So, I interviewed. They talked, I talked. It mostly went okay, since I don't have anything to rant about, except.....
OW OW OW after four hours in new shoes my little toes hurt a lot a lot a lot!!
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Slight Panic
Interview tomorrow, which means that I am in full-on procrastination mode. It's akin to labour, except less painful and you can drink, and rather than think about when, dear God when, the parasite in your uterus will finally be expelled so that you can worry about your belly fat again and whether your ass is fat because now you can turn around and actually see your ass, and it's a lot bigger than the last time you saw it...no, rather than that, it's WOW red wine and chocolate pretzels are really really good at 4:30 in the morning, I can't sleep anyway might as well surf the web because what I don't want to do is look up whether or not you can just switch out your moly source for copper but really? really, I want to watch The Shopping Network. Yes, procrastination is a lot like that. One minute you're reminiscing about having a baby and the next you're scarfing down forbidden food in the wee dark hours of the morning accompanied by The New Lukastyle Fashions, because there is no way in hell that you're actually going to prepare for an interview. Which reminds me, I have to hem those pants I bought...or really, why bother? Why not just fold them up underneath and tape them up with packing tape?Better yet, the Handyman's Helper: Duct Tape.
In my wanderings through the web-o-sphere of delaying the inevitable, I looked at Dooce's site, to find a reference to a family with 17 children. Perhaps you have heard of them, seen an article about them in the news. It reminded me that every once in a while Hub and I say that we could have had more children, and indeed that is true. Even though I am not a big person, pregnancy was a cakewalk, and labour and delivery were much easier than, say, my PhD comprehensive exam, where I had to talk for two full hours about a research proposal that I'd made up all by myself to five men who thought my scientific merit ranked near to that of the common ground squirrel, despite the fact that I proved them wrong. So sure, there could have been a few more kids in this family, and it would have been fine, because all of the children would have been perfect like the two we have now, and they all would have been beautiful and intelligent like the two we have now, and they all would have changed the world every day by their very existence, yes, like the two we have now. Naturally it would be perfect. Sadly, we will never find this out because I refused to have children after a certain age, and that age has passed. Let the drinking begin in earnest!
Back to the Duggars and their 17 babies. Not all babies, since the first was born in 1988, but really people, maybe it's time to stop bringing forth new faces into the world. Or at least, if you're still motivated to procreate, and clearly you are because when a woman is totally made up and beaming after giving birth to her 17th child, she isn't quite ready to call it quits, is she? then for the love of all that is holy, could you possibly try switching up the names? Each and every one of those 17 children has a name that starts with the letter "J", you can double-check that on their site because I am not listing them. Imagine breakfast in your 4700 square foot house (for this is what Jim Bob built for his family, without ending up owing a cent at the end, because he and Michelle are Real Estate Agents ..... wait a minute, where does she find the time? Pregnancy might be easy enough but what? does she go to work 10 minutes after giving birth?) where you want one of the 17 Darlings to pass the butter. It probably doesn't matter which J name you call out, because one of them is going to leap up and place the butter in front of you. I think that personally, I'd just call out "Jedidiah! Butter!" at every meal because I like a multisyllabic name with lots of the same letters. It's no wonder they're all caught up with God...oh, sorry, Jesus (because you only think of the earthly embodiment of God, and you don't address the Big Guy, you petition Jesus to be your messenger instead. That way, if God decides that the request is a particularly stupid one, he'll smite Jesus and not you.) and not drinking, they'd never remember who any of their kids are. Besides, once they start drinking they probably won't stop.
What killed me about their site is the birth control story and the "fine print" that a Christian medical doctor pointed out to them, that if one becomes pregnant while on the pill, that the probability of miscarriage is high. I think that it's imperative that I point out that if your physician doesn't point out that if you get pregnant while on the pill, that you will likely miscarry. Why is it that women take the pill without a full understanding of what it does? If you want to maintain your ignorance then fine, don't take the thing. On the other hand, if you take a pill and you don't know what it's doing to your body, then you are stupid and deserve a good smiting. So here are Jim Bob and Michelle, and they've lost a baby due to ignorance of their own making, and they're begging God's forgiveness, and I'm thinking, "How did they know that he forgave them? Did he tell them? He sent a sign?" and then I'm thinking, "Really. You should not concern yourself with these stupid people. You have to be somewhere in 24h and what will not be on the question list is, "What do you think of the Duggar family?"
And we're back to eating crunchy chip things that Hub bought, bags of them in fact so even if I finish this bag there are four more in the cupboard, and we're ranting in our heads but still reading the job description again (they want me to what??) and what I wrote when I applied for this job three months ago (I said that?!) and what everyone does as their research and where I'd fit in, or whether I would and can't I just have one more bag of those crunchy chip things (barbecue flavour, not plain)?
It is hot as fuck here today, and tomorrow it's not going to be quite as warm (23C) so we are now leaning away from the turtleneck because even though it's September 26 tomorrow it is definitely not Fall and we may wear a totally different outfit that has nothing to do with hemming anything.........but I digress, yet again.
In my wanderings through the web-o-sphere of delaying the inevitable, I looked at Dooce's site, to find a reference to a family with 17 children. Perhaps you have heard of them, seen an article about them in the news. It reminded me that every once in a while Hub and I say that we could have had more children, and indeed that is true. Even though I am not a big person, pregnancy was a cakewalk, and labour and delivery were much easier than, say, my PhD comprehensive exam, where I had to talk for two full hours about a research proposal that I'd made up all by myself to five men who thought my scientific merit ranked near to that of the common ground squirrel, despite the fact that I proved them wrong. So sure, there could have been a few more kids in this family, and it would have been fine, because all of the children would have been perfect like the two we have now, and they all would have been beautiful and intelligent like the two we have now, and they all would have changed the world every day by their very existence, yes, like the two we have now. Naturally it would be perfect. Sadly, we will never find this out because I refused to have children after a certain age, and that age has passed. Let the drinking begin in earnest!
