Domestic Wednesday: Two Weeks Notice

A few weeks ago I bought the Beau's seasonal pack. I left a bottle behind at my friend Paul's house, and he kindly sent me his thoughts for this edition of Domestic Wednesday. Call it... Domestic Wednesday: The Paulening.

On Two Weeks Notice, a German Porter:

It tasted quite different then any porter I had tasted before, I did a little research, and it turns out that those clever Germans adapted the traditional English ale recipe into a lager, which makes it quite fizzy and dry. The Beau's website claims it has a chocolate and coffee aroma, but I couldn't smell either. It was strong, hoppy, and smooth. Interesting taste, but I think I prefer the English variety more.

-Paul 

 

Thanksgiving Turkey

Where I live (Canada, America's toque) this weekend is Thanksgiving weekend. Thus, I am back in Guelph. I have swapped the go-go pace of the big city for the quieter pleasures of petting the dog and avoiding any discussion of the future with my mother.

How's that going? Well, on Saturday I desperately started to talk about my boyfriend to avoid the topic of grad school, and this morning I burst into tears for no reason. Judgment: middling. 

Still, in spite of all future-related anxiety, my family is one of the things I'm most thankful for this weekend. Along with the dog, pumpkin beer, health insurance and texts from Dan. And there's more. I can't list it all here, but it's a long list.

I forget that sometimes. The list of things that bother me is shorter, but it seems bigger. I worry that I'll never have enough money, and that I'll always be disappointed in my life. Of course they're slightly bound up in each other, and it's difficult to know which to attempt to fix first. If I make more money, will I feel like less of a failure monkey? Or if I do something I think is worthwhile, will I stop caring about the bank account? In any case, focusing on what's not happening doesn't make me any likelier to make something happen. 

Furthermore, if I was handed a customer satisfaction survey for my life, I would check off a solid row of 3's for satisfactory. I'm a little directionless and debt-ridden, sure. But so many things are fine, there are so many things I lucked out in, that the small pleasures should be more than enough. It's a happy Thanksgiving - the pumpkin pie is more than enough.

Bike Cavalrywoman Declares War On Lazy Columns

If you need to crap out a column for one of Canada's newspapers, you have some choices. You can take the Wente path, and attack the big money liberal arts complex for the thousands of injustices (critical geography studies!) it perpetrates every day. But if you find yourself too ground down by Big Academia's clog heel to manage that, just write about bicycles.

R: My terror-mobile, temporarily not terrorizing some bipeds

Bicycles! There they are, the rulers of the road, nay, sidewalks even, each one to a man or woman clad in twin vestments of spandex and smugness. Please see this column by Rosie DiManno for proof, or perhaps the accompanying comments section, as there are literally DOZENS of anecdotes of asshole cyclists presented. Clearly, these thugs need to be stopped, or perhaps dispatched by streetcars, so the streets can be safe again. 

If the public safety aspect of these sort of columns doesn't grab you, think of the publicity. Complaining about cyclists is sure to net you many comments and even more page clicks, as the most rabid cyclists and cyclist-haters. So ka-ching, ka-ching, which conveniently rhymes with the ka-clunk, ka-clunk a cyclist's body makes as it is run over.

But let's return to the DiMannofesta: "... those who drive and those who pedal can wipe each other off the face of the city’s streets in this mutual roadkill rush to attrition and Toronto would be better off for it." For, you see, cyclists are "arguably the most sanctimonious breed on the planet: I cycle therefore I am divine." 

But nobody is more "divine" than an "ambulatory biped" like her, who walks everywhere. Everywhere, except when she's in a cab or on a bus. I'm not sure who will drive either of these vehicles once Toronto streets run red with the blood of drivers and cyclists. The roads will belong to the pedestrians then, or more likely, the rickshaws.

DiManno is also not entitled like those awful cyclists when she has to catch a bus on her street. "Public transit users need to either squeeze up against buildings or stand in the bike lane — which will get you a blast of invective from the cyclists." She just thinks she can use a lane designed for a flow of traffic as a bus stop waiting lounge: most certainly not entitled. 

