Raw Sugar, the new coffee shop at the corner of Somerset and Cambridge, has been sockin’ it to me lately with its funky vintage decor straight out of my childhood, and its owner’s brilliant ideas for special events.
Last night we went there for a special event called My Baby Wrote Me a Letter. Nadia, the owner, teamed up with Lindsay Orr, the owner of Linden Tree, a new paper store in Westboro, to offer an evening of the dying art of letter-writing. Basically, for $5 they provided stationery, envelopes, pens, stamps and coffee, and everybody sat around at Raw Sugar’s funky kitchen tables drinking coffee with friends and writing letters to other friends.
Isn’t that just the coolest retro thing you ever heard of?
I wrote three letters. The first was to Sadie. She’s my Dad’s wife’s mom, and she’s 93 years old. The second was to my 8-year-old niece Arrow in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. And the third was to two-month-old Connor in San Diego, who would have been my common-law step-grandson if I’d stayed with my son’s father. (Figure that one out. Ha ha.)
If you know any of these people, please don’t tell them I wrote them a letter, because I want it to be a surprise.
I used to be a prolific letter writer back in the day. Throughout my childhood I corresponded regularly with my grandfather. I also had a penpal in Korea; we met through a stamp collecting magazine. My best friend in high school, Astrid Petersen, moved back to Germany when we were 17, and we exchanged hundreds and hundreds of letters over the next few years. I kept all her letters. I wonder if she kept mine?
Aside from last night, I can’t even remember the last real letter I wrote. Email’s so much faster and easier and you don’t have to think about stamps or the handwriting factor. But I really had such a good time writing my letters last night that I might try to build letter-writing back into my life. I especially loved imagining the recipient opening her mailbox and finding a genuine, handwritten letter with her name on it. It’s such a rare treat these days. So rare, in fact, that some children might go through their entire lives and never experience it.
You know what else was cool about last night’s event? Celebrity sightings! The first people we saw when we arrived were Nik from Kill Everything and Green Colander. They were writing letters too. They told us that only moments earlier, Jo Stockton had vacated the very same table GC and I had chosen. Later in the evening, we’re pretty sure we saw Michael Bhardwaj trying to buy a cup of coffee. And then, just as we were putting the finishing touches on our letters, we invited three strangers to share our table since the place was full. It turned out that one of them was Sky Pilot’s person. (Don’t you think it’s funny that in a brief conversation with a total stranger, it would come to light that I’m friends with someone who knows her cat?)
A few weeks ago, GC took it upon himself to prepare Duncan’s breakfast.
Duncan was amazed – and delighted – to learn that GC was perfectly capable of spooning slop out of a can and into a bowl. Prior to that, he’d assumed it was one of my unique God-given talents.
Since that day, Duncan has been working GC over a little earlier each morning.
These days it’s not unusual for Duncan, at 4:30 in the morning, to be meowing in GC’s ear or poking his fat paws in GC’s eyes. GC does his best to ignore him, but it’s obvious to all three of us that GC is no match for Duncan when it comes to stubbornness.
GC is your quintessential nice guy, and Duncan is your quintessential cat. GC doesn’t stand a chance.
I know of a woman whose two cats always demanded that she scoop out the litter box every single time they used it, even if it was in the middle of the night. And she did. She didn’t even mind, at least not until after she gave birth to her twins and was suffering from sleep deprivation, but by then it was too late. It’s very hard to un-spoil a cat.
I try to keep Duncan humble by not spoiling him too much myself. Oh sure, I give him lots of love and cuddles and catnip and I like it when he’s happy. But there are a couple of days each week when he doesn’t get his dinner until quite late at night because we have art class or our volunteer shift at the Shepherds of Good Hope. He always has dry food in his bowl, so he’s not starving, but he’s not pleased either. He thinks he deserves better treatment than this.
I know this because he communicates telepathically with me.
“I’m no ordinary cat,” says Duncan, “People blog about me. Artists draw me. I have a cult following. Is it too much to ask that I get fed on time?”
This point about his cult following was driven home yesterday morning.
GC and I were at an Adobe Acrobat workshop when a woman with striking blue eyes approached me.
“Excuse me,” she said, “But aren’t you Duncan’s owner?”
It turns out she reads my blog and recognized me from the occasional photo I post of myself here, but she couldn’t remember my name. Only Duncan’s.
We chatted for a bit, and as we were parting she said “You must get this all the time.”
Actually I don’t. Once in a very blue moon someone asks me if I’m Zoom. But Duncan’s owner? This was a first.
I told Duncan about it last night while preparing his dinner.