Back to the Duggars and their 17 babies. Not all babies, since the first was born in 1988, but really people, maybe it's time to stop bringing forth new faces into the world. Or at least, if you're still motivated to procreate, and clearly you are because when a woman is totally made up and beaming after giving birth to her 17th child, she isn't quite ready to call it quits, is she? then for the love of all that is holy, could you possibly try switching up the names? Each and every one of those 17 children has a name that starts with the letter "J", you can double-check that on their site because I am not listing them. Imagine breakfast in your 4700 square foot house (for this is what Jim Bob built for his family, without ending up owing a cent at the end, because he and Michelle are Real Estate Agents ..... wait a minute, where does she find the time? Pregnancy might be easy enough but what? does she go to work 10 minutes after giving birth?) where you want one of the 17 Darlings to pass the butter. It probably doesn't matter which J name you call out, because one of them is going to leap up and place the butter in front of you. I think that personally, I'd just call out "Jedidiah! Butter!" at every meal because I like a multisyllabic name with lots of the same letters. It's no wonder they're all caught up with God...oh, sorry, Jesus (because you only think of the earthly embodiment of God, and you don't address the Big Guy, you petition Jesus to be your messenger instead. That way, if God decides that the request is a particularly stupid one, he'll smite Jesus and not you.) and not drinking, they'd never remember who any of their kids are. Besides, once they start drinking they probably won't stop.
What killed me about their site is the birth control story and the "fine print" that a Christian medical doctor pointed out to them, that if one becomes pregnant while on the pill, that the probability of miscarriage is high. I think that it's imperative that I point out that if your physician doesn't point out that if you get pregnant while on the pill, that you will likely miscarry. Why is it that women take the pill without a full understanding of what it does? If you want to maintain your ignorance then fine, don't take the thing. On the other hand, if you take a pill and you don't know what it's doing to your body, then you are stupid and deserve a good smiting. So here are Jim Bob and Michelle, and they've lost a baby due to ignorance of their own making, and they're begging God's forgiveness, and I'm thinking, "How did they know that he forgave them? Did he tell them? He sent a sign?" and then I'm thinking, "Really. You should not concern yourself with these stupid people. You have to be somewhere in 24h and what will not be on the question list is, "What do you think of the Duggar family?"
And we're back to eating crunchy chip things that Hub bought, bags of them in fact so even if I finish this bag there are four more in the cupboard, and we're ranting in our heads but still reading the job description again (they want me to what??) and what I wrote when I applied for this job three months ago (I said that?!) and what everyone does as their research and where I'd fit in, or whether I would and can't I just have one more bag of those crunchy chip things (barbecue flavour, not plain)?
It is hot as fuck here today, and tomorrow it's not going to be quite as warm (23C) so we are now leaning away from the turtleneck because even though it's September 26 tomorrow it is definitely not Fall and we may wear a totally different outfit that has nothing to do with hemming anything.........but I digress, yet again.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Grapes, Grapes, Grapes
This summer we've had next to no rain, and so the fruit that grows in our yard and my brother-in-laws yard is sweet and amazing, and there isn't a lot of it. This week, while I was still mired in procrastination mode (oh? you think I'm still procrastinating by writing this? really?) I made some grape jelly from the grapes in our yard, supplemented by the ones next door. Our grapes (Concords, useless for anything except eating and making jelly) are practically raisins from the drought, but my brother-in-laws fared better because he's got them up on a lattice. Mine are strung along the chain link fence, and maybe next year I'll do something about that. I didn't photograph my grapes, but I did snap the ones next door:
Aren't they nice? Here's a closeup:
These photos are unedited by the way, I haven't cropped or adjusted the colours.
From grapes on the vine, to grape jelly:
This is the most fully-flavoured grape jelly I have ever had. Normally I don't even like the stuff, especially that made from Concord grapes. This time however, the flavour is full and rich, and hardly the cloying sweetness you usually get with anything grape-flavoured. I am so pleased with these few jars that I'm going to make some more next week. I might wait until after Wednesday's interview...maybe...
In the meantime, last night we had pizza, it being Saturday and all, and we had wine from here, the 2001 Raboso. It could easily sit in the bottle for another five years or so, and should be opened at minimum, one hour before drinking. Most spectacular, however, were the tartarate (probably a sodium salt, or else pure tartaric acid. I haven't quite been able to determine this.) crystals on the cork:
The crystals are by no means an indication that the wine is "off" or any such thing, and they are simply a part of sedimentation. What is surprising is that they were not at all hygroscopic, and they've remained intact overnight. Often the crystals are contaminated with some other sediment and they decompose quickly once the bottle is opened. I'll figure out a way of preserving them, since red crystals are relatively rare in foodstuffs, and quite beautiful to look at.
We all need a little beauty, no matter our circumstances. Hope in Shadows is a calendar that's put out each year by the Pivot Legal Society that works out of Vancouver's Eastside neighbourhood. This year their photography contest was won by 14-year old Hannah Walker, and an article appeared in October 17th's Globe and Mail about her. Raincoaster over at Teeny Manolo includes the photo and part of the article.
I realize that has nothing to do with grapes, but the photo has stuck with me today and I wanted to include it here, inappropriate grape content or not.
