Domestic Saturday: Indie's Community Nut Job

I would love to bring Domestic Thursday back as a regular thing. Unfortunately, while I've kept up with the beer drinking, naturally, I've fallen short on the other domestic front (even laundry tests my limits these days.) So it's a good thing there's a special beer for a Saturday special edition.

Behold, the Indie Ale House Community Nut Job! Community because it's a joint project between three of the better places in the Junction: Indie, 3030, and Hole in the Wall. Nut Job because a Bulk Barn's worth of assorted nuts were thrown into the brew. And I know because I was there.

My brother works at 3030 (swing by, check out a show, tell him to shave), and because he loves me, he let me take his place during the brewing process. Indie's Jason and Jeff kindly put up with what little help I could offer (thanks limited upper body strength!) and answered all of my questions. I even fetched the odd tool or two out of the sanitizer buckets. The hardest part of the day was knowing that I would have to wait for weeks to taste the finished product, but at least the wort tasted rich and nutty. And now I've had the fermented result, from 3030's cask. It's not nearly as nutty in the glass as the wort I tried, but there's still an initial rich taste which reminds me of the walnuts, hazelnuts and chestnuts we tossed in. It finishes off like chocolate, and if you're getting it from the cask there's very little carbonation. Sadly, it appears as if people who worked very hard for this beer still have to pay to drink it. Workers of the world, unite. I have nothing to lose, and a whole cask of beer to gain.

The Reluctant Giving Tree: Volunteering, With Limits

 Future set of Passion Under the Maples. Source: SimonP

This week I'm searching for volunteer positions in Toronto with demented zeal. And while I should do something meaningful like work in a food bank or man a help line, I find I'm skipping over those positions. And right into things like "giant panda ambassador" at the zoo, gardening, or a docent position at a local museum, The Tollkeeper's Cottage. I have been by the Tollkeeper's Cottage. It's more like the Tollkeeper's Shack, or Tollkeeper's Hovel. And since you have to docent in historical clothing, I feel like your chances of getting an equally historically accurate case of consumption or pleurisy are high. But I wouldn't care - a costume! And the chance to overwhelm any visitors with my tale. For I would be the plucky Tollkeeper's Wife, forced to take the tolls as the Tollkeeper would be too busy with the Tollkeeper's Drinking Problem and Tollkeeper's Brothel Prostitute to man the cottage. Also, the Tollkeeper must never know of my secret passion for the local schoolmaster, although my long walks with Mr. Duffy and our passionate discussions of Lord Byron's poetry have set the local gossip's tongues wagging.

See, wouldn't that be worth the two-dollar admission?

Spinning my tale of forbidden love in Upper Canada (working title: Passion Under the Maples) at least distracts me from wondering why I can't handle the harder stuff. I did try last year, and spent about a month surveying a local food bank. I went on Tuesdays, and every week would cycle through dread and depression. Either I liked the people I interviewed, but felt helpless to do anything for them, or I couldn't stand them and felt guilty about it. I feel like so many volunteer positions end in that feeling of grating futility. And since I'm already spending at least 9-5 on weekdays dealing with people - their needs, their anger, their constant, constant questions - I can only handle spending more if I can do it behind a panda mask.

Please don't judge me.

I Still [heart] Science

If you know me in real life, my last post may have caused some concern. What was going on with the skeptical Protagitron you knew and mostly tolerated? You see, in spite of my B.A. in English, I am an arts geek with a crush on science. Actually, that was my intro to my online dating profile for a while back when I had one. Sadly, it didn't bring the astrophysicists to the door. However, I generally have a healthy skepticism towards astrology, tarot, palmistry, and even nearly every form of alternative "medicine." My poor Dad is mocked constantly for his loyalty to his chiropractor, which would be a good time to make the following embarrassing admissions:

1. I used to go to an acupuncturist regularly
2. One of my holds at the library is for a book on ayurveda
3. I tried reading my tarot cards again today

From that, you might conclude that along with a blockage of chi and an imbalance of pitta, my problem is hypocrisy. Which is not quite true. I never believed in acupuncture and still gained some benefit from my sessions. While the placebo effect did its thing, I was forced to stop doing mine and actually rest. The Ayurveda may be less explicable, and the tarot utterly ridiculous, but I'm doing the former to improve my diet and the latter for the lulz. Though my reading today caused me enough concern that I had to use my introductory knowledge of probability to reason my way out of it. But more on that tomorrow, when I've checked that I didn't make some error out of poorly placed intuition. Today I just wanted to confirm for you all that I am pretty much as woo woo-free as ever, and you needn't worry that I'll try curing myself with crystals.

