year should coincide with the advent of spring, but that’s another post for another day), but for me, the new year has always begun in September. I have been in educational institutions in one form or another since I was three years old. I took a two-year break in between college and grad school, but for twenty years of my twenty-five-year life, September equals the beginning of a new season, a new year.

Each year, come September, I would make the familiar school-related resolutions—this year I’m gonna study harder, get all of my homework done, not procrastinate. This year I’m gonna get all As. I’ll join clubs and take exercise classes and be outgoing and popular.

Of course, within weeks those resolutions would fade away, and I’d start blowing off homework for pleasure reading and the procrastinating would begin in earnest. I might have joined clubs but my shoddy attendance record would soon reveal my inherent dislike for organized activities—and I love the Groucho Marx sentiment of not wanting to be a part of a club that would have people like me as members. As for exercise, it’s not that I’m opposed to it when it comes to doing fun physical activities like hiking or snorkelling, it’s that going to the gym just bores me. I have never been accused of being an overachiever, and that’s the way I like it.

Still, there’s something so motivating and refreshing about starting a new school year. Classes haven’t begun so they haven’t had a chance to get painfully boring. My free time hasn’t been sucked away by homework and essays and lectures, so I can still spare some time for clubs and fitness. I can totally imagine throwing myself into school with gusto, and finally achieving those straight As.

So, in light of that, I’d like to present my completely naïve and why-the-hell-doesn’t-she-ever-learn New School Year Resolutions.

I will attend each and every lecture.

I will be interested in what I am supposed to be learning; after all, if I’m going to make a career out of this stuff, I might as well enjoy it.

I will not procrastinate.

I will do all of my homework.

I will be an involved member of the ALA student chapter.

I will sign up for and actually attend two fitness classes (ballet and step aerobics this time).

(Right off the bat, I can tell you that Resolutions 1-4 will be broken, probably by the second week of class. Resolution 5 I might be able to swing, but Resolution 6 is clearly wishful thinking. Oh well--to thine own self be true, right?)

GYHUS

2006-09-05T14:48:00.000-04:00

Last night, my roommate and I were discussing the pitfalls of new relationships—namely, Getting Your Hopes Up Syndrome. I’m in this new relationship, right, and I’m still figuring it out. It’s only been 2 weeks, but I really like the guy. There seems to be some concern, from my roommate at least, that I might be too enthusiastic about this, too hopeful, too soon. I know that Lorien cares about me and doesn’t want to see me get hurt; in warning me about GYHUS, she’s essentially trying to protect me from myself, cause for all of my flippancy and who-gives-a-shit attitude, I am, unfortunately, emotionally fragile.

I appreciate Lorien’s concern, but I’d like to say a few words in defense of hopes and single girls.

Single girls are nothing if not hopeful. I’d say, in dating and relationships and intimacy and love, it’s all we’ve got. A lot of us—most of us—have been in love, have had our hearts broken, have dated jerks and guys who were nice but were just not that into us. I’ve watched my friends go through the same shit, and each time, it’s always the same. It always begins with hope.

How can we not get our hopes up? How can we meet guys who are (finally) all of whatever it is we’re looking for, and who tell us that we’re beautiful and smart and sexy and perfect, and not be hopeful? The day I hear those things and feeling nothing, or even worse, jaded and cynical, is the day I die.

Yes, being cautious is probably good. Having an instinct for self-preservation is undoubtedly better. But if I am always cautious and always looking for and waiting for someone to mind-fuck me, isn’t that sad? Shouldn’t I allow myself some mental masturbation?

I mean, I am the last person on earth to fantasize about my wedding day, and I never go around naming my children with someone. I don’t believe that love is roses and candles and poetry, puffy clouds and fucking rainbows, but I would like to believe that love, whatever it is, whatever form it takes, is possible. For better or worse, I hope for that.

My super awesome weekend

2006-09-04T20:06:00.000-04:00

Fact: It is possible to turn this

into this

in two days and 13 episodes of Six Feet Under, which is my new favorite show.

Fact: I have lots of "new favorite" shows.

Fact: I might just be addicted to series television that I can watch on my computer.

So, yeah. I got a lot of knitting done this weekend and a lot of TV watching done, too. I did go out on a date on Friday night, which turned into Saturday morning, which turned into Saturday afternoon. It was excellent. I also went to a potluck last night, which was nice, except for the fact that I am a big fucking loser when it comes to social interactions. Seriously. My roommate's father asks me a question, and I blush and stammer my way through an answer. I wish for an Invisibility Cloak, a la Harry Potter, so that I could just meander through life, making few waves and no impact. Yes, I took my medication today. It's just one of those low self-esteem days that I try to remedy via retail therapy, which only serves to make me notice the size of my ass but also provides me with a new pair of shoes. Yeah, mom, we all know I'm a shoe whore. Moving on.

Why does this bother me?

2006-09-01T13:14:00.000-04:00

We broke up three years ago this summer. He was my first real love, my first real boyfriend, the first (and only) boyfriend I've ever lived with. We broke up about six months later than we should have and it COMPLETELY fucked me up. We'd just graduated from college and most of my friends had moved away. I had no job and no place to live, and he left for an overseas program in Ecuador with the tentative understanding that when he returned we would resume our cohabitation. I found a temporary place to live and then visited my parents for a couple of months. In the meantime, he returned from Ecuador, thought things through, and realized that our relationship was over and he was over it. We broke up over the phone when I was still in Miami.

As I said, it really fucked me up.

However, I don't exactly regret anything that's happened since. After that stumble, I picked myself up (and by I, I mean "my friends, family, and I"). I found a job and a different place to live. I started going out with other guys. Eventually, after a shitty post-graduation year in Portland, I moved back home and began the process of applying to grad school.

The ex and I are still sort of in touch. We sort of keep each other up to date on the events in our lives, including moves and grad school and new relationships. He lived in the Czech Republic for a year or so and met a girl there. I HATE that girl. Hate her. Have no idea what she looks like, acts like, who she votes for, what she wears, but I hate her. She has my birthday. It's not bad enough that my ex-boyfriend, my epic relationship, moved on and found someone else. No. She has to have my birthday, too? Bitch.

Anyway, so this guy and I are back in touch apparently, cause he emailed me yesterday. I asked him a bunch of questions about his life in Barcelona, including (stupidly) "Have you hooked up with any Spanish girls?"

He wrote back, answering all of my questions, and in response to that one, revealed that he is--and I quote--"still hung up" on what I like to call That Romanian Bitch Who Has My Birthday And Should Die.

Ugh. I soooo thought that, at this point, after three years and three cities, one year of grad school and more boys than I care to count, I'd be over it. I am dating (I think) a boy who is cute and smart and sweet and interesting and WHO FUCKING BROUGHT ME FLOWERS THE OTHER NIGHT, and I'm still gonna get a little disgruntled that my ex-boyfriend has some long-distance pseudo-romance with a floozy girl? What is wrong with me?

2006-08-30T12:36:00.000-04:00

Two new additions to He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not:

Birdhouse in Your Soul by They Might Be Giants (too cute to pass up)
Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin (cause sometimes you gotta get your raunch on)

2006-08-29T14:36:00.000-04:00

Dear Boy,

GET OUT OF MY HEAD. I don't care how cute you are, how funny and smart and interesting you are, how good that shirt that you left at my house (on purpose cause I was wearing it) smells, I need you to step out of my head. Just for a couple of days. Until I figure out if you were a figment of my stupidly hopeful imagination or if you are in some way real. If you were a figment of my stupidly hopeful imagination, I might burn your shirt. Sorry about that, but I'm just sayin'. You can't get a girl's hopes up by leaving your deliciously-smelling-of-clean-boy-and-cologne t-shirt at her house and expect said shirt to remain intact (if you turn out to be a figment of my stupidly hopeful imagination). If you are in some way real, you are welcome back in my head, as long as you realize that it's MY head. Mine. Not yours. As in, you're more than welcome to be cute and funny and sweet in my head, but you are not allowed to take over my entire brain and make me think about you a bazillion times a day.

Thank you,
Tasha

1 Thing I Hate

2006-08-29T10:15:00.000-04:00

Harvard Business Review. Boring boring boring. As if I care AT ALL about shareholder value, managing "complementors" (whatever the hell those are).

1 Thing I Love

2006-08-29T09:38:00.000-04:00

At work, there is an In/Out board with removable letters on it that spell out each of our names. There are 5 extra letters at the bottom of the board, and they spell out NARCC. I find that to be highly amusing, and I laugh to myself each time I see it.

2006-08-29T09:36:00.000-04:00

Confidential to You Know Who You Are: Until I can say that everyone in my house got laid last night, I find it to be cruel and unusual that you tell me about your house's conquests.

Also confidential to You Know Who You Are: Don't stop telling me about them even thought I'm a little bit bitter.

He loves me, he loves me not--the art of the playlist

2006-08-29T08:31:00.000-04:00

I have been a huge believer in the art of the ~~mix tape~~ ~~mix CD~~ playlist since forever. Since about seventh grade, to be exact, when I stopped listening to Power 96 (booty bass) and the Beach Boys -- an odd combination, to be sure, but I was an odd kid -- and started listening to Zeta "The Best New Rock" 94.9 and Big 106 classic rock. I consider my switch from the popular music at Southwood Middle School and from my mother's music to be my first baby steps toward my own tastes and opinions.

I remember listening to those radio stations almost constantly, ready with my double-cassette-and-CD-player stereo -- always loaded with at least one blank tape -- to capture my new musical sensibilities. My favorite mix tape in seventh grade wasn't a High Fidelity-style mix tape in the sense that it was carefully planned out, but it contained my new favorite songs -- "Stay" by U2, "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N Roses, "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd, "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard" by Simon & Garfunkel (ok that one was my mother's influence). Hmmm. Looking at those song titles now, it occurs to me that that was a strange mix, held together only by the tenuous bond of being well-loved (by me. Not necessarily by anyone else).

Anyway, this post does have some relevance to my present life; I'm not meandering down memory lane just for the hell of it. I've alluded to there being a new boy in my life, and I'm at the stage where, when he and I are together, I definitely feel confident that he's as into me as I am into him, but as soon as he leaves I start to freak out. Add to that my ability to question the hell out of everything, and the fact that he didn't call me last night (even though there are certainly no rules saying that we have to talk on the phone all the time) and what you have is a great big ball of neurotic.

I have emailed my friends, freaking out a little bit, but because I don't want to ~~burn any bridges and therefore have no one to freak out to later on~~ drive them nuts, I decided to self-medicate.

No, not by drinking or picking up a coke habit, but by gathering together all of my hopeful and all of my no-way-in-hell songs into a playlist that I like to call He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. In a way, I mourn the passing of the mix tape and the slow decline of the mix CD, but all I've got is my iPod and iTunes, so there you go. The playlist is a work in progress cause even though I came up with the brilliant idea yesterday at work, I found a million other things to distract me before I finally started working on it at 10 last night, including but not limited to a nap a walk dinner Weeds Scrubs downloading knitting reading visiting a bereaved friend talking on the phone and emailing damn I have no focus whatsoever, and this is what I've got so far:

You Will, You Will by Bright Eyes
Crazy Little Thing Called Love by Queen
With Arms Outstretched by Rilo Kiley
Be Still My Heart by Death Cab for Cutie
Fair by Remy Zero
Love Buzz by Nirvana
Rest of my Life by Rilo Kiley
Muddy Hymnal by Iron & Wine
Take a Look at me Now by The Postal Service
Don't Speak by No Doubt
Love Fool by The Cardigans

What I'm trying for here, what I hope to eventually achieve, is a musical representation of the stages of a new romance--the fear, the excitement, the uncertainty, the disbelief, the possibility that it will end in disaster, the hope that it won't, all of it. I'm not what I like to call a puppy dogs fluffy clouds and rainbows kind of girl, so you're not going to see any "I Will Always Love You" or similar on my iPod -- and while we're on the subject: Aundra, I had to get rid of Danity Kane, Rihanna, and the Pussycat Dolls cause the fear of them coming up on "shuffle" was too much for me to bear, but I did keep Paris and Ms. Furtado -- so about the most romantic/optimistic I'm gonna get is "Be Still My Heart." Which, for me, is pretty damn romantic.

I know that this playlist is far from complete, and most of what is on it was already on my iPod, so I'll take any and all suggestions for what else to include. These are the only rules:
*No puppy dogs, fluffy clouds, or rainbows
*Can be either He Loves Me or He Loves Me Not, but cannot be These Boots are Made for Walkin' (best break-up/brokehearted playlist, coming soon)
*No more than two songs by the same artist. This isn't so much for other people, but to keep me from filling it with Death Cab/The Postal Service.

Observations of a Sunday evening

2006-08-27T21:17:00.000-04:00

1. Weeds is my new favorite show. I love, love, LOVE it. Mary-Louise Parker is a fucking genius as the main character, the plot twists are phenomenal, and it's just hilarious.

2. There need to be more three-day weekends. I went to bed at 10:30 on Friday night and woke up at 9:30 yesterday all psyched to start my day. Fine; Friday nights are generally pretty mellow around here cause I'm so tired from work. Last night, though, I didn't go to bed until 4 am. I woke up at 1:30 this afternoon, did some laundry, then went back to bed from 4-7. Last night was a proper weekend night, but I still need a full day to recover from it. The only problem? I'll be rolling into work at 8:30 am tomorrow morning, which doesn't leave me much recovery time.

3. Making jewelry is fun. I bought beading supplies yesterday and made another necklace. I wore it out last night and actually planned my outfit around it. Fabulous!

4. Boys are trouble. Particularly boys who I really, really like, and who seem to like me back the same. It's a little unnerving. Don't get me wrong; it's awesome and wonderful and sooooo nice, but it's still unnerving.

In the Pluto debacle, I think we're losing sight of something greater than us all...

2006-08-25T12:05:00.000-04:00

...What kind of impact will this have on astrology? Pluto is the ruling planet of the astrological sign Scorpio. What will Bill Gates, Goldie Hawn, P. Diddy, and Mickey Mouse do now? Apparently, Scorpions will now have to deal with Mars being their ruling planet, as it was before Pluto was discovered.

I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that Mars and Pluto are just about as different as two planets--excuse me, as one planet and one dwarf planet--can be: Mars was the god of war rules the sign of Aries. Aries people (Arieans?) are known for being feisty little hellcats. Pluto, on the other hand, is icy and cold, the farthest planet from the sun in our solar system until the astronomers decided to go throw a wrench in MVEMJSNUP (who remembers the Saved by the Bell episode where this acronym saved Zack's ass in the trivia contest?) and leave us with MVEMJSNU or perhaps MVEMcJSNUpc which allows for the presence of dwarf planets but sounds would sound ridiculous if you could pronounce it which you can't, and Scorpions are known for--actually, it turns out that Scorpions are known for being feisty little hellcats under a frozen exterior.

Um, astrology? I'm gonna call your bluff on this one. The way I see it, you can't just tack on a frozen exterior onto an Ariean profile and call it something else just cause a new planet was discovered. God I'm glad I'm a Taurus. Even though we're stubborn as hell, at least I know that Venus isn't going anywhere. I'd hate to have my identity be so firmy affixed to something that is a planet then isn't then is but is a dwarf. Me, Stevie Wonder, and Freud are safe!

Are we hott or what?

2006-08-23T22:15:00.000-04:00

Yes.

We.

Are.

Teach a Man to Fish Day

2006-08-23T21:59:00.000-04:00

A couple of posts ago, I wrote about my co-worker, Lisa, who is the creator of some amazing shit. Her jewelry is breathtaking. She mentioned wanting to learn how to knit a while ago (dangerous words to say around these ears), so I suggested that if I taught her how to knit, she could show me how to make a necklace. I decided that we'd call it Teach a Man to Fish Day, in honor of the old adage about self-sufficiency.

So. Today was the Day. Lisa graciously allowed me and my stupid cold to change our original plans, and she hoofed it over here this evening, bringing her beading supplies with her. I bought a couple of glass beads at the Distillery District on Sunday and we decided on a color scheme for a necklace based on the colors of the beads.
With Lisa's assistance, this is what I made:

I think that this jewelry-making thing is so cool! I know that I need another hobby like I need another hole in my head, but I loooove costume jewelry. It's so much fun and seriously, how awesome would it be to have a necklace to coordinate with every shirt in my wardrobe? (It would be pretty awesome, that's how awesome it would be.) I'll be on Queen West on Saturday, and it would be rather foolish of me to avoid the abundant bead stores that populate the area...

Moving on. After making my necklace, I taught Lisa how to knit. This is the only picture she would allow me to take, so I hope you enjoy it!

