Later in private I assure Bo that dogs, unlike cats, are gullible chumps. This appears to placate him.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Animal kingdom
My younger nephew accused me of "not really being a dog person." Here, I assure Millie the poodle this is not the case.
Later in private I assure Bo that dogs, unlike cats, are gullible chumps. This appears to placate him.
Later in private I assure Bo that dogs, unlike cats, are gullible chumps. This appears to placate him.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
What I've been doing
Reading Into the Silence: The Great War, Mallory, and the Conquest of Everest. There are so many characters I couldn't keep them all straight, and the story goes into so much of the political and historical context around the three Everest expeditions in the 1920s I couldn't keep any of that straight either. All the descriptions of Tibet made me want to go trekking in that part of the world though, and after googling a bit I found this. Can we hold our first bloggers' get-together in Bhutan?
The book provided me with lots of conversational fodder for future cocktail parties, including the affair of the seven dancing lamas brought to London to promote a film about the 1924 expedition, which may have contributed to Tibet's later conquest by the Chinese (pages 561-564), and the Great Trignometrical Survey of India—undertaken to determine whether the earth is round or flattened at both poles—which took 40 years to complete and involved lugging instruments weighing 1000 pounds through jungles and up mountains and razing anything that obstructed the surveyors' sightlines, including villages and temples (pages 41-42). I also felt better about not loading the film correctly and therefore failing to get photos of a rare one-horned mother and baby rhino that were literally at my feet in Nepal (I was up a tree at the time) after reading that Mallory inserted the glass plates in his camera incorrectly and the reconnaissance photos he spent days taking during the 1921 expedition didn't turn out (pages 291-292). I further marvelled at how accomplished people were back then, with some speaking 27 languages fluently (page 103) and others having the consummate clothing and accessories for every occasion (page 57). I was overcome by the same feelings of inadequacy when I read Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything, in which he describes characters like Count von Rumford, who married a rich older woman, committed treason, escaped to Bavaria where he served as a military advisor to the government (for which he had the title of “Count” bestowed on him), designed some famous park, founded the Royal Institution in London to promote the science of chemistry, became the world's leading authority on thermodynamics, and invented the drip coffeemaker, long underwear, and the Rumford fireplace (pages 102-103).
I feel like such a schlump. I blame television and the internet for how little I've achieved in life.
Spending New Year's Eve with my mother watching Price and Prejudice (featuring Colin Firth, the only human fit to play Darcy; what were they thinking when they cast that limp codpiece Matthew Macfadyen in the role?) and relearning how to knit. My mother kept up a running commentary (no mean feat, considering this version of Price and Prejudice is about six hours long) on how the grass around Pemberley looked fake because it was too green, how skinny the men's ankles were (not Colin Firth's: he has manly ankles), how she didn't think Jane was good-looking, how they really didn't do much except sit around in those days (I guess there were schlumps back then too; they probably frittered away their time on needlepoint and whist), etc.
I was inspired to take up knitting again because my ex-sister-in-law gave me a hand-knit scarf for Christmas. I haven't knit for about 20 years, and still have four sweaters in various stages of completion at the back of the closet. I pulled one out that was part of a kit given to me in 1989 for Christmas. All that had been done was a little bit of one sleeve. It seemed too difficult to figure out where in the pattern to start from, so I took the sleeve apart to start afresh but could no longer remember how to cast on. I finally managed to decipher the complicated instructions for the “easy cast-on method" but then had second thoughts about proceeding with the sweater, which is a Fair Isle pattern that requires lots of yarn changes. So I pulled out a different semi-finished sweater, one where both sleeves have been knit and half the front, there is only one colour of wool to work with, and I still have the sheet where I jotted down the completed rows so it was easy to pick up the pattern again. I discovered I can't knit and watch the screen at the same time, but since the grass was too green, most men's ankles too skinny, and Jane too unattractive, I don't think I missed out on too much.
Learning about sneaky fat cells. They pretend to be lazy schlumps but secretly they function like organs, secreting hormones that have a major impact on our physiological and psychological well-being. They're also sneaky in another way, but I can't remember the details: my fat cells are probably secreting a mind-altering chemical that's impairing my memory.