Looking to the Stars

It occurred to me last night that I may not be making the wisest decisions in my life.

I'm visiting Guelph, so there I am in the bedroom of my childhood home. I think the last life plan I generated in that room ended with me becoming a Russian-speaking economist in Hermes scarves. Well, shoot for the moon, because even if you miss you'll land among the stars...  or commuting 1.5 hours to Mississauga in H&M. And then there's my personal life, where every good decision I think I'm making becomes regrettable 24 hours later.

So I did the mature, adult thing. I engaged in a period of sober and meaningful self-reflection. Well, actually, I shuffled a deck of tarot cards. My skills in the paranormal remain as dormant as ever though - really, with three cats I might as well have acquired a control of magic along with the brain parasites - since the whole spread was hilariously inaccurate. Apparently, my insomnia is really a period of pleasant reflection, as I gaze back contentedly at the hard work that brought me here. Things only got more accurate near the end of my reading, when I found out that my current course would bring me pain, suffering and misery.

On that bright note, I decided to try astrology next. My good friend Caroline is a firm believer in the starry arts, and I'd recently read an article - through Longform - about Susan Miller, astrologer to the fashion elite. Obviously, their weird fascination with the world's ugliest website was the secret to their success, and I wanted in. Here's what the month of February looks like for me, courtesy of Ms. Miller (and the generosity of Wellington-Dufferin Student Transportation Services)

Will the 28th be a glamourous evening? I have no idea. But even wading through the sparkling fairy dust, and mapping out my chart, made me feel like my life was managed. Which is the most I can ask of anything right now, whether science, pseudoscience, or this.

Read Austen, Damnit

It's the two hundredth birthday of Pride and Prejudice, a novel that has a special place in my heart. Though anyone acquainted with the Jane Austen industrial complex - notebooks, cookbooks, keychains, miniseries, finger puppets, etc. - would probably say that's hardly unusual. Particularly among the straight, female, bookish breed I belong too. However, some things that may set me apart: I'm not holding out for a Mr. Darcy, though I finally stumbled across a few guys who appreciated my wit and reading. They just weren't independently wealthy or good horsemen. I don't wish to be transported back to Regency England, as I appreciate the right to vote and decent dentistry. And finally, it's not even my favourite Austen, because Persuasion exists.

 Still, I do think it's an incredible novel, both gracefully written and socially astute. I'm tired of critics looking to the work as a key to the secret dreams and desires of women. Considering the historical context, the stakes for Elizabeth in this novel are more than a happy marriage, but a bearable life and financial survival as well. If you're one of the few, unfortunate (and mostly male) readers who've ignored the book because you think it belongs to silly women who own more tea than ideas, please put your prejudices aside and read the book. You won't regret it.

Book Pile for January 27, 2013

1. To Infinity, and Beyond Confusion: Space from Zeno to Einstein: Classic Readings with a Contemporary Commentary, ed. Nick Huggett
2. Recently Read: Cakes and Ale, W. Somerset Maugham
3. Even More Recently Read: We Think the World of You, J.R. Ackerley
4. Soon to be Read: The Woman in White, Wilkie Collins
5. Reluctantly Read: Introduction To Probability and Statistics, William Medenhall et al.

When Good Workers Go Bad

Posting on this blog might become a weekly phenomenon, unless there's an undiscovered reserve of energy hidden in my foot I can find and tap. I work, I come home, I yell at the cats, I sleep (until feline voices wake me) - hit repeat, and that's my week. Not only does it leave little energy for writing, it provides even less material, as I'm sure few of you are interested in the tales of horrid customers and petty resentments I gather at work. And sharing them would probably get me fired.

Though it would be pretty cathartic.

Actually, the past week at work has me pretty worried. Worried that I've been replaced by Dark Protagitron, that is. Where I used to be friendly, helpful, and labouring under a massive guilt complex, I'm now a little surly. The jangly indie pop I used to listen to in my office has been replaced with rap and hip hop. I now give the phone both middle fingers instead of just one. And so on. I suppose it's a defence mechanism you evolve in customer service, but I just don't want it to get out of hand, until I start spitting venom all over freshmen.