Even though I jump at the chance to do it, I'm always a little bit wary of teaching people to knit, mainly because knitting was so daunting to me the first time I tried it. I use the long-tail cast on method, which can be confusing (but so pretty!), and I feel like my "students" are disappointed when they are done casting on and I tell them that we haven't even started the actual knitting yet. Lisa, true to beginner form, cast on SOOOO tightly. Like, tighter than I think I've ever seen. By the end of the evening, though, she'd gotten the hang of it pretty well and was knitting away. She took home some yarn (red, of course) and some circular needles and a book, and said she'd practice tonight. What do you think? Have I created (another) knitting monster? I seriously hope so. The ~~stitch n~~ stitchin' bitches that Stephanie, Lorien, and I have every now and again could use another member!

...and when you're down you're down

2006-08-22T21:51:00.000-04:00

Warning: This post isn't going to be lighthearted or funny or amusing, so if you're looking for any of those things, you should probably stop reading now.

I just finished reading Kay Redfield Jamison's An Unquiet Mind, in which she chronicles her experiences with manic-depression. I've read a lot of books, both fiction and non-fiction, about personality and mood disorders over the years, and this is one of the best. Personality disorders are interesting from a psychological and social perspective, but mood disorders are directly related to my life. I wasn't sure if I wanted to blog about this or not, but then I figured that since I'm not ashamed of it, I might as well.

I've been dealing with depression and anxiety since I was 13 and have been on Effexor, an anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medication, for over a year now. I've hated myself and my life, and have wanted to kill myself or have wanted to die, at various times in the past ten or so years. I've seen several psychologists and psychiatrists, though I finally agreed to be medicated only a year ago, partly at the insistence of my mother, and partly because I was finally ready. With my latest psychiatrist at U of T, I started cognitive behavioral therapy, which is designed to give the patient control over their own self-destructive thoughts. It was important to me to do something other than just take a pill every day; I wanted to play an active role in my own recovery. So far, so good--I feel better than I have in years, and have started to slowly break down the poison of my thoughts.

In An Unquiet Mind, Jamison details an illness far more severe than anything I've lived through. I have never experienced mania, nor depression to the depths she describes in the book. I've never attempted suicide. Even though this isn't covered by Jamison, I wanted to mention it anyway--I don't have schizophrenia, for which I am eternally grateful.

However, I know what it feels like to wake up in the morning, every morning, and feel that there is absolutely no point, no point whatsoever, in starting the day, because there is no point whatsoever in even being alive. I know what it feels like to inflict pain on yourself because it is the only emotion you are capable of feeling and the only emotion you are worthy of feeling. I know what it feels like to fall apart and not be able to pick up the pieces; to being on the brink of something so black and deep that it doesn't have a name.

As much as someone can be, I think that I was born ready to be depressed and anxious. Aside from having both depression and alcoholism in my family, I have it on good authority that I was a difficult baby. In fact, my mother originally thought that she wanted five kids, like her own mother, but after she had me she had to be coaxed into even trying for my brother. I cried constantly, all the time, for no reason. The doctor told my mom that I had excess energy that needed to be burned off, and crying was the only way I had to release this energy. He said, just put her down in her crib and walk away. Don't pick her up, don't respond to her, and soon she'll wear herself out and fall asleep.

After I grew out of this crabby babyhood, I think that my young childhood was pretty easy--a respite before the turbulence of adolescence. I suppose I was a happy enough kid, and I don't really remember being particularly moody. I know that I was very sensitive--I cried at the drop of a hat, at the smallest of criticisms. I still have very thin skin. My outer shell is cynicism and flippancy, but it's so thin. You have no idea.

When I got a bit older, the proverbial shit hit the fan. In 1992, Hurricane Andrew devastated Miami, and two weeks after the hurricane, I got my first period and our house burned down. I was 11 and going into sixth grade. My family and I lived in a trailer on our property, next to the charred shell of our old house, and this is where my mom and I waged war on one another. The trailer became a battleground, and we screamed at each other before I went to school in the morning and when I returned in the afternoon. I can only imagine the shock of my adolescence to my parents. I went from being an A and B student to almost failing algebra; I changed from a swan into an ugly duckling in the space of a year: I went from being a cute kid with clear skin and long blond hair to some pretty serious skin problems and the world's most awful haircut; I went from having a stable, if sensitive, disposition, to having a mercurial, volatile, angry one.

In eighth grade, I would sit in my room, listen to Nirvana, and cut myself. I would write suicide notes. I would stare into the flickering flames of candles and wonder why the hell I'd ever been born. In ninth grade I learned how to drink. Alcohol was, and to some extent is, the great social lubricant, and probably one of the only things that allowed me to survive social interactions as a teenager. I was prone to panic attacks around boys and unfamiliar situations, and when you're boy-crazy and into the underground punk scene in a strictly dance-music city, there are plenty of boys and unfamiliar situations to be had.

Still, I somehow managed to emerge from all of this relatively unscathed. After middle school, my grades improved and in high school I was in mostly honors and AP classes. I stopped cutting myself. I stopped writing suicide notes. I didn't stop drinking but neither did I develop a habit. I can't say I stopped listening to Nirvana, but some things aren't likely to change.

I'm not sure that I'm ready to write about my problems with depression and anxiety in college and post-graduation, so I'll save those for another day. Suffice it to say that eventually, I moved home before my mom came out to Oregon and physically removed me, so unable was I to deal with my emotional problems.

I don't think that I will ever be 100% depression and/or anxiety free. I think that these are part of me, part of my personality, and have been part of my genetic makeup probably since I was conceived. For the longest time, the knowledge that I would never be "shiny happy people" has haunted me, has made me doubt myself, has scared me into believing that I will never be a worthwhile, productive member of society, into believing that I will, inevitably, die alone.

Jamison, in An Unquiet Mind, rails against the assumption that all depression, all mania, is bad. On the subject of whether prenatal genetic testing for a pre-disposition to manic-depression be made available to expectant parents, she writes,
Clearly, if better and earlier diagnosis and more specific, less troublesome treatments result from the ongoing genetic research, then the benefits to individuals who have manic-depressive illness, to their families, and to society will be extraordinary...But what are the dangers of prenatal diagnostic testing? Will prospective parents choose to abort fetuses that carry the genes for manic-depressive illness, even though it is a treatable disease?...Do we risk making the world a blander, more homogenized place if we get rid of the genes for manic-depressive illness--an admittedly impossibly complicated scientific problem? What are the risks to the risk takers, those restless individuals who join with others in society to propel the arts, business, politics, and science? (p. 193-194)

I love this. I love it. Why do I have to be perfectly balanced, perfectly stable, each moment of each day of my life? What would the world be like if we were all perfectly balanced? How many artists and musicians and politicians and religious leaders would we be missing if manic-depression and other mood disorders didn't exist? How much of what makes me unique, what makes me me, would be taken away if my depression and anxiety were to disappear? Would I lose my innate connection with animals if I didn't suffer from depression? Would I stop being creative? Would I stop writing? Would I stop being able to appreciate the beauty of stillness, of solitude, of peace? I'm glad I started taking Effexor; I'm glad I started cognitive behavioral therapy. I don't want to hate myself. I don't want to be unhappy. Part of that is accepting that I have depression and anxiety, that those disorders come with problems, to be sure, but isn't part of it accepting that those disorders have given me creativity and writing, sensitivity and empathy?

Amazed

2006-08-21T12:58:00.000-04:00

People amaze me sometimes.

Wow. That might be the first time I’ve said or written that sentence and not meant it in a negative way. Normally I say that before launching into a rant about how someone or other has managed to step on my proverbial toes, but not this time.

I wear my love for knitting on my sleeve; that’s no secret, right? I guess it never occurred to me that some people might be a little bit more private about their craft.

One of my co-workers, a fellow student named Lisa, is one of those people.

I always knew that Lisa was creative and had artistic sensibilities—you can tell just by looking at her, and certainly after talking to her, like, once. She dresses well, and her clothes are classic, which some people might read as boring, but because she is tall and thin her clothes always look great on her. (Sometimes I hate her for it, but don’t tell her that.) She’s a vegetarian, her boyfriend is El Senor Rock Star, and she’s quietly subversive. Those things are all pretty obvious, and she shares them with glee.

So, I kind of thought it was strange that Lisa was creative and artsy, yet didn’t really seem to have an artistic or crafty passion. I was SO wrong: apparently, Lisa is a bead slut of epic proportions.

She makes jewellery, and I’m not talking about hemp and fimo or long strands of seed beads (although those are fine, too). I’m talking gorgeous three-strand necklaces hand-crafted from semi-precious stones, interspersed with delicate sterling silver beads; bracelets composed of turquoise or labradorite or malachite, with hand-twisted silver wire attachments. She brought in a few of her pieces this morning, and I about died. The talent that girl has is incredible.

She clearly has an eye for color, and I love that she doesn’t cheap out—she uses expensive, stunning stones and glass beads without worrying about the cost. She doesn’t sell her items (although she could, and should, and I’m working on it!). She keeps them for herself or gives them away to friends, and I think that that’s the mark of a true craftswoman. Lisa’s not in it for the money or the admiration of her less-talented peers; she makes jewellery because she loves it and because she appreciates fine things and the work that goes into making them.

As I said, people amaze me sometimes.

Best weekend ever

2006-08-20T22:25:00.000-04:00

You know how great it feels to see a really good friend after not having seen them for a long time? And how the absence hasn't forced the two of you any further apart emotionally? And how it's totally possible to absolutely know that you're going to have a wonderful time with them without having to hope for it? That was my weekend.

Aundra and I have been friends since freshman year of college but didn't get super-close until our junior year. We'd been close at the end of our freshman year and the beginning of our sophomore year (second year for you Canadians), but a series of unfortunate boy-related circumstances--and one rather doubtful living situation--eroded our friendship. A couple of weird betrayals by a friend and a rainy Sunday knitting session later, we were back in business, and we really haven't quit since. Sometimes I don't even know how two totally different people are such good friends, but we manage to make it work.

Anyway, this weekend was crazy fun. Friday night was our only really debaucherous night but damn, it felt good. I'm not gonna mention any names, but suffice it to say that Aundra, Stephanie and I had a great time. Liquor-stealing, picking up boys, getting yelled at by bitchy Amazons, befriending a bachelorette, getting kicked out of the bar... all in a night's work. The boys in question were ex-Army guys, hotties all and delightfully tattooed. Since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you a charming story about the run-in with the Amazon.

My guy, Pete, and I had left our group's spot by the bar to go somewhere and make out (me: "Do you wanna make out with me or Aundra? Cause if you wanna make out with her, why are you talking to me?" Him: "No, I wanna make out with you. Let's go.") We'd found a spot by the stairs and were making good use of it when Aundra came bounding up. Someone, either her or Pete, gave me a flower which I put in my hair. I think that Aundra and I probably hugged or something, and I accidentally bumped into the 8-foot-tall brunette Amazon standing next to me. She gave me a withering stare.

Me: Can I help you?

Her: You touched my back.

[Me, thinking: Um, hi? Were you somehow under the impression that bars are barren of people? When I think of a bar on a Friday night near a university, I don't exactly assume three feet of personal space at all times. And shit, it's not like I grabbed your breasts or something.]

Me, my voice dripping with sarcasm: Ohhhhhh. I'm so sorry.

Her: Nice flower.

Ok. If you're going to be an uber-bitch and get pissed at someone for bumping into you in a bar, you might want to think of more insulting comments than that. I just smiled and said as perkily as I know how, "Thanks! Glad you like it!" Pete then dragged me back over to the bar cause she was scary tall and he didn't want to watch me die at the hands of a mutant.

Anyway, it was a great night and a great weekend. I was really sad to say goodbye to Aundra today, cause it's been a year since we've seen each other. It's tough when your best friend lives on the other side of the country. Or I suppose now it's continent.

You are so not as cool as you think you are

2006-08-18T09:23:00.000-04:00

So, first of all, Aundra is here visiting me. For the weekend. She and I have been friends since our freshman year of college, since we were 18, and she is one of my favorite people on earth. You know how much of a stickler I am about spelling and grammar? And you know how she can't spell to save her life (this is the girl who once thought "of" was spelled "ove." That's right--she misspelled a 2-letter word)? Well, I am actually willing to overlook her amazing spelling inability WITHOUT being remotely bitchy or judgmental about it. That's how much I love this girl. So that fact that she's here ALL WEEKEND and I got to take today off work means that I'm happier than a pig in shit.

Still, when things annoy, one must blog. I'm reading Martini Boys, trying to find a good place to go tonight, and I came across an article about a bar that was decorated to look like a '70s bachelor pad. Now, there ain't nothing I like more than anything retro, so I read on. The article mentions the design firm that decorated the bar, which brings me to Pet Peeeve (of the day) Number One:

*Capital letters exist for a reason. Use them. I don't care how goddamn fabulous you think you are, how many times you've been featured in I.D. or Wallpaper or Architecture for Hipsters (I made that one up), you still have to use capital letters, lest some unsuspecting reader happen upon this sentence:
"Continuing to work with munge/leung: design associates..." and think that the writers of the article were trying to spell "mange" but put a U in instead of an A. I seriously HATE companies that don't capitalize the first letter of their name. And poets. e.E. e. E. cCummings, you're so on my shit list.

*While we're on the subject of people who think they are cool demonstrating their coolness through punctuation, the proper way to write out a phone number isn't, and has never been, 666. 666.6666
Periods are not dashes, ok?

*The other thing that annoys that I thought of yesterday, is people who clip their cell phones to their belts. Or wear them in those cell phone protector things on their belts. Or whatever. If you have pockets put it in your goddamn pocket. 10 bucks says you're not so important that the person calling you is going to freak out if you pick up on the second ring (or second rendition of Michael Jackson's Smooth Criminal) instead of the first due to the delay that inevitably results from taking your phone out of your pocket. The worst offenders? Guys who wear jeans AND their cell phones clipped to their belts. Fucking losers.

Ok, that's it. Must go be happy now!

Hold the phone! It actually fits. So far.

2006-08-16T19:08:00.000-04:00

Don't you love the one-handed self-portrait? This is my cotton sweater from Rebecca and it's coming along pretty well, if I do say so myself. And I do. I think I should make that clear--so far, this project is progressing swimmingly. It's simple, maybe some would say simplistic, but sometimes I think that, in my desire to make a sweater or whatever it is look impressive, I forget how pleasing simplicity can be. Clean lines, pretty waist shaping

and yarn that makes me rethink my oft-professed hatred of cotton. What more could a knitter ask for?

Here's to hoping it continues in this vein!

Snootily pretentious. Or is it pretentiously snooty?

2006-08-16T14:13:00.000-04:00

So, a few weeks ago I got summoned to appear for jury duty in Miami. Obviously, since I’m in Toronto, I wasn’t exactly able to appear. I’ve been called for jury duty several times, but I’ve never attended cause I’ve always been away at school. The other times, my mom took care of it for me. I like to think that she waved her magic Mom Wand and made everything ok. For some reason, she decided that this time I’d have to handle it myself. Maybe it’s cause I’m 25. Could be, but who knows. Anyway, she sent me the summons and I filled out the “unable to appear” box, or whatever it was, and attached a letter explaining that I’m studying in Canada and not only will I not be able to show up for jury duty, I’m also unable to provide a date at which I will be available, as I do not foresee returning to Miami in the near future.

Apparently, that wasn’t good enough for the kind people of the courthouse, as they sent me—and by me, I mean my parents, as even though I gave them my address here, they sent me this piece of mail at my parents’ house—a notice saying that they would need more information to process my request. I was then instructed to call them between the highly convenient hours of 10 am and 4 pm, Tuesday through Friday. It just so happens that I have this thing called a job, and lo and behold, it’s pretty much a 9-5, Monday through Friday kind of thing. I could make a long-distance phone call from work, but I’m not going to, on principle. The way I see it, they should be so desperate to get people in there for jury duty, they should be bending over and letting us, the good responsible citizens of the world, give it to them any way we want. If I want to find out about fulfilling my civic duty at—gasp!—6 pm on a Monday evening, after I’ve returned from work, I should be able to speak to someone at that time. Not gonna bend over for me? I’m not gonna bend over for you!

Instead of calling them, I’m sending them a letter in my most snotty, pretentious office-speak. I loooove writing letters like this. Where else do you get to use the phrase “in lieu of” other than an obituary? This is an occasion, an opportunity to pull out the old thesaurus and brush up on long-forgotten SAT words. You know that the person reading it
a) won’t be able to make heads or tails of it and
b) won’t care in the slightest, so you should…

c) have a little bit of fun with it.