Aren't they nice? Here's a closeup:
These photos are unedited by the way, I haven't cropped or adjusted the colours.
From grapes on the vine, to grape jelly:
This is the most fully-flavoured grape jelly I have ever had. Normally I don't even like the stuff, especially that made from Concord grapes. This time however, the flavour is full and rich, and hardly the cloying sweetness you usually get with anything grape-flavoured. I am so pleased with these few jars that I'm going to make some more next week. I might wait until after Wednesday's interview...maybe...
In the meantime, last night we had pizza, it being Saturday and all, and we had wine from here, the 2001 Raboso. It could easily sit in the bottle for another five years or so, and should be opened at minimum, one hour before drinking. Most spectacular, however, were the tartarate (probably a sodium salt, or else pure tartaric acid. I haven't quite been able to determine this.) crystals on the cork:
The crystals are by no means an indication that the wine is "off" or any such thing, and they are simply a part of sedimentation. What is surprising is that they were not at all hygroscopic, and they've remained intact overnight. Often the crystals are contaminated with some other sediment and they decompose quickly once the bottle is opened. I'll figure out a way of preserving them, since red crystals are relatively rare in foodstuffs, and quite beautiful to look at.
We all need a little beauty, no matter our circumstances. Hope in Shadows is a calendar that's put out each year by the Pivot Legal Society that works out of Vancouver's Eastside neighbourhood. This year their photography contest was won by 14-year old Hannah Walker, and an article appeared in October 17th's Globe and Mail about her. Raincoaster over at Teeny Manolo includes the photo and part of the article.
I realize that has nothing to do with grapes, but the photo has stuck with me today and I wanted to include it here, inappropriate grape content or not.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Procrastination Nation
I have been feeling terribly unsettled, and it should come as no surprise to anyone, especially me, that I'm procrastinating. I don't have much opportunity for procrastination any more, seeing as I don't have to report to an employer and nobody puts constraints on my time but me, but lately, I have been putting something off.
Remember the last post ended with, "And now I will figure out exactly what it is I do"? (or something like that). Well, I've not been figuring out what it is that I do very much. I did take a glance at a book and realized that all of that science-y stuff is still in my head, so that part isn't a problem. What I've not been doing however, is talking science. It would be handy if on Wednesday I don't talk like a complete idiot when I'm being interviewed. It would be good if I sounded as though I actually cared about getting this job. Which I do, don't get me wrong.
There's a lot of other stuff going on of course, and I don't know how to divide my time. I used to know how to do this. When I had no time at all to spare two years ago, I used every minute and everything got done. Now that I have lots of spare time, I don't want to do anything.
I don't think this is atypical.
Rather than spend a lot of time lamenting my fate though, I'd prefer to talk about something that pops into my head every once in a while, and which I find amusing.
I often think about what it would be like to live in a different era, to "time travel" back and, knowing everything I know now, live for a few days with the regular people of that time. The other day when I was walking up the hill to get the kids from school (1.2km, up) I was thinking about what it would be like to be transferred back to 1950-something. In the movies, women from this time are portrayed as poufy dress-wearing, wasp-thin waist types, who did nothing but keep house and wait for their man to get home from work, and look after the children. I'm thinking of the middle-class here, seeing as that's my station more or less. So if I get to live in the early 50's, with my little housedress and my current cooking skills, and some husband-guy who refers to women as "dames" and expects his shirts pressed and a spotless house...well, already the hair on the back of my neck is standing on end. Firstly, I think of dresses as dressing up, so I'd be looking for some pants, pronto. Secondly, I am not demure and I tend to swear like a sailor if I can't get what I want. Thirdly, if all I could get at the grocery store were various cuts of meat, "steak spice" and potatoes, dinner would get darn boring really fast. Finally, the whole relationship equality discussion would probably get out of hand.
Usually, what happens in these scenarios is I get arrested after getting into massive arguments with people of the time. Or I get tossed into a psychiatric hospital because my futuristic outlook is frightening. Unfortunately, I never end up with people who might be looking to the future, or looking beyond their dinner plates. I don't transport myself to living with Hollywood types or Beatniks (and even then, the chauvinism was appalling), or the scientists of the time. I put myself in the middle of the middle class, cooking dinner for hubby and raising the children and wiping down every speck of dust before I go completely barking mad from the boredom.
This selection from the Spiegel catalog comes with a funny little commentary (if you ignore the typos) about dressing in the 50's. The person who added the commentary indicated at one point that if we think models are thin now, just look at these girls, they have to hold each other up! and it's true. The 19-inch waist? I don't know how you get that, I've certainly never had one.
Where does one go to eat? Supper Clubs? Why on earth would I go out to eat food that I can make myself ... only better? I'd have to drop that idea really fast if I ever wanted to go out for dinner again though.
Remember the last post ended with, "And now I will figure out exactly what it is I do"? (or something like that). Well, I've not been figuring out what it is that I do very much. I did take a glance at a book and realized that all of that science-y stuff is still in my head, so that part isn't a problem. What I've not been doing however, is talking science. It would be handy if on Wednesday I don't talk like a complete idiot when I'm being interviewed. It would be good if I sounded as though I actually cared about getting this job. Which I do, don't get me wrong.
There's a lot of other stuff going on of course, and I don't know how to divide my time. I used to know how to do this. When I had no time at all to spare two years ago, I used every minute and everything got done. Now that I have lots of spare time, I don't want to do anything.
I don't think this is atypical.
Rather than spend a lot of time lamenting my fate though, I'd prefer to talk about something that pops into my head every once in a while, and which I find amusing.
