one addiction for another

I gave up wine for lent.

I know, "what was I thinking?" If I was drunk I could probably come up with a witty answer. But here in the dark depths of sobriety, I can't think of one.

And its true what they say (whoever they are) you may give up one addiction but you remain addicted. The obsession is merely replaced by another.

At the moment, I am jonesing for another glimpse of the patterns on ravelry.com. My knitting advisor/local wool shop owner/enabler Lisa, of The Naked Sheep, put me on to it when I presented myself blubbering ten minutes before closing time on a Saturday. No doubt she had already ministered to throngs of the knit-witless all day and was happy enough to put me onto this web-crack just to see the back of me. She wrote down the address, showed me how to sign up and directed me to the patterns page, patted me on the head and shoved me out the door with the flimsiest of cautionary tales: "You have to be careful, you can spend a lot of time and money on this one".

Oooooooooooooo.

My eyes are dry, my head is aching and my fingers are itching to knit a basket of fruit, a gecko or a snazzy carry-all that looks compellingly like a severed head with dread locks.

I had been able to pull myself away from the eBay vintage pattern section after only a few hours of contemplation. In fact, no, there is no one I know who would benefit from a circa 1971 hot pants and maxi length fringed vest combo in lime green and orange.

But ravelry.com is too fulsome, too mesmerizing. There are thousands of pages of scarves, sweaters and hats and socks. And don't you want to knit a leafy beet? Doesn't every living soulNEED to knit a leafy beet? And a tit. I can't even say that word out loud but I want to knit one now. Alright, probably two. What about sushi or a balaclava with an attached beard?

Oh G'd, make it stop, make it stop. Close my eyes and close my account. The kids need supper and I have to go to the drug store.

Where to I sign up for rehab?

Santa, the North Pole

HOH OHO

Dear Sir --

In the past you have ignored my repeated requests for a holiday timed encapsulated brain tumour. Yes, I understand times are tough and you are not as young a creative as you used to be. Maybe a tumour is too much to ask for.

Therefore, I have decided to change my request to something more easily installed. I imagine it will also be more successful and certainly more greatly appreciated by my near and dear.

I have been a good girl this year. I would like a nice prezzy. I would like a title/tag line.

Something like "Margaret Beach, Inter-supra-solar-system Super Consumer of No-Frillsian Feline Comestibles" -- but better. Something that is so impressive sounding that it confounds the reader/listener but also charms them. Nay, hypnotizes them. Something that says "she is fabbo, and if you are too ignorant to comprehend why, then you should just give up and worship her and buy her gifts"

I see this as a win-win game plan. You get off easy in the manufacturing department. All you really need is pencil, paper and a few elves chained to their desks churning out notions until they spin the golden line. It can happen. I have faith. I believe. Easy wrapping and merely have to program the thing in following my name every time I write it. Really I'm doing most of the work here.

So gimmee.

Yours with sincere respect,

Megs

Merry Christmas

I hate Christmas. There. I wrote it out loud.

And 'fess up, if you have breast tissue, and/or if your uterus has been occupied for any nine month period resulting in some form of off spring, if you have one or more parents, any random loved ones or possibly a cat or several to which you are firmly attached, you hate Christmas too.

This is the time of year that you cease to exist as a person and become a mindless slave to a completely unattainable dream.

You may as well ask for clear skin for life or peace in the middle east. It can't and won't happen.

What will happen is that in some zombie like state you will run about so much and so frantically that you will become envious of the proverbial headless chicken. At least it has complete collapse to look forward to. And its already dead. You have years (and years and years and there is a &%$@ing Christmas in every one of them) and years to go.

No its not the cost of the gift that's important. And its not really the thought that counts either. Its the presence and presentation of the presents. There must be bows and tissue and cookies and cake. A lot of wine goes a very short way so make sure you have a lot more. Don't give the toddler toys in complex packaging and don't give your brother books or everything comes to a screeching halt while tiny bits of Playmoblie are assembled (and some bits lost) by slightly tipsy adults and your brother reads the the dust jacket, then the forward and says "just a second" while he goes on to the first through twenty third chapters. The gifts pile up about him, the turkey and the hostess burns, the teens set fire to the salad servers, the toddler cries and the dog pees on the tree and the remaining four presents (all for you) that were forgotten there.