So far, this is my favourite sentence:
“I was instructed to telephone the courthouse office between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. and furnish you with further details regarding my situation; however, these times are inconvenient, as I am at work during the day and it is difficult for me to place long-distance phone calls at my office.”

The thing about these letters is that you have to make them sound hideously snotty without over-exaggerating. Like, if I wanted to be too obvious about it, I would have written this:
“I was commanded to ring the courthouse office between the hours of 10 o’ clock ante meridiem and 4 o’ clock post meridiem [or, for even further hijinks, “ten of the clock ante meridiem and four of the clock post meridiem”, but I think that would, perhaps, be taking things too far, no?] and furnish you with auxiliary details regarding the circumstances of my educational pursuits; unfortunately, these temporal junctures are ~~vexing~~ unsuitable [here I had a real tough time letting go of “vexing,” which is attractive for its Shakespearean quality, and “unsuitable,” which, in the end, drives home the fact that these hours are ludicrous], as I find myself at work during the daylight hours, and it is most inappropriate for me to place long-distance telephone calls at my office.”

Man, this is SO much fun.

2006-08-13T20:43:00.000-04:00

Does it creep anyone else out that Frances Bean Cobain is almost 14 years old?

She's older now than I was when her dad killed himself--and she wasn't even two at the time. I remember when Kurt Cobain died I wondered what would become of his daughter. There are very few celebrity children that I actually give a shit about but Frances Bean Cobain is one of them. I LOVED Nirvana in a way that I haven't loved a band before or since. I lived and breathed their music, although I was just starting to listen to them when he died. Grunge had such a huge influence on my life as a teenager and I could relate to it more than any of the other musical trends of the time (gangsta rap, anyone?). Kurt was pretty fucked up though, and Courtney Love is...interesting...and I sort of thought FB would maybe inherit some of that self-destructiveness.

However, I hoped that FB would somehow emerge from the drama of her early life relatively unscathed, and it appears that she has. I was reading a couple of interview with her, and she seems to be a pretty well-adjusted 13-year-old. Which is good. Maybe Courtney Love's crazy sheltering of her daughter has actually paid off.

Still, it's crazy to see pictures of Frances Bean. (Frances? Bean? Not sure what to call her.) She is the spitting image of her father.

2006-08-13T19:20:00.000-04:00

This is what today looked like

The past few days have been amazing: the air has been cool, the sun has been shining, and the sky is blue blue blue. No humidity. What a relief from the heat wave! Too bad my mood hasn't been as good as the weather. Nothing specific is wrong; work is fine, life is fine, etc. I've just been feeling melancholy lately, and I think part of it is that I just don't really feel like I live here. Which is weird, considering that I do, for now, and considering that I've been here for a while. Maybe I'm just restless, I don't know.

Anyway. I bought some really pretty cotton/wool yarn a couple of weeks ago with the intention of making some kind of sweater. Cotton has always been my knitting nemesis, but I've got very sensitive skin and was tired of itching all the time, so I decided to give it another go. The yarn is Cascade Sierra Quatro, number 82; it's a marled yarn with four plied strands of pink, green, pale blue, and the palest lavender (I didn't even notice that there was any purple in it until I looked very closely). I decided on this sweater:

It's from Rebecca 31, pattern 27. I had started knitting it in the flat, as per the pattern, and then I saw this version on Juju Strickt. It's absolutely gorgeous and I love everything about it. It's knit in the round which I've never done before (seamless sweater, not circular knitting), and I emailed the knitter/blogger, asking her how she converted the pattern, which is for a sweater knitted in the flat, to circular. She was very kind and emailed me back with instructions.

I immediately cast on and this is what I have so far:

The pattern calls for the ribbing at the bottom to be knitted on smaller needles, which I didn't have. I made up for it by knitting in the English style, holding the yarn in my right hand. This is how I learned to knit, and how I always used to knit until I taught myself Continental. Now I can do both, but I prefer Continental. Anyway, my English knitting is pretty tight, so I just knitted the ribbing using the English method, then switched when I got to the stockinette stitch. (I'm very, very proud of my cleverness.)
Here you can see the ribbing:

Here's a close-up of the "seam," where the sides would be joined if I was knitting them in the flat. I am doing waist shaping, so this picture shows the decreases:

In other fiber news, there has been an unfortunate set-back with the Pistachio Aran. After sewing together the shoulder seams and realizing that the side cabley guys didn't match up, I consulted with my roommate. At first I was going to just rip it back to the armhole decreases and knit up the rest a bit differently, but after Lorien and I looked at it closely, it was brought to my attention that I would actually have to pull out one entire side and re-knit it so that it's the reverse of the other side. That didn't make sense, did it? When I first knit the front and back, I knit them exactly the same. However, when placed back-to-back, they are not mirror images of each other. So against all of my laziness and slacker wisdom, I decided to frog away and redo it. I actually don't feel that badly about it, cause I think it'll look better in the end, and if I'm gonna put in the energy to make something, it might as well look good, right?

2006-08-12T20:43:00.000-04:00

When I first came here one weekend last August, I was looking for an apartment and a job. Having found both--or having at least made steps toward finding both--I took myself on a little tour of Toronto's yarn shops. I feel that a city's yarn stores say a lot about it: Portland is teeming with places to fondle yarn and fiber, mostly of the natural variety (you're not gonna find much glittery shiny acrylic there!); one could say that they were down-to-earth, no-nonsense and natural, kind of like Portlanders and the city itself. Miami's one LYS is the polar opposite--it is all glittery, shiny acrylic yarns, a decent selection of cotton and, tucked in the way back, a smattering of Noro and Lamb's Pride. Kind of like Miami--lots of style and very little substance.

After almost a year here, it's time to consider the question, what do Toronto's yarn stores say? I've never been disappointed by a lack of selection at the LYSs. It's just that I'm not sure what that selection means. For a city that is so bitterly cold in the winter (so I've heard, at least; last year was pretty mild), there seems to be an awful lot of cotton. There's an abundance of gorgeous hand-painted yarn (Fleece Artist and Hand Maiden, I'm looking at you) but, when turned into the inevitable shawl or scarf, it would only get hidden under my peacoat/winter jacket and that is a shame (though perhaps others are more adventurous in their fall and winter wardrobes than I am, and so allow their scarves some freedom; I'm usually too concerned about them getting blown away by the wind to allow that). What's up with the contradictions?

*********************************************

One complaint I do have about one particular LYS is the attitude of the employees. Much like at bookstores and record stores, yarn store staff must be knowledgeable about their craft and the store's wares and, at the same time, have a tolerance for low pay and customer service. I worked at a bookstore; I know what a pain in the ass it is to be expected to have read every single volume in the place, work shitty hours for no money, and deal with annoying customers. I know that. However. I would like to take this opportunity to state that, just because my job was frustrating and, at times, I wanted to kill customers/my coworkers/my boss, does not mean that I was patronizing or condescending to people because of it. If someone's idea of a great read is the Shopaholic series, I'll recommend Bridget Jones's Diary. If a customer loved Painting the Map Red: The Fight to Create a Permanent Republican Majority, why, they'd just inhale Ann Coulter's latest. My point is, even though I sometimes thought our customers' reading choices were abominable does not mean that I felt the right or the need to treat them with disrespect.

Anyway.

Today, Lorien, her mom, and I went to an LYS that we'll call Corriedale. This store is known for its comprehensive selection, which really is pretty hard to beat. However, most of the times that I've gone there, and from what I understand, most of the times that Lorien's gone there, the service has been seriously below par. They have it totally made, though, cause they aren't rude enough for someone to actually call them on it. It's more of a tone of voice than nasty words. The store owner and a man who I suppose is the store manager both have shitty attitudes. No question has ever been answered with anything even approaching respect, that I've ever heard. Cheerfulness? Forget it. Service with a smile? Not likely.

Um, to get to the point. Lorien's mom saw a pattern online that she loved but wasn't able to purchase the pattern separately from the yarn, and the whole thing was in British pounds and was from a Rowan designer, so it was pretty expensive. At first, we were just looking for a similar pattern. One of the store's employees assisted us, and she was actually quite helpful. She recommended a couple of magazines, then went through the loose patterns, trying to find something suitable. Even though we didn't find anything, it was great that she actually tried.

Meanwhile, as she was in the middle of answering Lorien's question the guy who I think is the manager actually yelled across the store to her, "Hey _______, when are you gonna take your break?" Ok. First rule of customer service: when one of your clerks is busy assisting someone, DO NOT interrupt them. And with an inane question. And by yelling. Just don't do it.

Then, as we were standing near the checkstand a bit later, an older woman came in with a ball of black yarn that someone had purchased for her from the sale room. The yarn had been missing a ball band and so the customer was unable to identify it, but she needed more to complete her project. The employee (not the same one who helped us) asked if she'd already looked in the sale room for more, and when the woman said she hadn't, the employee directed her downstairs to another Corriedale employee. At first, I thought it was because the first employee was busy and wrongly assumed that she was going to help us next, but as soon as the customer walked away, she turned to run off to the back of the store. This isn't that bad of an infraction, I suppose, but I can't help thinking that, instead of sending the customer off on her own, she could've just taken the two minutes to walk her downstairs, find the other employee or, if that person was busy, she could've helped the woman find the yarn herself. At Books & Books, we were expected to actually physically SHOW our customers the section or the exact book they were looking for, and I can't say it ever hurt me to do so. Even if I had to pass the person off to one of my coworkers, I would walk the customer over to them. People seemed to really appreciate the attention, especially if they were in a hurry, and our store had a reputation of great customer service.

Ok. Back to Corriedale. At the end, I was explaining to this manager person, who I have dealt with before and have never really liked, that we were trying to figure out how much of a certain yarn we would need to create a cardigan that we'd seen online, but we unfortunately didn't have the measurements. I wasn't really expecting him to pull the answer out of his ass or anything, but he asked if we needed help so I explained. He was slouching behind the counter, leaning on it with his chin propped up on his hand, and he explained to me how to substitute one yarn for another. Complete with the whole "You read the pattern and find out how many yards of yarn it takes, then you pick out a different yarn, figure out how many yards you get per skein, then divide the number of total yards per project by the number of yards per skein" routine. In a ridiculously patronizing voice, like he was talking to a toddler. I might be taking this a bit personally, but dude? Seriously? I KNOW how to substitute yarn. Believe me, I'm cheaper than you could ever imagine, not to mention more creative, and I will do anything to avoid spending my hard-earned money on $15-a-skein yarn by Insert Name of Big Yarn Manufacturer Here.

I guess I'm just sick of dealing with people who obviously hate their customers. I can understand that it's difficult to deal with problem people, but there are certain things you just don't do when you work in customer service. I mean, I compare this experience with my visit to Knit-O-Matic a couple of weeks ago, where the store owner was incredibly helpful and nice and showed me some of her favorite new patterns, and I ended up spending over $100 on yarn, which I never do, and I wonder why I even bother with Corriedale.

Things I love

2006-08-11T10:22:00.000-04:00

1. I am seriously having an awesome hair day. Apparently, no humidity combined with actually washing my hair (but still not blow-drying it cause I am lazy) equals great hair.

2. Naps. 2 hour naps plus 7 hours of sleep at night equals I can function like a normal human being.

3. Takeout Chinese food. Sesame chicken and spring rolls. I heart you to pieces.

4. My new mature mindset. Since yesterday evening when I decided that the only solution to my Pistachio Aran woes was to frog one side and reknit it so that it matches the other, I have felt much more mature, because instead of just bitching about something, I am actually fixing a problem.

5. Seamless raglan sweaters. Which is what my cotton sweater will become once I've ripped out what I've done so far.

6. Weekends.

7. The t-shirt I'm wearing today. It's pink, has a skull and two guitars crossed behind it, and on the bottom it says, "Chase the dream, live for rock!" And I totally didn't get it at American Eagle; it's from a thrift store in New Orleans.

8. David Attenborough's Life in the Undergrowth series. I watched the episode on spiders last night. So. Freakin. Cool.

9. My friend Aundra. For our impending 5:00 conversation.

10. Coffee. Which I am now going to get.

Things I hate

2006-08-10T09:45:00.000-04:00

1. My alarm clock. When it went off this morning at 7, I immediately thought it was a conspiracy to keep me from operating on a halfway normal level.

2. My stupid cotton sweater. Why isn't it wide enough? Why do I have to rip it out and start over again?

3. My skin. Hello? I'm not 14 any longer. Feel free to stop breaking out at any time.

4. The U of T File Plan for not being complete enough for me to do my job well and in a timely manner.

5. My Pistachio Aran. I sewed the shoulders together and the stupid side cabley things don't align perfectly.

6. My inability to create perfect projects. Why can't I be either a little bit more Type A (perfection perfection perfection at any cost) or a little bit more Type B (it may not be perfect but I don't care).

7. Morning people. All of them. I may not hate mornings as much as some people (Lorien, I'm looking at you here) but I find it pretty near impossible to wake up without difficulty consecutive mornings.

8. My hair. I didn't bother to wash it this morning cause I didn't want it to dry out. I was too lazy to blow dry it and now it looks like shit.

9. My itchy arms. Why, why, why must you itch? I put lotion on this morning so that you wouldn't, yet you insist.

10. MS Internet Explorer. I didn't need that for-once-well-worded email to my coworker, complete with the documents I was unable to attach yesterday. Thanks a lot.

On being uncool

2006-08-09T15:55:00.000-04:00

Do you ever have moments when you realize that you are absolutely without a doubt out of touch with the world?

My Achilles heel has always been pop culture. When I was a child, I wasn’t allowed to watch TV. We didn’t even get a color TV until I was in, like, third or fourth grade. And it’s not as though I was born in the ‘50s or something; I was born in 1981. The only reason I was even aware of the popular TV shows of the mid- to late-1980s is cause I heard about them relentlessly from the other kids. My brother and I would go to our neighbor’s house to watch Silver Spoons after school, but until I discovered Saved by the Bell when I was ten or so, that is literally the only sitcom I had ever seen. According to Wikipedia, Silver Spoons was airing new episodes between 1982 and 1986, and hasn’t been regularly syndicated since the mid-1990s. Our neighbors moved away when I was, oh, I don’t know, nine or ten or so. The very latest year I could have ever watched Silver Spoons at their house would have been 1991, and I suspect that we stopped watching it before then.

In 1991, I was in 5th grade. I can clearly remember, in my last few years of elementary school, being on the playground when the “cool” kids were talking about their favourite TV shows—In Living Color; The Simpsons; Fresh Prince of Bel-Air; Beverly Hills, 90210; The Wonder Years; Married…with Children; Roseanne… the list goes on and on. I had never seen an episode of any of these shows, a fact which doesn’t bother me at all now, but at the time was highly, highly disturbing.

I remember when my entire fourth-grade homeroom class “rapped,” in unison, Vanilla Ice’s "Ice Ice Baby". All I knew was the first line, “Stop collaborate and listen.” I remember when, in fifth grade, the visiting D.A.R.E. officer was trying to choose someone in my class to do their best Urkel impression. I sat there, praying he wouldn’t call on me, as I had no idea who Urkel was or why I should be imitating him. I remember when, in sixth grade, my classmates and I in the advanced program went to Sea Camp for a week, and my group performed a sketch from In Living Color in front of everyone, and though I thought it was hysterical, I was none the wiser about who Homey D. Clown was and what “Hated it” referred to.

I was no better with music, either. As an elementary school student, I listened to the Beach Boys, Billy Joel, and Simon and Garfunkel. When I was in sixth grade, Boyz II Men, Color Me Badd, and Whitney Houston finally appeared on my radar, but it was years before I could sing along with a Michael Jackson song (I never did learn all the words to any of them). Paula Abdul, Kriss Kross, the aforementioned Vanilla Ice… they all passed me by as I was singing along with Brian Wilson (and, I must confess, Jordan Knight and Joey McIntyre).

To this day, I don’t pay any attention to what’s on the radio. I don’t even own one. I don’t have cable and can’t watch music videos. While I do watch TV, I mostly download stuff and watch it on my computer, allowing me to pick and choose my shows. The reality TV craze pretty much ended my need or desire to watch a lot of television.