Gaining weight. Holy adipose tissue, I've gained six pounds since I last weighed myself! That kind of snuck up on me; I haven't had to worry about my weight for years. Of course, there were warning signs. For example, when I got new orthopedic inserts (yes, I knit on New Year's eve AND wear orthopedic inserts) and remarked that my old ones didn't seem to be too worn down, the person fitting the new ones replied, “Well, you're not really heavy.” For days afterwards, that bothered me. Where had she put the emphasis: was it on not or on really?
Writing some creative nonfiction. It's about a few summers my family spent in the Eastern Townships when I was young. More interesting than the story is the discordance between the hazy impression I had of idyllic summers spent there with my best friend and the specific memories that came up when I thought back to that time: domestic violence, rumours of an alligator that was released in the lake because it got too big for someone's bathtub, leeches, a horrendous water skiing accident, and a drowning. When Eve was older, did she still think of Eden as a paradise? Or did she mostly remember the rampant weeds, the full-body sunburns that left her with an unattractive patchwork epidermis, and the worms in the fruit?
Attending holiday parties. The most enjoyable gathering was with a small group of friends. We know each other well, which meant we didn't have to engage in superficial cocktail party chit-chat about the affair of the seven dancing lamas or the Great Trignometrical Survey of India. Instead, J informed us that she's trying to get pregnant again, but for whatever reason has little interest in sex. So she and D went shopping for a porn movie to get her in the mood. J also brought her 14-month-old, and the staff adamantly refused to let the baby in the store. J found this odd, although I would find it a trifle disconcerting to see people walking around with children in a sex shop. D found a movie that she thought would be effective, although J complained about the lack of foreplay. “Hello, I'm the plumber,” clothes summarily dispensed with, [J mimicking thrusting hips], was how she described the narrative arc. Despite the lack of plot and character development, the movie apparently did the trick. (Do the Academy Awards include a category for best porn film? If not, they should add one.)
We did a gift grab following dinner. Someone got a loofah sponge that had not, the label informed us, been tested on animals.
Watching Columbo. Seasons 1 through 7 plus the movie specials in December. Which explains why I haven't had time to invent sexy flannelette lingerie or a virtual reality device that allows people to try on clothes and footwear when shopping online.
2012 RESOLUTIONS: Shed schlump image. Invent something. Knit everyone a pickle ornament for their Christmas tree. Outwit sneaky fat cells. Try to stop worrying about climate change, reversal of the earth's magnetic field, and Canada becoming a libertarian's Eden.
The book provided me with lots of conversational fodder for future cocktail parties, including the affair of the seven dancing lamas brought to London to promote a film about the 1924 expedition, which may have contributed to Tibet's later conquest by the Chinese (pages 561-564), and the Great Trignometrical Survey of India—undertaken to determine whether the earth is round or flattened at both poles—which took 40 years to complete and involved lugging instruments weighing 1000 pounds through jungles and up mountains and razing anything that obstructed the surveyors' sightlines, including villages and temples (pages 41-42). I also felt better about not loading the film correctly and therefore failing to get photos of a rare one-horned mother and baby rhino that were literally at my feet in Nepal (I was up a tree at the time) after reading that Mallory inserted the glass plates in his camera incorrectly and the reconnaissance photos he spent days taking during the 1921 expedition didn't turn out (pages 291-292). I further marvelled at how accomplished people were back then, with some speaking 27 languages fluently (page 103) and others having the consummate clothing and accessories for every occasion (page 57). I was overcome by the same feelings of inadequacy when I read Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything, in which he describes characters like Count von Rumford, who married a rich older woman, committed treason, escaped to Bavaria where he served as a military advisor to the government (for which he had the title of “Count” bestowed on him), designed some famous park, founded the Royal Institution in London to promote the science of chemistry, became the world's leading authority on thermodynamics, and invented the drip coffeemaker, long underwear, and the Rumford fireplace (pages 102-103).
I feel like such a schlump. I blame television and the internet for how little I've achieved in life.