Oh shoot me now. I deserve the rest. Aim that taser high, kneecap me whatever it takes. I've been asking Santa for a brain tumor for years but I am stiffed every season and left panting at the cash desk and crying over the gravy.

All I want is peace and good will, time to enjoy those forty thousand cookies I baked and nice comfy couch from Ikea, not that hateful battered looking thing my husband is sentimentally attached to. Resplendent upon the over-stuffed Sweedish-ness, I long to lounge with my little dog secure in the knowledge that some one else has done even a small fraction of the behind-the-scenes slight of hand.

I'd cancel it all if I could. Replace it all with a Bless the Hermits' Day in which one takes a vow of silence and cannot be held accountable for any duty time home or away, at the table, or in the kitchen, at the in-laws or with the near and dear.

All I want for Christmas (outside of that cure all brain tumor, of course) is time off for good behaviour.

New Age Radical

I did It.

No, not that. Of course I've done that and I have a house full of kids and a magic bottomless laundry hamper to show for it. And because of that when some one says "movement" or "sit in" my mind goes directly down the hall to the bathroom. I don't think of taking such issues to the street.

But this time, I found a whole new direction and I stood up and marched for the cause -- straight down to the boardwalk with the other women. Men were invited, of course, but none were brave enough to take part. We gathered ourselves and our spirits and right there on the beach in full view of any person passing by (and several dogs, of course) we did it.

Without reserve, we knit.

It was Worldwide Knit In Public Day!

Surely you have it marked boldly on your calendar. No? Never heard of it? Seriously.....?

Well, me neither, but as soon as I caught wind of it all I knew I had to take part. I had never been much of a radical. I had never before answered a "call", unless you count giving dirty looks to people that idle their cars needlessly outside the school. But when the Naked Sheep informed me now was the time to come out of the granny woollen closet and declare myself a secure stitcher, there was no question. I was unashamed and unabashed of this nearly lost skill, poo-pooed by modernity as a occupation of brittle blue haired types with pickles up their bums, luddites in high waisted underpants creating coarse mufflers and pointy mittens in hard milled acrylic. How many acryls had to be shorn to feed their ugly habits? I knit. Of course I knit! In cotton and wool and silk and hemp. I kept my babies and tea pots warm and cosy. I secured my future mother-in-law's approval and support with a pair of argyle gloves for my husband back in the day.

And for this day I took up not just two needles but four and knit a sock in the round in a circle of like minded knitters: independent, proud and forthright. Women who spoke their minds and who had a plan. As a paddle boarder slowly crossed the lake beyond us some one in the group was inspired. "Lets knit him a sail!" she cried.

This was not a cottage pass time were were participating in, this was a classic art renewed and redefined. This was no country bee, it was a heady be-in of wild and wooly urbanites who knew who they were and the difference between murino and alpaca and didn't care a darn (in fact they all knew how to darn!) if they were seen to know it. Right there. In public.

Fo a brief and shining moment, I was one of them.

Then my 15 year old joined me for lunch from her near by work place and kept calling me "Mummy". After that my husband totally blew my cover when he showed up with our four year old in tow and told me it was time to go because we had to get groceries.

I was busted right down to domestic dabbler. It was plain I not the able fibre artist I longed to be.

But next year..... I'll be ready. I've marked my calendar. World Wide Knit in Public Day 2010, here I come. I have just enough time to knit myself a mustache as a disguise.

Lets Go To The "EX"!

Ah! The "EX". The CNE. The Canadian National Exhibition. I love it.

The question is: why?

Its not nostalgia. Or the mid-way thrills. The shows, the Tiny Tom doughnuts, the barkers or the piglets in the petting zoo, though the appeal of those snotty sweeties is difficult to deny.