Most of the time, I don’t mind my own ignorance of pop culture. I figure that as long as I read celebrity gossip blogs, I won’t be too out of touch. Sometimes, though, I am amazed at how quickly things change and how easy it is to be out of the loop, and I feel a little bit guilty, like I’m a bit of a “traitor to my generation” (10 points if you can name the movie that quotation is from). The songs that I listen to on my iPod that I think of as current—OutKast’s "Caroline", Usher’s "Yeah"—have been replaced by songs I’d never even heard of (Nelly Furtado’s “Promiscuous”) before my friend Aundra told me that “her” song on MySpace is "Promiscuous". This is how old-school I am—I thought that Promiscuous was probably by Britney Spears or possibly Christina Aguilera. Now, I know that Britney is not the Pop Princess any longer, and that Christina Aguilera is too busy posing as Marilyn Monroe to sing, but when I heard the title of the song, that’s who I thought of.

I am SO not cool. (I am so not cool that "cool" probably isn't even a word that's used with any regularity by the truly with-it, except maybe in an ironic sense, the way I say "rad." Or something.)

Take 2

2006-08-08T22:51:00.000-04:00

This afternoon I washed, rinsed, and hung to dry the three rovings I over-dyed this weekend.

For these, I was pretty careful about how wet the wool was when I started painting, how much dye I used, and how much citric acid I sprayed on the rovings in the end. I also allowed them to cool overnight, still wrapped in balls, rather than laying them out flat. The colors are much truer than the original rovings; there was a bit of fading but nothing to be concerned about. We'll see what they look like spun up though.

Even though I'm not overly ecstatic with the results, I feel like I've learned quite a bit from both batches of rovings that I've painted. I'm naturally drawn to color--the more color the better. However, from what I've seen of painting wool and yarn, it's better to stick with a limited palette of few hues, with varying shades within those colors. The end result seems to be more complex and calmer, too, instead of chaotic and a bit muddy. Maybe with practice I'll be able to use more colors with better results, but for now I think I'm going to try variation within three or so hues. Next time, next time.

This:

used to be this:

(This one's just a gratuitous shot of the same skein)

The yarn spun up sooo nicely... gotta love merino! I tried to spin a decent-sized single, as I knew that I wouldn't be getting enough out of the roving if I plied the yarn. It was so fun to spin something that I'd dyed. I was so focused on watching the colors change and work together. I like this yarn a lot more than I thought I would, which is the fascinating thing about spinning--you never know what the yarn is going to look like just from the unspun fiber itself.

2006-08-08T19:32:00.000-04:00

I love long, lazy summer days. We're on summer hours at work so I was out of there at 4:30 today. Come home, make a sandwich and then a beeline for the deck--what could be better than a hammock and a beer, the sun and a cool breeze, a good book and the stillness of a residential neighborhood?

As yesterday's dyed rovings soak, I eat my sandwich and read Edward Abbey. Having never encountered him before, I find in Desert Solitaire the words of a philosopher and a dreamer, but not any garden-variety philosopher or dreamer. Abbey was an eco-nazi, an eco-warrior, a staunch protester of the development of America's wild spaces.

He spent a few summers as a ranger at Arches National Monument, before it became a national park. Abbey had some radical suggestions for the National Park Service, ways to ensure the protection of the natural environment, while enhancing the human experience in the parks--in a decidedly un-American manner. My favorite of Abbey's ideas? Ban motorized vehicles of any and all kinds in the parks. The Park Service would take the money saved on not building and maintaining the roads and provide bicycles and horses for campers and vacationers to use. I love that--can't you just see the horrified looks on people's faces when they are told to park their cars and ride bikes into the park instead? Brilliant!

As I sit out on the deck, relaxing in the late afternoon light, I read Abbey's musings on floating the Colorado River in the Glen Canyon region before the dam was built. His words are particularly poignant given that we are in the process of doing irreversible damage to our planet:

"Wilderness. The word itself is music...

"Suppose we say that wilderness invokes nostalgia, a justified not merely sentimental nostalgia for the lost America our forefathers knew. The word suggests the past and the unknown, the womb of earth from which we all emerged. It means something lost and something still present, something remote and at the same time intimate, something buried in our blood and nerves, something beyond us and without limit. Romance--but not to be dismissed on that account. The romantic view, while not the whole of truth, is a necessary part of the whole truth.

"But the love of wilderness is more than a hunger for what is always beyond reach; it is also an expression of loyalty to the earth which bore us and sustains us, the only home we shall ever know, the only paradise we ever need--if only we had the eyes to see. Original sin, the true original sin, is the blind destruction for the sake of greed of this natural paradise which lies all around us--if only we were worthy of it."

As I sit here, in the hammock, drinking my beer and feeling sated, enjoying the sun and the breeze and the quiet, it's hard to imagine a world gone wrong. The day to day mundanities of life take over, too, until I am hardly aware that a week has passed. It's hard to sustain the fire of indignation when there is work to do, classes to attend, meals to cook. There is celebrity gossip to distract and there are blithe self-absorbed people to worship, until it all becomes a jumble and a blur and I forget what is at stake. I love reading stuff by people like Abbey because I am brought back to the basics, the irreplicable feeling of warm sun and cool water, the joy of hearing birds calling and the wind in the trees--so satisfying.

Then I remember what is at stake.

Misadventures in dyeing

2006-08-08T09:11:00.002-04:00

Sooo, it turns out that dyeing roving is harder than it looks. I have much more of an appreciation for people who consistently produce beautifully dyed wool. Lorien and I spread out our little strips of roving (we didn't want to make too big of a commitment to any one "colorway," as if what we produced could rightly be called colorways).

I, as usual, didn't have a color scheme in mind, and I have tried to ~~read~~ memorize Deb Menz's Color in Spinning, but it's too technical for me. When I see per cent signs and acronyms (DOS, etc.), my brain turns off. It looks too much like math. I figured that I'd let my artistic, creative, free-flowing self take over and produce magical, beautiful colors.

Not so much.

These four rovings look better in the picture than they do in real life. The colors are brighter here, but they are actually pretty washed out, particularly the two on the right:

I didn't intend for them to be so light, but I'm pretty sure I know what went wrong; it was either:
*wool that was too wet,
*too much dye,
*not enough citric acid to set the dye, or
*forcing the rovings to cool off quickly by laying them out flat instead of keeping them rolled up.
Let's try all of the above, shall we?

These two look a bit better:

This one I spun up yesterday; I'll post pictures later.

This is the only one I'm actually pleased with. The colors are fairly true to what they were originally, and I like the way they all work together. Of course, I suppose that producing pretty blue/green roving is fairly easy, since most people like those colors and they complement each other so well.

I over-dyed the two lightest ones, with hopefully better results. I haven't washed and dried them yet, so I'm not sure what they'll look like, but I tried to make sure that they got well doused with citric acid, and they were not unrolled as they cooled off.

People Suck, part 2

2006-08-04T09:24:00.000-04:00

I’ve been reading library blogs lately, trying to get a sense of what I’ll be facing in my professional life in the next few years.
These are some of my favorites:
Happyville Library,
Annoyed Librarian, and
Society for Librarians Who Say "Mofo"
(note: The title of the above blog actually spells out the word that "mofo" stands for, but that is one of two words I will not say around my mother, and on the off-chance that she will ever read this, I don't want to offend her. Also note that I will and do say this word aloud quite often, just never around her. Some things are sacred.).

These blogs chronicle the daily grind at the library, the ins and outs of dealing with the public. It has been drawn to my attention by these blogs that the public sucks. For every one decent, intelligent, friendly patron, there seems to be ten argumentative, pushy, obnoxious ones.

Here at this quiet academic library, we deal mostly with students who are studying to become librarians and other information professionals, so the amount of bullshit we have to deal with is small. However, now and then we get some treasures.

Yesterday, I was sitting at one of the circulation desks doing some work, and a librarian was working at the other desk. A patron came in to return a book that was a bit overdue. She had incurred $1.00 in fines on it. When my coworker informed her that she had fines, the woman said, "You're not actually going to make me pay them, are you?"

Why, yes, actually, we are. That's the way the library works--we allow you to take out books FOR FREE, but you are going to be charged for them if they are late. This can't be new to you. Libraries have been doing this since the beginning of time. Hell, it's the only way to make sure that the materials come back. Think about it another way--would you expect Blockbuster to waive your late fees just for the fun of it?

The patron's reasoning was that, since the book hadn't been checked out since February, she shouldn't be charged anything in late fees because no one was waiting for them.

Oh, well in that case, you're absolutely right. This book hasn't been taken out in six months, so it is entirely unreasonable for us to charge you for returning it late. Lady, I don't care if that book hadn't been taken off the shelf since the last ice age. If it's late, you get fined.

She's lucky, cause my co-worker is nicer than I am, and waived her fines. As she was doing so, the patron was saying, "Oh, it's ok, you don't have to do that."

Suuuuuure.

The clincher? This parting statement: "The library is my favorite charity."

News flash--the library is NOT a charity. It's a public service, paid for by taxes and the government. In this case, it's a service provided to students, paid for by the university. Just because we accept donations DOES NOT mean that we are a charity.

Furthermore, if you are this "generous" with your "favorite charity," I'd like to see what you're like to your least favorite "charity." I hope you don't withhold that dollar from them all, cheapskate.

I know that I sound vitriolic over a situation that, after all, wasn't even mine to deal with, but that kind of crap annoys me. I am a chronic late-book-returner. I have fines at the public library constantly. Never once have I asked to have my fines waived because the book wasn't popular, or because it was only a day late, or whatever. If I return a book late, I'll be charged a fine. That's just the way it is. To me, it's a small price to pay for the privilege of having a public library, of being able to check out free books, of being able to read the newest hardcover books so that I don't have to shell out upwards of $25 for them. See, I'm a cheapskate, too, but I'm not going to argue with the librarian or circulation clerk over a couple of bucks in fines that I knowingly incurred. I'm not that cheap.

Mean Nice People Suck

2006-08-03T15:00:00.000-04:00

This afternoon, I was at a grocery store buying dinner for work tonight. Usually, Dominion is super crowded and the lines at the checkstands are very long. However, it being the middle of the day, the store wasn’t too busy.

I was behind a woman who was buying a few things: chips, a bottle of soda, and a magazine. Her total came to $9.28, and she counted out her change for the cashier, who said, “$9.28. Right on.” I assumed that the customer had provided exact change. The cashier printed out her receipt and handed it to her, and started ringing up my sushi.

Most people, when they’ve been given their receipt at a store, start packing up their stuff and get out of there. Not this woman. She stood there until the clerk acknowledged her.

Stupid customer: Actually, you owe me two cents.
Cashier: What?
SC: Yeah, I gave you $9.30, so you owe me two cents.
C: Oh… Do you have the bill?
[The receipt was provided and they looked over it to determine that, indeed, the cashier had been given $9.30 and therefore, the customer was owed $.02.)
SC: Well, it’s not a big deal. I don’t really need it.
C: No, you’re owed two cents, so here you go.

Me: [in my head] What in the name of God is wrong with this customer? It’s two goddamn pennies, for the love of crap. Obviously, she was making some kind of ridiculous point by quibbling over two cents. Was it to alert the cashier to her mistake? Was it to embarrass or irritate the cashier? Was it to just be a stupid, anal-retentive waste of space?

I officially hate humanity.

Bush-tastic

2006-08-02T12:06:00.000-04:00

Last night, I had a burst of financial responsibility. Of course, this responsibility occurred only in my head, but at least I’m thinking about it. I am 25 years old, and I have no credit card(s) and no savings account. I use my checking account for EVERYTHING.

On the other hand, I’m 25 years old and debt-free, thanks to my dad’s amazing benefits plan that paid for my tuition at an expensive private college. Also, I’ve never actually wanted a credit card, as I can still hear my 12th-grade government and economics teacher’s voice in my head, saying, “Credit cards are nothing but plastic debt.” And I did have a savings account when I lived in Portland, but I had to close it when I moved to Miami.

Attending grad school in a “foreign” country throws another wrench into my financial situation, as I have no real desire to open a savings account or a Roth IRA (that’s right, baby, this girl’s gonna start saving for retirement!) in Canada when I’m probably not going to be here for that much longer.

Anyway, I decided to call my dad for some financial advice, cause he’s pretty good with money. We discussed IRAs, mutual funds, and stocks, which means that I was thoroughly confused and remembered why I have only a checking account. However, I’ve ordered a book through the Toronto Public Library about financial planning, which I’m hoping will clear things up a bit.

After we finished talking about money, we started talking about the heat wave, which led to a conversation about climate change:

Me: …Yeah, I think that this heat wave is related to climate change, too. Ya know, I took an online quiz once to determine my ecological footprint, and it turns out that, even though I don’t drive right now and I recycle and stuff, it would take five planet Earths if everyone in the world lived the way I do. So I wonder, what else can I do? Can global warming be stopped?

Dad: I don’t know if it can be stopped, but seeing as how nothing has been done, we can’t really do any worse. People can start small. I never see anyone buying fluorescent light bulbs [My dad has been a proponent of the fluorescent bulb for many, many moons] and they save tons of ener—
Speaking of which, have you heard the one about the light bulb? You know those light bulb jokes? Well, how many Irishmen does it take to screw in a light bulb?

Me: I don’t know, Dad, how many?

Dad: Two: One to hold the light bulb and the other to bring a bottle of whiskey. Then they wait for the room to start spinning.
Anyway, people could buy more fluorescent bulbs. And stop buying those damn gas-guzzling SUVs [My father is also a rabidly anti-SUV kinda guy].

Eventually, this led to a discussion about American politics. As I’m sure you are all aware, the mainstream American media is something of a joke—instead of actual news and critical reporting, we are subject to “infotainment,” something that I truly abhor. I refuse to believe that the American public is a dumb as people would like to think; on the contrary, I think that the American public has been lied to, and overworked, and under-educated, and all of these combine to create a populace that is unable to decipher or even seek out the truth. That does not, however, mean that Americans are stupid. (Although, there is some truth to the old adage, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”)

I love getting my dad started on his anti-Dubya rants. He hates Bush, which is something that my father and I have in common, and thinks he’s an idiot. My dad goes out of his way to find the speeches that the media never reports on to find the president’s Bush-isms. We all know the old stand-bys, “misunderestimated,” “subliminable,” etc., but there is so much more where those came from.

Take, for example, this recent response to a question about whether the tide was turning in the war on Iraq:

"I think -- tide turning -- see, as I remember -- I was raised in the desert, but tides kind of -- it's easy to see a tide turn -- did I say those words?" --George W. Bush, asked if the tide was turning in Iraq, Washington, D.C., June 14, 2006, from Bushisms and political humor

The man is unintelligible. There are many, many things that I look for in a president, and Bush possesses absolutely none of those qualities, but at the very least, he should be able to answer a simple question without sounding like he’s competing for Village Idiot of the Year award (which Bush would undoubtedly win every time).

(That one’s for you, dad.)

"Spring Garden"? "Monet's Lillies"? Or, perhaps, "green and blue and kinda pink yarn"

2006-08-01T17:50:00.000-04:00

I'm not here to talk about how it's 36 degrees Celsius/100 degrees Fahrenheit outside right now. Or about how it was 34 degrees Celsius/96 degrees Fahrenheit at 8 o'clock this morning. (It did register this on a thermometer on the side of a building that was in the direct sunlight, but as one of my library school friends said, "We're in the direct sunlight too," thus meaning that the thermometer reading was indeed accurate.)

I'm not here to talk about how I can confirm that head does rise--I live in an un-air conditioned attic apartment and holy crap, it's hot. I'm not here to talk about how I had to pour a cup of water on my head last night so that I could cool down enough to sleep. I'm not here to talk about how even my bedclothes are boiling hot.

No, I'm here to talk about--and show--the results of my Sunday re-dyeing experiment.

On Sunday, I dyed inside. I didn't want to deal with the wind again, and I figured that if I was careful with the dye it wasn't a big deal to work inside. Plus, that way I got to listen to music and have a fan trained on me at all times.

I used a mix of turquoise, blue, and yellow to get the dark green tones, and a mix of turquoise and yellow for the blue.

Here's the before:

Here's the during:

And here are the afters:

Block party

2006-07-29T18:00:00.000-04:00

I somehow managed to finish both the front and the back of the Pistachio Aran and block them. At the same time. Side by side. I watched Lorien block something the other night, and she was soooo precise. Every movement was painstaking, every pin was deliberately placed. That is approximately the antithesis of my approach. I didn't even bother to pin it in some places cause the wool stretched and held so well. I can't tell if this casual approach (to everything) is my downfall (my creations are never perfect) or my saving grace (what's the point in obsessing?).

This is going to be a loooooong sweater. I do have a loooooong torso and have eternal difficulties finding tank tops that fit (thank you, American Apparel, for cutting your tanks long. I love you). However, I might have overdone it on the length. The length of the body, excluding the armscye, is 18 inches long. My torso is not (thank God) 18 inches long from my underarm. This may be more of a tunic than a sweater. I'm counting on some of the length being shortened when I sew it together and put it on, but as I don't have large breasts this may be wishful thinking. We'll just have to see.