“I hope you explained,” he said, “That you’re my executive assistant.”
The other night I went to the all-night Shoppers Drug Mart at Westgate and I bought something I’ve been putting off buying for about six months.
Razor blades.
That’s not quite accurate. These are razor cartridges. A cartridge is a self-contained head that pops into your razor handle and costs about twenty times as much as a razor blade. It cost $16 for a package of four. That’s why the package comes with an electronic anti-theft device, and why an alarm sounds when you take the package of cartridges off the shelf. (I’m not kidding.)
But these are not just ordinary cartridges, these are two-in-one cartridges. They have “built-in shave gel bars.” The shave gel bars contain rich body butters and a fresh tropical scent. Try getting that from an ordinary razor blade.
Actually, ordinary razor blades are incompatible with my Venus razor. The razor consists of a handle and a snap-on cartridge that you replace from time to time. No plugs, no batteries. Pretty basic stuff, really, but the manufacturer makes its money by forcing you to buy the particular kind of cartridge that fits your handle.
Here’s what their website says about the Venus razor: “Embrace a whole new level of smoothness that’s fit for a goddess. Because there’s a goddess in every woman.”
That’s not all they say. They go on and on about all the different kinds of goddesses there are, and how there’s a different razor for every kind of goddess, and they have a shaving IQ test and you can sign up for “your very own newsletter.” Woohoo.
So anyway, I’ve been shaving every day for the better part of a year with the same cartridge because I can never remember which of the Venus cartridges (Embrace, Breeze, Vibrance or Divine) works with my handle, and because I’m too cheap to pay $16 for four razor blades, no matter what you call them or how many gel bars they have.
But I have to admit, it was a treat to have a new cartridge in my razor. I embraced a whole new level of smoothness. I guess $16 for at least a year’s supply of shaving supplies isn’t that bad when you think about it.
Maybe we all have stuff we hate to buy. For me it’s shaving cartridges. Also garbage bags, because they’re expensive and you just throw them in the garbage, and toilet paper because you just flush it down the toilet.
On the other hand, I love buying things that feel like they’re bursting with potential, like books and yarn and art supplies. (But I have to be careful not to buy things instead of doing things. For example, sometimes I buy art supplies instead of doing art.)
How about you? What are your most and least favourite things to buy?
Is anybody else having trouble with Google Reader or with the number of their blog subscribers plummeting recently?
According to Feedburner, I lost half my Google Reader subscribers immediately after upgrading to WordPress 2.7. A couple of days ago I lost the rest of them.
At first I was thinking it was just ME and it was a result of the upgrade. Now I’m not so sure. I use Google Reader to keep track of all YOUR blogs, and lately things have been awfully quiet out there in the blogosphere. But today I clicked on a couple of your blogs and discovered some of you HAVE been blogging but Google Reader hasn’t been notifying me.
Anyway. I’m not sure what’s going on or what to do about it. For now I’ll just put it on Zoom’s List of Problems That Will Hopefully Fix Themselves.
Speaking of problems, you may have noticed odd moments of blog wonkiness over the past week, like when Knitnut turned Spanish for a few hours one night. Or when the sheep were replaced by suitcases for a few minutes. I’ve been working – with a little lot of help from my friends – to bring my blog into the 21st century. At some point in the next week I hope to unveil a new look. If there’s anything you especially want to see – or not see – on the new Knitnut.net, leave a comment.
The only certainties at this point are that it’ll have dark text on a white background, and the font will be resizable by you.
And the sheep, of course. There will always be sheep. Because, after all, this is a knitting blog.
One of the many things I like about belly dancing is that it’s rooted in such a strong community of women. I also like that every belly is considered sexy, regardless of its size or shape. If you need some help in the body image department, go sign up for belly dancing lessons.
Years ago I took belly dancing lessons and I danced at Uncle Louis’s Restaurant on graduation night. Last night GC and I just enjoyed the show at Uncle Louis’s. We ate Lebanese food, drank Italian wine, and made a film.
This morning, as I watched the video, I learned a very important film-making lesson that the rest of you probably already know. But I’ll share it with you anyway, just in case: Varying the portrait and landscape orientations works very well for photographs, but not so well for video.
Way way back when I was a little girl, birthday parties were a very special thing.
We didn’t have expensive theme parties with magicians and ponies and trips to the spa back then. But we did wear our best party dresses over puffy crinolines. There were party games like Musical Chairs and Pin The Tail On The Donkey, and afterwards there was ice cream and cake.