Spending New Year's Eve with my mother watching Price and Prejudice (featuring Colin Firth, the only human fit to play Darcy; what were they thinking when they cast that limp codpiece Matthew Macfadyen in the role?) and relearning how to knit. My mother kept up a running commentary (no mean feat, considering this version of Price and Prejudice is about six hours long) on how the grass around Pemberley looked fake because it was too green, how skinny the men's ankles were (not Colin Firth's: he has manly ankles), how she didn't think Jane was good-looking, how they really didn't do much except sit around in those days (I guess there were schlumps back then too; they probably frittered away their time on needlepoint and whist), etc.
I was inspired to take up knitting again because my ex-sister-in-law gave me a hand-knit scarf for Christmas. I haven't knit for about 20 years, and still have four sweaters in various stages of completion at the back of the closet. I pulled one out that was part of a kit given to me in 1989 for Christmas. All that had been done was a little bit of one sleeve. It seemed too difficult to figure out where in the pattern to start from, so I took the sleeve apart to start afresh but could no longer remember how to cast on. I finally managed to decipher the complicated instructions for the “easy cast-on method" but then had second thoughts about proceeding with the sweater, which is a Fair Isle pattern that requires lots of yarn changes. So I pulled out a different semi-finished sweater, one where both sleeves have been knit and half the front, there is only one colour of wool to work with, and I still have the sheet where I jotted down the completed rows so it was easy to pick up the pattern again. I discovered I can't knit and watch the screen at the same time, but since the grass was too green, most men's ankles too skinny, and Jane too unattractive, I don't think I missed out on too much.
Learning about sneaky fat cells. They pretend to be lazy schlumps but secretly they function like organs, secreting hormones that have a major impact on our physiological and psychological well-being. They're also sneaky in another way, but I can't remember the details: my fat cells are probably secreting a mind-altering chemical that's impairing my memory.
Gaining weight. Holy adipose tissue, I've gained six pounds since I last weighed myself! That kind of snuck up on me; I haven't had to worry about my weight for years. Of course, there were warning signs. For example, when I got new orthopedic inserts (yes, I knit on New Year's eve AND wear orthopedic inserts) and remarked that my old ones didn't seem to be too worn down, the person fitting the new ones replied, “Well, you're not really heavy.” For days afterwards, that bothered me. Where had she put the emphasis: was it on not or on really?
Writing some creative nonfiction. It's about a few summers my family spent in the Eastern Townships when I was young. More interesting than the story is the discordance between the hazy impression I had of idyllic summers spent there with my best friend and the specific memories that came up when I thought back to that time: domestic violence, rumours of an alligator that was released in the lake because it got too big for someone's bathtub, leeches, a horrendous water skiing accident, and a drowning. When Eve was older, did she still think of Eden as a paradise? Or did she mostly remember the rampant weeds, the full-body sunburns that left her with an unattractive patchwork epidermis, and the worms in the fruit?
Attending holiday parties. The most enjoyable gathering was with a small group of friends. We know each other well, which meant we didn't have to engage in superficial cocktail party chit-chat about the affair of the seven dancing lamas or the Great Trignometrical Survey of India. Instead, J informed us that she's trying to get pregnant again, but for whatever reason has little interest in sex. So she and D went shopping for a porn movie to get her in the mood. J also brought her 14-month-old, and the staff adamantly refused to let the baby in the store. J found this odd, although I would find it a trifle disconcerting to see people walking around with children in a sex shop. D found a movie that she thought would be effective, although J complained about the lack of foreplay. “Hello, I'm the plumber,” clothes summarily dispensed with, [J mimicking thrusting hips], was how she described the narrative arc. Despite the lack of plot and character development, the movie apparently did the trick. (Do the Academy Awards include a category for best porn film? If not, they should add one.)
We did a gift grab following dinner. Someone got a loofah sponge that had not, the label informed us, been tested on animals.
Watching Columbo. Seasons 1 through 7 plus the movie specials in December. Which explains why I haven't had time to invent sexy flannelette lingerie or a virtual reality device that allows people to try on clothes and footwear when shopping online.
2012 RESOLUTIONS: Shed schlump image. Invent something. Knit everyone a pickle ornament for their Christmas tree. Outwit sneaky fat cells. Try to stop worrying about climate change, reversal of the earth's magnetic field, and Canada becoming a libertarian's Eden.
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