Knitnut.net. Watch my life unravel...
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Posted by Zoom! on December 1, 2006, at 3:10 pm |
I’m home sick again today, after subjecting my co-workers yesterday to the spectacle of a full-blown coughing-and-choking fit that lasted about half an hour. I was completely incapacitated while coughing uncontrollably, gasping for air, gagging, wretching, sweating, turning purple, streaming tears, and thinking I might literally DIE. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. It just went on and on and on.
Once I recovered sufficiently, my colleagues sent me to the clinic, where the doctor listened to my lungs, said it was just a cold, prescribed codeine cough medicine, and sent me back to the office. The office wouldn’t have me: go home, they said, get better. Take medicine, lie on the couch, sleep, watch TV. So here I am.
 Speaking of TV, before I moved I always thought the reason there was never anything good on TV was because I didn’t have cable. Now I have about 750 channels, and there’s STILL never anything good on. Did you know that if you don’t change the channel you can watch What Not to Wear all day and probably all night too? They take people like me, secretly videotape them in their bedrooms getting dressed, then ambush them, publicly humiliate them, throw away all their clothes, give them $5,000, and make them shop for clothes they hate. Sometimes they look better at the end of the show, sometimes they don’t. Last week I saw an episode in which this adorable art professor, who liked to wear her jammies to work, was forced to grow up and become sophisticated before our eyes. I liked her better in her jammies.
There’s a British version of What Not to Wear too. I’ve only seen it once.The BBC fashionazis, Trinny and Susanna, used psychological terror tactics in their style interventions. Rather than just teasing and cajoling their victim into dressing differently, they actually got angry at her for her fashion choices, and yelled at her and made her cry.
Anyway, I watched What Not to Wear for hours and hours when I was home sick last Friday, and might do it again today. I have no idea why.
Posted by Zoom! on November 30, 2006, at 4:10 pm |
Finally, there’s something useful we can do with our unfinished knitting projects – you know, the ones we meant to get back to but know we never will. Admit it, you have them too.
 I have six inches of the back of a silky sweater knit on tiny needles with the most incredibly luxurious, soft, microscopically skinny yarn. I knit feverishly for three weeks to get those six inches. Three more years and I would’ve been done. I have most of a freakishly large sock. I have half of a lovely twisted two-yarn hat which I would have finished except I ran out of the Jazz mohair yarn and the store closed because the owner moved to Georgia to be with her Russian internet boyfriend.
These projects – and yours too – don’t need to take up space and make us feel vaguely guilty forever. Perhaps they are destined for something greater – like art!
 “Wong Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest originally set out to explore the sky-high rates of mental illness and suicide among Asian Pacific Islander Women. Asian Pacific Islander American women have the highest rates of suicide in the country in a statistic that seems to be widely unpublicized and often disregarded. The unfinished knitting collected represent incomplete intentions, women’s work, “spinning a yarn,” and loneliness. During the show, Kristina uses the knitting pieces to represent “unravelling” women and even unravels some of the pieces during the show. These knit pieces may also be displayed as part of an art installation later in the run.“
Details here: Wong Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Posted by Zoom! on November 29, 2006, at 11:12 pm |
I’m still sick with this stupid cold. And I’m still feeling acutely guilty about my poor little dead birds. I cleaned their cage this evening, and then hid it from my view.
Nobody has come right out and said they think I’m a monster. My friends have all either said nothing or said something compassionate, which helps relieve my guilt a tiny bit.
Guilt has got to be the worst of all the emotions, because it’s not transient. Anger, sadness, fear, grief – they all come and go, with each new instance emerging fresh and raw. The very act of experiencing them diminishes them.
But guilt is insidious and cumulative. Whenever I feel guilty about something, it brings to the surface everything else I’ve ever felt guilty about: I get swamped with layers and layers of guilty memories, all the way back to whacking some kid with my wooden stilt when I was five. And, at six, being briefly but secretly happy when my mother told me that Peter had committed suicide. And, at eight, dragging a cat to my house against his will and telling my mother that he had followed me. And, and, and….