I often think about what it would be like to live in a different era, to "time travel" back and, knowing everything I know now, live for a few days with the regular people of that time. The other day when I was walking up the hill to get the kids from school (1.2km, up) I was thinking about what it would be like to be transferred back to 1950-something. In the movies, women from this time are portrayed as poufy dress-wearing, wasp-thin waist types, who did nothing but keep house and wait for their man to get home from work, and look after the children. I'm thinking of the middle-class here, seeing as that's my station more or less. So if I get to live in the early 50's, with my little housedress and my current cooking skills, and some husband-guy who refers to women as "dames" and expects his shirts pressed and a spotless house...well, already the hair on the back of my neck is standing on end. Firstly, I think of dresses as dressing up, so I'd be looking for some pants, pronto. Secondly, I am not demure and I tend to swear like a sailor if I can't get what I want. Thirdly, if all I could get at the grocery store were various cuts of meat, "steak spice" and potatoes, dinner would get darn boring really fast. Finally, the whole relationship equality discussion would probably get out of hand.
Usually, what happens in these scenarios is I get arrested after getting into massive arguments with people of the time. Or I get tossed into a psychiatric hospital because my futuristic outlook is frightening. Unfortunately, I never end up with people who might be looking to the future, or looking beyond their dinner plates. I don't transport myself to living with Hollywood types or Beatniks (and even then, the chauvinism was appalling), or the scientists of the time. I put myself in the middle of the middle class, cooking dinner for hubby and raising the children and wiping down every speck of dust before I go completely barking mad from the boredom.
This selection from the Spiegel catalog comes with a funny little commentary (if you ignore the typos) about dressing in the 50's. The person who added the commentary indicated at one point that if we think models are thin now, just look at these girls, they have to hold each other up! and it's true. The 19-inch waist? I don't know how you get that, I've certainly never had one.
Where does one go to eat? Supper Clubs? Why on earth would I go out to eat food that I can make myself ... only better? I'd have to drop that idea really fast if I ever wanted to go out for dinner again though.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Shopping Sucks
The mall sucks too. I hate the mall, I don't know why I go there. I love to shop, as long as I'm not trying to buy something for myself. As it was, on Saturday I was overtaken by an uncontrollable urge to get the Interview Outfit out of the way. By doing this, I completely missed the Knitters Fair in Kitchener, something for which I will slap myself upside the head for the next year until I get my act together and make it to the thing. Now you're going to say, "Oh, it's okay...it's not like you needed more yarn."
Yarn is not about need, people. It's about dreaming and desire. It's the embodiment of cuddly or the one thing between you and the bitter wind. Need. Indeed.
Still, yarn was not on the agenda on Saturday, pants and a top of some kind were instead. Shoes I knew I didn't need, because I picked up a cute little pair of Geox multicoloured kitten heels last week on a wander through Winners. They were the only pair, and they were marked to a ridiculously low price, and they were my size. You know they came home with me and that they've been the source of my obsession ever since I found out that I had this interview lined up. I could wear them! But with what? What sort of semi-business attire do I own?
Nothing. Nothing in my closet revealed itself to be suitable for this interview. It's an academic interview but it's not a faculty job, it's staff. I need to look professional and interesting, but only for half a day, not an entire day and not even for lunch and certainly not dinner. I need to look like I considered what to wear but not that I spent hours agonizing over it. I need to be comfortable in case I have to climb around an instrument or into a dusty office that still has computer punch-cards lurking in heaps in the corners, but I need to have shoes that make noise when I walk so that everyone knows that I mean some kind of business.
My first clue that the Interview Outfit was going to be a problem was that I have no pants. Now certainly, you could look in my closet and see pants. Lots of them, or if not lots, then enough of them. You would also find skirts. You would not find so many dresses because I have a hard time finding dresses that fit me.
And therein lies the rub: clothes do not fit me, and thus, shopping sucks. I am short. I am short enough that I need to wear petite sizes, but even then, no guarantee that the fit will be correct. I am lacking in the boobage department, not flat-chested but certainly not well-endowed enough to wear a majority of button-up shirts or blouses. I am not very big but I'm not a size 0. I will not wear "teen" clothing except where I find a graphic t-shirt that is very very pretty, and even then I will often pass it by. Remember we're talking dress-up clothing here, not jeans and t-shirts, in which case I will go to Old Navigator and find the kids' size 16 for $2.98 t-shirts and jeans can come from Valued Village unless I someday do decide to spend the $200 on the Citizens for Humanity jeans, which caught my eye in Winnipeg last summer and once on I could barely peel them off for loving them so thoroughly.
Yeesh. Clothing incites run-on sentences.
Okay, so where were we? Looking for an outfit. Actually, when I set out at first I wasn't absolutely looking for pants, but seeing the abysmal selection available to me, I gave up on the idea of any other leg-covering garment and settled on pants. Pants are good! I should have more of them.
I quickly discover that the mall is beyond useless. Not only did I only find one pair of pants that I could try on, there's only one store that actually carries petite stuff. They had a nice pair of Simon Chang cords, all black and brown and stripy, but even in the smallest size available i could get them on and off without undoing them. Not so good, and the store had nothing smaller than ... well, nothing small enough for me.