In fact, cyclists are so awful that, DiManno tell us, "They have risen to No. 1 on my list of People Who Should Be Shot." Thanks to my intrepid reporting skills, I have found this very list:

Some might say that using violence for rhetorical impact as cyclists die on the streets is a tad... tasteless. They might even add that calling people who bike "ped-aphiles" - like pedophiles, ya know - isn't all that classy either. DiManno would probably come back and say that you don't know anything about taste, as you are probably a ped-aphile wearing a "stupid aerodynamic helmet." These helmets, by the way, will be the first thing online commentators will ask if you wearing if you do get hit by a car.

I am a sexual predator with a bounty on my head - I mean, a cyclist. I stop at red lights, make (often shaky) hand turning signals, and if I don't feel comfortable making a left hand turn, I get off my bike and walk it through through the crosswalk. According to DiManno and some of her commentators, I do not exist. And yet, I persist, not just in existing, but also in biking to work almost every day. 

I do so in the face of distracted pedestrians who wander into bike lanes or even just out into the road itself. I do so in the face of fellow cyclists, who salmon and shoal, pass suddenly without ringing their bell, and glide through red lights while I wait like a chump, or use the sidewalks while I brave the roads. I do so in the face of drivers who cut me off, open their doors without looking for traffic, barely give me a centimeter when they pass, or yell at me to get to the right when I'm in the left-hand side of the lane to make a left-hand turn.  

Not that I am a bright and pure beacon of perfect cycling myself. 

I have made mistakes on my bike. Turns out taxis can go into the bike lane to pick up passengers, so my apologies, Taxi I Yelled At Once. I tried getting around a bus once when I was impatient, and ended up in the wrong lane with nowhere to go. I have salmoned on small side streets, though if I do ever get an $85 fine for doing so, I'll remember with some bitterness the bike cops I saw going the wrong way down Augusta. And that driver who yelled at me for exercising my right to be in the left-hand side to make a left-hand turn? I probably did fellow cyclists no favours by calling her a jackass and screaming at her that I was making a turn.

Rather, in listing all of the things I have to deal with on the road, I want to show that there are entitled, careless individuals in every transportation class. And yet it's somehow always the cyclists who get put through the columnist grinder. 

Cars hit pedestrians: some people blame pedestrians for wearing dark clothes, or trying to rush the countdown. At the very worst I hear that driver is a problem, and they should never be behind the wheel of the car. But if one careless cyclist runs a stop sign and levels a pedestrian, well, all cyclists are dangerous, entitled terrors who must be checked immediately (perhaps shot on sight.)

What these columns like this miss isn't just a real solution, but the real problem. If we can't share the road safely and efficiently, then something is broken. Let's fix it. Rosie DiManno believes that the place for bicycles "should not be any North American metropolis never designed for bicycle-right-of-way." As if a city is a rigid structure, instead of a dynamic organism that can change and adapt. People can too. Build better infrastructure, apply the law well, change it if it doesn't make sense. Then educate drivers, cyclists and pedestrians on what is expected of them, and what others can do. 

But don't write another useless column like this one. Rosie DiManno: I might not yell GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY A--HOLE! as you stride through the bike lane and towards the cab that, as a 100% biped, you are somehow using. I will grit my teeth, and maybe glare, as I brake. But I will yell at you to GET THE HELL AWAY FROM YOUR KEYBOARD.

Le Thief, C'est Chic

For the past few days, I've been on the cusp of a cold. Maybe a flu. It's not enough to be any one thing (and therefore keep me off work.) Instead it's just enough to make me feel mostly cruddy, even though I've tried to smother it with NeoCitran.

So I am medicating before Muay Thai with tea and a book. Arsène Lupin, Gentleman Thief, a collection of short mysteries by Maurice Leblanc, was purchased on Dan's recommendation. It's the perfect thing for this kind of mood. Lupin appeared in 1905 as a sort of French, deliciously felonious counterpoint to Sherlock Holmes, who so far has made at least one appearance in the stories. Holmes' abruptness - perhaps, to Leblanc, his quintessential Britishness - does not contrast favourably with Lupin's élan. 

I feel like I ought to read these with macarons in hand. Unfortunately the cafe only has muffins. How very Holmes-y of them.

Cats Vs Dogs

I never understood why parents hit their children until my current cat, Marvin, came into my life.

