Darn it; It's Cold! Sew What? Quit Yer Stitchin'!

I have been sewing and writing like crazy lately; clearly, I'm on a creative bender.

The children ruined one of my pillows recently and so I sat down to make a new pillow last week.  Of course, Gwenzilla wanted in:  "Mum, can I make a pillow too?"  I sighed.  Why is it that she only wants to make a pillow when I want to make a pillow?  So, because I am a sweet and generous Mumma, I dragged out the machine and my fabric stash and let her go to it.  Here she is, at the Bruce Street sweatshop:

Okay, see how in the window on the left, it looks like I used that saran wrap window sealer to prevent cold air from coming in in the wintertime?  Well, I didn't.  I hate that product.  Ageism alert - if you use that, you are officially OLD.  I don't why I felt compelled to discuss this as it has NOTHING to do with this post; however,  now you know my feelings on "shrink film".  You can rest easy tonight. 

She's craft-tay!  GG is so cute with her pillow.  She selected and placed all the fabrics, then sewed them together herself.  

Looking at Gwen at age 8, I can't help but think of myself at her age.  I was reading the Little House series of books by Laura Ingalls Wilder (LOVE!!!!!!) and I wanted to make my own quilt.  So I cut up most of my socks into "squares" and tried to sew them together by hand.  Imagine for a moment, that you are trying to sew together knit socks into a quilt.  First of all, when you cut those socks up, they unravel because the knit is very fine.  Secondly,  the squares curl up at the edges - fine knits do NOT want to lie flat.  And third - it would have taken me approximately thirty years to amass enough sock-squares and sew them together just to make a quilt the size of a hand towel.  And so, after sewing three or four of my squares together, I did, at age 8, exactly what I would do now with a failed craft project - I stuffed it under my bed, never to be seen again.

Here is the pillow that I made after helping Gwen with hers:

Improvisational quilting -- basically means to amass pile of fabrics, cut and sew together haphazardly, admire results

And a close-up of the quilting:

I followed the pillow up with a sixties-inspired wall hanging, that I made from a silk sari, a silk blouse, a new king sized bed sheet that I cut up, and some new fabrics.  Here's a close-up of the quilting on the front and on the back:

  

And the finished hanging (17 by 38 inches), which will hang in my main floor loo.  Who says that art doesn't belong in the bathroom?  I love a quirky powder room.

I think I will christen this wall quilt Burst.  

And last but not least, I will provide a link to my most recent Canada Writes contest entry, because I'm a sucker for a contest.  I figure I have better odds of winning a writing contest than winning the 649, which I never buy tickets for anyway.

My story may disturb some of you, so consider yourself warned.  I'm over it though, honest.  :-)  If I wasn't, I wouldn't write about it.

You're Just Another Victim, Until You're Not



Musical Pairing:  although it has nothing to do with being crafty in the Martha Stewart sense of the word, it was one of my jams way back when:

She's Crafty by The Beastie Boys

Regrowth

Here's the (creative non-fiction) piece that I wrote for the 2013 Canada Writes competition.  It was long-listed, but didn't quite make it to the shortlist.  To make myself feel better, I will repeat the following sentence ad nauseam whenever that negative little voice inside my head pipes up:  "your story was selected from more than several thousand submissions... congratulations on this great achievement".

Some history.  My Dad died on his way to work in May of 1990.  His truck was crushed by a crane that fell off a flatbed; the accident happened about a half kilometre from our house.  It was a shitty day.

Twenty-three years later, I can talk about it without tearing up, but there is part of me that will never recover.  I'm still sad.  I really miss my Dad, especially when Nathaniel tries his hand at fishing or I hear Fleetwood Mac.

Here's my story.

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

Regrowth

          

    I yank back on the muck-laden handle, hard and fast, and hear a loud slurp as I expose a gash of wet earth.  My hand rummages in the deep pouch on my right.  When my planting bags are full, it is sometimes difficult to grab just a single seedling.  The rubber gloves I wear to protect my hands from pesticides and pine needles don't help. 