I ended up defaulting to Winners, which is fine except that I always go there and I always end up with what I want, and I always am successful there. Why is this bad? Because it means that if I go in there, I buy stuff, and without slightly more income in this household, going into a store and buying stuff is not a great idea. Anyway, I go. I wander around for ages looking for pants that are not up to my tits (hello Grandma! love the MOM jeans, and I love how round you've gotten around the middle just by getting dressed. How hot is that?) and that are either very slim or relatively wide-legged. The slim ones are not to be found, but after much searching I find a couple of pairs of pants that are worth trying on. I also find a purple turtleneck that has nothing to do with the Interview Outfit, and once I find that I also grab a DKNY shirt that has even less to do with the Interview Outfit, and I also grab a sale item that I love and hate at the same time and therefore must try on to find out the extent of the love/hate.
Pants: Bill Blass, you are not my friend. You not only manufacture Mom Jeans under the guise of a low-rise waist, your colours range from pesto vomit to shit of an infant yellow. You are not the winner of my hard-earned cash today. On the other hand, Dalia you Italian babe, you have made me a pair of pants that will fit, even after I hem up the extra four inches or maybe, give myself a cuff at the bottom of the pants. The waist is a little high but not unbearably so, and besides it'll be under a turtleneck of some kind, because looking for a blouse is an agonizing waste of time. Sweet Mother of Christ what I wouldn't do for some cleavage once in a while.
I try on the purple turtleneck, and the armpits of the sweater are somewhere around my waist, which seems strange. It is not a well-made item and I toss it in the corner of the changeroom, hoping it picks up all the lint. The DKNY t-shirt is a laughable mess, firstly because of the coral colour that does me zero favours, and secondly because size small is supposed to at least pretend to fit me! it should not hang down below my ass or the ends of my fingers and the rest of the thing should not sag like a sack of potatoes around me. What an abomination; it was also thrown in the corner. A black turtleneck that actually could have been part of the Outfit fit poorly and sagged as well. The sale item? definitely hate. Again, the petition for breasts but to no avail.
At least I have pants. I console myself with that for about the amount of time it takes to toss everything at the changeroom attendant and head out again to search. I see some Tommy Hilfiger turtlenecks that are the right shade and style, but I will not wear a logo if I can help it, and Tommy has a small tag hanging out the side. Forget it buddy, you are not going home on my hip. Just as I am about to shrug my shoulders, remembering that I have a creamy-white merino wool top lazing away the hours at the back of a drawer somewhere, I see a turtleneck that will fit the bill in a way that reminds me so much of my late, extraordinarily stylish (and raging drunk) grandmother that I snatch it up and hurry off to the cash register without trying it on. These are often my most successful decisions, and when I get home I am rewarded with a lovely outfit that I'm actually pleased with and comfortable in, two things I couldn't have hoped for when I first set out on my quest.
The Outfit is interesting without being threatening, makes me look good but not too good, and is very comfortable. I can definitely climb into the back of a diffractometer in a dusty lab in this ensemble. One thing though, and that is the shoes. I have two pairs that would work, and they are very different from each other. One pair is the ones I've mentioned, the Geox multicoloured ones, and the second is a 15-year old pair of Fluevogs. Yes, they definitely look worn, but at the same time they are striking shoes and they're not beat-up. I have a big black bag or I have a brown briefcase thing, so that matchy-matchy business isn't a problem. I suspect that no matter what public opinion says, I will choose the shoes the morning of the interview...but in the meantime, here's my dilemma:
One pair of Geox shoes, very beautiful and comfortable and yes, I love them.
Or....
One pair of 15 year-old shoes from John Fluevog, very beautiful and comfortable and have seen some wild days. Looking at these photos side by side, I think I have an opinion, but that may change so I'm not going to hold myself to it. Now, though, since I've scarfed down a huge bowl of ice cream while ranting on and writing this post, I'm going to do some yoga stretches and then go to bed.
Tomorrow, I'll begin reading and reviewing so that I can figure out just what it is exactly, that I do.
Yarn is not about need, people. It's about dreaming and desire. It's the embodiment of cuddly or the one thing between you and the bitter wind. Need. Indeed.
Still, yarn was not on the agenda on Saturday, pants and a top of some kind were instead. Shoes I knew I didn't need, because I picked up a cute little pair of Geox multicoloured kitten heels last week on a wander through Winners. They were the only pair, and they were marked to a ridiculously low price, and they were my size. You know they came home with me and that they've been the source of my obsession ever since I found out that I had this interview lined up. I could wear them! But with what? What sort of semi-business attire do I own?
Nothing. Nothing in my closet revealed itself to be suitable for this interview. It's an academic interview but it's not a faculty job, it's staff. I need to look professional and interesting, but only for half a day, not an entire day and not even for lunch and certainly not dinner. I need to look like I considered what to wear but not that I spent hours agonizing over it. I need to be comfortable in case I have to climb around an instrument or into a dusty office that still has computer punch-cards lurking in heaps in the corners, but I need to have shoes that make noise when I walk so that everyone knows that I mean some kind of business.
My first clue that the Interview Outfit was going to be a problem was that I have no pants. Now certainly, you could look in my closet and see pants. Lots of them, or if not lots, then enough of them. You would also find skirts. You would not find so many dresses because I have a hard time finding dresses that fit me.
And therein lies the rub: clothes do not fit me, and thus, shopping sucks. I am short. I am short enough that I need to wear petite sizes, but even then, no guarantee that the fit will be correct. I am lacking in the boobage department, not flat-chested but certainly not well-endowed enough to wear a majority of button-up shirts or blouses. I am not very big but I'm not a size 0. I will not wear "teen" clothing except where I find a graphic t-shirt that is very very pretty, and even then I will often pass it by. Remember we're talking dress-up clothing here, not jeans and t-shirts, in which case I will go to Old Navigator and find the kids' size 16 for $2.98 t-shirts and jeans can come from Valued Village unless I someday do decide to spend the $200 on the Citizens for Humanity jeans, which caught my eye in Winnipeg last summer and once on I could barely peel them off for loving them so thoroughly.