Its the same thing every year, renewed and refreshed in some way. We hug the llama, pet the yak, cuddle the piggies then on to the rides. Merry-go-round and round and round and round. The flying bees the swirling swings. The pirate ship that rocks and the submarine that loops not only above water but above ground. I like the ferris wheel. My little ones always like the Bouncy Whatever -- castle, tiger, train, slide, amoeba, peace conference. Fill it with air and chain a bored carney to each end and you've got yourself a hit with the under seven set. Were it not against the rules you could leave your kid in one all day.

I always play The Birthday Game once. I won once. Some hard packed teddy with a lecherous glare. I am sure I could fool the guy who guesses your age. No one believes I have a university aged child. Second year, actually. With my kindergartener in tow I am confident the guessers guestimate would fall far short of my real age of 46, and much closer to my mental age of seven and a half. Eleven on a good day. But I never play. I just don't have much use for a metre high Sponge Bob or some furry chapeau so garish it would be rejected by Cat in The Hat's flamboyant cousin.

When the heart is willing but the feet need a rest, the classic art of crowd watching is recommended. Ponder these ageless questions: why do people buy those enormous faux flowers painted in eye stinging colours and where are they going to put them in their homes? How is it that prim older white ladies wear matching white structured hair and white structured trousers and never have a spot on them? Is it because they have worn polyester so long it has been assimilated into their physiology? Why do men always wear sweat stained ball caps that appear to shrink their skulls? Who issues that uniform to the oversized-plus-plus female smokers so they all look alike? You know, the stretch pants, lop sided t-shirt, cigarette permanently stained with virulent purple lipstick and hair slicked and stretched back so tight into a cheerie-o sized bun or a limp skimpy pony tail that it distorts the facial features. Why do they all dress the same?

Rejuvinated and probably perplexed now, one must clear one's mind with a visit the fire station, the cows and better living centre. How else can you see a genuine Sham-Wow or Slap Chop in action? How else would you know your meagre existence could be improved with the minor addition of an everlasting nail file?

Visit the adult mid-way and observe the idiots spinning themselves free of several IQ points. See them wobble off the Zipper or the Fire Ball or the or the Grey Matter Jelly Maker and spew up everything since lunch a week last Tuesday, then amble on for another go at self destruction through unbalanced terror. S'fun. To watch.

We end the night generally ten to twelve hours after opening, knackered to the core. By the bitter end I am jogging from ferrris wheel to merry-go-round with a child affixed to my back and the hazy gaze of a long distance runner while my husband feeds me energy bites (ok, wine gums) without breaking my stride. Its painful, but it feel good. It feels traditional. It will be three days before I can walk without wincing, just as long before I can straighten up again. But even as I leave, I look forward to next year.

I love the EX. I just don't know why.

Dog Tale

When I was small my mother got a St Bernard. One of those huge furry beasts with big jowels and droopy eyes. In fact, she eventually got two. What was she thinking? Did she believe those little barrel shaped flasks that St Bernards are so often pictured with were bred in somehow, complete with a self replenishing supply of brandy? What she got was dopy, relentlessly drooling male and a hyperactive, faeces-eating female totally impossible to train.

You may imagine how this informed my opinion of dogs.

Now, back episodes of Lassie and The Littlest Hobo did assure me that dogs could be good and clever. They might rescue babies from burning buildings or perform tricks like "shake-a-paw" or "settle-middle-east-conflict". But I kept my reservations. I refused to join in my children's chorus of "I Wanna Dog". I knew who would be walking it in the bad weather. I knew who would be on poop patrol and brushing its canines and coat: it would be the same person who cleaned the cat box and cleared up the kitty puke.

Yours truly.

Then something happened -- in the midst of Christmas madness, DIY kitchen renos, visiting relations wedged into my little house along with the usual cast of six, a record snow fall and enough stress that I felt faint and inadvertently summoned the full emergency squad (police fire and ambulance) when I made an innocent little inquiry about symptoms of a low level CO2 leak -- puppy thoughts invaded my brain.