I wallow in the cesspool of all my past sins, with the latest one forming the scum on the surface. My conscience never forgives or forgets anything. (It occurs to me that self-flagellation and self-pity may be two sides of the same coin.)
On the bright side, I know from experience that the guilt will recede, and then I’ll be relatively happy and guilt-free until the next time I do something awful.
Posted by zoom! on November 28, 2006, at 7:15 pm |
On Sunday night I had a disturbing dream. I dreamed that my son was in a hospital in Toronto: he’d had a car accident, and I urgently needed to get to him, but I kept forgetting. I kept getting distracted and remembering later and feeling horrible about forgetting, and then forgetting again. I think my subconscious was trying to tell me I was neglecting something I cared about.
That was the night before my last two budgies died. Tango died several days after the move, of a tumor under her wing. The other two, Jazz and Blues, died yesterday.
I normally fill up their seed cups when they’re getting low, usually about twice a week. I checked the cups on Saturday night on my way to bed. In the semi-darkness, through the fog of cough syrup grogginess, the cups looked about half full. I gave them fresh water and went to bed.
Sunday I didn’t check, but at some point in the night, during a coughing fit, I heard them scratching for seeds on the floor of their cage. I remember feeling a pang of guilt and thinking I’d feed them in the morning. Monday morning I didn’t hear the alarm clock and woke up late and tired and coughing and I was scrambling to get ready to work and walk the dog, and I forgot to feed them. I didn’t remember until that night; then I went in to feed them and was horrified to find them both dead on the floor of the cage.
Budgies starve within 24 to 48 hours of not eating. Their seed dishes can look like they’re half full, but just have seed husks left in them. The thing is, I KNEW that. I’ve known it since I was nine years old, when my first budgie, Little Joe, died.
 When I lived in the apartment, I kept the bird cage in the living room, and I passed it dozens of times a day, so I was much more in tune with the birds. When I moved to the house, I put the birds in the cheery yellow room, with the mannequins and dolls. I should have kept them downstairs where I’d see them and interact with them regularly.
Poor little things didn’t ask for much in life, just a little food and water.
I feel so guilty and ashamed of myself and sad. I really liked them; how could I neglect to feed them?
Posted by Zoom! on November 26, 2006, at 8:59 am |
 So I finally caved in and stopped being so self-righteous about not medicating the stupid cold. As Robin pointed out, who cares if suppressing the symptoms makes the cold last a little longer, as long as you feel okay? Point taken. A trip to the 24-hour drug store at Westgate yielded some Robitussin DM Extra Strength Cough Control (no half-measures for me), and some lemon-honey lozenges for comfort food. I almost bought some Neo Citran too, but I gave my bottle of gin to Dave X when I moved, and Neo Citran just wouldn’t be the same without gin.
 Speaking of comfort food, I felt like I needed some turkey soup. So I cooked a Butterball turkey yesterday. It took all afternoon to make the turkey, and I boiled the carcass last night. Today I will make and eat turkey soup. And tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. And so on.
 I read Janet’s comments about the natural remedies and her Cure-All Carrot Soup. I started with a cup of thyme tea. It was different, but it didn’t cure me. I’d forgotten all about her Cure-All Carrot Soup, which tasted yummy and nourished me through my last cold a few years ago. So I dug through my recipes and actually found it and made it. It was delicious. (And Janet, I have to confess that the last time I made this soup, I dopily drained the carrots before processing everything in the blender. The soup is so much better – and infinitely easier to blend – when you keep the water. You might want to add that step to the directions for people who are so sick they can’t think straight – you know, the Soup for Dummies version.)
Do you like my Sick Cup? My son gave that to me for Mother’s Day when he was about seven years old, and it sits at the back of the cupboard, sometimes for years at a time, until someone is sick. Getting to use the Sick Cup one of the perks of being sick.