Yeesh. Clothing incites run-on sentences.
Okay, so where were we? Looking for an outfit. Actually, when I set out at first I wasn't absolutely looking for pants, but seeing the abysmal selection available to me, I gave up on the idea of any other leg-covering garment and settled on pants. Pants are good! I should have more of them.
I quickly discover that the mall is beyond useless. Not only did I only find one pair of pants that I could try on, there's only one store that actually carries petite stuff. They had a nice pair of Simon Chang cords, all black and brown and stripy, but even in the smallest size available i could get them on and off without undoing them. Not so good, and the store had nothing smaller than ... well, nothing small enough for me.
I ended up defaulting to Winners, which is fine except that I always go there and I always end up with what I want, and I always am successful there. Why is this bad? Because it means that if I go in there, I buy stuff, and without slightly more income in this household, going into a store and buying stuff is not a great idea. Anyway, I go. I wander around for ages looking for pants that are not up to my tits (hello Grandma! love the MOM jeans, and I love how round you've gotten around the middle just by getting dressed. How hot is that?) and that are either very slim or relatively wide-legged. The slim ones are not to be found, but after much searching I find a couple of pairs of pants that are worth trying on. I also find a purple turtleneck that has nothing to do with the Interview Outfit, and once I find that I also grab a DKNY shirt that has even less to do with the Interview Outfit, and I also grab a sale item that I love and hate at the same time and therefore must try on to find out the extent of the love/hate.
Pants: Bill Blass, you are not my friend. You not only manufacture Mom Jeans under the guise of a low-rise waist, your colours range from pesto vomit to shit of an infant yellow. You are not the winner of my hard-earned cash today. On the other hand, Dalia you Italian babe, you have made me a pair of pants that will fit, even after I hem up the extra four inches or maybe, give myself a cuff at the bottom of the pants. The waist is a little high but not unbearably so, and besides it'll be under a turtleneck of some kind, because looking for a blouse is an agonizing waste of time. Sweet Mother of Christ what I wouldn't do for some cleavage once in a while.
I try on the purple turtleneck, and the armpits of the sweater are somewhere around my waist, which seems strange. It is not a well-made item and I toss it in the corner of the changeroom, hoping it picks up all the lint. The DKNY t-shirt is a laughable mess, firstly because of the coral colour that does me zero favours, and secondly because size small is supposed to at least pretend to fit me! it should not hang down below my ass or the ends of my fingers and the rest of the thing should not sag like a sack of potatoes around me. What an abomination; it was also thrown in the corner. A black turtleneck that actually could have been part of the Outfit fit poorly and sagged as well. The sale item? definitely hate. Again, the petition for breasts but to no avail.
At least I have pants. I console myself with that for about the amount of time it takes to toss everything at the changeroom attendant and head out again to search. I see some Tommy Hilfiger turtlenecks that are the right shade and style, but I will not wear a logo if I can help it, and Tommy has a small tag hanging out the side. Forget it buddy, you are not going home on my hip. Just as I am about to shrug my shoulders, remembering that I have a creamy-white merino wool top lazing away the hours at the back of a drawer somewhere, I see a turtleneck that will fit the bill in a way that reminds me so much of my late, extraordinarily stylish (and raging drunk) grandmother that I snatch it up and hurry off to the cash register without trying it on. These are often my most successful decisions, and when I get home I am rewarded with a lovely outfit that I'm actually pleased with and comfortable in, two things I couldn't have hoped for when I first set out on my quest.
The Outfit is interesting without being threatening, makes me look good but not too good, and is very comfortable. I can definitely climb into the back of a diffractometer in a dusty lab in this ensemble. One thing though, and that is the shoes. I have two pairs that would work, and they are very different from each other. One pair is the ones I've mentioned, the Geox multicoloured ones, and the second is a 15-year old pair of Fluevogs. Yes, they definitely look worn, but at the same time they are striking shoes and they're not beat-up. I have a big black bag or I have a brown briefcase thing, so that matchy-matchy business isn't a problem. I suspect that no matter what public opinion says, I will choose the shoes the morning of the interview...but in the meantime, here's my dilemma:
One pair of Geox shoes, very beautiful and comfortable and yes, I love them.
Or....
One pair of 15 year-old shoes from John Fluevog, very beautiful and comfortable and have seen some wild days. Looking at these photos side by side, I think I have an opinion, but that may change so I'm not going to hold myself to it. Now, though, since I've scarfed down a huge bowl of ice cream while ranting on and writing this post, I'm going to do some yoga stretches and then go to bed.
Tomorrow, I'll begin reading and reviewing so that I can figure out just what it is exactly, that I do.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
I can't help myself
My bamboo (out the back door) is full of wasps. They love the flowers. I keep telling people, "The bamboo is full of wasps!" and everytime I say it, I think of this:
"My hovercraft is full of eels."
Thank-you, Monty Python. I grovel at your collective comedic feets.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Back in Grandma's Kitchen
I'm using a small bowl for my ice cream that has 14 karat gold trim on it...my grandma used to have a set of these dishes, and I got these small bowls at Angie's while I was clearing out a cupboard the other day. They're from Homer Laughlin China, a discontinued pattern.
This is the stuff, although they don't show the small dessert bowl I'm currently using. When I lived with Grandma I used these bowls all the time.