    Got it.  My fingers find a tree and stuff it into the ground, whisking in the roots.  I gently pull up on the tree by its tip until it is perfectly straight.  I stomp once, packing the earth at the base of the tree, chuffing out air. 

    Next.

    My eyes scan the rough terrain for a decent microsite and seeing one, I lunge to the left.  I screef furiously with my shovel, rapidly clearing away the duff and barky bits.  I drive the shovel into the earth, opening up another pocket of rich soil.  I grab a tree, whisk it in, stomp and move on.  I repeat these movements several thousand times a day. 

    Some days I plant like an automaton.  I thrust my shovel into the ground with all the strength that I can muster.  I'm reckless; I know that if I hit a rock, the reverb will injure my humerus, but I don't care.  The pain is welcome.  I can't stop.  I won't stop.  Poverty is a great motivator for those who are paid by the tree.

    I continue my jagged, freeform bush-dance.  In the distance, in the slash – the coarse, woody detritus of the logging operation - I see a blood-red splotch of cloth weaving back and forth but definitely moving toward me.  It's Greg, my foreman.  I hope he's not coming to bitch at me about my quality.  I had to replant a few days ago because my spacing was off.  You never want to replant; you're not making any money. You plant the tree once, and do it right the first time. 

    He won't meet my eyes. 

    “Hey.  You have to come with me. It's your Dad.” 

    I don't answer.  I am trying to process the information.  It's difficult.  I can feel sweat rolling down my back and into the waistband of my spandex.  Odd to sweat like this, when the rain pours down. 

    It must be his kidney stones.

    I push away other darker thoughts.   

    I focus on Greg's back and follow him to the stash, which is where we bag up.  We walk in silence, listening to the rain patter on the earth. 

    There's not a soul in sight on the barren road.  I grab my pack and climb into the front seat of the truck.  Greg says nothing; his eyes focus on the muddy ruts. The dull landscape is starkly beautiful: the slash a jam of broken wood stacked haphazardly, trees riven to ragged javelins.  We pass a prescribed burn - scorched wood and burnt earth, ash and dust, dots of new growth here and there.  The bits of green look electric in this dead field.   

    I am nauseated. My clothes are stuck to me. I watch the wipers swish back and forth and try not to vomit. 

*****

     

    Even thought it's the middle of the morning, the bar is dark.  The shades at the windows are drawn and it feels like evening.  It smells like smoke, beer and small town desperation.     

    I'm shown the payphone and Greg plunks in some change.  There's no answer when I call home.  I dial the operator and ask to be connected to the hospital.  I'm shaking.  When I ask to speak to my Dad, I'm transferred three times and I speak to three different people, all of whom put me on hold.   The last nurse I speak with tells me to call home:  “there's been an accident... I'm sorry... ”  Her voice trails. 

    I thought he was still alive.

*****

   

    When I run out of the bar, into the street, I sound inhuman.  I wail at an incredible volume.  The street is empty save for three Natives, who are walking towards me.  They look worried.  I smack a concrete wall and hurt my hand, and then I cling to a post, sobbing.  The Natives are concerned for my welfare.  The eldest of the three tries to peel me off the signpost and I push her away.  I know that I'm being unkind but I don't care.  I don't want to share my grief.  It's mine; I won't explain.

*****

   

    After the flight home, I light up a smoke, right in the living room.  I haven't smoked in the house before, in fact, until this moment Joanne doesn't know that I smoke.   Wisely, she says nothing.  We are waiting for my brother to get changed into his new suit so that we can go to the Funeral Home to see my Dad. 

    The funeral director is pale and bespectacled; his hair is weathered teak.  It's plastered to his head with grease.  I want to send him an anonymous letter, tell him to change his hair. 

    He smiles a smile that is reserved for families like us.  He greets us, murmurs apologies and leads us down the hall.  As we're walking, he casually mentions that my Dad doesn't really look like he normally does. 