I'm no longer afraid of dyeing

2006-07-29T17:26:00.000-04:00

Dyeing yarn and wool is something that I've wanted to get into for a while. I tried Kool-Aid dyeing but was never that into the sickly colors. A couple of months ago, I went to G & S Dye here in Toronto, and bought their acid dye kit. For 30 bucks, you get the three primary colors and black, soap, and citric acid to set the dye.

Not a bad deal! Plus, the guy who was working there when I stopped in was ultra helpful and knowledgeable.

Because I'd done some dyeing before (Kool-Aid) and hadn't been too thrilled with the results, I wanted to read up on dyeing yarn before I started. I consulted Deb Menz's Color in Spinning, which has a wealth of information on color theory, and Lynne Vogel's Twisted Sisters Sock Workbook, an indispensable resource for dyeing rovings. I have some roving and a pound cone of white yarn I got a while ago with the idea of dyeing it, but as this was my maiden voyage (and because I want to have a "dyeing day" later this week), I started with some sale yarn I got at Knit-O-Matic. I had two skeins of 50 grams each.

I put those in a water bath to soak while I set up my workspace.

My workspace pretty much consisted of the deck. I don't exactly have the most professional set-up here. (We are not going to discuss the windiness of Toronto, nor are we going to talk about how pissed off I was when a freshly mixed bowl of green dye upturned all over the aforementioned books. Let's just say that there was a lot of profanity.)

Anyway, after the yarns had soaked and the wind had messed up my books, I was ready to begin dyeing. I laid down plastic wrap on a drop cloth and secured it with masking tape, then laid the wet skeins on the plastic. I had mixed up four colors of dye; two purples and two greens. There was a light and a dark purple, and a forest-y green and a light, kind of kelly green. I hadn't decided on a particular effect (stripes, etc.), so I just started painting. Eventually, I figured that if I stuck to the two most abundant colors (one green and one purple), I could use the other two as accents. Unfortunately, I forgot to take a picture before I wrapped up the plastic, but here's what it sort of looks like:

And here they are after steaming:

Now, I just have to wait for it to cool (which will take forever) and then I can wash, rinse, and dry it!

I love him

2006-07-28T23:44:00.000-04:00

Seriously, John Krasinski (if you guys don't know who he is, you need to get your heads out of your asses) is the cutest thing since Jimmy Fallon, like, five years ago. I watch The Office for many, many reasons and I am not above admitting that Krasinski's character, Jim, is one of the major ones. He's sexy, he's funny, he's smart. He plays hilarious practical jokes on Dwight. He mocks Michael without Michael knowing it. He's insightful but not tediously so, he's sensitive but shit, he's no wimpster (well, maybe a little). His crush on Pam is so fucking sweet, I could die. Seriously, that kiss at the end of last season was so heartfelt and passionate and... I totally need to get a life. (Anyway, it reminded me of when I was about 13 and watched 90210 religiously, and I'd get butterflies in my stomach when Brenda and Dylan patched up whatever fight they were having. It was SO exciting. That's how that kiss made me feel.) Let's not think about the fact that it's Friday night when I'm posting this. Whatever. I worked all week, people. I'm tired, I'm cranky and, let's face it, it's too damn hot to care about anything.

Serving the public

2006-07-28T18:40:00.000-04:00

I love blogs. The more specific, the better. (Let's not consider the implications of the fact that, while I love blogs that deal with specific subject matter, my own blog is decidedly un-specific.) Obviously, I love knitting blogs and celebrity gossip blogs and, of course, my friends' blogs.

Lately, I've come to realize that I also love library blogs. A couple of them are in my links section, but here's one that I discovered recently: Happyville Library. The writing is great--few grammatical and spelling errors, clear sentences, and a sense of timing and humor. The writer, Happy Villain, chronicles her 13 years of experiences serving the public at a library somewhere outside of Chicago, and she does so with wit and insight. Usually, she details her encounters with the public, who are one hell of a bunch.

I cannot fathom the amount of patience it must take to deal with people like this, day in and day out, over and over and over again. I have worked in customer service. I have seen people at their best and at their worst. I have seen myself at my public-serving best and, unfortunately, my worst. (I can't tell you how many fantasies I've had about ripping certain problem customer's heads off and shoving them down their throats.) Clearly, I do not have one-tenth of the patience and self-preservation instinct that Happy Villain has, and I'm thinking about entering a field that is all about serving these people? Am I sure that this is the right career choice?

When confronted with frustrated, angry people whose goal is, it seems, to berate and insult me, I would surely not be able to sit there and calmly reiterate the rules and policies of my workplace. (However, as my workplaces have always erred on the side of the customer, I would imagine that working in a place that actually has some unbreakable policies would help me in serving the public; it's pretty annoying to be told that "we never, EVER give people a cash or credit card refund for their purchase," when in practice, this policy has a P.S.: "we never, EVER give people a cash or credit card refund for their purchase, except when they bitch and moan at us or when the store owner happens to be in the room." Oh, how I love non-existent policies. Rules exist for a reason, people.)

I understand that blog readers have to take what they read with a grain of salt--obviously, one of the purposes of having a blog is to be able to vent, in writing, about all of the irritating bits of the day that cannot be discussed at work. I'm sure that Happy Villain has a lot of wonderful patrons who make her career worthwhile. I'm just putting myself in her shoes, and I don't know if I can honestly say that one evil patron wouldn't ruin my entire day. I'm an introvert by nature; being around other people just wears me out, no matter how positive the interaction, and to repeatedly encounter confrontational, aggressive people makes me want to change my name to Tenzing Tasha, shave my head, and live in a Tibetan cave.

Welcoming another spinner to the fold...

2006-07-26T17:21:00.000-04:00

From: Lorien
To: Tasha
Subject: RE:
Date: Wed, 26 Jul 2006 20:43:21 +0000

Hello Tasha,
You should check out the wonderful,
plied yarn hanging in the bathroom. Yes, that's right, I plied my
yarn today and have winded, washed, and hung it up. FOR SHIZZLE
DUDE!!! I am SO pleased with myself. Making yarn is just the coolest
thing. I want to spin more right now! Except that I'm not going to.
I think I need to eat some food and then need to leave. I wonder
what I shall make with my tiny bit of yarn. There really isn't very
much of it. I shall make something special. hahaha.

I hope work's not too boring. See you later!

Love, Lorien

___________________________________________________

From: Tasha
To: Lorien
Subject: RE: RE:

Dude,

I am SO proud of you! Spinning is seriously like crack--once you start it's really, really hard to stop! If you're anything like me, once you start spinning with colors it's even worse... Why would you clean your room when you COULD watch the blue fade into the green fade into the purple fade into the red... Why would you call home or cook dinner when you COULD *start* plying those full bobbins, just to see if two-ply or three-ply is the way to go with this yarn?

I have to warn you, though, that as I was introduced to one of the Rules of Spinning by my spinning teacher, so am I going to introduce you: you MUST make something out of your first handspun yarn. In my case, I had spun this very thick, practically ropy gray yarn, and I hated it (you know how I feel about colors versus neutrals). I also had a minor mishap while washing it in my friend's washing machine, and the result was thick, ropy, felted gray yarn. I saved what I could of it, and ended up knitting a hat. This was right around my graduation from college, and my parents were visiting. We were in Washington State in May, at Mt. St. Helens, and it was HOT. My dad, he of the bald head, likes to wear hats, even wool hats, when he will be exposing the dome to the sun. My father totally stepped up to the plate and wore my ugly, handspun felted gray WOOL hat on our stifling, hot, sticky walk. Parental love (or fear of sunburn) is something else, huh?

Happy spinning,
Tasha

Fat Day

2006-07-26T11:07:00.000-04:00

Skinny girls can SO have fat days. It's more a state of being than a physical condition, but I still choose to refer to it as Fat Day^.

Let's discuss the symptoms of Fat Day:

*I don't have much of a sweet tooth; however, at work yesterday, I had numerous pieces of coffee cake instead of the applesauce I brought with me

*Last night, I ate nachos, spinach dip, and guacamole for dinner, with tiramisu for dessert

*I stopped at Second Cup for an iced chai this morning, and spent the rest of my walk to work muttering under my breath about how "if I wanted a watery, milky chai, I would've gone to Starbucks"

*My music of choice today is Elliott Smith, whose most uplifting lyrics are "I may not seem quite right/But I'm not fucked, not quite"; and who I always listen to when I want to hear menacing songs about alcoholism, as told from the perspective of the bottle itself ("Drink up with me now/Forget all about/The pressure of days/Do what I say/And I'll make you okay/And drive them away/The images stuck in your head")

*When I woke up this morning and looked at my knitting, I wanted to cry. I KNOW I'm not a perfectionist but I wish my knitting was. Why does it have to be wonky and crooked and awful? Why can't I be good at anything?

^ Fat Day may also be known as DMS (During Menstruation Syndrome), when I have my period and therefore hate myself and my life and am inclined to eat massive quantities of both salty and sweet things because, to my hormone-addled brain, they cancel each other out and so it's like I didn't eat anything at all and can therefore indulge in even more chips/dip/ice cream/cookies. I am SO GLAD I'm on the Pill. What the hell did women do before hormone regulation? Oh, right. They were accused of being hysterical.

Blisters

2006-07-25T12:09:00.000-04:00

I am an avid shoe-lover. I don't have the high-heel-wearing ability of Carrie Bradshaw, nor her budget, so I don't exactly parade around town in Manolos. However, I looooove shoes. I was also cursed with flat feet and no money, the result of which equals a lot of cheap shoes bought from Payless. The shoes get worn a couple of times, and then sit at the back of my closet where I stuff them after one too many blisters, unable to look at them without wincing at the memory of pain.

I am so goddamn sick of blisters and cuts and general foot pain. My feet need a break! I walk all over the place, at least 40 minutes a day, and I can't physically afford to keep destroying my feet by wearing poorly constructed unsupportive shoes. Like an good-for-nothing boyfriend, these shoes let me down and hurt me.

At the risk of being branded a walking fashion faux pas, I have decided to invest in some extremely comfortable, very supportive, yet sartorially reviled, shoes: Enter the Danskos. I figure that with a little persistence and a willingness to spend a bit of money, I can find a pair of decently attractive, relatively comfortable Danskos that will not force me into early cute-shoe-retirement.

Radical eating

2006-07-24T21:25:00.000-04:00

I try to be a fairly aware consumer. "Try" is the operative word in that sentence. When I remember, I bring a canvas bag to the grocery store. I generally don't get much take out. Lorien and I recycle and compost religiously. I check the labels of clothing before I buy it. However, sometimes it's just easier to buy cheap, non-North American made clothing or whatever that is almost undoubtedly the product of unfair labor conditions. That is one thing I hate about myself: I figure that if I'm going to talk the talk, I better be able to walk the walk. I'd say, half the time, the walk just ain't there.

After I finished reading Waiting for the Macaws (and I have to say, that book was incredible and informative, a rare but delightful combination), I started thinking more about the consumption choices that I make, both food- and other-wise.

Of particular interest to me was Glavin's point about the extinction of so many different species of edibles. Since farming became big business in the first half of the twentieth century, the loss of diversity just among the most common foods that we eat is absolutely stunning. Factor in practices of companies such as Monsanto (the proud parents of "Terminator" seeds--they have been genetically engineered to not propagate, a Frankensteinian phenomenon [I think I just coined a phrase] if I've ever heard one), and we have on our hands a gastronomic disaster. The word of the day is "homogeneity"--we expect to find the same food in every supermarket from Toronto to Texas. We have grown accustomed to the luxury of having decision-making eliminated from shopping, cooking, and eating, and we are willing to sacrifice both flavor and diversity to sustain this, which the market then reflects back at us, and so on and so forth. Why would farmers grow 12 varieties of corn if one will suffice?

Except that sometimes, consumers demand choice, and not just of candy bars and frozen pizzas. There is a reason that places like Whole Foods exist. Sure, part of it is the ultra-nice atmosphere, and it certainly makes you feel high-class to shop there, but I can't help but think that part of it is the diversity of the produce and the availability of organic and non-genetically modified food. I used to work at an upscale grocery store in Portland, and while I can't say it was my favorite job, it was certainly an educational experience. There, I tasted real parmesan cheese from Parma, and a multitude of different beers from the Pacific Northwest and around the world. At the co-op by my friend Eric's house, I came across 20 different local apple varieties one October. At my going-away party, I served a berry cordial that I'd made from berries I had picked. The point is, with a little time and a little money, it is possible to be more connected with what you eat. I know that organic food is expensive, and it is time-consuming to research different varieties of tomatoes or squash or whatever, but I have to think that it's worth it. No one is expected to eat organic all the time, but picking up some local cherries or peaches a couple of times a week isn't that hard. Buying heirloom tomatoes instead of hothouse ones just requires putting something different into the cart at the grocery store. Eating apples in November and blueberries in July instead of year-round is a very simple, conscious decision.

So, lately, I've been trying to patronize the local organic/natural food store by my house. I bought heirloom tomatoes instead of hothouse ones (and I'm saving the seeds--but don't tell Monsanto!). I use the basil from my "garden" (seven containers of either over- or under-watered plants on the deck). I'm going to stop buying shoes from Payless. I'm going to continue knitting and spinning, cause at least that way I know that the only person harmed in the making of the product was me, and I'm ok with that. I don't know if I'll start dressing in head-to-toe hemp or if I'll become a fruitatarian (I think they only eat things that have fallen to the ground--that nature has "given" them). But I do resolve to think a little bit harder about what I buy and where it came from.

Talking Barbie: "Math is hard!"

2006-07-23T11:08:00.000-04:00

Math bad. Words good. If I could summarize my academic career in four words, those two sentences would about do it. I have never been mathematically adept. I still count on my fingers. I cannot for the life of me multiply two two-digit numbers in my head. Unless they are squares. I know my squares up to 13, but that's about it.

My father, the Ph.D-holding microbiologist who teaches calculus to grad students, has never been able to figure out how, with both of his two children, neither of them managed to get even a fraction (ha!) of his math skills. My brother is spectacularly bad--he's taken college algebra at least three time, in community college no less, and has yet to pass it. (I'm pretty sure that it's statistically impossible for someone to fail a class multiple times at a community college: they hold your hand throughout the entire process. I have to give my brother props for beating that particular system.)

Anyway, the point is that I can relate to talking Barbie, who will forever be remembered for doing a disservice to a generation of young girls when she said, "Math is hard!"

Along with my math deficiency, I am also not a very orderly person. When I was growing up, my mother often and, I like to think, fondly, referred to my room as a "disaster area." When I was a teenager, there were weeks when it was so messy that you couldn't see the floor. Fortunately for the roommates I've had over the years, I'd pretty much outgrown that by the time I went away to college. However, I'm still not a tidy person. Never have been, never will be. I don't pay attention to detail, despite what I say in job interviews, my desk is constantly cluttered, and I am fully capable of leaving the house with less-than-perfect hair. No one's gonna accuse me of being a perfectionist--at least, not with a straight face.

So, with my dynamite combination of math deficiency and tidiness anemia, why am I so drawn to geometric shapes? I love their orderliness, their clean lines and repetition. I love the angles and the planes and the patterns. M. C. Escher was always one of my favorite artists--I could, and often did, get lost in his precise forms and regimented evolutions. Similarly, I was drawn to Mason-Dixon Knitting because it glorifies the simplicity and beauty of straight lines and patterns. Recommended in the book is a website called Woolly Thoughts, which is devoted to mathematical knitting. Their creations, particularly their afghans, are amazing, and they are all based on different mathematical principles.
For example, this one:

is squares within squares within squares.

None of the principles upon which the afghans are based mean anything to me, of course, but the results are absolutely stunning and really show the versatility of color and geometry. All of the blankets are knitted using garter stitch, so there is no fancy footwork. I've been knitting for, let's see, over five years. I am so sick of garments that don't fit, and knitting a parade of endless socks and hats just does not appeal to me. Perhaps mathematical afghans are my calling?

2006-07-20T20:25:00.000-04:00

Having rehashed last night’s date with a couple of my grad school friends and a couple of my online friends (God, when did I turn into such an internet dork? Damn you, high speed wireless internet!), and having discussed the issue of physical attraction to someone, I have a few ruminations to share.