I am still working on cleaning out Angie's condo and it's a daunting job. I'm nearing the point where I can have the furniture picked up by my charity of choice, but there are still things to do in that regard and rather than making more trips than necessary, I want it all done as efficiently as possible. No one is complaining about how I'm handling things, but then they have their own worries; Hub's other sister's husband has a large abdominal tumor that will be examined in the next couple of days. Not sure if it's malignant or not, but he did have stomach cancer five years ago so the reappearance of cancer wouldn't be a complete surprise. In truth, working on Angie's condo is a task that is tiring and fulfilling at the same time, and always difficult. No one goes with me, which is probably for the best because I can organize my thoughts better when I'm not talking to someone else. Yesterday I took my house-painter neighbour over to take a look and to give us an estimate of what it would cost to paint the place. It's small but really needs the paint job, and then it'll be fine. What I didn't need was a little "job list" and exact instructions on what I have to do and how I have to deal with the other people in the family and so on. I admit, I did complain a bit and I shouldn't have, because maybe she interpreted that as me being needy. I'm not needy, and I don't respond well to being told what to do at the best of times, so after a while I was just tired of her nattering and really, I do understand how colours work and yes, I do know what you're going to have to do to complete the job, but how about you do the job, and I'll deal with the family stuff?
From now on then, do not discuss other people, do not discuss how things are going with the cleanup. Relay information that is necessary for the job, and keep everything else at bay. There are times for telling other people what to do, and there are times when this is not a good idea. We could put it this way: my neighbour has no people management skills.
I like to be able to say what I want, because sometimes it gives me a better opportunity to understand what I'm really thinking. Since talking to other people is becoming more and more difficult to do, I'm going to get a little thing so that I can talk to myself instead. It's a present from me to me, and it's a voice-recorder that I'll probably get tomorrow, since today is half done already. I'm hoping it'll be useful as I prepare for this job interview, so that I can make up questions and answer them, listen to myself and adjust what I've said, my tone of voice and/or my approach to the question. I have been told many, many times that I speak too bluntly and that it can be off-putting.
Then again, the people who are interviewing me? Volatile. Reputed to be difficult at the best of times. Interesting. Maybe my bluntness will be a welcome change of pace, who knows.
This is the stuff, although they don't show the small dessert bowl I'm currently using. When I lived with Grandma I used these bowls all the time.
I am still working on cleaning out Angie's condo and it's a daunting job. I'm nearing the point where I can have the furniture picked up by my charity of choice, but there are still things to do in that regard and rather than making more trips than necessary, I want it all done as efficiently as possible. No one is complaining about how I'm handling things, but then they have their own worries; Hub's other sister's husband has a large abdominal tumor that will be examined in the next couple of days. Not sure if it's malignant or not, but he did have stomach cancer five years ago so the reappearance of cancer wouldn't be a complete surprise. In truth, working on Angie's condo is a task that is tiring and fulfilling at the same time, and always difficult. No one goes with me, which is probably for the best because I can organize my thoughts better when I'm not talking to someone else. Yesterday I took my house-painter neighbour over to take a look and to give us an estimate of what it would cost to paint the place. It's small but really needs the paint job, and then it'll be fine. What I didn't need was a little "job list" and exact instructions on what I have to do and how I have to deal with the other people in the family and so on. I admit, I did complain a bit and I shouldn't have, because maybe she interpreted that as me being needy. I'm not needy, and I don't respond well to being told what to do at the best of times, so after a while I was just tired of her nattering and really, I do understand how colours work and yes, I do know what you're going to have to do to complete the job, but how about you do the job, and I'll deal with the family stuff?
From now on then, do not discuss other people, do not discuss how things are going with the cleanup. Relay information that is necessary for the job, and keep everything else at bay. There are times for telling other people what to do, and there are times when this is not a good idea. We could put it this way: my neighbour has no people management skills.
I like to be able to say what I want, because sometimes it gives me a better opportunity to understand what I'm really thinking. Since talking to other people is becoming more and more difficult to do, I'm going to get a little thing so that I can talk to myself instead. It's a present from me to me, and it's a voice-recorder that I'll probably get tomorrow, since today is half done already. I'm hoping it'll be useful as I prepare for this job interview, so that I can make up questions and answer them, listen to myself and adjust what I've said, my tone of voice and/or my approach to the question. I have been told many, many times that I speak too bluntly and that it can be off-putting.
Then again, the people who are interviewing me? Volatile. Reputed to be difficult at the best of times. Interesting. Maybe my bluntness will be a welcome change of pace, who knows.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Modesty as a Homily Topic
I haven't ranted about church lately, and today isn't a rant, believe it or not. Father J was up at the front today, and he pointed out right at the beginning of mass that today's topic was going to be Modesty. Naturally every woman in the place was suddenly checking to see if she was revealing a little too much decolattage...but no, not that version of modesty was the topic of the day. Instead, he discussed the notion that one should not let pride rule one's thoughts or actions. Thus his reading came from Luke, where as an example, when entering a wedding one should not take the place of honour even if it should by right be yours, in case someone who deserves it more than you do should enter. In fact, one should take the lowliest place, and if warranted, one would be "moved up" to a place more deserving. Feed the beggars, the blind and the crippled before yourself, that kind of thing. Don't think of yourself as better than others, treat everyone as your most honoured guest, no matter their station. Give respect where it is perhaps not warranted by society's (or your own) expectations.