    We stop.  This is news.

    “His head might look a bit swollen”.  He walks on.  

    He leads us into the room, and I can see the coffin, a body inside.  Is that really my Dad?  As we approach, and I get a better view I am speechless, initially.

    My father's head is indeed swollen; it is gigantic.  It's the size of a medicine ball.  His features have stretched to accommodate his new head and the result is horrific.  He's like a prop from a B movie – waxen and otherworldly - and I can see that the undertaker has used coverup to hide some cuts on one of his hands.  The colour is unnatural; it's a bit on the orange side.  I can't look, but I can't look away.  I have never seen anything so sad, so wrong.      

    What was my grandmother thinking?  And the funeral directors?  Are they completely insane?  How could anyone think that an open casket was a good idea after seeing this head?

    I can't get over the size of it.

    “That's not my father,” I sputter, bolting from the room.

    No one follows me.

*****

   

    A few weeks after the funeral, I receive a package postmarked from Timmins – it's the last of my things from up north - my tent, a sleeping bag and some clothing.  There's an envelope addressed to me and the handwriting is my Dad's.  I open it tentatively.  Inside is a phone bill, and a letter from the university.  Attached to it is a sticky note with the words “Luv ya!” scrawled across it.  I wonder if he would have said more had he known that he wouldn't be here a few days later. 

    My heart breaks, again. 

*****

    This morning, I wake up to the sound of a chainsaw roaring.  I throw off the bedclothes and peer into the yard.  I see two workmen in hardhats.  One of the men is using a sawzall and the other  holds a massive chainsaw.  There is a truck with a wood chipper parked on the road beside the grass. 

    I grab clothes, run outside. 

    I'm heaving; I can't breathe.  My body is on fire and then I'm sobbing, bent over in pain.

    They look at me, stunned.  One of them approaches me.  He considers my appearance, my behaviour. 

    He gestures at an erratic crack down one side of the trunk. 

    “It won't live.  It's damaged.”            

    Lightening struck the tree two summers ago.  It's a Blue Spruce.  My Dad staked it and we hoped for the best.  It is our favourite tree. The one that he adorns with lights at Christmastime.  

    Today, they are chopping it down. 

    He's not here to see it.  We buried him three weeks ago.

    I can't watch.

*****

    I return to the bush the following year, thinner and hard-hearted.  I listen to a lot of Ella and Louis.  It's hardly planting music, but it calms me.  I'm numb but the smell of the earth is rich and I inhale it deeply. It is springtime and things are waking up. 

   

    

The Hernia Hotel - Part III - Hasta la Vista, Baby!

And I walked

"A lack of exercise, extended sitting and bedrest will lengthen post-operative stiffness and discomfort," warns the Shouldice brochure.

And so, for the remainder of my stay at the HH, I walked.  Rain and mugginess be damned, I walked.  I roamed the halls of the clinic and every foot of the grounds. I peered in the pond down the road, explored the trails adjacent to the hospital and even tried to check out the golf course (I failed; I didn't want to climb through a hole in the fence).  I inspected every plant in the gardens, shuffled along the tree line and tried to walk my pain away, which wasn't too bad, all things considered.  I loved the walking.  What else did I have to do between mealtimes?

On one of my walks, I found myself swooning over the most heavenly and delicate scent.  It was this:

Japanese Tree Lilac - Syringa reticulata

I will be acquiring one of these trees for my yard.  The scent was completely delicious.  COMPLETELY.  If someone could bottle this exact scent, I would wear it as perfume for the rest of my life.  Dave at the Gardening Guru writes that "if you are adventurous [I most definitely am!], it [the tree] can be propagated by cuttings or by seed".  Funny how I had never noticed these trees before; on my walk to the grocery a few days ago, I realized that there is one on Elmwood!