Aww, look at that face, the anime-large eyes, the little pink gumdrop nose... the only thing that's not pictured are his concentration-shattering howls of need. I am paying attention to him: this is awful. I am not paying attention to him: this is WORSE.

Now here's my dog, Smitty, calm and content in the knowledge that his is the best life. EVER. Food, companionship, more food for providing companionship: it's all great. His biggest concern was when the phone would ring, and he would vociferously defend his flock from the cordless menace. But now my parents have cellphones. The threat is over. It is time to rest, and sleep, and occasionally sigh.

My cat would prefer to continue meow-howling - meowling - forever. I bought a spray bottle and now his favourite game is to meow, wait for me to grab the bottle, then see if he can sprint faster than the spray. Guess what: he can.

So it would seem that I have a clear favourite in the eternal battle between cat and dog. Sweet, selfless dog, vs. selfish, possible mentally unstable cat. Dog is god.

Just as I was writing this post though, Marvin hopped up on the end of my bed and quietly watched me type. Every morning I wake up to find him spooning me, content to be dragged into my arms like a bag of cat parts and squeezed like a stuffed bear. His cuddly nature is the one thing that has stopped me from punting him out of the window on oh so many sleepless nights. I'm not a dog person, or a cat person, I'm an animal person. And I'm in desperate need of a really good lint brush.

Domestic Tuesday: Oktobock

I love fall, or at least I do once the fall rush is over. When my customers ebb from complaining that their textbooks or coursepacks aren’t in the store, to complaining to other people that they can’t finish their papers on time, I can finally enjoy the season. Fall colours, wool-wearing weather, and so many exciting new beers on the shelves.

I had my eye on the Beau’s All Natural Oktoberfest Pack for a while. Can you tell why?

No, it’s not because I need an iron. See a few tentacles? Perhaps 24 of them? Unusually intelligent, sometimes poisonous, with two-thirds of their nervous system in their arms instead of their head, the octopus is my favourite animal. The pack’s Oktobock featured a red one on the label (I'm holding it in my left hand.) I had missed the Oktobock last year, but I wouldn’t let it get away this year, and so I picked up a pack for a friend’s board game party.

The Oktobock was the first thing I poured. To be worthy of the octopus, it had to be good, right?

Well, imagine my disappointment when it tasted of… jujubes. Wine and jujubes. But as somebody pointed out, I was pouring it into a wine glass, which had just been drained of red wine.

Yes, I am the least classy glassware user out there.

So I drained that glass and gave it a second shot. It still tasted fruity, and not in a way I appreciated. I love the complexity of beers with fruit notes, but this one ended up somewhere between medicinal and candy-like. With enough glasses (no one wanted to share), the 7% ABV eventually kicked in and my opinion improved marginally. I'm willing to give it a second chance, but I suspect it will never be my favourite Beau's offering.

And so I’ve learned: never judge a beer by its label. No matter how cute it may be.

Code Red: Of Periods and Stupidity

If you’re one of my male relatives, please stop reading now. You know who you are, and you know that you once had to be educated on the differences between a pad and a tampon, so save yourself while you still have the chance.

Other people: DEAR GOD, MENOPAUSE CAN’T COME SOON ENOUGH.

I used to be a pad-only girl, having always been a little wary of the little white torpedoes. Nine out of 10 health food store clerks would have agreed with my stance. Read some of their literature, and I may as well be sticking a lit cigarette up my cooter, cancer-wise. Not that they like pads any more. If tampons are like cigarettes for your vadge to the Diva Cup and Lunapad-ers, then wearing pads is like sitting on top of ultra-absorbant uranium.

 Still, I’ll plug it up before exercise, their advice be damned.

And when a grocery store was inexplicably out of my preferred brand, OB, I ended up with some ridiculous Kotex product, complete with colourful plastic applicators. I guess my vagina has a preference. OB doesn’t even have applicators, but I had used them before. And yet I couldn’t work these. Day 1: FAILURE TO LAUNCH. Day 1, Take 2: FAILURE TO LAUNCH. And on, and on, with me grumbling all the while about the (likely cisgendered male) idiot who had designed these useless plastic monstrosities, when I would just have to nudge the tampon in there with my fingers ANYWAY, so why not just skip the MIDDLE WOMAN, because it's not like my vagina is more of a blue than a green.