I remember just one themed birthday party. It was my sister Debbie’s 7th birthday I think, so I would have been six years old. It was a bowling birthday party.
Bowling! We were poor and bowling was just about the most decadent and exotic thing imaginable.
My mother invited six of Debbie’s friends to this bowling birthday party, and the countdown began. Ten more sleeps, nine more sleeps, eight more sleeps…
A week before the party, we were going to visit my mother’s friend. Her daughter, Margie, was about my age.
My mother explained to us beforehand that Margie was not invited to the bowling birthday party because we couldn’t afford to invite anybody else, and also because Margie’s mom didn’t have a car and my mom wouldn’t have time to go pick her up on the day of the party.
“So don’t tell Margie about the party,” she instructed us firmly.
My mother was absolutely crystal clear about this. She repeated these instructions in the car, and again as we got out of the car. She reminded us in the elevator going up to Margie’s apartment. And she whispered it to us one last time just before she knocked on Margie’s door. Debbie and I nodded solemnly.
The words ran like ticker tape through my mind: “Don’t tell Margie about the bowling birthday party. Don’t tell Margie about the bowling birthday party. Don’t tell Margie about the bowling birthday party. Don’t tell Margie…”
Then my mom knocked and we heard footsteps. The door swung open and there stood Margie and her mom.
“DEBBIE’S HAVING A BOWLING BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!” I screamed.
Then I stood there, profoundly shocked and horrified at what I had just done.
My mom? She didn’t miss a beat.
“And we’d love it if Margie could come,” she said graciously.
For the past two years, Mad (Under the Mad Hat) and Jen (One Plus Two) have been scouring the blogosphere for the best social justice posts, and showcasing them in monthly lists on their own blogs.
For awhile there, it looked like I had discovered the Just Post Awards just as they were coming to an end. This would not have surprised me, as it would have been consistent with the overall anachronistic patterns of my life. I have always been a little out of synch. I eschew fads while they’re in vogue, but become vicariously and retroactively attached to them after the fact. I am sentimental and melancholy about things I was never part of. I collect antique photographs of other people’s ancestors. My favourite song as a child was Those Were the Days My Friend.
But I’m happy to report that the rumours of the impending death of the Just Post awards were greatly exaggerated, or at least premature. Mad and Jen have passed the torch along to Alejna (Collecting Tokens) and Holly (Cold Spaghetti), and so the Just Post awards will live on for the forseeable future. (I’ll still like them anyway.)
For now, you can find the whole collection in Jen’s sidebar. I’ve only just scratched the surface myself.
I don’t enjoy going to the dentist. I do it anyway – every six months – because I enjoy having teeth.
I don’t floss though. My dentist says “Just floss the ones you want to keep,” but I don’t.
Monday morning started with a visit to the dentist, and I decided to entertain and challenge myself by trying to think of things I like about going to the dentist.
1. I get to lie down in a comfy chair. Admittedly, it would be more comfy if nobody were scraping my teeth and digging under my gums with sharp instruments, but it’s still a comfy chair.
2. I like the weight of the lead apron. It’s comforting. Admittedly, it would be more comforting if I didn’t understand its purpose, but it still feels good. (By the way, do you close your eyes during dental x-rays in a futile effort to protect your brain from radiation? Or is that just me?)
3. I like the cinnamon-flavoured tooth polish.
4. I like that vacuum cleaner thing that sucks the extra liquid out of your mouth.
5. I like when the dentist inspects my teeth and says “I think I see a little cavity,” and then consults the x-ray and says, “No, I guess I’m wrong.”
6. I like my dental hygienist’s tattoo of a smiling tooth on the inside of her forearm. And I like her other tattoos and her piercings and her crazy hair. I like listening to her stories. For example, her Rottweiler had twelve puppies four weeks ago and she is trying to wean her pups because nursing twelve puppies is painful – they actually ATE ONE OF HER NIPPLES!! ATE IT!!
This got me thinking, as the day went on, about other nipple injuries.
Years ago I had a job stocking shelves at the Herb and Spice in the Glebe. One day I was leaning over a carton of cereal boxes, sticking price tags on them with a price gun, when somehow I got my nipple caught in the pricing gun at the very instant I was squeezing the trigger.
It hurt so much I felt nauseous and everything turned white for a minute or two.
I went over to Irene’s Pub for beer and sympathy. It just so happened that there were only women sitting at the bar that afternoon, and every woman there had a nipple injury story of her own to share. Kim, the bartender, told us about how she had gone out back to throw stuff into the dumpster, and while she was hoisting a heavy box up to the dumpster, the lid slammed down on her nipple.
