Knit, knit, knit.

Last year, my goal was to learn to knit. And yesterday, (January, when this post was originally written) I just finished knitting my first real project, a tiny sweater for tiny humans. I wanted to learn to knit for the same reason I started gardening: 

Making something out of nothing is pretty damn awesome. And making a useful something out of nothing is even awesomer (totally a word).

Knitting is fun. I watched a lot of Youtube videos until the technique made sense to me. I watched more Youtube videos to learn all the little tricks and different stitches. Then I knit. The first thing I made was a baby blanket for friends who were pregnant but didn't know what they were having SPOILER ALERT: they had a baby! A very cute, very sparkly baby! Pretty sure she actually poops unicorns! Here's her blanket:

Oooh, pretty bound off edges

Then other people I knew were having a girl so I made the prettiest, stripiest blanket I could muster:

PS: they also had a cute baby! Weird how that keeps happening. Anyway, I was pretty happy with that but knew I had to step it up and challenge myself. So I made stockings/fingerless gloves/ tea cozies! 

Sorry, sorry, this is my cat. Where were we? Knitting.

I love how tea cozies make tea pots look jaunty

Buttons!! I can attach buttons to things now!

Wait, how did Charlie Hunnam get here? That's weird.

Those projects above were knit while watching 5 seasons of The Good Wife, 2 seasons of Orange is The New Black, 2 seasons of Downton Abbey, and 4 Elijah specific episodes of The Vampire Diaries. It's productive time wasting! Knitting is a great way to pass the time. When mom was in the hospital last year, (she's fine. Mom in the hospital deserves it's own blog. Only mom can make a hospital stay hilarious) I said goodbye to her as at 7:30 in the morning as they wheeled her in for a 7 HOUR SURGERY, not knowing if I was gonna see her again. Pretty heavy stuff. I had a whole day to wonder and worry in Vancouver General but I also had sisters en route for backup. While I waited for the cavalry to arrive, I went for a walk to Granville Island and spoke to some baby ducklings who were very supportive. Then I went back to the hospital to nap. Then I drank 7,000 coffees and tried to distract myself with hot doctors.

And I knit.

I was using knitting as a rosary while I waited. I think I ended up knitting a very ill fitting hat. When mom was finally out of surgery and asking for Coronation Street I knew she'd be fine and I could finally breathe again.

Knitting isn't supposed to be stressful, but I'm hard on myself so when I've screwed up and slipped a stitch and have to start over I look like this:

It's all very dramatic. I blame the pattern directions. And the fact that I'm not very good at reading them. But it's mostly the directions fault and the fact that you're working from the bottom with nothing to the top with something (I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere).

At one point with the tiny sweater, I got so frustrated with it I swore at it and stormed out. "This is what couples fights must be like," I thought.

So here's the tiny sweater. It's not perfect, but much like when you look at yourself in the mirror: only you notice any flaws; you look perfect to everyone else. 

The bottom sweater was my prototype borrowed from a friend

And, as much as I'd like to, I will not be knitting my own dog/cat/boyfriend.

Go Float Yourself

I'm not super duper claustrophobic but I don't like dark caves. I need my bearings. I need to know where the light switch is. 

So when a couple of friends mentioned they 'float' I was surprised to find myself thinking "cool, I'd like to try that!"

Floating is a practice where you enter into an enclosed tub (also called an isolation tank or sensory deprivation tank) which is filled with 10 inches of water and a bunch of Epsom salts. Like 800 lbs of it. It's a practice that's been around forever I guess. Here, I'll let the website explain it:

"The water is heated to the same temperature as the surface of your skin so that when the water settles and you remain relaxed and still, you do not really feel the water anymore. The tank is light-proof and sound-proof and has a neutral smell. All forces of gravity on the musculoskeletal system and nervous system are eliminated from the extreme positive buoyancy; so imagine a space where you don’t feel anything, nor do you see or hear anything. The tank’s extremely unique environment is designed to allow for a minimal amount of sensory input to enter into your nervous system. This environment then has a plethora of benefits and applications for health, personal development, spirituality, and well-being."

I booked an appointment, eager to try this out. Everyone I had talked to said claustrophobia wasn't a problem, but what if I'm like, the one person who spazzes? What if they forget about me in the tank? What if, after 90 minutes, I come out of the tub and the zombie apocalypse has finally happened and I'm stuck in a robe and flip flops smelling like a delicious salty steak to my new zombie friends?

