are worth more than two cents
Next on the Christmas crafting agenda are a couple of these cute little gift card holders (scroll to the end of the post for pictures and a pdf file).
But first, there’s the gym and overdue library books and cleaning the kitchen and books to bind.
It’s been one of those blah weeks so far and I’m hoping to turn it around today because it would be nice to sail into a very busy weekend with a perkier outlook on life and a bit more inspiration.
When we moved to Winnipeg in June, we brought one full-size bookcase and enough books to fill three of them. In our defense, the bookshelves we left behind were MDF, painted green by me, and customised by the neighbour’s cat, who kept trying to nap on the still-wet shelves. I don’t think that they would have survived the move and although the green was nice, we wanted it out of our lives. Also in our defense was the knowledge that I would be setting free a tonne of school books once I defended.
Well, it took us a while to actually buy another bookshelf because we’re lazy. But we finally did it. The new bookcase was delivered Saturday morning and assembled Saturday evening. Since it’s functional, white melamine, it’s in the art room. We’re still sorting books and filling it up. It’s nice to finally have a designated and available home for all of our how-to books and picture books. At the moment, we even have the luxury of using some of the space inefficiently (See above photo with two members of our soft sculpture collection).
Inspiration/Reference/Seasonal Oddness
A sampling of the how-to books
Ptichka and I are slowly creeping towards having a functional apartment. We still need another bookshelf and half the downstairs is still covered in drywall dust from the necessary repairs after the Hot Water Tank Explosion of 2007, but the bedroom is clean and the art room is approaching Ptichka’s meticulous standards. My standards? Well, I can work amid chaos quite nicely, thank you. I suppose that we should be focusing on the living and dining areas of the apartment, instead of our private rooms, but, really, if push comes to shove, we can always entertain in the art room. Piles of sequins and fancy paper bring out the best in people, I think.
And, on a totally unrelated note: There’s Eurovision drama! Drama should probably be in quotation marks. But, still, Woohoo!
I spent most of last week in the country with my in-laws, trying to bag a deer. I wanted to fill the freezer with tasty, tasty meat; master some new skills, like standing stock still for an hour while you really want need to wipe your nose; and determine if patience really is a virtue. Patience, by the way, is a virtue, but a sense of humour is even more important, especially when you see two deer your first day out and nothing for the remaining four days.
Being out in the bush meant that I skipped my graduation. Supposedly the ceremony took place on 16 November without me. I had no urge to spend more money on things related to university. Besides, the university makes you pay to have your diploma delivered. The cheapness and lack of goodwill at my alma mater will never cease to amaze me. I’ve never had to pay to receive my diploma before.
But since my doctoral status has been confirmed by a bunch of pomp and circumstance signifying nothing, it’s time to announce the retirement of the category: “i hate the diss.” I still don’t like the diss. I still have paper to dump, books to Freecycle (or tear up for arty goodness), and files to archive, but it’s done now. And I am glad.
In honour of my ceremony, I present to you “Take Me Back to Your House” by Basement Jaxx. Ptichka showed my the video last night and I thought it was awesome. It’s also about as close as I want to get to Russia for a good, long while.*
*But don’t worry, Czech Republic, I’m still more than willing to cozy up to you.
A couple of weeks ago, I told Ptichka that I didn’t feel like posting anymore. In fact, I didn’t feel like producing anything. I really didn’t want to go over my chickenshittedness about the real world and my ambivalence towards my degree (and really, being ashamed of earning a doctorate – something that has an attrition rate of over fifty percent – is wrong but it’s also something I haven’t been able to overcome) in a public sphere, although I just admitted to them. So there. I’m afraid and ashamed. Ptichka suggested that I take more field trips to produce some blog fodder and maybe get over this fear of the real world. I have been on a few outings but secretly I wished for excitement to come to me.
That, my friends, was stupid on my part. Because “excitement” came to me this morning at 4:30. I woke up to a loud hiss and naturally thought to myself, “Wha?” I was too tired and astonished to pronounce the “t” at the end of “what.” I got out of bed, turned on the bedroom light, and staggered into hallway. I lurched forward a couple of steps before I was standing in warm water.
