Domestic Thursday: Two Socks and Some Beer

I'm in another sock rut, knitting-wise. My last non-sock knitting project (matching Blue Jays sweaters for my friend's pugs) had ended in tragedy, when I had battled through the intarsia only to find out that it was too small for her smallest dog.
So I knit some Hermione socks instead:

And now I'm partway through a pair of Eternal Spring socks from Knitty's last issue.

I'll return to the dog sweaters again sometime, but not until a few more pairs of socks, or maybe hats, have rebuilt my shattered self-confidence.

Of course, drowning your sorrows about failed sweaters requires something for the drowning, and this week it was Henderson Brewing's Radicle Wheat. A friend had left it at my place and judging from the label, this beer likes Toronto almost as much as Drake does. It's a nice wheat, particularly when I was drinking it last night, and the coriander shone brightly in the heat. Unfortunately, it turns out that "opened bottle shoved into the fridge" is not an ideal cellaring condition, and so the last inch I just knocked back wasn't quite as tasty. But that's what I deserve for not respecting the beer.

Dispatches from Clotland

Having now been in an emergency room—in fact, the same emergency room—for reasons both physical and mental, I can definitely say that you should choose the former wherever possible. Because this time, my stay lasted just eight hours instead of fourteen days. And that reason seems good enough, until I remember that people with physical issues can stay for longer than fourteen days in the hospital, and some never come out. So, my adjusted advice: just choose not to be sick, if you can. Because spending time in an emergency room makes you conscious of how illness, of any type, can be an intensely individual experience. Although you share the emergency room, you’re very much alone.

Alone, and wishing you had bothered to read Susan Sontag’s Illness as Metaphor. Then you would have had a nice literary quote for this blog post.

My problems began a few days before, with persistent chest pain. I thought I had just pulled a muscle at the baseball game I went to on Friday night, because baseball is always guaranteed to give you extra innings of misery. But it would get worse when I would lean forward, and I would wake up groaning in pain. My mom made me call the health line, and although I didn’t have any of the telling signs or risks for a heart attack, stroke, or blood clot, the TeleHealth Nurse made me go to the emergency room. Older female guilt is a powerful force.

Cardiac issues were quickly ruled out, so I waited. It was very early, and the only other person there was extremely constipated. He was annoyed when they called me in first, even though I had arrived moments before. “Just tell them the constipation is causing chest pain!” I wanted to yell, as I walked into the next room. “Then they’ll see you quickly.”

Except, there was more waiting. No ER or Grey’s Anatomy-type crises to see though; someone had broken bones in his hand from punching someone, and someone had probably broken his hand falling off his skateboard. My D-dimer levels, which were supposed to be in the hundreds, were in the thousands. Although I’ve been mostly downwardly mobile as an adult, it seems I can still exceed expectations on tests.

Time in this room was like time in a casino; it didn’t run normally. Like a casino, there was no natural light, no ready source of news from the outside world, and possibly a clock but I couldn’t find it. I suppose I could have just left, but I didn’t. I read, and waited. After test results like that, the next step was a CT scan. This requires a larger-bore needle for the radioactive dye, and my veins were still being difficult. Teams of two nurses would rotate in and out on my arms, slapping and injecting. Six attempts later, a nurse with perfect bone structure managed to get a usable IV in my hand. I fell in love with her.

Most of us patients had an understanding to ignore whatever was behind the curtain. By the nature of the room, sensitive information had to be shared, and by its nature, it couldn’t be a secret. Through the curtains (if you were either lucky, or simply unlucky enough to be unable to sit) you would hear specific details about someone else’s medical issue and they would learn all about yours. I felt like there was an unspoken injunction against acting on any of this knowledge in solidarity, but there I was, sitting next to one of the chatty exceptions to this rule when my CT results came back. There were clots in my lungs, just in time for me to miss the drug benefits from the job I had suddenly quit.

I wish my time as a millennial cautionary tale had ended there, but no. The thrombosis clinic—it’s on the same floor as the osteoporosis clinic, with the result that I lower the mean age in the waiting room by a decade or two every time I walk in—warned me that the blood thinners would increase the flow of my period. What they didn’t tell me is that I would be recreating the elevator scene from The Shining every hour, on the hour. However, I made it through that, and telling a cisgender-looking male TTC driver that I had Carried a bus seat, and napping my afternoons away instead of studying thanks to my low iron, to be sitting here, typing into the void.

I’ve now made it through June, and can’t wait to see what July will bring. Shingles? So don’t be sick, and if you must, try to time so that you have sick leave, medical benefits, and limited need for public transit.