When I arrived at Flouthouse Victoria the man at the front desk told me to take my shoes off which I thought was a bit forward, but hey, man, whatever, dude. 
Then he motioned to the waiting room that consisted of two bean bag chairs which, once one is plopped on, one is unable to gracefully disembark from, FYI.
After a run through of how floats work I was left to my pre float shower and ready for some sensory deprivation. I climbed in, closed the lid, lay down, and turned the light off.

I don't like dark caves. I need my bearings. I need to know where the light switch is. 

I panicked a  bit, slapping the walls to find the light switch that in a matter of seconds had moved a million miles away from me. I took a breath. Felt my heart beating, got settled again, and turned the light back off, focusing on my heart. It was really present, all of a sudden, and I thought that was really cool. And it felt like I was slowly drifting in circles, away from the light switch, and my bearings. And I didn't care. 

The 90 minutes seemed to go by fairly quickly. Or maybe they didn't - I couldn't tell. 
I wondered if the zombie apocalypse had started already. I thought about what I was going to do tomorrow. My stomach growled, which prompted me to think about dinner, which led me to deciding on nachos, followed by me thinking about avocados but to be fair, I think about avocados a lot. (Avocados are a very tumultuous fruit, you see.) 

I wondered if my time was up and if the dude at the front who'd clearly stolen my shoes had forgotten about me. I wondered what happens during an earthquake. 
My toes touched the wall of the tub suddenly which was weird because I'm positive I was just floating through space. I wanted to float forever.

Then the music started and the lights slowly came on and my time was up. And I was really mad about that. I wanted more. I wasn't quite done thinking about avocados yet.
I showered, dressed, and went back into the loud, bright world all Bambi like, plotting my next visit.

And, ya, I got my shoes back. 

Hey Dad?

I cry during a lot of movies. Sometimes it's just some watery eyes, sometimes it's just a feeling of a good cry on the horizon. Sometimes it's a total seat shaking, hyperventilating cry (see The Lion King, The Fox and the Hound, Apollo 13, E.T).
This most recently happened at The Fault In Our Stars screening I attended, and if you know the story, you know.
Now, I blame all this crying on the filmmakers. Because you can't just put a moving scene, with moving words and actions and set it to moving, emotionally peaked music, and not expect me to respond. I am a human being with feelings, of course I'll respond. I respond to beer commercials for goodness sake. That Budweiser Superbowl ad, with the puppy and the horse? I've seen that commercial countless times and I still sob.

BRB, sobbing.

One particular movie that relentlessly sends me into ugly cry mode is Field Of Dreams. It's a movie about being a parent, and having regrets, and maybe not being able to fix all your regrets but you'll try anyway. Also there's some baseball. And a cornfield. Ray Liotta lives in the cornfield, but he's dead. And he lives there with some other dead guys? I don't know. If you think about Field of Dreams too much it doesn't make much sense, you really just have to go with it.
Anyway,  they've just had the 25th anniversary of the movie and they had a gathering at the site the movie was filmed. I think there was a screening of the film, and interviews, and hot dogs. And peanuts and crackerjacks, because baseball.
So there's that scene at the end of the movie, and Kevin Costner's character Ray is talking to his dead dad, who is younger, but whatever, they're working stuff out, like, emotionally or whatever. And Ray goes:

http://youtu.be/EwwCsd_jJq4

And there's the swell of the music, and the sunset, and the Kevin Costner of it all and I turn into a puddle. Every time.
Well, Kevin Costner, during this 25th anniversary, had a catch with his sons. ON THE SAME FIELD.

http://popwatch.ew.com/2014/06/14/kevin-costner-field-of-dreams-playing-catch-video/

So of course I turned into a puddle. Again.

And I know why this movie, or just this one scene, elicits so much emotion out of me. It's because Dad and I played catch all the time when I was little. And it was pretty fun, and I don't want to brag but I was pretty great at it. Except for that time I threw the ball at his new truck, and that other time I let my face catch the ball, like 'hey, let's see how this ends.' Spoiler alert: it ends in blood.
Old Gravel Road  (that was the name of the road I grew up on. I can't make this stuff up)  didn't get a heck of lot of traffic, so Dad and I played uninterrupted for hours, or until the mosquitoes won. Until we couldn't find the ball that went in the gully. Until we'd caught 10 in a row. I don't know if we ever talked or if we just 'had a catch' but sometimes I feel like it was the bright spot in the day. As if that was all we had. Sometimes, maybe it was.
I remember playing catch after stuff had happened and we'd moved to Balsam Way, but the road was busy and we had actual neighbours. I had boys on the brain, and playing catch with your Dad when you're 16 wasn't considered cool, I guess. And that's okay, because catch on Balsam Way wasn't catch on Old Gravel Road. And that's just as it should be.