The other perk is not having to go to work. Gillian pointed out that I shouldn’t take my germy self to work and make others sick, I should stay home and stay warm and rest. You know, when I’m NOT sick I am the biggest advocate of people staying home when they’re sick. I used to have a boss who said “It’s called sick leave because if you’re sick, LEAVE!” But the thing about colds is that you’re sick for so damned long, and you really can’t take all that time off work for a simple cold, can you? I’ve been sick for nine days if you count the lead-up (feeling crappy before the cold took hold). Anyway, I did end up taking Thursday afternoon and Friday off work.
 Debbie reminded me of the cancelled housewarming party. I am SO glad I cancelled that party, I would have been sick and unable to communicate much as my voice was still pretty croaky (and by the way, whoever said that a husky voice is sexy obviously has not heard me this week – I sound like a cross between a frog and a pubescent boy). Instead of partying, I spent Saturday night sitting in my pyjamas, boiling a turkey carcass, drinking carrot soup, watching TV and knitting. It was nice. I felt happy.
Posted by Zoom! on November 23, 2006, at 7:11 pm |
I almost never get sick. I’ve had two colds since 1997. I don’t even remember the last time I had a full-fledged flu, even though I’ve never had a flu shot. Sometimes I feel like I’m about to get sick, but then I fight it off. I attribute it to good clean healthy living of course. Ha! (Really I attribute it to good luck and a lifetime of subjecting my body to dirt, stress and other things that encouraged my immune system to grow a thick skin.)
 But now I’m sick. I spent a week trying to fight it off, and then it seized me by the throat and shook me like a dog shakes a groundhog. I have a cold. I’m coughing. I’ve lost my voice. I get hot and then I suddenly get cold, and then I have to take a hot bath to get warm again. I’m not taking any medications for it, because I have a theory: each of the symptoms serves a purpose, and if you suppress the symptoms, you prolong the illness. For example when you take cough syrup, you’re not only suppressing your cough, you’re also suppressing your body’s mechanism for ridding itself of the cold.
At first it was kind of interesting being sick. You know, forcing myself not only to go to work, but to walk the whole 7 kilometers just to see if I could do it without any energy; trying to figure out why I feel stupid when I’m sick; wondering if anybody else experiences ear-squeaking while blowing their nose; answering the phone with no voice; noticing that I keep trying to talk to the dog even though I have no voice and he’s deaf. That kind of thing.
The novelty is starting to wear off though.
Posted by zoom! on November 22, 2006, at 2:35 pm |
I love these tributes that Maddie and Dylan wrote for their Uncle Frank.
From Maddy:
“Frank was an amazing person. We all loved him. One time Frank was running in a marathon in Hamilton. After it, he came back to my house in Toronto. He asked me to rub his feet. I did…but I was only three years old, so I did it. After that I learned a lesson…not to rub his feet ever again because they were pretty sweaty and stinky after the race. He was still very funny and nice and I really miss him because he lit up our family’s life. I always think of him now. He was a great guy.”
And from Dylan:
“Frank was an amazing person, he showed me and everybody around him how to live a joyful and cheery life. He could walk into a dark and gloomy room and turn it into a bright room full of laughter. He always had a large passion for books his favourite book was called : The Invisible Man. I am Frank’s nephew my name is Dylan LeClair-Cooke I am nine years old. Frank never really wanted to go far from the Gleeb in Ottawa, yet he always dreamed of visiting the Yukon. Frank did not have an angry bone in his body. starting off as a bartender and then a joyful currier for a long time and then he went around the Gleeb lending a helping hand to whoever needed a little touch of Frank or just to be around Frank. It would take him a long time to get down the street because he knew so many people he practically knew all the people in the Gleeb. Frank was always caring and kind to me except for when I refused to rub his smelly feet!. Frank was a very exeptionel man who made the world spin a little bit faster and opened up the eyes to many people. He was a once-in-a-life time person and I think this world needs a little more of people like Frank Andrew Plummer. I will miss him very deeply forever.”
Posted by zoom! on November 21, 2006, at 7:22 pm |
A week ago I was in full-scale housewarming party-planning mode: I had set the date, composed the guest list, and invited about half of the guests. I had even written something to post on the blog, inviting all of YOU to come to the party.