I think, generally speaking, that men are more visual than women—sexually, men prefer watching pornographic movies and looking at girlie magazines, while women prefer erotic literature and/or their own imaginations. I think that this manifests itself in our dating preferences, too. I know girls who will “date down” in terms of looks, but not many guys. Maybe women are programmed to be less superficial when it comes to a mate? We are obviously concerned with our own appearances; we wear makeup and spend hours on our hair and clothes yet, time after time, when women are asked what they look for in a partner, these are the two things that top the list: sense of humor and intelligence. Not a sexy body, or beautiful hair, or perfect skin, but the ability to make us laugh and the capacity for decent conversation.

Sometimes, you meet someone with whom you have an instant physical and sexual connection. It doesn’t come from flirting or playing games or putting on beer goggles; in other words, you don’t have to try for that connection. I’ve had this happen to me twice in my life. Both times, these experiences occurred at work. The first was in Portland, and I always refer to the guy as The One That Got Away. He was (is) gorgeous and smart and funny, and our interests and senses of humor gelled perfectly. We became friends the first time we met and I have never, ever had such a crush on someone. I think I understood then why it’s called a crush. It reduced me, physically and mentally, to a child, and I was humbled under its weight. I blushed when he walked by. My knees went weak when I saw him or thought about him. And I was friends with this guy, and expected to act normal around him. Nothing physical ever happened with us; let me rephrase that: nothing sexual ever happened between us. (Which, I remember thinking at the time, might have been a good thing, as I probably would have imploded if we’d so much as kissed.) We cuddled a bit a couple of times after a night of drinking, but that was all. Eventually, he got another job and moved on and out of my life, despite my willingness to stay in touch.

The second time was in Miami, again with a guy I worked with. The first time I saw him, I was instantly and irrevocably attracted to him. Everyone else who worked with him didn’t get it: he was lazy, they said, and never wanted to help out when things were busy. I didn’t care; I was drawn to him like a magnet to metal. I did end up dating that guy, but he turned out to be pretty self-absorbed, and we didn’t even last four months.

What I took from those two “relationships,” if they can be called that, is that it is completely possible for two people to have combustible chemical attraction to each other. It is also completely possible for that combustible attraction to not mean a damn thing when it comes to meaningful, worthwhile relationships. I’m glad that I met those guys, particularly TOTGA, because there’s nothing more fun than having a crush on someone at work, and because they reminded me that physical attraction shouldn’t be overlooked. I’m not saying that it’s impossible for physical attraction to evolve into something more stable and concrete, I’m just saying that it’s never happened to me.

That brings me to the other kind of attraction, the mental one. Just as two people can have an incredible and undeniable physical attraction to each other, so can two people have a magnetic mental connection. The kind where your senses of humor match up so perfectly that, even though you may be used to people finding you too crass or too cynical and you want to tone yourself down so that you stop getting funny looks, you are finally excited to be crass and cynical and sarcastic, because there is someone with whom you can share it. The kind where you can talk for hours and hours and hours, and you’re not even talking about Major Issues. The kind where you want to pick the other person’s brain because it’s such interesting, unusual territory.

Can this kind of attraction turn sexual? I am going to say that it can. Case in point: another workplace, another guy (yes, there is a pattern). I remember, the first time I met him, immediately judging him on his physical appearance, as I am wont to do, and finding him lacking. We became friends, though, and I was immediately comfortable around him. I felt like I could tell him anything, get his advice on anything, and not only would he listen to me and counsel me, but he would also not judge me. I began to look forward to seeing him at work and eventually, I realized that I had a sort of mini-crush on him. (The only reason that it was mini and not full-fledged is that he was married.) Still, though, he’s nothing to look at, but God, behind that physical exterior, there lurks one of the kindest, gentlest, most interesting and sexy souls, and I would have hated to have never seen that.

I am infinitely guilty of judging people on their appearances; I think most people are. But when it comes down to it, none of us can help how we look. Yeah, there are basic things we can do: we can keep ourselves clean and neat, we can exercise and eat well, and we can wear clothes that fit us properly. However, no matter what, short of having plastic surgery we cannot change the basic shape we were born with. Unfortunately, beautiful people tend to be perceived as being nicer than less-attractive people, and strangers are more willing to help those who are considered attractive than those who are not. As children we are taught to not judge books by their cover; that beauty is in the eye of the beholder; that beauties can and do fall in love with beasts. Is this realistic? Can we expect ourselves and others to put aside the power of the visual, to hang up our beauty hang-ups and allow someone’s sense of humor and intelligence and personality to draw us in? I’m not sure. All I know is that the most meaningful relationship of my life was with someone who was no one’s idea of beautiful. I got to know him over the course of several months and eventually decided—or realized, or whatever—that I liked him. We dated for 3 ½ years and lived together for two of those years. None of my other relationships, regardless of whether they were with people traditionally considered more attractive than him, lasted as long or meant as much.

Lave

2006-07-20T19:35:00.000-04:00

My roommate and I get along really, really well. To the point that when she's not home, I feel lonely. Most of the time. Sometimes, I love having our apartment to myself cause then I get to do things like walk around naked outside of my room while getting ready in the morning. But I digress.

So, Lorien has this boyfriend, Dave, who is a pretty decent guy, even though he's been known to answer to the name "Bitch." Lorien and Dave--maybe I should just call them Dorien, or Lave--spend A LOT of time together. Like, if she's not sleeping at his house, he's sleeping at our apartment.

Lorien also works evenings/nights and I work days, so she's usually getting home from work when I'm getting ready for bed. She had the past two days off, so she stayed at Dave's, and tonight, Lave will be at my place. Can I maybe, possibly, see my roommate sans boyfriend? Just, like, a couple of times a week?

Date update!

2006-07-20T10:44:00.000-04:00

I met my date at the Art Gallery of Ontario last night. There's an Andy Warhol exhibit up that my friend Stephanie had invited me to see, so I immediately third-wheeled her by inviting my Lavalife date, who (whom?) we shall refer to as Java. (That's the first initial of his first name + Lava - L = Java. I'm clever.)

I was worried that I wouldn't recognize him, and as I was standing outside of the museum at 8, I was scrutinizing every single person in the immediate vicinity. However, when he walked up, I recognized him immediately. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and black shoes. I wore a white skirt and a black tank top and my hair was down. And blow-dried! I have to say that I didn't find him that attractive physically, but the conversation flowed SO well.

We walked through the exhibit and had the option of getting the audio tour listening thingy, but Java said that since I'd already seen the show I could be the tour guide. (An aside: why do people always choose the audio guide? I understand it if you're alone, but if you're with a date or friends, wouldn't you like to actually TALK to them about the art?) I don't know very much about Andy Warhol, but in a history of photography class that I took a couple of years ago, we studied a few of his pieces, so I did have a little bit to say. Warhol's art is definitely not something you would take a child or the elderly to see--his silkscreens involve car accidents, and his videos include guys making out on the couch and blowjobs.

We breezed through the museum in about half an hour, and while I'm glad I saw the exhibit, it was kind of hard to talk to Java because the gallery was dead silent, as everyone had the audio thing glued to their ears. I felt like I was screaming in a library when I commented on anything.

After Warhol, we walked around the neighborhood, trying to find Baldwin Street. Eventually, we asked a guy on the street for directions and found the place. We went to a little Mexican restaurant called Margarita's, which was rumored to serve excellent drinks. Wonder of wonders, there was a spot on the patio, so we grabbed it. We ordered margaritas and guacamole (I haven't eaten breakfast and I'm making myself hungry right now) and settled in for a few hours of conversation.

The conversation flowed sooooooo well. Java asked me a bunch of questions about myself; we talked about my program, and movies, and dating. We seem to have a similar sense of humor and like the same kinds of movies. I told him lots of stories about my family and he told me a bit about his.

At the end of the night, we were both taking the subway--and now that I think about it, while I was taking the northbound one and assumed that Java was too, he was actually taking the southbound line, but because I assumed we were riding the train together, he got on the subway car with me. D'oh!--and he got off at my stop. We gave each other a kiss on the cheek and he asked if I'd like to go out with him again, and I said yes.

Post-date wrap-up:
Not bad for a first date. Excellent conversation, felt very comfortable with him. Not sure I am/will be sexually attracted to him, but still, not a bad start at all.

Slouching toward adulthood

2006-07-19T16:31:00.000-04:00

In my entire life, since my first kiss at the age of 12, I have not had a sober first kiss or a sober first date. With anyone. Ever. I've always used alcohol as a social lubricant; after a few drinks, I become more relaxed, funnier, and more flirtatious. However, recent events that shall not be discussed on this blog have brought it to my attention that perhaps getting sloppy the first time I meet someone isn't the way to go. This was confirmed by my therapist, who pointed out that my friends don't have to be drunk in order to enjoy my company, nor I theirs. That's true, but I honestly cannot imagine a world in which I go on a first date without drinking.

I have a date tonight with a guy I met on Lavalife. We've been emailing back and forth for a couple of weeks, and so far so good. I'm not content to email or IM forever, though, so I suggested that we meet. We're going to go to the Andy Warhol exhibit at the AGO and then out for drinks.

This guy is 32, a bit older than me, and I'm a little worried about coming across as very young. There's not much I can do about my current place in life, but I figure that acting like a teenager is something I can curb. With that in mind, I present you my goals for tonight's date:
1. Do not get drunk.
2. Do not remove any articles of clothing except shoes.
3. Try not to say "like" every other word
4. Try not to swear as much as I usually do

If I can do those four things, I'll be fine.

Wish me luck

Bitching about stitching

2006-07-18T22:22:00.000-04:00

I went to a stitch n bitch at a local yarn store tonight with Lorien and Stephanie. Lorien and I were late, as usual, much to Stephanie's dismay. She was about to leave when we finally showed up.

The three of us sat around the table with maybe 7 or 8 other women of a range of ages. Two women brought their kids. I don't mind children as long as they're reasonably well-behaved; more often, it's the parents or child-loving adults (usually women) that I have problems with. This time, the parents were fine.

However, the conversation turned to one of the kids' experience at Build-a-Bear. For those of you not in the know, Build-a-Bear is this horrendous store that allows you to "make" your own teddy bear or cat or other cloyingly cute stuffed animal, and is usually stuffed to the gills with giddy, screaming children (girls, almost every one) and worse, single women who have some kind of weird obsession with teddy bears. But it's not as if you are sewing the clothes for the bear, or whatever. You pick these clothes from a bin. The outfits are all insipid. Like, who wants a teddy bear that looks like a schoolgirl? I suppose, if a child wants a teddy bear that looks like a schoolgirl, that's fine, since children are supposed to have bad taste in everything. But adult women? Clearly single adult women? Clearly single adult women whose behavior will ensure that they are forever single? The whole place smacks of desperation and I avoid Build-a-Bear the way I avoid Toys-R-Us.

Anyway, this one woman was chattering on and on about how she just loves Build-a-Bear and awwww isn't it so cute that the little girl made a cat named Kelly or Kissy or some other stupid name that begins with a K. Ugh. I seriously can't stand grown women who talk to children like that. The girl must have been four, clearly old enough to have a conversation with someone that goes beyond awwww and aren't you adorable.

After about half an hour, Lorien and Stephanie and I hightailed it out of there and went to Trinity Bellwoods Park, where we had our own little knitting circle on the grass. So much better.

I heart Rob Brezsny

2006-07-17T20:53:00.000-04:00

I wouldn't call myself a superstitious person, but I LOVE reading my horoscope. Rob Brezsny, of Free Will Astrology, does the best horoscopes. They're great: random, funny, poignant. Sometimes I read them all and choose the one I like the most.

To give you a sample, here's his horoscope for my sign, Taurus, for the week of July 12:

TAURUS (April 20-May 20): Surveys show that two out of every ten people have bought stuff they found out about through e-mail spam. While you're no doubt too sophisticated to be among that number, you might want to open your mind a bit to the possibility. That's because the astrological omens suggest you may soon receive useful information and out-of-the-blue inspiration from sources you've ignored in the past–even chattering gossipers and questionable teachers and TV news shows. Don't be too sure you already know where your juiciest clues will be coming from.

This week, though, I'm going to have to go with Capricorn:

CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): You: difficult to push around, more hungry for intimacy than you let on, smarter than 85 percent of the people you know. Me: provider of friendly shocks, fond of playing a didgeridoo in the rain at dusk and dawn, outrageously tolerant of other people's eccentricities. So is there any hope of a relationship between us? Well of course there is. We're having a relationship right now, aren't we? Maybe it's not the exact kind of connection you'd like to have with me, but you've got to admit there's value in it. Now please apply that lesson to your thinking about all your close alliances: Love them for what they are, and don't criticize them for what they're not.

Love him, love him, love him.

2006-07-16T17:57:00.000-04:00

I am 25 going on 70. This weekend, all I did was knit. And spin. I did go to a friend's house last night, but by 10:30 and after two beers, I was tired and ready to go home. The streetcar and the Spadina subway station were filled with people my age, all dressed up for a night out, which clearly had not yet begun when I was making my way home. I was in bed by midnight. Sometimes, I feel really lame for these lazy weekends. I was pretty busy last weekend which I suppose makes up for this one, but still.

Anyway, I finished spinning half of a batt of Corriedale today. I didn't ply it cause I want to knit a scarf using a twisted single, as shown in the Spring 2006 Spin-Off.
Here's the yarn on my niddy noddy:

Yeah, I have a PVC niddy noddy. Sorry that it's not burnished wood or whatever, but for a couple of bucks at the hardware store, this one suits me just fine.

Here's a sort-of close-up of the yarn. I wanted to show off the colors but my camera battery died before I could take a billion pictures. (So I could have just changed batteries, as I was home, but I didn't. Oh well.)

I'm going! I'm going!

2006-07-16T11:21:00.000-04:00

The only fiber festival I have ever attended was a small one outside of Portland, Oregon. I lived there for five years and never even made it to Black Sheep.

No longer will I ignore the fiber opportunities that stare me in the face, however! I am going to Rhinebeck!

I live in Toronto, which is a hop skip and a jump to New York State, in which Rhinebeck resides. Throw in a couple of friends, a rental car, and a cheap hotel (reserved this morning, thank you very much), and you have yourself a fiberlicious weekend in October to look forward to!

Steal this book

2006-07-14T18:11:00.000-04:00

As soon as I read a review of Terry Glavin's Waiting for the Macaws in the Globe and Mail, I knew I was going to read this book.

I believe wholeheartedly--and fervently--that environmental destruction is one of our most violent and senseless crimes. Every day, species disappear from our planet, not as a result of some freak cosmic event--a meteor collision, for example--but because of our actions. Our selfish, avoidable actions.

Glavin illustrates the disappearance of species after species by isolating different animals--a tiger, a whale--that have inextricable ties to human cultures, and whose extinction has enormous ramifications for the world at large. In doing so, he reinforces the oft-forgotten truth that, no matter how hard we try to separate ourselves from nature, to elevate ourselves to a guilt- and consequence-free position above our actions, we are still inhabitants of planet Earth. Every species we hunt and villify and poach out of existence; every unique human culture we strip of its language and customs and, ultimately, dignity; every single time we support politicians whose environmental and humanitarian policies set us back instead of moving us ahead; every wasted opportunity to teach children to have respect for all life forms--each and every one of these willfully ignorant and destructive actions will come back to hurt us, tenfold.

They will hurt the mammals and birds and fish and insects and plants, sure, and they will hurt the poor and land-dependent first, but eventually, they will hurt us, too.

That's what gets to me the most--it's not enough to realize that our actions hurt others; we have to realize that, in the end, we are hurting ourselves, in order for us to stop. Stop killing, stop mining, stop raping, stop overfishing, stop being heartless.

I'm going to step down off my soapbox long enough to say that Glavin is actually making me reconsider vegetarianism. It takes a lot to make me do that.

Now, get your hands on this book. Beg, borrow, steal: I don't care how, just get it.

WTF?

2006-07-13T20:47:00.000-04:00

Ok, so I have a confession to make. I'm trying online dating. I know, I know, it's lame. And I swore I'd never do it, but after hearing from a coworker that she met her fiancee online, I signed up for it.

[Here's where I explain how LL works. Signing up is free, as is sending and receiving "smiles," which basically just let people know that something about them has caught your eye. If you want to make IM or e-mail contact with that person, however, you have to buy credits.]

LL seems to attract mainly gym-bound yuppies. Now, I'm not exactly looking for someone who's obese and unemployed, but I'm just not a gym rat. I walk, I eat well, that's enough for me. I hate running and just don't care enough to do sit ups or lift weights or whatever. Additionally, while I'd like to meet someone who has a decent job that they enjoy, salaries don't matter to me. I don't need or even want to date someone who's so concerned with his career that he has no time for me.