So, Happy Father's Day Dad. Thanks for all the great catches.

OK, FINE. I'll post the whole scene.

Music

Every now and then there's a moment in your life that happens that you just know you'll remember forever. Some moments are awful/embarrassing (how many times can I wear my gym shorts inside out. For serious.) Some moments, the good ones, are magic. Like the time a few summers ago at a music fest when someone played Springsteen's 'I'm on Fire' on a BANJO. I have strong feelings about the BANJO and the people who play that particular instrument. And this moment, coupled with the sun setting and the beer buzz, and all the shiny, happy people, was a moment I knew I'd look back on forever and ever.

Today I stumbled upon The O'Brien family at the Moss Street Market. It's a market 2 blocks from my house, a farmer's market I visit all the time. I expect nothing remarkable to come from these visits, unless we're talking about pie, because pie is always remarkable, especially during fall. 

When I arrived, the band was singing Coldplay's 'Yellow', which is always a good song in my opinion. It's why Coldplay is famous, basically. Now I don't know if it was a combination of the warm sunshine on a crisp October day (I'm thinking about pie again), or the acoustics, but I abandoned all my other plans and sat down to listen. Which is about the time the band announced they were only singing one more song. Alas. I jumped up to talk to the singer, whose name is Fintan, a boy who looks like a better behaved Justin Bieber during his swoopy haircut phase. Unlike Bieber, Fintan was wearing properly fitted pants. I asked him what instrument he was playing (an electric bass. Fancy!), grabbed a card as they were out of CD's and thanked them for being awesome because I find it's always nice when someone tells you you're awesome.

Fintan is on iTunes here. Paul plays in Victoria a bunch and here's the band playing at Butchart Gardens in September. So glad I stumbed upon them today!

Take a moment

Just outside the doors of the Great Victoria Public Library there is an atrium. There are a lot of Ministry office entrances there and it serves as a shortcut (to me at least) home and for some it's just a quiet covered place to eat lunch. Most times there are buskers performing there, for money, for practice or, for both. The acoustics in there are ALWAYS incredible.
Today as I was walking home from work and the gym I was plotting my way home- it was raining and I was trying to decide if I absolutely had to do anything or pick anything up at the grocery store before I was home for the rest of the day. I found myself across the street from the library and noticed a choir in the atrium. I assumed they were singing carols. I thought about ignoring them and rushing home. I thought, 'how nice, a choir. Moving on. What's for dinner? Do I need to pick up bread?' I also thought, 'no I'm across the street and there's so much traffic and I kind of have to pee.'

I'm really glad I decided to cross the street.

It was the Esquimalt High School choir and there were about 25 kids. They were singing songs I didn't recognize. I started crying. Because I cry at beautiful things and beautiful moments and their voices were so beyond what it looked like would come out of them that I was just...stunned.

I stayed for 4 songs. The teacher joked in between each song and you could tell the kids were sort of embarrassed but also secretly proud that people were watching them. There was both boys and girls, bundled up from the cold, wearing scarves and gloves and Santa hats, scuffed chuck taylors, or uggs, or leather boots. Long hair, short hair, make up, no make up. The news tells you about all the bullying and on line torment and suicide for bullied kids but for those 4 songs all that went away. These people were just singing in a high school choir.
I mean, sure maybe some of them wanted to check their text messages or update their instafacebookogram or something but for now they were there, truly in a moment and it was lovely.

I watched the people that had stopped to listen. And the people that didn't. One girl continued discussing, in depth, loudly, her tuna sandwich to her colleague as she strutted past. A homeless dude with a dog and a shopping cart strolled through, bemused. People came back from their lunch with take out boxes and quietly stepped though the crowd to get back to work.
But a lot of people stopped. I think people were really appreciative to just have a moment. A moment where the outside noise stopped and all there was was this atrium and the kid's incredible voices. (And my phone. Which chose to ring at this particular moment of all moments. I turned it off)
A mom with her kids paused to listen and her little boy said 'mommy, this is cool'. (Spoiler alert, I cried again)

Moral of the story:  take a moment. Pause. Especially at this time of year. Life can be brutal and harsh and just like, windy, but it can also be really really calm and beautiful and surprising.