And then – while we were sitting there sharing our nipple injury stories – someone came into the bar selling coupons for an aesthetic service that included nipple waxing! We all just sat there at the bar, staring at him in horror and cupping our breasts protectively in our hands until he left.
Poor XUP is feeling demoralized by the bus strike, and she’s not the only one. Aside from the grueling daily inconvenience to everybody – which has now stretched over a month – there’s an impending health and safety factor. Temperatures over the next few days are expected to plummet into the -30s, and that’s not even counting the wind chill.
I don’t think I’ll be as cheerful and philosophical about those 80-minute walks once the brutal cold snap starts tomorrow.
But maybe the strike’s almost over. What do you think? Are you sensing any movement? Do you think the two sides might someday soon get around to sitting down in the same room and talking about what needs to be done to end this strike? Or that they might agree to let an objective third party decide? Or do you think we should we all just go out and buy cars? Click on over into the polling booth and register your prediction.
Also, my friend Rita has asked me to ask you all how the strike is affecting you personally. Have you had to change your lifestyle in order to cope with it? In what area of your life are you feeling the biggest impact? Work? Home? Financial? Social? Recreational? Emotional?
Posted by zoom! on January 11, 2009, at 11:51 am |
I love weekends. I love staying up late, sleeping in, and doing whatever I feel like doing whenever I feel like doing it.
Yesterday morning GC and I went cross-country skiing for an hour out at Shirley’s Bay. It was a cold, crisp, sunny morning at twenty below zero. We thought we might be too cold dressing in the recommended three light layers, so we both added a couple of items to the mix. An extra pair of long johns. A neck warmer.
We were still leery. I mean, it was cold out there. And we weren’t even wearing our winter jackets, just flimsy little windbreakers over top of fleece and undershirts.
However, within a few minutes on the trail I was sweating comfortably and feeling very happy to be doing exactly what I was doing. Swish swish swish, skis gliding through the tracks, legs and arms and lungs working together in rhythm. I alternated between focusing on my surroundings and becoming oblivious to them as my focus turned inwards in a meditative stream of consciousness.
I felt good. I felt virtuous. I felt Canadian.
The trail eventually looped back to the parking lot, shortly after I started wishing it would.
We got in the car, wiped the sweat from our faces, and headed off to Irene’s for breakfast.
All the art submitted to Everybody’s Art Show is hanging on the walls at Irene’s now, including two pieces made by GC and me. I think Irene’s is still accepting donations of art if you want to participate. The Silent Auction is on January 28th, and I’ve got my eye on a couple of pieces.
After breakfast we both returned to our respective homes to catch up on our respective outstanding stuff that needs doing. In my case, it was the ongoing saga of upgrading my blog. There have been a few issues cropping up. Scott and Debra continue to be extremely generous with their time and expertise, especially considering I don’t even know them.
GC and I reconnected in the evening and went to Raw Sugar to see Lisa Poushinsky and Brian Simms doing Tom Waits, complete with costume changes and umbrellas and pink elephants and everything. We ran into Hella Stella and her Better Half and Milan there. I believe Hella Stella and I made some kind of bet involving tofu. The loser has to post a video of herself and/or her pet doing somersaults or cartwheels. I really hope I win.
Today’s list of things to do includes perusing WordPress themes (mine has to go, although I will do everything in my power to save the sheep), seeing the Bernini exhibit at the National Gallery, partitioning the Mac and installing Windows on it (dual boot), installing some other software on it, paying my bills, grocery shopping and making a really good dinner. And then eating it.
Last night we went there for a special event called My Baby Wrote Me a Letter. Nadia, the owner, teamed up with Lindsay Orr, the owner of Linden Tree, a new paper store in Westboro, to offer an evening of the dying art of letter-writing. Basically, for $5 they provided stationery, envelopes, pens, stamps and coffee, and everybody sat around at Raw Sugar’s funky kitchen tables drinking coffee with friends and writing letters to other friends. 
You know what else was cool about last night’s event? Celebrity sightings! The first people we saw when we arrived were Nik from Kill Everything and Green Colander. They were writing letters too. They told us that only moments earlier, Jo Stockton had vacated the very same table GC and I had chosen. Later in the evening, we’re pretty sure we saw Michael Bhardwaj trying to buy a cup of coffee. And then, just as we were putting the finishing touches on our letters, we invited three strangers to share our table since the place was full. It turned out that one of them was Sky Pilot’s person. (Don’t you think it’s funny that in a brief conversation with a total stranger, it would come to light that I’m friends with someone who knows her cat?)
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