Not Waving But Drowning

My least favourite public goodwill/branding exercise (HASHTAGBellLet'sTalk) passed by a few weeks ago, and I briefly thought about prying off that scab again and talking about the state of my mental health. The first post I wrote, about my time in the hospital, was a look back; this second post would try to look forward, as a way of figuring out why I've found it so difficult to move on from that episode.

Which is a great narrative, provided that I'm actually moving on--and not finding myself sinking back down again, as I have for the past four months. I could blame my job and I could blame school, but I often come back to blaming myself, and wondering if I don't have some congenital form of failure.

Right now I'm throwing medication and money (in the form of therapy) at the problem. It might be helping. But I haven't been writing. Unfortunately, most of what's been on my mind is me, which isn't a very interesting topic, and certainly not one I think there's a public audience for. I find a certain kind of toxic narcissism is one of the side effects of depression/anxiety/lack of resilience/whatever I have. However... however. Perhaps there's a reason I've kept my Blogspot going even as nearly everyone else migrated over to Tumblr. Maybe I need the outlet that early 2000s blogs, in all of their lumpy, barely monetized, confessional glory, can provide. So join me--won't you?--for a journey into the kind of surly, kind of whiny hallways of my mind.

Don't worry, there will still be knitting.

Poor Decisions and Long Vacations

Hmm, how to start. Howdy? Hello? I'm...alive? Well, barely. Turns out it is a terrible idea to try taking three grad school classes when you're working full time. Particularly if that work also entailed a relatively new promotion that involved both more responsibility and more stress.

That two sentence explanation is all you probably need to know about how I spent the time between the last blog post and this one. I learned a lot about ticks and tick-borne diseases though, in particular Lyme disease. Which is really neat and cool, I guess, until you start having intense anxiety dreams about blood-engorged ticks and angry patient advocacy groups.

I'm back now. But so is school. Hopefully I'll still manage to write more than once every four months though. 

Domestic Sunday: Tentacular Craftacular

For many years, my fitful attempts at a regular yoga practice were enabled by my handmade yoga mat bag. The body was one of the only things I had ever crocheted that wasn't aggressively hideous, while the strap came from an import store and was purchased entirely because there was a time in my life when I felt uncomfortable if I spoke to a retail store employee and then DIDN'T buy anything in the store.

Of course, those semi-fond memories didn't stop me from leaving the yoga mat bag (and the yoga mat it contained) behind on the subway one day. Nobody ever turned it in to the TTC's Lost and Found either. I hope whoever found it is haunted every time they use it, perpetually unable to relax during shavasana and forever barfing during hot yoga classes.

I replaced the mat but not the bag. At least, not until this weekend. My friend Tamera had gifted me with just enough of this rad octopus print that I could make a decent-sized yoga mat bag. I spliced together this free pattern from Amy Butler(PDF) and a bag pattern from Lotta Jansdotter's Simple Sewing, because I wanted a drawstring top. I placed the drawstring casing too high (the bag basically has a manbun of extra fabric on top), but I'm not about to rip the whole thing out. Otherwise, it turned out just fine.

My beer selection this week isn't all that domestic. Instead, it's from Portland's Rogue Brewery, but I'm highlighting it anyway because it's a weird, weird brew. It's their Voodoo Doughnut Lemon Crueller flavour, and there's definitely some witchcraft happening here. It tastes exactly like a lemon doughnut. Not like they dropped in a boatload of artificial flavouring, or like they got their spices but not the texture. Instead, the aftertaste even has a glazed quality. It's a mystery to me. However, it's also so sweet and powerfully dessert-like that it's impossible to enjoy more than one glass. I was reminded of my friend who demanded "Beer flavoured beer." Sometimes that's better than a liquified doughnut.

Domestic Tuesday: Completed Socks and Cider

I'm beginning to think lifestyle blogs are all a giant scam to keep us buying chalkboard paint and succulents. Some of their authors maintain that they have full-time jobs and/or kids, but I don't trust them.

Why? Because it's taken me months to finish my Pomatomus socks. And I couldn't even take a decent picture of them. Real lifestyle blogs would have finished ten projects and also directed a photo shoot for each one. The yarn pooled in a major way on one sock, so this is the best you'll get. So far the yarn (Rowan Fine Art in Yew) is warm and fuzzy. I think they'll be perfect when the colder weather finally hits.

The cider I was making was actually ready before these socks were finished, sadly. And the first batch from the Under the Sink Cider Co. was... okay. Extremely dry. Probably not bringing home any awards any time soon. However, nobody has died from consuming the cider so far, which makes me confident about trying another batch. Should I mix in some pear juice, or just stick to apple for now and buy some profesh yeast? I'm not sure yet. Either way, I should probably make some labels so I can register our ciderworks's mascot, Squishy the Dirty Old Sponge, before someone steals the idea.