So, while LL may not be the perfect place for me to meet my kind of guy, I really don't have the time or money to hang out at emo shows or the architecture and design faculty or whatever. Plus, having to guess someone's sexual orientation annoys me, as I don't really like barking up the wrong tree.

I have definitely received plenty of smiles from people I have no attraction to and no interest in, but for the most part,they seem harmless and decent enough. It's a simple issue of compatibility.

Today, though, I received a smile from this gem.
First, he writes, "Anyone who needs things like foundation and other touch-ups to look really good must realize the irony in someone drooling over their "looks". It is a fact that in the animal kingdom the males are naturally more beautiful than the females. So by connecting the dots it must seem obvious the implications of that and therefore, who should be pining for who?"

It gets better.

Here's this:
"Personally, I take pride in my "chauvinistic" abilities to see all this stuff. Even more so when someone gets upset over it and gets their beliefs handed to them in pieces."

Next, he commiserates with those who really get it, those who have seen and understood the need to "go with the flow," and counsels these kindred spirits to not let it get them down: "Let the haters hate."

This is my favorite part, however:
"If you've ever had that feeling of "missing out" and never want to go through that again, then we might have something to talk about..."

And here's the clincher:
"PS. Since I don't have any credits you will have to message me."

Uh huh. Yeah, I'll get right on that, you fabulous catch of a man.

Overheard in the office

2006-07-13T20:46:00.000-04:00

Hilarious. Just try it.

Book review: Mason-Dixon Knitting

2006-07-13T19:03:00.000-04:00

My friend Stephanie's mom is a Book Junkie. Seriously. Barnes & Noble should offer the woman stock in their company, cause I'm pretty sure she's the main customer keeping them afloat. Stephanie's mom is also a knitter. Stephanie recently learned to knit and, lucky for her, she has a very generous knitting mother who loves to encourage Stephanie's reading and knitting habits by sending her books. I, as Stephanie's friend, benefit enormously by being able to borrow the newest fiction, non-fiction and now, knitting, books, without having to plunk down a red cent for them. (Can I just tell you how many times I played with the commas in the previous sentence and I'm still not sure I got them right? A lot. A lot of times)

Anyway, I pride myself on the size and quality of my knitting book collection. Sure, it's not complete, but as a voracious and very speedy reader who almost never actually purchases books cause let's face it, when you can start and finish a 200-page book in a day, what's the point of paying for them when you can bum them from friends or the library, my knitting book collection is pretty decent. I've got your Stitch n Bitch, your Knitting Without Tears, your Second Treasury of Knitting Patterns, your Color in Spinning, your Knitters Book of Finishing Techniques and so on and so forth.

I do try to be selective about which books make it into my library. I will NEVER buy a book that features primarily fun fur patterns, for example. There are TONS of knitting books out there; the canon is growing exponentially, and as a result, one must certainly be a little discerning if she wants to have time and money left over to buy yarn and actually knit something.

Which brings me to Mason-Dixon Knitting. At first glance, it's nothing too special--most of the patterns are of the sort where you look at them and go, "Well, I could've thought of that!" They make good use of everyone's stand-by, garter stitch, and the yarns that the Kay and Ann use aren't of the $50-for-100-yards variety.

However, as I was going through the book a second time, I was struck by how enamored of knitting the authors are, and how well that comes through in the book:

Ann, on learning to knit: "The agony of knitting beat the daily grind of my job at a publishing house in Manhattan. Knitting was the perfect antidote to a job filled with the endless piles of manuscripts that would never be published yet had to be read, or at least stared at, by me. Knitting was nonverbal. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end. The problems of knitting were solvable: the worst thing that could happen was that I had to rip something out. Mistakes would disappear, just like that. I would complete something" (page 16).

And in the end, or in the beginning, isn't that why we learned to knit? It gave us something to do with our hands, something that was repetitive and fun, something that relieved stress and allowed us to revel in something non-work related. I think that, too often, I forget that moment when I first learned to knit and I finally got it. When I stopped having to look at my little American School of Needlework pamphlet to remember to pop the stitch off the needle; when I loosened up enough to be able to complete two rows of knitting without wanting to cry from frustration; when I mastered a simple k1, p1 rib. What happened to that feeling of pure joy?

In Mason-Dixon Knitting, Ann and Kay have figured out that we are not all perfectionists; that we have lives and jobs and--some of us--kids, all of which means that we have limited hours in which to knit; and that blemish-free knitting is impressive, but my God, a wobbly row here and a clashing color there is not the end of the world.

So thanks, Ann and Kay, for reminding me that knitting isn't a job or a chore, and handknit items do not have to look perfect or be perfect to be beautiful and well-received.

Finally something to show for myself

2006-07-13T10:22:00.000-04:00

I wet-blocked the Hot Lava cardigan, my first wet blocking experience. I've used steam in the past but wanted to try something new. Of course, the days I chose to do this were the soggiest days we've had in a while. Because my apartment isn't air conditioned, this summer I've been leaving my windows open and using a fan, but with the rain this week EVERYTHING felt damp--my sheets, my towels, my clothes. I laid the cardigan out on a towel and pinned it in place. Eventually, after a full day of waiting for it to dry, I trained my fan on the cardigan while I was away at work.

After three days, here's the result:

It's such a silly-looking thing when it's not being worn; it looks like the knitted version of some strange deep sea jellyfish. (P.S.: I swear to God, the little string you see on the bottom left corner is NOT a loose end. I wove in the ends with nary a straggler. Swear.)

Here's a close-up of the color:

And here, for comparison, are two photos of roughly the same spot on the cardigan, the top one taken before blocking and the bottom one taken after

Manos del Uruguay might not illustrate it as well as some other, smoother yarns, but blocking certainly does make a difference. It smooths out the stitches and generally tames the finished piece.

Finally, the pathetic amount of spinning I've done in, like, two months:

A couple of days ago, I decided that I should devote at least 45 minutes a day to either knitting or spinning in order to get through my stash. My stash isn't that big, compared with others', but relative to the amount of time I work on reducing it, it's pretty hefty. I did spin the other night, much to my own surprise. And last night I spent two hours at Toronto's Knit Cafe, a delightfully warm and welcoming little store on Queen West. So I guess I'm sort of keeping my promise to myself, but I definitely need to devote more time to the old spinning wheel. God I'm like 90 years old.

Turns out Canada is not the U.S.' Red-headed Stepchild

2006-07-11T08:39:00.000-04:00

Before I moved to Toronto, the things I knew about Canada could maybe fit on the head of a pin (a very small pin):

a) The prime minister was Paul Martin (how tightly my brain held onto this information can be illustrated by the fact that I first typed "John Martin," then stared at the name for a good minute, wondering why it didn't sound quite right)

b) Canada is very cold

c) Canadians say "eh" (true) and "hoose" (not true)

I wouldn't say that I know a whole lot more now. Canadian history wasn't exactly the primary focus of the American educational system and I'm not enough of a history buff to wade through wars and political manuevers on my own. However, armchair travelling is one of my favorite activities, and I particularly enjoy social histories, mainly because they don't require me to remember lots of facts.

I picked up Will Ferguson's Beauty Tips from Moose Jaw, a collection of essays exploring Canada's past and present, moving from the west coast to the east coast. Ferguson is one of those writers who, presumably, has little patience for timelines and dates and can empathize with the reader whose ability to retain information about both is weak (me). He's Bill Bryson-esque (another of my favorites), though maybe a bit rougher around the edges.

Ferguson captures a Canada I would venture to guess that even most Canadians aren't familiar with. These are the smaller stories, set not in Vancouver or Toronto or Montreal, but in Victoria and Dresden and Fort Vermilion. Ferguson's account of seeing polar bears in their natural habitat, dancing under a sky pulsing with the surreal colors of the aurora borealis, is unforgettable. It's not all bears and fur traders, though; it's also Canada's role in the Underground Railroad, and the more interesting (and poignant) ironies of the Quebec separatist movement.

I'm not finished with the book yet, but I can already say that my list of Things I Know About Canada is a bit longer:

a) The prime minister was Paul Martin and is now Stephen Harper

b) Canada is very cold

c) Canadians say "eh" but not "hoose"

d) Canada had something to do with the Underground Railroad

e) There are ironies--interesting and poignant--surrounding the Quebec separatist movement

Could it be?

2006-07-08T18:07:00.000-04:00

An almost-finished object?

The Hot Lava Cardigan is making its way toward completion. I finished knitting it last night. Now "all" that remains is weaving in ends, blocking, and sewing on buttons.

These buttons:

They're a little cheesy but I think they'll do.

Here are some photos of me wearing the cardigan, and I plan on posting more when I finish it for real.

Metropolitan

2006-07-07T13:25:00.000-04:00

I always thought it would be an excellent idea to market a new line of clothing to young urbanites. As this demographic is focused on being edgy and cool, I thought they would appreciate this new piece, crafted from the finest materials only found in the world’s great cities. Think New York, London, and Tokyo.

Now, I know that you’re saying to yourself, “Fool, this has been done a million times before! Look at Urban Outfitters. Look at American Apparel. The yuppie market has been cornered, my friend. Try again.”

Not so, however.

My idea is brilliant and original—

A cape, stitched from rat fur (the newest in haute couture) and trimmed in pigeon feathers and squirrel tails.

Who’s buying it?

Connections

2006-07-05T18:29:00.000-04:00

I wasn't going to write about this on my blog, but after talking to a couple of friends today, I decided that it would be nice to put what I'm feeling into words.

A couple of weeks ago, I met a very nice guy at a bar. Usually, I don't meet people at bars (or I end up drunkenly hitting on whoever is standing next to me); either way, I generally don't put much stock in using drinking establishments as a place to collect dates. However, things happen as they will, and I'm not one to complain when they do.

So, I met this guy and we went out on a few dates. Immediately, I was attracted to his open-mindedness, his impeccable manners, his conscientiousness and regard for the people and the world around him, and damn, he was a good kisser to boot. He is an actual adult--he knows what he wants to do with his life and is doing it. He called when he said he would call and seemed to genuinely want to spend time with me. I have dated enough guys to know that this is rare. Even though I consider myself to be a relatively attractive and interesting person, worthy of spending time with, I cannot tell you how many times I've been disappointed when something that I thought would work out, hoped would work out, didn't. With this guy, I didn't feel the need to play games, or stress about whether or not he was playing games--I knew that I didn't and he wasn't.

Last Wednesday was Dave's birthday and myself and a group of friends went out to celebrate. We were sitting around a table, having drinks, when the guy turned to me and started asking me about my degree and what kind of jobs/careers it will lead to. Somehow, the conversation turned to his career. He's in marketing and loves it. He is business oriented and would like to one day be CEO of a company. This may sound insane, but those things set off major alarm bells. I'm not what one would call ambitious. Sure, I want a career and if I happen to make a decent living, great. However, I am not at all interested in making my career my life. I am not at all interested in becoming wealthy. When I expressed those views on Wednesday night, the guy told me that he would really like to know what it feels like to drop tons of cash on a car, and if he has his job and squash (the game, not the gourd), then life is good.

That killed me.

Manners? Check. Attractive? Check. Intelligent? Check. Awesome kisser? Check. Interested in me? Check.

But oh God, despite him having all of those lovely qualities, I cannot be with someone who values material objects that highly, and I can't be with someone who doesn't put people first. I am sure that I'm prejudiced against rich people and prejudices are bad blah blah blah, but growing up in a wealthy suburb, I saw the bad side of wealth too many times to desire it for my own life. I firmly believe that, as long as your quality of life is comfortable and decent, your passions and the people in your life should be your priorities.

And that sucks. SUCKS. I wish that I could ignore the drive, the desire for the stereotypical status symbol, and just be content that I met someone who is wonderful in so many ways, but I can't.

So, what makes a connection? It used to be enough, in high school, to go out with someone cause you thought they were cute. I always thought it would get easier as I got older, as I figured out more about who I am and what I want, but it's so much harder cause now fewer and fewer people fit into my self-determined standards. Sometimes I can't believe that anyone, anywhere, ever meets someone they connect with, let alone dates that person, let alone falls in love with and marries that person. So many ingredients have to be right for that particular recipe to come together; leave one out, or try to substitute it for something similar, and you have on your hands a disaster in the making.

I guess the only thing to do is to know yourself--really know yourself, know who you are and what you want, what you'll compromise on and what you won't--and just trust that, while there are so many people who will come this close, there is no point in forcing something that isn't meant to be.

I can't think of a clever title

2006-07-05T18:01:00.000-04:00

Sometimes when I post on this blog, I try hard to think of a good title. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. Today I gave it about five seconds and then said, to hell with it. You can't be clever all the time.

Anyway, the new issue of Knitty is up and I'm disappointed once again. Why is the entire issue nothing but socks and hats, two things I rarely knit? I am firmly entrenched in sweater land and have no desire to knit socks (no one ever sees them) or hats (I look like a 12-year-old in them). I understand that summer is not the time for sweaters, but at least throw me a tank top.
And angel wings do not count.
Sigh. God, I was so going to leave it at that, but why be shy? Angel wings? Are. You. Freakin. Kidding?? Why, just because it can be knit, do people assume that it should? The designer is obviously a creative young woman and I guess that if she wants to knit angel wings there's nothing stopping her, but I would love to see her put her talents toward something that doesn't scream "church bazaar."

And, I'm back.

Despite a lack of decent patterns, I discovered that all is not lost at Knitty. I jumped over to the articles section of the magazine. Lo and behold, I found a treasure trove of information. Knitty may not be taking as much of an, ahem, editorial role in pattern selection as perhaps they should be, but they sure are doing something right with their featured articles. I learned about new ways of binding off and cool knitting podcasts, found some good resources on color theory as it pertains to knitting and finally, got all revved up to go to fiber festivals this fall.

Happy birthdays, countries!

2006-07-03T22:08:00.000-04:00

Happy belated birthday, Canada (July 1)
Happy early birthday, United States (July 4)

To celebrate the Canada Day long weekend, Lorien, Dave, and I drove up to Lorien's mother's cottage near Ottawa.

Ostensibly, we were there to paint the cottage, and we did, but I definitely didn't go out of my love for painting. I have been away from Toronto twice since school ended, and both times were good, but I wouldn’t necessarily say that I’ve done a lot of relaxing this summer. It seems like there’s always something to do—obviously, there’s work, but there’s also social events, like birthday parties and just general bar nights, and naturally, there are tons of errands to run. So I came up here this weekend to paint, drink beer, hang out with my friends, and knit. I was going to bring my spinning wheel, but Lorien pointed out that with the knitting, painting, movie-watching, and sheep farm-visiting, I perhaps had enough activities for the weekend.

Yesterday, Saturday, Lorien, Dave, and I visited a farm called Windblest. Lorien had been there in May when she and her mother were here opening the cottage; she bought some wool for spinning and her mom bought sheepskins and a couple of blankets. We arrived unannounced and the woman who takes care of the wooly part of the operation was very gracious, even though we interrupted her while she was trying to paint her porch. We were greeted by a very friendly border collie, Seamus, who nosed crotches and humped legs all around. Ahh, canine love.

While Dave stayed outside with the dog, Lorien and I were invited into the fiber room. There were bags of raw fleece and processed fleece, and hand-knitted hats adorned the walls. There was a cupboard with hand-dyed skeins of yarn that we poked through and I ended up buying these three skeins (I'm thinking felted pillow).

I made excellent progress on my Hot Lava Cardigan and I'll try to post pictures soon. For now though, here are some more pictures of the weekend.

P.S. I was supposed to appear at the Richard E. Gerstein Justice Building in Miami for jury duty at 8:00 am on Monday (today). I so tried to get out of jury duty: I called them to tell them that I wouldn’t be appearing on Monday, and tried to explain that I might be going back to Miami sometime in December but had no idea when and would have to return to school almost immediately; unfortunately, the woman I spoke to was quite positive that no matter how short my break was, I would certainly be accommodated as a juror. Normally being accommodated is quite nice; however, in this case I would have no problem with being told that I would just not be eligible to sit on a jury or even be part of a jury pool. How is that since I turned 18, I've been summoned for jury duty three times? I'm pretty sure I'm not a desirable juror--maybe I just need to appear once and spout off some totally random and radical opinions. That might get my name off the "summon often" list.