Sunday, post-operative day 2

Clips out at 8:30am by the Stapler, with rapidfire precision.  No discomfort.  I initially worried that the incision might open when I laughed, which I do a lot, but Ratchet told me that the wound has three layers of protection -- dissolving stitches, catgut and wire sutures that hold the mesh in place.  I hope I have that right.  From Encyclopedia Brittanica - yes, I still love my encyclopediae - is a definition of catgut:  "tough cord made from the intestines of certain animals, particularly sheep, and used for surgical ligatures and sutures, for the strings of violins and related instruments, and for the strings of tennis rackets and archery bows. The ancient Egyptians and Babylonians and the later Greeks and Romans used the intestines of herbivorous animals for much the same purposes. The origin of the term catgut is obscure; it is not known if the intestines of cats were ever put to such uses".

My incision looked a bit scary.  I just measured it now and it's 3 and a quarter inches in length and runs down my right groin at a 35 degree angle.  On day 2, it was puffy and angry with lots of yellow and purplish bruising.  If it could talk, it would not have been a polite conversationalist.  The nurse said that it looked "pretty good", but I bet she says that to all the patients.  I would love to post a photo for all you fine folks, but you'll just have to use your imagination.  Today, one week post surgery, the bruising is almost gone, the wound is still on the swollen side but the incision is healing nicely.  It does feel numb when I touch it, which is a bit of an unsettling sensation. I am looking forward to a bath soon!

On the advice of Ratchet, I booked a massage with the RMT.  Sunday after lunch was the appointed hour.  At the risk of sounding negative, P's diatribe on children in daycare and her inability to zip that lip were unappreciated.  I mean, I am aware that I talk a lot, but I usually know when to shut up.

The 30 minutes of lymph node drainage and the ensuing "massage" down the front of my sternum, in which I thought my ziphoid process was being crushed, were both unpleasant and unnecessary. The "feathery" strokes around my incision were also puzzling; however, P redeemed herself with fifteen minutes of Swedish on my neck and shoulders at the end of our 45 min time slot.  I would not recommend the first part of the massage at all, but I do recommend P for the Swedish - she had very strong hands and her touch was formidable.  Just so you know, if you go for a 30 minute massage, you will not receive any Swedish; you need to book her for 45 minutes for that.  Book the Swedish only  - don't bother with the lymphatic baloney.

A lot of herniacs departed on Sunday.  I am sure that they had their real lives to get back to.  The surgeons recommended that we stay until Monday morning; obviously, I didn't leave early as I was on vacation.  As a sahm with a 7 and 9 yr old, I don't take enough time for myself (my fault entirely).  That is about to change.  Well probably not, but you know what I mean.  I loved my Shouldice stay.  I really did.  No cooking, cleaning, fighting, laundry and other forms of drudgery.  Just reading, writing, relaxation, gentle exercise, lots of laughter and good conversation and I EVEN GOT TO PLAY SCRABBLE, not once, but twice!  I also played snooker for the first time in about twenty years. 

My last night at the clinic was both fun and frustrating.  I saw a super moon, walked and laughed a lot and behaved badly - kidding!  Well, I'm not really kidding, the bad behaviour occurred when I tried to go to sleep and could not.  My roommate's snores rivalled a bullhorn and it made me completely CRAZY as I could not sleep at all.  I didn't have earplugs and the blanket over my head trick didn't work either. I tried making a lot of noise myself so as to awaken Snoring Beauty but this was also futile.  I briefly considered throwing projectiles at the dead weight in the bed next to me, but I couldn't do it.  I went to the nurses's station at twenty to 2 and begged for a sleeping pill and they wouldn't give me one because it was too late.  Horror!  The kind nurse took pity on me and offered me a bed directly beside the nurses station.  I finally fell asleep at around 2:30, but it was fitful.  I blame the super moon for everything that happened that evening -- the good and the bad.

Oh and I should also mention that there was a fire alarm the same night.  It wouldn't shut up; it drove me bonkers... I had to leave the building until it stopped (and I was in the middle of a game of Scrabble!)  The staff kept announcing on the p.a. that it was a false alarm but the ringing didn't cease until the fire department arrived.  To add insult to injury, the wretched air-con broke and didn't get fixed until the following day.