If you let it.

On Spiders

When I first thought of the brilliant idea to write about spiders, I got this far:

They need to stop what they are doing and die. The end.

It's my express opinion that spiders should be no bigger than that little square on your home button on your iPhone. They are too unpredictable, have too many legs, and the bigger they get the hairier they are and they seem really smart and build better webs than I do. And really quickly too, because I've knocked down this one spider's web just outside my front door every day for the past month and that little bitch is back up again the very next day with a different and more impressive web.
Side note: All spiders are shes, just as all boats are shes and all frogs are hes (not sure about that last one but the other two are totally true.)

It seems like this year there are more spiders than ever. And more and more people are posting how to/fix it ideas on how to get rid of spiders. There's that remedy I read about that says something about mixing pepper and vinegar and spraying it along your window sill. But, having more than a bit of ADD, all that made me want was a spicy Caesar and some fish and chips. So I called up my sisters to meet me at the pub- because everyone  has got a spider story, and it's less sucky to know you're not suffering alone. Plus, Caesars are delicious. 

There's the horse chestnut theory: that there is a smell or something from the chestnut that deters the beasts so people collect them and put them in spots where they generally see spiders, and again, generally, people have had success and lived spider free lives. Or so far as they know- there's that other theory that everyone swallows a certain amount of spiders in their sleep or whatever, and that other thing that claims we are no more than 3 feet from a spider at any given time.

Sleep tight.

When I grow up...

When you were little, did you know what you wanted to be when you grew up? I knew what I wanted to be - a cat. This was seriously my answer when I was little. I was riding the Green Chair lift on Whistler Mountain, a man sitting beside me was trying to be charming and talk to the shy little girl beside him and he asked me "so what do you want to be when you grow up?" and I replied confidently with "A cat!" which was obviously a viable option to me cause I was five. And the man, THE MAN, had the audacity to say to me "oh that's silly, you can't be a cat."

It took everything in me not to throw that man off the chair. 

It was then I decided I didn't particularly want to talk to this man anymore, or any other adults really, because if they were going to tell me what I couldn't be then I didn't really want any part of them. So I thwarted his efforts to speak to me for the rest of the ride. 

I wasn't raised in a particularly structured household, so there wasn't any 'this is this, and that is that' and we were sort of given free reign over what we were doing with ourselves. As long as we weren't shooting heroin into our eyeballs, I think my parents were happy and let us be. 

So now I'm 31-ish and I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up and pretty much everyone I know is married with children, a career, a mortgage. Am I jealous of them? I don't know. It's hard to say. Are they jealous of me? With all the free time and no stress, nary a poopy diaper or house payment to deal with? I don't know. Wait, did I mention I get naps? They are definitely jealous.

I have some friends who have known since they were little exactly how their life plan would pan out. A boyfriend who would become a husband who would become a father to two kids aged 2 yrs apart, a house, car, job etc etc. All before they are 30.  And, while I'm impressed by that... let's call it tenacity, I can't help but wonder if they've missed out on any opportunities that they ignored because it wasn't on the list and it could have been seen as a possible derailment. Where's the sense of whimsy, of wonder? But wait, who am I to poo poo (teehee) on people's dreams?  

Am I living in the moment? Yes. Am I thinking about my future? Yes. Am I taking any steps toward this? Slowly. At my own pace. Which is slow like a turtle cause I am remarkably unmotivated at times. Some might call this Peter Pan syndrome - running around all day every day, no worries or concerns, having a laugh, and in the risk of sounding like Oprah, just being. Which is OK too. 

I can't possibly know what I'm doing tomorrow, let alone a year from now, or a lifetime from now. I also find the word 'duties' hilarious and will talk about bodily functions all the live long day with anyone who will listen, mostly because I'm pretty sure my inner child is a 12 yr old boy and also because it's disgusting and fascinating at the same time and anything that is both those things will have my undivided attention, until a new [insert adorable animal here] video gets posted to YouTube and then I will share that with you as well. 

So even if I find out what I want to be, I guess I'll never truly grow up. 

And I guess I hope I never do.