And then it all came back to me. Namely the sound the hot water heater at the old place made as water poured out of it. I put on some shoes and went into the laundry room and verified that yes, indeed, water was spilling out of the bottom of the hot water tank. I then closed the valve and went downstairs to appreciate the water damage there (Yes, the tank is on the upper floor. What can I say other than I don’t own the place?). It was dripping from the ceiling and pooling in the entry way, but it hadn’t reached the long line of shoes that we have near to door.
So, calls were made. I shifted stuff around and wished that Ptichka were in town to savour the absurdity of it all with me. Two of the landlords arrived with shop-vacs, old beach towels, and a mop. The mess was cleaned up by six. One of the landlords made calls and there’s now a new hot water tank in the laundry room. I have to wait another hour before I can shower, but that shower is going to be one of the better ones of my life.
And now I really need to get back to finishing those book pages.
I was going to throw myself a pity party tonight to celebrate my birthday but Kanye is in town, so I’ll be dancing at the venue instead.
I’ve been cleaning and sweating profusely (not at the same time) and sketching and taking pictures and reading (for fun!). I’m sure that I’ll want to tell you about it (or at the very least show you some pictures) soon, but in the meantime, here’s the song that I’ve had on repeat in the art room (and downstairs when I’m cooking dinner), Beirut’s “Postcards from Italy.”
I’m meeting Ptichka for lunch and then mailing off my diss. I should cease being a student by tomorrow at noon if all goes well.
I’ve hit a quiet patch. Besides correcting typos and momentarily panicking because my supervisor does not want to let go even though I live in a different province and have announced my intention to move away from the academy, not much is going on. Well, there isn’t much about which I want to post going on, except for my end of the city being shrouded in smoke last night. Ah, what passes for excitement in the prairies: smoke from stubble fires and car jackings too numerous to count.
I’ve been winnowing the chaff from the grain for the past couple of years. At my feet, there is a huge pile of chaff (I hope that you can say that) and a tiny pile of grain (I know that you can say that). I’m sure that everyone hits a point in their lives when they undertake the same task. I wonder how many people wind up with a larger grain pile than chaff pile. Other people, however, are neither here nor there. This is, after all, all about me (and Ptichka…kind of).
As I’ve shed obligations, my inner life has quieted down. Without things that I don’t like but must do distracting me, I’ve had time to ask myself two questions: What do I like? and What do I want to do? I’m sure that you’re waiting for the answer to both questions, if only to gain some respite from whiny blog posts. I’m excited about figuring out the answer to those questions too, even though I don’t know where to start other than I know the following three things: I don’t want a boss, I don’t want my job to overtake my personal life, and I want variety. If I can’t find a job that meets all those requirement, I want to put in the least amount of effort to put some money in the bank. If only prospective employers appreciated honesty. I mean, I’ll work hard when I’m at work, but please don’t expect me to have ambition or think about you in my off hours. So, in the meantime I’ll prepare (half-heartedly and three-quarters-arsedly) for my defense and (whole-heartedly and full-arsedly) winnow.
And now, to keep you coming back despite my whining, here’s a picture of some pattypan my mother-in-law picked on Saturday. Those are her hands.* Think of this as the low-tech, realistic, photographic version of that thing that the men in black used in Men in Black to wipe peoples’ memories clean. Zap!
See? What whining?
*Thank goodness Ptichka’s family now benignly looks on me as the crazy in-law with the photo habit. In my defense, I have to take tonnes of bad and okay pictures to get some good ones.
The bedroom has been painted! Except for one patch through which we can still see the lovely lime sherbert colour that was originally on the walls. Note to selves: Do not paint the second coat after sunset. Other lessons we learned while painting: Ptichka is better at cutting in. She is also a more vigorous painter than me; I’m a marathoner to her sprinter. Paint chips lie. Luckily, this one lied in a good way. Ceiling fans are a safety hazard.
I do not have pictures yet. I’m saving those for when the trim unmarred by painter’s tape.
Instead, I present to you one of my nature macros. I need to get the National-Geographic clichés out of my system. They’re pretty, but….
In other news, we have a stitch and bitch to attend tonight. I do not stitch at all. Ptichka’s stitches are in a box located somewhere in the office. I suppose that we’ll dazzle our fellow stitchers and bitchers with a selection of Japanese paper that we will cut into small pieces and glue down…or we could just bitch. I mean, I could bitch. It’s mosquito season; they’re not bothering Ptichka in the least but adore my west coast blood. I won’t complain, however. Manitobans only love hearty things and I want them to love me.
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