Day of Departure

The final checkup with a surgeon was at 9-ish.  I thought I would be seeing my surgeon - the wacky Dr. S - and it was with some disappointment that I greeted an unfamiliar face.  He whooshed in, said hi, told us to lie on the beds and pointed to me and said: "you listen to this too" (nothing if not efficient, I guess he doesn't like repeating himself).  He spoke VERY BRIEFLY on wound care, he checked our incisions and then he bolted to the next room.  Whoa!  These Doctors are FAST.  I didn't have any issues with this, but I am betting that there are some patients who had a lot of questions and wanted just a little bit more "care".

My mil came to pick me up around 9ish.  I visited the souvenir "shop" and bought a hat ($11) and a mug ($5).  I love me some kitsch.

And that my friends, is the end of my tale.

Today, it is ten days post-surgery and I am feeling FINE! I cooked a real dinner last night (oven roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and tomato and basil salad with balsamic vinaigrette - 9 out of 10 ;-) . I am no longer hobbling in pain; things are good.

Before I leave you, I want to write a couple of recommendations / areas in which the hospital could improve:

• food - more fresh fruit and vegetables needed.  Some of the men also complained that portions were small.  
• gift cabinet - is not open on Sunday.  A lot of people left early and many of them weren't happy that they couldn't purchase souvenirs.  I'm serious!
• you should visit with your surgeon on the last day, not some nameless stranger.  I really thought that I would get a chance to talk to my surgeon.  I guess he was too busy operating on someone else.

My overall impression with the hospital is that it is a superb place to have one's hernia repaired.  I found the staff to be extremely helpful and happy; they did everything they could to make things the best that they could be.  The care I received was excellent; my only criticisms are above.  If you have a hernia, get thee to the Shouldice!!!

Leaving you with some fromage; I love this song.  Reminds me of my Grade 8 teacher - Ms. Pelletier - and "Beast" (her guitar).

Here's the official Shouldice website:  Shouldice

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

Okay, I'm still not done.  On a completely unrelated note, I received this letter in the mail on the Thursday that I arrived at Shouldice:

I AM SO PROUD!!!!!!!

Update:

I was just reading something on the Canada Writes website and they are trying to torture me:



Can you describe a couple of the entries that struck you as standouts?


I was drawn to three particular reflections about loss (or impending loss) not only because of the powerful emotions they invoked but also because of the insight they shared.

“Angus Gregor” is a mother’s heartbreaking account of her baby’s birth that starkly contrasts all normal expectations.

“Regrowth” relates the lingering effects of a father’s death. [this is my story!!!!]

The author of “Szeretlek” ponders multi-generational legacies over a lunch-hour visit with an ailing grandparent.

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

Midnight Blue

Here's my entry for a recent Canada Writes Challenge The Song That Changed Your Life:

Blue

My Dad, a new bachelor wearing still-stiff cowboy boots, purchased the album from Woolco. We drove home in his Stingray, ripped off the cellophane and put it on the record player. We listened wordlessly.   I was 10; he was 38. Our fixation wasn't healthy.  Midnight Blue was our world.

One day my Dad came home with a new girlfriend.  Her name was Lynn and I thought she was beautiful.  She made us peanut butter Rice Krispie squares and brewed iced tea in a plastic pitcher outside on the grass.  She was vivacious and warm and she actually listened when I spoke.  

Lynn moved in with us and we still played Louise Tucker but less frequently. We made chili, skied, camped, played Scrabble.  After school one afternoon, I found a stash of empty Silent Sam bottles in the linen closet, stuffed in with the bedsheets. I was confused.

When Lynn moved out, I was devastated. My Mom had moved to New Jersey the previous year and I was still reeling from that. I loved Lynn, but she wasn't coming back.  Life went on.  We went to school, worked, grew. My Dad got a new girlfriend – Debi.  Debi didn't know how to spell her name and her designer jeans were too tight.  I thought she looked a bit like Louise Tucker - they both had the same big brown hair.