Father J did go on about how it is pride, the worst of the seven deadly sins, that stands in the way of treating our fellow humans with the level of respect they deserve. In light of some family issues that are at hand around here lately, I thought this to be a remarkably fitting homily. From the Buddhist perspective this would be termed Attachment, and it is the source of all suffering. If we let go of attachment/pride, then we are released from suffering, and we thus release other beings in our midst from suffering as well, or at least some of their suffering. They have their own attachments to work out.
In our own situation, one female family member, M, is distraught over not having been invited to another family member's barbecue. Never mind that it wasn't necessarily appropriate that M and her family be invited, but when she found out that she wasn't, hell of a particular fury was unleashed. Sadly, this fury involves her future sister-in-law and her mother-in-law, and stems from a complete misunderstanding and self-centred approach to their relationships. If M were not so attached to her own feelings and her own interpretations of what is right, she would see that the situation doesn't warrant being blown out of proportion. A quick conversation could have set all right. A quick scan: Is it me that wants things this way, or are things really this way? could have averted all arguments.
Pride stands in our way on a minute to minute basis. Attachment, pride, whatever you want to call it. Respect is hard to give when you want everything your way, and when you believe yourself to be most important no matter the cost to others. In a world view, we'd be a lot better off if we made efforts to understand each other rather than pass judgement on each other. Certainly I'm no better than anyone else, and I'm quick to judge or gossip or yell at the world as the mood comes upon me. I am also quick to forgive....including myself.
I don't worry about "sins" necessarily, and I know, the Church is all about the sinning...but I think I've been clear that I don't hold with much of what the Church teaches except as it runs through my own filter and reinterpretation. Each minute is a new one after all, and each minute gives opportunity for renewal. This is something in which I heartily believe.
Last night Hub was laughing at me; one of the relatives asked if we went to mass, and I said, "Yes, almost without exception." "OOh, you're good," she said to me, and I said, "Well, no. I look at it as an intellectual exercise. Every weekend we go to church, and then I spend the whole week deconstructing the homily. It's very entertaining."
Today then, I'm deconstructing online rather than having the discussion over dinner, because we're having ribs for dinner and that means much lip-smacking and finger-licking, and not so much on the examination of pride and its nasty overtures. Which reminds me, I should marinate those babies.
On the What Was I Thinking front: 50 lbs of Roma tomatoes are sitting on the kitchen island. I made a small dent in the box today, but this is going to be an entire week of making sauce. I don't have enough jars for it all and I don't have proper canning equipment, but I'm making the damn sauce because I hate buying it, and we're in Ontario and there are tomatoes everywhere. I've already used the bounty from our garden and those sauces are in the freezer. Hub's nephew has a peach tree, and peach jam is on the shelves but there are still peaches on the counter. I'm not complaining but at this juncture it seems never-ending. It is a good excuse to not study up for the job interview I have in three weeks. Hell, three weeks! Lots of time!
Father J did go on about how it is pride, the worst of the seven deadly sins, that stands in the way of treating our fellow humans with the level of respect they deserve. In light of some family issues that are at hand around here lately, I thought this to be a remarkably fitting homily. From the Buddhist perspective this would be termed Attachment, and it is the source of all suffering. If we let go of attachment/pride, then we are released from suffering, and we thus release other beings in our midst from suffering as well, or at least some of their suffering. They have their own attachments to work out.
In our own situation, one female family member, M, is distraught over not having been invited to another family member's barbecue. Never mind that it wasn't necessarily appropriate that M and her family be invited, but when she found out that she wasn't, hell of a particular fury was unleashed. Sadly, this fury involves her future sister-in-law and her mother-in-law, and stems from a complete misunderstanding and self-centred approach to their relationships. If M were not so attached to her own feelings and her own interpretations of what is right, she would see that the situation doesn't warrant being blown out of proportion. A quick conversation could have set all right. A quick scan: Is it me that wants things this way, or are things really this way? could have averted all arguments.
Pride stands in our way on a minute to minute basis. Attachment, pride, whatever you want to call it. Respect is hard to give when you want everything your way, and when you believe yourself to be most important no matter the cost to others. In a world view, we'd be a lot better off if we made efforts to understand each other rather than pass judgement on each other. Certainly I'm no better than anyone else, and I'm quick to judge or gossip or yell at the world as the mood comes upon me. I am also quick to forgive....including myself.
I don't worry about "sins" necessarily, and I know, the Church is all about the sinning...but I think I've been clear that I don't hold with much of what the Church teaches except as it runs through my own filter and reinterpretation. Each minute is a new one after all, and each minute gives opportunity for renewal. This is something in which I heartily believe.
Last night Hub was laughing at me; one of the relatives asked if we went to mass, and I said, "Yes, almost without exception." "OOh, you're good," she said to me, and I said, "Well, no. I look at it as an intellectual exercise. Every weekend we go to church, and then I spend the whole week deconstructing the homily. It's very entertaining."
Today then, I'm deconstructing online rather than having the discussion over dinner, because we're having ribs for dinner and that means much lip-smacking and finger-licking, and not so much on the examination of pride and its nasty overtures. Which reminds me, I should marinate those babies.
On the What Was I Thinking front: 50 lbs of Roma tomatoes are sitting on the kitchen island. I made a small dent in the box today, but this is going to be an entire week of making sauce. I don't have enough jars for it all and I don't have proper canning equipment, but I'm making the damn sauce because I hate buying it, and we're in Ontario and there are tomatoes everywhere. I've already used the bounty from our garden and those sauces are in the freezer. Hub's nephew has a peach tree, and peach jam is on the shelves but there are still peaches on the counter. I'm not complaining but at this juncture it seems never-ending. It is a good excuse to not study up for the job interview I have in three weeks. Hell, three weeks! Lots of time!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