But then I invited Angela and she asked “Why would you want to have a party?”
Why indeed. Good question. I was stumped. And the more I pondered the question, the stumpeder I got.
How would I get the house ready in time? Where would I put all the boots? (I had a plan for the coats, but the boots were running amok in my imagination.) How do you play music at a house party so that you can hear it wherever you are, but the people in the living room don’t have to scream to have a conversation? How do you have a party for 50 when you only have seating for five? What if nobody came? What if everybody came? What kind of food would I serve? If I were to buy 45 more wine and beer glasses, what would I do with them after the party? What if my friends didn’t like each other? What about friends that I know don’t like each other – like the formerly married friends going through the vicious divorce – should I invite them both and let them duke it out to the blaring music in the living room? Or should I just invite one and hope the other one doesn’t hear about it? Etcetera.
I came to dread the party as it loomed and lunged and careened out of control on the horizons of my imagination. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that this party was destined for disaster and must not be allowed to happen.
So I did the unthinkable: I un-invited all the people I had already invited (at least I hope I did – I’m going to go out that night just in case I missed anyone.) I apologized but didn’t make up any excuses. I just admitted I was a complete flake. Within 24 hours of inviting Angela, the party came to a screeching halt.
My friends, being the good-natured people they are, were understanding, and some even thought it was funny to be un-invited. Two said they never really expected me to go through with the party anyway. (REALLY?) Three people said they were happy I was postponing it indefinitely because they couldn’t make it that night anyway. Orley said “I’ll be in Montreal that weekend so wasn’t going to be able to make it anyway, but we’ll drop by for those martinis (note the plural) sometime. Why don’t you plan a New Year’s Eve party, we won’t plan to go and won’t be disappointed when you cancel.” Several people told me they knew exactly how I felt, since they always feel that way at a certain point in party-planning, even though they’d never indulged their secret desire to un-have the party. But apparently I’m not the first person in history to do this, because Janet said this was the second housewarming party to which she’d been un-invited.
I feel good about not having the party. It’s more than just relief; there’s a sense of accomplishment too. After all, anybody can have a party, but it takes a special breed of person to not have a party.
Anyway, you’re all invited to drop by for drinks and see my new place sometime – just not all at once, ok?
Posted by zoom! on November 21, 2006, at 7:20 pm |
Frank Plummer’s lovely wife Joey, writes:
“Hey, it’s very nice of you to let us pour out our emotions on your site! I think that amongst all the crazy thoughts that are going on in my head right now I really can’t imagine life without Frank. He always managed to make me smile even while I was yelling at him for something.
The kids and I were turning onto our street the other night and remembering how he would turn onto the street and see our neighbour Heather, with her back to us, working on her front garden. He would swerve onto the sidewalk leaning on the horn. He thought it was hilarious to see how high she would jump…holding her hand to her heart. I would be screaming at him that she was going to have a heart attack. Inside I was smiling.
Even on the Friday before he died I had taken the day off work and put a frozen dinner in the microwave for my lunch. I realized it hadn’t beeped when I caught Frank trying to eat it as fast as he could before getting caught. Even as I was yelling at him he was grinning at me and trying to finish it before I could grab it.
When I went out with my book club friends we would always talk about crazy things our husbands did. I always won. This one time I was coming home after book club and I walked in the door just as he was coming up the basement stairs totally naked except for a can of pledge in his hand. The funny thing was that I knew exactly what he was doing. I had asked him not to clean his tools in the basement because the smell was toxic. I knew that is just what he had been doing and had spilled something all over himself and the basement. He had stripped downstairs and thrown his clothes in the wash, cut out the piece of carpet with the spilled chain saw gas and had grabbed the first thing he thought might hide the smell. I knew him so well that I didn’t even have to ask. I just shook my head and filed it away as yet another ‘Frank’ story.” – Joey
Posted by zoom! on November 17, 2006, at 7:52 pm |
The other night I came home from work to discover my furnace was blowing cold air through the vents.
Like any good homeowner would do, I ventured down to the basement and looked at it.