My Toronto: Four Neighbourhoods, Three Bars

In my five years of Toronto living, I've lived in four different neighbourhoods and loved three local bars. Here they are, as a timeline of my many moves.

Neighbourhood #1: Main and Danforth

When I lived there, Main and Dan was a very convenient, if not particularly comfortable. neighbourhood. I'm not sure if the unstoppable hordes of gentrification have marched that far East yet; I've been doing my damndest to reverse-gentrify Forest Hill by moving there, along with my stubbornly low bank account. Back then though, the local bars were mostly grim and unwelcoming, so I would walk or subway over to The Only Café instead. It's cash and counter service only, but the selection of beers on tap is large and you can bring in food from the outside world. This was how I discovered Big House Pizza and Square Boy. 

Drink: One of the cask offerings

Eat: '70s Burger Perfection in the form of cheeseburger from Square Boy

Neighbourhood #2: Bloor West Village

The pub offerings at BWV were a little better, but I still wound up travelling to find a place that I really liked, in this case heading north to the Junction. I spent a lot of time in this bar that my brother was working at, but my favourite turned out to be a different place--The Hole in the Wall, which is truly both hole-sized and wall-oriented. It's a nice, unpretentious place, where the music is usually quiet enough that you don't have to scream to be heard, unless it's live music night. If it's live music night, you may as well keep your mouth busy with food.

Drink: Neustadt 10W30

Eat: Brunch

Neighbourhood #3: Vaughan and St. Clair West

This time I only had to walk to Christie and St. Clair to find my bar of choice. Finally, a true local! Dave's only has four taps, but whatever's rotating through tends to be reliable. Currently, it's the Sidelaunch Wheat. I keep on trying to explain what works so well with Dave's. It's basically a bar that's nice enough that you can take your mom there for brunch, but not so nice that going there is a faintly taxing and overwhelming experience. At Dave's you'll never have to turn an artisanal charcuterie plate into dinner, because you can build your own pizza.

Drink: Sidelaunch Wheat

Eat: White Pizza

Neighbourhood #4: Forest Hill Village

Drinking options in FHV are limited to sit-down restaurants and, bizarrely, Aroma, which is a chain cafe. All of these places lack long bars with TVs, which means I can't sidle up and anonymously watch sports while scarfing an entire order of nachos. This situation cannot stand. So once again I hike, headed back west to Dave's. (In defence of the Village: it does offer a classy kitchen store, a classy lingerie store, and a tiny Type Books outpost--and I've even shopped at one of these places!) Anyway, Dave's also has a decently stocked fridge of bottles and cans, along with a weekly trivia night. It will be a good friend to you. It's been a good friend to me. 

Drink: Barley Days' Yuletide Cherry Porter, if it's winter and bottles are back in the fridge

Eat: Nachos. Dave's avoids the weird Toronto bar habit of putting lettuce on t'chos  (as if they expect you to eat hot wilted salad) and gives you salsa verde instead. 

Baby Talk

For one glorious season back in university, my roommate and I were devoted fans of a CBC show called MVP: The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives. Actually, we were probably its entire devoted fanbase, and we loyally referred to the show by both halves of its title. We would toss one line in particular back and forth to each other. It was wailed by the Nice Blonde Teacher, who was in love with the Nice Guy Hockey Player, but... let me just quote the line: "I want...BAYYYYBIES, but I can't have...BAYYYYYYYBIES."

We would make the "babies" particularly guttural and tortured and laugh. Though one night we did admit that we were scared that, if we ever admitted we wanted children, we would somehow be made infertile. In Sex and the City terminology, we would go from Mirandas to Charlottes; or the example of Friends,  we would magically be Monicas instead of Rachels. It always seemed like it was the woman who wanted kids who couldn't have them, whereas the shortcut to fertility seemed to be a casual ambivalence to the prospect. 

That roommate now has an adorable daughter, though I'm still holding steady at one (1) delinquent cat. This situation at least proves that some of our bizarre superstitions about fertility were unfounded, but it doesn't answer on key question. Do I want children?

That choice has been on my mind lately, since it seems like either decision (aside from the Rachel-Miranda School of Accidental Reproduction), triggers a certain amount of defensiveness. While the decision to remain childfree will bring you more direct censure, at least from grandmothers at family gatherings, having a child isn't always a shortcut to acceptance and cupcakes. If someone thinks you're too poor, too single, or too crazy, they may demand an essay where you justify this choice, before providing supporting arguments for any of the choices that follow (adopted or biological, homeschooled or public schooled, organically and dogmatically fed from scratch or simply fed conveniently.)  