Mensa probably wouldn't want me

2006-06-29T20:47:00.000-04:00

Every now and again I have to ask myself, how smart am I really? I mean, I can navigate the shallow waters of North American culture with ease--I'm already 10 points ahead cause I don't watch reality TV, America's Next Top Model excepted, and I read books more complex than The Da Vinci Code; Lorien and I receive The Globe and Mail daily, and I try to keep up with major current events. However, there are certain things that have been known to stump even this smartie:

1. Umberto Eco's books. I read The Name of the Rose in Turkey and I'm currently "reading" Foucault's Pendulum. I can honestly say that I understand about a quarter of what I'm reading (hence the quotation marks)--I figure that since my religious education consisted of a few years at a Lutheran church (probably cause it was the closest church to our house) and attendance at a Baptist preschool (thanks, Mom and Dad, for leaving me ignorant of all but the major Christian players), I'm naturally not cut out for Eco. Or any books that focus heavily on religion. I can't keep the characters (historical figures?) straight--I don't know my Cain from my Abel, my David from my Goliath.

2. The inner workings of politics. I can name the leaders of all of the North American countries (thank God there are only 3) and try to follow major political events, but I honestly do not care about the day-to-day quibblings of Congress or Parliament or whatever. In section A of the Globe and Mail, the first 10 pages are devoted to Canadian politics and I can honestly say that I have never once read a story on any of those pages. I skip to A12 where the Toronto and world news starts.

3. Foreign languages. While I've managed to master English, I still cannot speak more than Traveller's Spanish (Donde esta el bano? Mas cerveza, por favor). After 14 years of studying it. I started in 2nd grade. Continued through elementary school. Picked it back up in 9th grade, even took Spanish 3 Honors in 11th grade. 3 semesters in college. I've been to Spain. I lived in Miami, for the love of god. But no, ask me something more complicated than De donde eres? and I crumble.

Bourbon Street and beignets

2006-06-28T08:42:00.000-04:00

On Monday night, Lilly and I went to Pat O'Brien's to try their famous Hurricane (4 oz rum, 4 oz some crazy red punch-like liquid).

Unfortunately, there are no pictures of Hurricane Lilly, so these are mostly of me.

It's legal to drink on the streets of New Orleans (or at least in the French Quarter), so we took our beverages and headed to Bourbon Street.

Even on a Monday night, there were plenty of drinkers out seeing and being seen, and even the balconies were full of guys trying to find girls who really wanted beads. Bourbon Street is bars and strip clubs, as evident from the signs.

After we tired of the frat house-style shenanigans (how much do you love that word?) we headed to Cafe du Monde for my last round of beignets before heading out on Tuesday morning.

Oh, fried pillows of dough on a bed of powdered sugar, how I do love thee.

Hurkey the Bone Man

2006-06-28T08:38:00.000-04:00

I’ve never had my fortune told. I am a skeptical believer—I wish I didn’t believe that people have the ability to look into the future, cause that stuff is so easy to dismiss as hippie-dippy bullshit, but I do think that there are some people who have a deeper connection with the universe than the rest of us.

I live a life that is decidedly terrestrial. I’m a Taurus, an earth sign, and I have my feet planted pretty firmly on the ground. I’m creative but not outlandishly so, and my creativity tends toward the practical—I like knitting, spinning, and sewing cause I can make useful things, and I like photography because it is the process of reinterpreting reality. I want to be a librarian, for the love of god. Does it get any more practical than that?

Despite my deep-seated practicality, however, I’ve always had a fascination with the other side of things, the side that firmly embraces the idea that it is possible for humans to have deeper connections than we like to admit. One thing I’ve always felt was ironic is that it’s ok for religious people to fervently believe in things and beings they can’t see, whose existence they cannot prove save for weeping statues and outbursts in unfamiliar tongues, but it’s not ok to believe in others’ ability to predict the future. As I said, I’ve never had my fortune told and New Orleans, being the home of voodoo and the supernatural, seemed like the place to change that.

Last night, Lilly and I were roaming around the French Quarter and in Jackson Square, I saw a man who told people’s fortunes using bones; he was a bone reader. After dinner, we paid him a visit.

Hurkey is an old black man with dreadlocks turning white around his temples. He reads your interest and says, “Sit down, blondie.” He has a calm, soothing voice and a light touch. He asks you to hold the bag of bones while he puts oil on his hands. When he is done, he tells you to empty out all of the bones—all of them now, make sure you don’t miss a single one—onto the table. When you have done so, he takes your hands in his and quickly runs his fingers over yours. You are nervous and feel a little bit silly; out of the corner of your eye you can see other tourists gathered in flocks, watching you, and one even takes your picture as you and Hurkey sit, hands joined, and he tells you about yourself. He says, “Many people are jealous of you, baby. Men find you attractive but intimidating. You ever been told that, child?” You murmur, yeah, you’ve been told that before, but wonder if he’s trying to flatter you. Still holding your hands, eyes closed, he tells you that you should have been a twin and when you say there are no twins in your family, he says that you and your grandmother—your paternal grandmother, at which you feel a little bit proud, cause she was elegant and fascinating, and a bit relieved, cause your other grandmother is in the grip of Alzheimer’s and you don’t like to focus on that—share the same spirit. This, too, may be lip service, but you love it because you don’t look like anyone in your family except her, which you didn’t even realize because the one photo you’d ever seen didn’t look like you at all but then you found a different one and it was like looking at a mirror. Hurkey tells you that you will go far in life, you will grow into a conservative woman (which you hope doesn’t mean politically), you have been hurt in the past and are trying to recover. You are like a winged insect trapped in a lidded jar, beating your wings against the sides and the top, trying to escape and getting hurt in the process. When someone lifts the lid, you are afraid to fly up and away because in your experience, flying up only means pain. All you have to do is look up and realize that the future is wide open and you will be able to fly away and be free. In his baritone, he tells you that you need to start looking up. As he says so, he opens his eyes and releases your hands. Shaken, you sit there and thank him. As you and your friend walk away, he calls after you, “And baby, you got yourself a fine walk. Listen to Hurkey the Bone Man, baby. You gonna go far.”

Thoughts on New Orleans

2006-06-26T15:16:00.000-04:00

So, this is the third time I've been to New Orleans.

The first was when I was 17 and was looking at colleges with my dad; we stayed in the French Quarter and toured Tulane but I decided that, because Tulane didn't have a photography program and New Orleans had more visible roaches than Miami, I wasn't going to be able to live here. I think that those sentiments are the entirety of what I took from my high school visit.

The second time was in 2001, after September 11 when flights were cheap, and my then-boyfriend and I spent a week here over New Year's. We were 20 and didn't have fakes so we couldn't go out and drink legally in bars. Instead, we bought Red Dog beer from the vending machine at the hostel and paid whoever to buy the cheapest vodka they could find, which we then poured into a flask and sort of stood on the outskirts of bars. As I said, we were here for a week, staying at a hostel and without a car, so we got to know the French Quarter and surrounding areas really, really well. Every morning we would eat at La Madeleine cause V loved the coffee; that restaurant is now closed, whether from Katrina or something else, I don't know. We went into all of the galleries and quirky little museums and shops in the Quarter. My favorite was the coin and gun shop, which I first refused to go into, being interested in neither coins nor guns, except when they're in my pocket or being pointed at me, respectively. However, it turned out to be one of the most fascinating places I've ever been in. It was a museum of US and world history, viewed through the lenses of money and arms which, after all, pretty much make the world go round. There were old Roman coins and currency from each of the US states before the union; there were swords and muskets and shields. Somehow, we managed to miss the Pharmacy Museum, or maybe it wasn't here at the time, but I've passed by it several times so far, but it's always closed and I can't find its hours anywhere. I love eccentric, single-focus museums. They are so much more interesting than huge institutions, mainly because they reflect the psychology of collecting. Anyway, I enjoyed New Orleans in 2001, though I was certainly grateful to get out of the shitty hostel and go home.

This time, the third time, I've gotten the requisite food tour: the beignets (like crack they're so good), the jambalaya and gumbo and crawfish etouffee, but I haven't been to the Garden District or Bourbon Street (not really worth it but certainly fun people-watching, which I'll be doing tonight), and I haven't seen much of the Katrina damage. When I was 11, Hurricane Andrew hit Miami and shortly after that, my family experienced a personal tragedy indirectly related to the hurricane (no one died, though). The images of Katrina and the resulting fuck up on the part of our illustrious president and his cronies hit me in a way that I haven't been hit in a long time, not even during September 11th. I only knew a couple of people in New York at the time, and I hadn't been there (still haven't), so I didn't really feel a sense of personal loss during those days. The images were horrifying, of course, and I still reflect on how much the world changed that day, but what I felt and still feel for the people who went through Katrina is the empathy of someone who's seen firsthand the damage that hurricanes can cause. I know what it's like to be unprepared, as a city, for the absolute devastation that follows the storm.

I have to say, though, that despite Hurricane Andrew's flattening of Miami and its suburbs, we fared better than New Orleanians. At least we had a city to live in. We weren't driven out by rising waters and governmental indifference. Looting occurred, of course, but not on the scale that it did here. I was talking to a cab driver here who was telling me his hurricane story. He is originally from East Africa but has lived in New Orleans for 15 years. He figured that he could be considered a native because he had hurricane experience. He and his mother left 5 hours before the storm hit and, after sitting in traffic for 10 hours, managed to complete the 200-mile journey to a relative's house. Can you imagine? 10 hours to go 200 miles? He wasn't able to get back to the city for 6 months and when he did, he found that his house, the first house he ever owned, had been badly damaged, first by wind and then by water. Now, the city is at 60% population and while the tourist districts are up and running, the residential neighborhoods haven't fared so well. Many of the people driven out by unlivable conditions were black and poor and there is some indication that the racial demographics of NO are changing. There are more Hispanics here than before, for example, apparently drawn by employment prospects. I don't know if NO is expected to become richer or poorer, or if the original black residents are expected to come back (or are being asked back, as I hope, since this is their home, but doubt, cause this is also the US and those who are poor usually fend for themselves).

So this time, even though I haven't been able to see everything, I've enjoyed the French Quarter and the southern style of the people, and I've decided that I really like New Orleans. It's hotter than hell and the roaches are fierce and it smells worse than any other city I've been in, and it's not always pretty, but it has a charm to it that I think is unique to the south. I loooooove the laid back attitudes of New Orleanians. I love that Mardi Gras happens here. I love the bead trees. I love the hospitality. I love that you can drink on the street. I LOVE the food. If I lived here I would eat beignets for breakfast every day and gain 50 pounds. I love that this is the seat of American jazz. I love the Frenchness that is still so American. New Orleans is one of the most interesting cities in the United States, with a rich history and unique traditions, its own music and accent and food. I still don't know if I could live here--I'm pretty much over the humidity and roaches scare the shit out of me--but I can honestly say that I have enjoyed every minute of my stay here. Sometimes, that which you love the most you have to let grow on you, kind of like a song that you don't get at first and then something about it catches your attention and, after repeated listenings, you realize that its complexity was what confused you at first, and it took you a while to find its heart under the layers, but once you did you knew you would identify with it forever.

2006-06-26T15:11:00.000-04:00

French Quarter neighborhood

How can anyone resist cats on a loom?

2006-06-25T17:22:00.000-04:00

The hip-hop generation is often maligned for embracing only crass commercial and superficial values: the bling of "ghetto fabulous" superstars with cash to burn, the rampant degradation of women, and the glorification of turf wars and gang violence. I wouldn't exactly call myself a rap afficionado or even a fan, but that narrow-minded approach to the music, the movement, and the culture really gets to me. Same with the attitudes toward rock or goth or heavy metal. Why aren't young people--especially teenagers--allowed to explore things that aren't mainstream? I know that when I was in junior high and high school, I totally got into the pop-punk scene, which wasn't really mainstream, and it wasn't about subjugation or witchcraft or whatever stereotypes the counterculture evokes. It was simply about finding something that agreed with who I was at the time--an angry, insecure, smart kid who needed an outlet that whatever was the mainstream music of the time didn't and couldn't fulfill.

The point of this diatribe actually has to do with the conference. Yesterday afternoon I attended a presentation called "From the Bronx to the Burbs," about including hip hop in libraries. The two presenters--there was supposed to be a third, the author of the book Why White Kids Love Hip Hop but he had to cancel because he was sick--were young women who grew up with hip hop culture and wanted to include it in their professional careers as librarians. They talked a little bit about the history of hip hop, which I read about in Can't Stop Won't Stop. The history of the movement or culture or whatever is pretty interesting--it turns out that hip hop isn't all about women ("wimmin"), money and drugs. The audience at the lecture (the room was completely full and wasn't only young people, as I sort of thought it would be) was interested in learning how to draw in kids who relate to hip hop, and also about preserving local hip hop culture in their towns.

I really enjoyed the presentation. I love small, community movements that people can't help but get involved in. Most movements that have changed the world have come from the people, which is why it's so important to keep people informed--in their lives, in their communities, they are the ones who can effect change, and I try to always remember that when we're informed we can do anything.

Madame Secretary

2006-06-25T11:11:00.000-04:00

Last night was the welcoming address featuring the keynote speaker, Madeleine Albright, former Secretary of State under Bill Clinton (pun intended). There was the usual pomp and circumstance, lots of people to be introduced, a bunch of short speeches by people like Ray Nagin, mayor of New Orleans, whose speech was funny and entertaining. Everyone was patting themselves and ourselves on the back for having the balls to hold the conference here after Katrina and for attending the conference, but I did like what Nagin said, that by holding the conference here despite everything, we're sending the message that New Orleans is okay. There were also brief speeches by the governor general of Louisiana, as well as the president of the ALA (pictured below).

Madeleine Albright was promoting her new book, The Mighty and the Almighty. I don't remember the subtitle, but it's basically about the role of religion in US international relations.

(Sorry for the crappy pix.)

Her speech was pretty good. She, of course, commended everyone for attending the conference blah blah blah, and then she started discussing some of the main points of her book. She was actually pretty inspiring. In outlining some of her suggestions for a change in the US approach to other religions, she said that we should remember all major relgions share a basic tenet--the golden rule, do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism--they all say the same thing. We would do well to remember that.

She talked a bit about terrorism and its place in the Muslim world. In particular, I thought her comment that terrorist groups such as al-Qaeda (sp?) are trying to convince Muslims that they are victims, and if they succeed in doing so, the world is in major trouble.

Finally, she said that questioning our country's foreign policies does not mean that we are unpatriotic--patriotism has nothing to do with blindly following the leader if you do not agree with what the leader says and does. That's one thing that has always pissed me off--just because I question political leaders and various policies, both domestic and foreign, does not mean that I don't care about the US.

Anyway, I have to attend a lecture now. Peace out, yo.

Thoughts on librarianship

2006-06-24T15:35:00.000-04:00

This morning I went to what turned out to be a really interesting lecture called "Intellectual Freedom in Rural Libraries: How to Keep the Library for Everyone." I'm not planning on working in a rural library or anything, but I figured I could use a refresher on intellectual freedom. It's always been one of my "things," and I believe very strongly in unrestricted access to information. One of the reasons that I wanted to pursue librarianship was my interest in intellectual freedom. I think that's one of the few things that's important in the world today. So much of the "news" in the United States comes from a handful of sources (AOL TimeWarner, for example) that it's almost impossible to know if what you're reading or watching or hearing is true, or if it's spun through the media machine (it most certainly is). I'm attending a lecture tomorrow called "All the News You Never Get: Breaking the International News Blockade," ~~which I'm really looking forward to~~ ~~to which I'm really looking forward~~ which I'm really looking forward to.

Not to get off topic or anything.

Anyway, the man who presented the intellectual freedom piece is a librarian who teaches at the University of Buffalo [go Bills! (sorry, that was a shout-out to my mom and my other Buffalonian relatives)]. He's worked in rural libraries all over, and visits libraries constantly. Even on his honeymood. Which might be a little bit much. However, he's certainly well-versed in the unique challenges faced by rural librarians. He went through a bunch of ways librarians and libraries can emphasize their commitment to intellectual freedom--by doing small things, such as using IF-related quotations as signatures on their email, to bigger undertakings, like prominently displaying banners outside the library with IF material on them. He made a clear connection between the Bill of Rights, and particularly the First Amendment, as well as the Constitution and our other founding documents, and intellectual freedom. I liked that. I think that, as a fairly cynical American, it's easy to forget that we, too, own the First Amendment and the Constitution--by that, I mean that while the First Amendment is often used to uphold the constitutionality of white-power groups and the like, it can be applied equally well to the more inclusive side of the United States. One of the speaker's biggest points was "don't back down." Intellectual freedom must be protected if we are to ever gain an understanding of our politics, our cultures and societies, and the international relations our country embarks upon.

God I'm a prostelytizer, huh? (Ha.)

Anyway, I'm turning up some cool stuff at this conference. This afternoon I'm going to a lecture on representing hip-hop in library collections, and tonight is Madeleine Albright's keynote address. Sweet!