One rainy day, I was rifling through our records. Thumbing past Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Alan Parsons Project, I paused when I saw the familiar blue cover. 

It had been ages. I asked my Dad if I could put it on and his face crumpled and he looked weird.  He didn't want to listen; I could tell. We played it and it wasn't the same. The room was stale and cheerless; something was missing. I thought of Lynn and I realized that music conveys what you want or need it to. A song can change a person, it can echo a moment in time – ecstasy, devastation, loss. 

“Midnight blue,

Those treasured thoughts of you.

Gone now and forever

Please, let the music play.”

In Grade 10, I heard Scott Smith playing Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata on the piano in the music room.  I was hearing Midnight Blue all over again and I was overcome. I thought about the power of love, the power of loss and how some things, like songs, are owned by certain moments in your life. I think about Lynn, Louise, Debi and my Dad, but most of all I think about how a ten-year-old girl learned about love.

Tomatoes, Knitting and Service Dogs - What do They Have in Common?

I visited a blog called Dining Room Empire recently and saw a picture of what I initially thought was Veal Parmigiana with a huge amount of melted cheese.  It looked scrumptious.

Here, I have deliberately posted a small picture of said dish, so you can be confused too.  (If you click on it, you can get a larger view).

I am masquerading as veal.

As it turns out, the "veal" was actually poached eggs on brown toast drizzled in tomato sauce, or as Tony Soprano calls it, "gravy".  I am not a fan of a quivery, gelatinous poached egg, but this dish looked good.  I wasn't about to poach eggs or make veal parmi, but I did want to know the secrets of the simplest butter tomato sauce that the writer extolled.  I clicked.  So glad that I did.  I love an easy sauce and I have a few that are in heavy rotation on Bruce Street, which I will share in the latter part of this post.

But.

This butter tomato sauce is RIDICULOUSLY easy and RIDICULOUSLY delicious. I have been eating it for most of the week.  Tomatoes, onions and butter - how can you go wrong? I know it seems kind of boring and it only has four ingredients (I'm usually wary of recipes with only a few ingredients), but it is an amazing sauce. Trust me!

You will need:

• a large can of diced / crushed tomatoes with the juice
• a biggish onion, chopped
• 1/3 cup of butter
• 1 tsp of salt

Put all the ingredients in a saucepan over medium heat and bring to bubble.  Lower heat to simmer, and stir every 15 mins.  Sauce is done when butter has separated from tomatoes and sauce has thickened - around an hour.  That it must be served with a giant mound of freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano or Grana Padano goes without saying. 

I added a chopped red pepper to my sauce's ingredients because I had one in the fridge that I needed to use.  The sauce was VERY tasty.

Here is the plate of leftover sauce and spagettini that I just ingested.  I am thinking of becoming a food stylist.  It doesn't look like there is THAT MUCH cheese on the gravy; however, that is because I do a sneaky little thing where I hide the cheese under the gravy so that it's all melty and gooey.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

That last sentence really needed its own full line of mmm's.
Oh and my apologies to the gluten-free crowd for my forbidden food porn.

eat me!

My other go-to pasta sauce recipe is this one:

Take a 9 by 13 baking dish and dump in some fresh tomatoes (any kind will do - plum/ grape/ heirloom/ Kumatoes or a mixture of all the preceding and if some of them are from the reduced rack - even better!).  Throwins (as many or as few as you like):  a pkg of sliced mushrooms; a bunch of cloves of peeled garlic; leeks or shallots.  Add generous amounts of olive oil and a little balsamic vinegar.  Salt and pepper to taste and a spoonful of sugar.  Roast in a 425 degree oven for around an hour.  You can puree the sauce or just dump it on pasta. Don't forget the parmi!  Duh just realized that I forgot the basil - very important! Fresh if you can get it, if not don't despair, dry will do.  