I had been hoping for an operable brain tumour. Nothing too serious. No loss of speech or motor control. Just something that needed immediate attention that would keep me alone in hospital at least until New Years. No visitors, no worries, no cooking for 9 every night. Surely I'd get a swanky set of jammies out of the ordeal. Win-win and something flannel with satin piping in a cup cake print.

When that didn't working out, I got a puppy instead. Completely logical, right?

I vowed not to become one of Those People. You know, Those People who work their lives around their dog's whims and bowel movements, who wipe their noses on their tiny little dogss murmuring "hoozawuvvywoggie?" before stowing them away between their listless bosoms. And my dog would not be one of Those Dogs -- quaking bug-eyed things who piddle at the slightest provocation (usually on you), before returning to "mommy's" dark, protective cleavage.

I have gone dangerously close the edge. I once attended the dog cafe at the organic farmer's market, in which dogs lounged with their people, enjoying a home baked snack and a fair trade latte. Heady with the thrill I got deeper into the whole scene and hit the road to a hip outdoor festival-come-love-in, a be-canine-in -- Woofstock -- a festival of all things dog in downtown Toronto.

They closed whole blocks to accommodate the crowds and their dogs. Or vice versa. There were product stalls and demonstrations, water bowls everywhere, herds of horse sized Great Danes and fashion shows of denim clad chiauaus. A parkette fountain bubbled over with water loving dogs. There were savory samples for dogs in all sizes from Teeny to Bruiser (nothing for the people). Competitions for dogs who could fetch farther higher and faster. Dogs of all kinds and people who loved them.

Yes, there were Those People and Those Dogs, but mostly dogs who didn't know they were dogs, and people that were happy to help them maintain their illusions. Happy dogs, grinning dogs, social dogs, happily sniffing each other's bums and wagging their whole selves in unbridled joy.

My little dog and I had a grand time. Stoned on puppy love I collected arm loads of samples until I could carry no more. Stellerphant and I staggered home, high on the scent of panting dogs and kibble breath and crashed on the kitchen floor, too wiped to recount the wondrous tale.

"Its just like they say," observed my husband "If you can remember Woofstock, you weren't really there."

I Don't Understand

Outhouses.

In this age of composting toilets my dear friend remains inexplicably attached to the "adventure" of her cottage outhouse. Not so attached that she was morally prevented from having a composting toilet installed in the quaintly designed, tin roofed, pine panelled, professionally constructed outhouse that is some 4o yards -- excuse me, metres -- from the nearest cottage door. Not a significant distance unless you suffer some urgent and impending sense that you must empty your colon immediately if not sooner lest you should soil your jammies, the floor, the dog, the walls and your unsuspecting and blissfully snoring partner. Then it may as well be on the moon. Even under normal circumstances, when nature makes a gentle but insistent midnight call and you are faced with putting on shoes and long pants and the long sleeves and probably socks and one of those fetching little net veils over the stained ball cap provided and perhaps a little of the heavy duty bug spray because its been raining for three days and the out house is out in the woods with the biting insects, its still more of a hike than most persons would want.

My friend describes her cottage as a "heritage" property. She is keen to preserve it in its original form . But even the well cared for historical hovels and castles of England have some modern conveniences. No one expects the devoted dwellers of these estates to toddle down the garden path to pee. They're not crossing their legs and limiting fluids after 7, becoming cranky and constipated and dehydrated so as to avoid the dreaded midnight run.

Even if you don't want to spoil the line of your heritage property by all means make an addition or a very closely aligned separate building in a hidden spot, no more than a hop, skip and a fart from the back door. I would even suggest a board walk. Consider a screened in breezeway.

I have a composting toilet IN my cottage. It can be done. Our Spun Sugar Delicate former Governor General Adrienne Clarkson has one in her cottage. And if her dainty digestive system can empty its white rose scented discard into an indoor composting toidy, well then we can all follow her lead, and smugly lower our smarty pants nearer to our dear ones, privately ensconced and enthroned upon our environment and olfactory friendly loos. And we may feel royally pleased with ourselves.

All with grace and dignity and without feeding the mosquitos.