Begin... Radical Frugality

There were no New Year's Resolutions this year, mostly because resolutions 1 through 5 would have been "sleep." Between moving and the usual stress of dealing with a new crop of classes and textbooks chez job, I was just too damn tired to come up with any. Now that January's almost over though - and I still haven't bought a half-price calendar, so it really snuck up on me - the time has come. Here we go:

1. Get my G2, a decade after I turned 16, so I don't have to depend on the kindness of strangers (or brothers) to drive me around
2. Read A Dance to the Music of Time. After finally finishing Proust, why not tackle another key cycle in 20th century literature? I guess I could also read A Song of Ice and Fire, but 20th century British social commentary is just as exciting as dragons and titties to me.
3.  Knit a simple red wool sweater. Something I've always wanted to own, but never made.
4.  Master omelet making
5. And finally... practice radical frugality. I'm bad with money. I'm not "using one credit card to pay off another" bad with money, but I never save, I tend to spend, and then there are weeks of lentil-only living to be suffered through. So, starting next month and until I get into grad school, I'm going to try to cut down on my shopping, eating out, and boozing (or just the first two.) Maybe even find a second job. Basically, I'll live like my immigrant great-grandparents. I will try and aim to get fewer goiters though.

Wham Bam, No Thank You, Man: Gangster Squad Review

Gangster Squad is so bad, it's like the Expendables of respectable actors. Ryan Gosling, James Brolin, Robert Patrick and Sean Penn... welcome to the seating chart at the Golden Globes, except here they're breaking skulls instead of applauding politely. 

My friends and I left the theatre and realized we couldn't name most of the characters we had just spent 90 minutes with. Even though it felt like 180. Hours. So in the following review, I'll refer to them the best way I know how.

It's 1940s Los Angeles, and Sergeant James Brolin O'Something has returned from the war, only to realize the real battle is in his backyard. Yes, the despotic threat of Main Bad Guy Sean Penn's overacting goes unchecked. Main Bad Guy (Cohen??) runs every racket in town, and owns nearly every cop. However, he still hasn't bought Chief Nick Nolte. After James Brolin's antics busting up a prostitution ring earn him press, condemnation, and probably a visit from the ACLU, Nick Nolte asks him to put together a team of men to take I'm-Pretty-Sure-It-Was-Cohen down. There's Jerry (Ryan Gosling), Cowboy Man (Robert Patrick), Tech Weasel, Hispanic Guy and Black Guy. They're off the books. Nobody knows their name, nobody knows their badge numbers. Many, many nameless faceless thugs will know the shape of their fists though. It isn't all unchecked violence, and quickly elided awkward moral questions from Tech Weasel, however. A romance develops between Jerry and Grace (Emma Stone), complicated by the fact that she's Cohen's doll. Will they find love? Will Cohen fall? If I don't care to know the names of the characters, I don't care to tell you. It was more interesting to try and bet on which of the principals would be whacked for the greater narrative good. I had my money on Black Guy.

Gangster Squad looks good, but the script has been pumped full of lead, and the cast is seems too drunk on period costuming to care.

Bonjour Tristesse and Gin and Tonics

There's a rhythm to the radio silence on this blog. I work a job that alternates periods of intense stress and business with stretches of relative calm. Last week came from the first category - classes were back in session, and the children-who-are-our-future were banging on my door, demanding textbooks. But, for once, my job wasn't the thing weighing heaviest on my mind.

I haven't yet put Project OKCupid out of its misery, though recent events have me reaching for the shotgun. If they were hilariously awkward dates, I would write about them here in excruciating detail. Perhaps there would even be diagrams. But, instead, it's the fairly banal fact that some people* don't like me as much as I would like them to. I try to reason with myself. "Noted philosopher Bonnie Raitt wisely noted that 'I can't make you love me'," I'll say, before returning to gaze morosely out of the streetcar window. "It's not me, it's him. Or the situation. But definitely not me. I'm perfectly acceptable." But these sunny-ish thoughts fail to stop the deluge. It sucks that he doesn't want to see me again, it sucks that I can't change that, and it particularly sucks that I feel this way after just a few nights spent with the boy, because that is irrational. And I want to be a creature of reason instead of bad habits.

Oh, if I could have a feeling-ectomy I would, and have all this silliness neatly cut out of me. Unfortunately, with the current state of medicine, that's a no. And as much as I'm (again, irrationally) hurt with the fella, I'm really mad at myself. Every time this happens, I worry about my judgment. Then there's the wasted hours of reflection, which I probably could have used to write, knit or at least clean my room. The time I just spent reading the dating advice book of a friend's friend isn't helping. I feel like I'm stewing in relationship slurry. So, tomorrow: we cancel the OKCupid account, we sign up for a class, and we start drinking instead of thinking.

*Well, a particular person, but it ain't like it was the first time.