Here's the link to the original Tomato Butter Sauce .

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

And now, what all the knitters have been waiting for... if you're not a knitter and don't give a shiz about knitting and knitters in general, scroll down a few paragraphs.

What the hell is this thing anyhow?

Wait... is that a UFO?  ha ha.

Okay, I'm kidding.  The UFO is a skirt that I am making for my daughter - The Lanesplitter Skirt. You can find it on Ravelry.   I realize that this is hardly the knitter's dream that you came here for.  What I actually want to share with you is the knitting podcast that I found when I googled "knitting and podcast".  How awesome is it that Brenda Dayne has been recording a knitting podcast since 2005 and that it's still running?  I am so EXCITED to listen to the 120+ episodes before I catch up; I am in fact elated!

Here is the link to Brenda's marvelous CAST ON.  Knitters rejoice!

Oh and here, thanks to the marvels of technology, is the finished skirt (which I finished two weeks after I wrote this post):

My family is participating in the National Service Dogs Egg Hunt for Dogs on Good Friday.  This fantastic event helps children and adults living with autism and special needs. If you would like to sponsor Team Django, you can click right here:  Team Django! 

Here we are, in all our Christmas glory.  We will NOT be dressed like this at the Egg Hunt!  I am thinking rubber boots will be de rigeur.

This pictures makes me a little ill because we look so good.  If I didn't actually belong to this family, I might hate us.   What you don't see - Nathaniel HATING that bowtie and refusal to wear it until I threatened permanent grounding from Minecraft / Mindcrap, Richard's wet hair that looks greasy, Gwen's burned ear from hair straightening (not my idea) and my pot belly (sucked in by fierce constriction of abdominals and support hose).   Oh and the dog smells. 

Last but not least, the fierce hunter who will be sniffing out eggs like they're truffles:

Djing-Djang, the wild poodle.

Okay so remember, you're gonna sponsor us right?  C'mon even five bucks helps!  And remember all those times I sponsored you, people?  Yeah, that's right, I sponsor you whenever you ask!  NO ONE pays me to write this crap, but I KNOW you read it... and all I am asking for is a little love for the dogs, kids and special needs folks (heh heh, I laughed after I read that. oh I am good at pouring on the guilt!). Seriously though, I would be so happy if you sponsored me.  I sponsored myself $50!

Here's that easy-peasy link to Team Django, clickety-click, Barba trick :

Team Django

Thank you, friends.  Doei! (pronounced "dooey"; it's Dutch for goodbye and needs to be yelled in a high, singsong voice, so saith me). 

On Being Creative

Last weekend, I went to Toronto with my honey for a much-needed getaway.  Shopping at the St. Lawrence flea market on Sunday morning was a definite highlight.  Initially, I wasn't sure that it would be worth my while, it is Toronto after all, and if the odds and sods are priced anything like the city's real estate -- ouch! -- I wouldn't be buying anything.

Things I saw and coveted:

• midmod sterling jewellery that I couldn't afford
• a black leather and fur hat - a steal at $70
• hammered sterling earrings with green glass cabochons by Rafael (Canadian jewellery designer - he had his heyday in the seventies)

I ignored most of the book stalls, but one dealer specialized in Arts and Crafts and so I looked at her wares.  I got sucked into a book featuring the designs of Dard Hunter.  DH, a printing / papermaking / design pioneer active in A & C is awesome.  His preferred medium?  Paper.

I am a dumbass because I didn't write down the name of the book; however, as a good librarian, I should be able to figure it out.  I know that the word "rebel" was in the title and the approximate time period that it was published... maybe when I have some time to look up something flighty, I will.   

Another clue:  I did write down an inspirational quote from DH himself (on a paper bag that contained the remains of my greasy breakfast sandwich) :

Yeah, yeah. It's backwards, I know.  Dumb photobooth.

Here, don't even bother with the idle scratching above.

I do love this quote; it energizes me and it's so true.