I feel the strongest desire to be a parent when I'm close to Baby Gap and its itty bitty pea coats, or when I'm near a rack of Robeez slippers, considering which animals I want embroidered on my baby's toes (dinosaurs, I think.) I feel the strongest desire not to be a parent when I've come home from a 6:30-9pm class, only to realize that I still need to do dishes, make dinner, do those dishes, briefly consider an activity for personal fulfillment, then fall asleep instead. The thought of doing all that, but in increased quantities and with more responsibilities, is terrifying. I've also shown a real aptitude for being utterly terrible with my money, so any child of mine would be at a distinct disadvantage in this world. The Baby Gap's itty bitty pea coats would stay on their hangers.

But it's not even the responsibilities or the costs of having a child that scare me the most. I am most frightened of sharing a child with another person. I know there are alternatives, from adopting as a single parent to sperm donation, but those all seem to involve scheduling, and I am as bad with calendars as I am with money. I think my ideal would be a bittersweet reunion with my baby daddy after many decades have passed, complete with a heartbroken smile and hands held a second too long. I don't think that many people watched The Way We Were and said "there's my maternal role model!" but I did and I do. 

I also sometimes catch myself fantasizing about being a parent, but of a child who's successful and celebrated in particular. It's like some of us reach older age when we let go of our childish fantasies of fame and achievement, only to forego maturity by transferring them to our offspring instead.

So. This is me taking 400 words to say "I don't know."

My consuming indecision means that, however, I do want to know what other people chose and why. I won't judge, but I always want to ask. I'm selfishly hoping to hear an argument compelling enough, in either direction, that I'll finally make a choice. But it's too personal to ask these questions that often, and so I mostly work the same territory over and over in my mind.

Kristin Booth, the actress who played the Nice Blonde Teacher on MVP: The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives later appeared on another Canadian drama, Flashpoint. Once again, she was playing a woman struggling with infertility, proving that there's no niche too small that an actress can't be forcibly typecast into it. This time her character's inferitlity had driven her to kidnap her husband's pregnant lover; at least there are some choices that are easy not to make.

Pillow Blog: Six Anecdotes About My Cat

In honour of International Cat Day, which might be a real holiday but may also have just been willed into existence through the collective force of the Internet, here is a list devoted to the one, the only, Marvin C. Protagitron.

Who, Me?

Six Anecdotes About My Cat

1. Marvin's original owner named him Zaphod. I renamed him Marvin because I hated the name Zaphod. I named him after Marvin Gaye, because he was so vocal. Now I realize I should have named him Wilhelm, after the Wilhelm Scream.

2. At the height of his annoying howling stage, I tried to rehome him with three different people, all of whom flaked out at the last minute. This collection included his previous owner, by the way. After the third time, I decided I was going to figure out a way for the furry little jerk to live with me. So now Marvin and I live in semi-peace, out of spite towards the flakiness of others. Spite is a powerful force, perhaps stronger than love.

3. Dan and I have created a rich interior life for Marvin, where he plots to kill us and fantasizes about having relations with Gary Busey. When we pretend to be Marvin we adopt the same voice as Christian Bale used for Batman. We've decided that what Marvin likes best about Gary Busey is his teeth.

4. Alternate names for Marvin include the Orange Menace; Katsu, Cat-King of the Kaiju; and Stinky Man.

5. Dan hated living with Marvin at first and still maintains that he doesn't like him. However, I have photo evidence of Dan picking up the cat and nuzzling him. He also asked Marvin last week if he loved him. The cat remained silent.

6. In spite of the hours of grief and hundreds of dollars spent on this cat, I love him. He keeps my feet warm at night and welcomes me home from work with the loveable shrieks of a banshee (it's an acquired taste). I've lived with three very different cats so far, and they've all enriched my life with much more than just cat hair. Even Marvin.

Domestic Wednesday: It's Cidertown

This post is a two in one type situation, because it's hard to get more domestic than this cider. It's currently fermenting just a few feet away. If it's drinkable, I'll call my home production set-tup the "Under the Sink Cider Company" and our mascot will be an old sponge. If it isn't, we shall never speak of it again. I bottle on Sunday. 

What, it's a jug of cider under a sink. What did you expect, Ansel Adams?

I've made small batches of beer before, to rather middling results. These results tasted worse when I considered the time I spent brewing them. It was a whole day's worth of work (not including fermentation) that tended to turn my kitchen into a sauna, for beer that was pretty meh. Cider seemed like a way to slowly get back into DIY drinks. It's more like making wine: pour apple cider into something. Add yeast. Wait. (Also, sanitize EVERYTHING.) Of course, people who take this sort of thing seriously will question my methods on my first batch. I just bought some local President's Choice cider and pitched in half a leftover packet of yeast from a previous brewing attempt. It's english ale-style yeast, so who knows what horror I'll uncap in two weeks. Something delicious? Or something that makes me believe in the existence of a cosmic, unknowable evil, one that happened to be sitting under my sink for two weeks?