And then, as I used the sixth-to-last tampon, it dawned on me. I had to pull one part of the applicator out until it clicked, and then I would finally have a useful product. SUCCESSFUL DEPLOYMENT.

Hopefully this is the last grade 6 sex ed lesson I'll have to learn this year.

Cold Hands, Warm Wool

This year, summer didn't slowly fade to fall. Instead, one night somebody went in and switched the heat off. I went to bed wearing shorts, and woke up searching for my wool socks and flannel pyjamas. 

Productivity has plummeted. The only place I can stand to be in the house is in my bed, as the bean filling in a blanket burrito. I want to keep my hands under the covers at all times, so typing is hard. Saying I'm worried about frostbite is hyperbole, but Christ- you can tell it's cold when the cats huddle with me for warmth, instead of howling outside of my door like the fuzzy little monsters they are. 

And so there hasn't been that much writing happening at my house lately. However, I've finally picked up the knitting needles after a long, long hiatus. What made me put them down for months remains a mystery, but I know what's prompting me to pick them back up: my ice block feet.

Protagitron at 26

I turned 26 on Wednesday, got far too drunk, and decided that my life needed to change in some nebulous, yet major, way.

In other words: a standard birthday when you're in your 20s, life crisis and all.

When I was looking to the future on Wednesday night, I was convinced that this undefined shift would cause my apartments to always be perfectly curated and my wit forever sparkling. Now in the sober light of a Friday night, I'm beginning to think I was wrong to wish for that. Because now I'm thinking about the past. As in the past year, in which I:

• watched two of my friends get married
• moved twice
• switched jobs
• ended up in the hospital for two weeks
• threw myself into dating with all of the frenzied pace of an 80s training montage
• finally slowed that down
• got over my fear of Toronto biking
• had a falling out with one of my best friends

Perhaps it's better that this major shift never happens. Or waits until I'm thirty. Twenty-five felt like all I could handle and more, like a turning point that will mark my life into a "before" and "after" point, no matter how much I tell myself that mine - like anyone's - is just a continuum. And so I hope my apartment continues to be a bit of a sty, and my wit often lacking. Because I hope this year doesn't throw me - too much.

Biking in Toronto: The Much Better Way

A few weeks ago, I started commuting by bike to work on a semi-regular basis. And every time I leave the bike to squeeze myself onto the TTC, I regret it. On my bike, I bike with danger. Cars hate me, pedestrians are indifferent to my presence, and I know so little about my bike I rode three times on an open quick release. The only thing between me and an early death is a charmingly awkward helmet which makes me look I have encephalitis. 

And yet - I love it. Here I am, riding down the hill near Dupont and Bathurst. Riding? I meant flying. I am a flying mushroom in my giant grey helmet, look at me go. And yes, there I am lurching off my bike to walk it up a hill, because my legs stubbornly refuse to do that thing where you stand up and ride for extra power. I don't care. Because there I am not: getting a purse to a face on the streetcar, waiting for a bus that will never come, or peeling myself out of somebody's armpit to disembark at St. Andrew station. I support public transit in the same theoretical way I support open relationships and vegan diets. It's a good thing. But it is also a terribly annoying, smelly good thing, at least as implemented in Toronto. 

That Toronto's public transit is craptacular is not an original thought. And yet, an entire industry of TTC-themed swag exists. T-shirts with streetcars on them! Button pins of the subway walls!! Art with more streetcars on it!!! Bus-themed... well, buses get no love because they're buses. And yet, I'm sure I've spoken too soon, and somewhere someone is crocheting a TTC bus to stuff and sell. I refuse to remind myself of what is often the worst part of my day, and so I am left button-less. Though I also don't buy any of the bike-themed tchotchkes either, because I don't feel like I've earned it yet. I'll get the cruiser-printed skirt when I know how to pump air into my own tires.

I guess that makes me a cyclist, though I'll never change in some ways. A few weeks ago an Audi (of course: it's always an Audi or an Acura) really crowded me on Bathurst. When I caught them at a red light, I did not hit their car with my bike lock, or yell, or do anything except tap politely on their window and say - once the driver had rolled it down: "Um, you kind of really crowded me back there, so if you could give cyclists more space next time, that would be nice. Yeah..." And then I biked away, into the day, the mushroom-headed cycling avenger.