And so, I have been sewing like a nut this week.  Here's a preview.  First - a cushion pour moi.  Haven't made "his" yet - there won't be one.  ha hahahahaha.

And a cushion cover, in progress.  Harder to make those wretched circles than it looks. Inspired by the work of the textile designer and quilter Malka Dubrawsky.  I still have to quilt the top, make some binding and assemble it.

Lastly, I submitted a piece of writing to a Canada Writes Challenge.  I wrote about a bad 80's song which originated from Beethoven's Sonata Pathetique (Moonlight serenade, no. 8). The Beethoven is sad and beautiful, reminds me of lost loves.

Click here to read the piece:  Blue

The Rules of My Nature

Yes, I know the title of this post is obnoxious but I am rootin'-tootin' proud!

Canada Writes has partnered up with Canada Council for the Arts and The Massey Lectures to present the writing series Close Encounters with Science.  The series is inspired by The 2012 Massey Lectures.

Here's a description from the Canada Writes website: "This year's lecturer is physicist Neil Turok.  We're fascinated by his insights on how science and technology affect everything around us, from the environment to our innermost thoughts".

Science and I are not friends.  We're like neighbours at war (some of you might find this analogy funny).  There is a tall fence between us that shall never be riven.

I decided to try to write something about science, even if it killed me.  After all, good writing makes all the difference.  If something is well-written, the topic is irrelevant.

Here is my entry:

The Rules of My Nature

In the eighth grade, I discovered that subjects and predicates moved me and that grammar was my forte. I was an idiot savant.

My father prided himself on his mathematical prowess. That I was clueless beyond simple calculations was proof that I took after my mother. I believed his words; they became part of me. Implicit in his censure was that mathematics and its evil twin – science - were for men and not for teenaged girls.

Mr. Tronko, my ninth grade chemistry teacher, was more interested in belittling students than in teaching them. On the day I wore a handsewn blouse with a rhinestone bracelet and capris, he paused and considered my appearance. He waited for silence and delivered his judgment:

“Who do you think you are? Elizabeth Taylor?”

My cheeks were beetroots. I wanted to smash in his face with a bunsen burner.

Things didn't improve. Mr. Haq, my biology teacher, was a screamer. He told me that I wouldn't go far. That I was a stupid girl and that I shouldn't return. I was relieved.

When I entered university and realized that I needed a science credit, I pored over the course offerings: Geology (Rocks for Jocks), Astronomy (Moons for Goons), Chemistry and Physics. It was like selecting my preferred method of execution.

I consulted friends. We concluded that Geology was dull, Astronomy was math-heavy and I may as well splash myself in the face with acid if I were to take Chemistry. The Physics instructor was rumoured to be funny. I signed up.

The word “physics” filled me with shame. In Grade Thirteen, I was leery of the teacher, an ancient crone who couldn't smile. It was focal length that did me in. There was one equation that I was sure of: length implied numbers, numbers meant mathematics, mathematics equalled failure. I withdrew.

On the first day of Conceptual Physics for Non-Scientists, the Professor pulled a banana out of his pocket. Bananas make me gag but in my worldview, they are benign. He plunged the banana into liquid nitrogen and it froze rapidly. He smashed it on the counter and it splintered into shards. I was intrigued. He lured me in with the promise of more experiments and no math beyond simple multiplication.

His name was Whippey and he was quick and snappy in body and mind. I was reminded of Beaker from the Muppets. Demonstrations with balls, coins, feathers, balloons and other simple objects ensued. Was this Physics or Magic 101? Confident in my newfound knowledge, I waxed on about force, friction and inertia. I knew that I was hooked when I explained to my then-boyfriend that Bernoulli's Principle was behind the pesky shower curtain glued to his leg during a hot shower. Who did I think I was – Copernicus?

Physics is about understanding the rules of nature. My nature tells me that I will never be a mathematician, but conceptually, I will always be a Physicist.

Click on my Physics textbook to access the Canada Writes website.