There was a sign on the furnace:
I phoned the number and the nice man said they’d be happy to send someone over, but because it was after hours, it would cost $129. I asked how much it would cost if I waited till morning: $89. So I asked if it was perhaps something I could fix myself, and to my surprise he assured me I probably could. He instructed me to follow the instructions on the panel.
So I laid down on the floor beside the panel and read the instructions. It was mostly about how not to blow yourself up, so I read it several times. The warnings were about electricity and gas, two things that both scare me because if you make a mistake, they don’t even give you a chance to have one last thought before you die.
Then, like any good blogger would do, I took photographs of the furnace, because I know you’ve all been dying to see my furnace. And I wanted to procrastinate a bit before attempting not to blow myself up. Here’s the furnace, looking all innocent:
Then I mustered up my courage and followed the instructions.
First step: turn the thermostat off. Easy.
 Second step: Turn the power to the furnace off. This wasn’t so easy. I wondered if I was supposed to flip the breaker off, but none of the breakers were labelled “Furnace.” Two of them were labelled “Hot Water Heater” but none of them were labelled “Furnace.” However there was a switch above the basement door which looked like it might do the trick. So I got a stool, climbed up there and flipped the switch.
 Third step: Remove the panels on the furnace. Easy. (And once I’d done that, I realized this made it much easier to read the instructions about how not to blow yourself up.)
Fourth step: Turn the gas control switch to OFF. This was hard. I couldn’t find any such switch. I studied the diagrams inside the furnace, but there was nothing labelled Gas Control Switch. In the bottom compartment of the furnace there was a switch that was automatically depressed when the panel was in place, and automatically released when the panel wasn’t in place. I decided this was the switch in question, and pushed it.
Fifth step: Wait five minutes. Easy. I passed the time taking more pictures of my furnace for you.
Sixth step: Get down on the floor and smell for gas. If you smell gas, don’t do and do do all kinds of things (for example, don’t use the phone or turn on or off any lights, and do get out of your house immediately and call for help). Fortunately I couldn’t smell any gas.
Seventh step: Turn the Gas Control Switch back on. This was psychologically hard, because I started questioning my sense of smell and confronting my mortality. But I finally did it, and it was okay.
Eight step: Replace the panels. This was hard.
Ninth step: Turn the power to the furnace back on. Easy.
Tenth step: Turn the thermostat back on. Easy.
Done! I was inordinately proud of myself, but the furnace still blew cold air.
My friend Ken called.
“Do you know how to get the pilot light in a gas furnace back on?” I asked.
“I think I’ve done it before,” he said, “Didn’t we fix your furnace at your apartment once?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, suddenly remembering, “We fixed it by agreeing we were both afraid of it so we called the landlord.”
“Oh, right,” he said, “I remember now.”
So he wished me luck, and I went back down to the basement and ran through the entire sequence again, doing exactly the same things with exactly the same results.
 The third time I decided the problem was with Step 4: Switch the Gas Control Switch to Off. This time I was determined to find that switch, wherever it was hiding. After a few minutes I found an unlabelled switch on the little brown box, and I decided it would have to be the Gas Control Switch. And it was! I completed the sequence, and lo and behold, my furnace started blowing hot air!
I was enormously thrilled with myself. At that very moment I felt like a genuine, bona fide, full-fledged homeowner. For a brief moment I even found myself wishing something else would break so I could fix it, but then I came to my senses and took that wish back.
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Speaking of TV, before I moved I always thought the reason there was never anything good on TV was because I didn’t have cable. Now I have about 750 channels, and there’s STILL never anything good on. Did you know that if you don’t change the channel you can watch What Not to Wear all day and probably all night too? They take people like me, secretly videotape them in their bedrooms getting dressed, then ambush them, publicly humiliate them, throw away all their clothes, give them $5,000, and make them shop for clothes they hate. Sometimes they look better at the end of the show, sometimes they don’t. Last week I saw an episode in which this adorable art professor, who liked to wear her jammies to work, was forced to grow up and become sophisticated before our eyes. I liked her better in her jammies.
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