Small Cars Only

One of my favourite things about 30 Rock’s Liz Lemon is what a stickler she is for rules. When I saw the episode where she buys out a hot dog stand just to prevent a queue-jumper from being served, I laughed myself right off the couch. I can relate to this aspect of Liz Lemon. I too have a mostly irrational reverence for rules, even in cases where I understand how insignificant they are in the bigger picture. Like, when my roommate inevitably asks me what would be the most appropriate time to ask for an extension on his upcoming paper deadline, I am always screaming NEVER!!!! on the inside. I fully recognize that it is difficult to produce intellectual work to a deadline, and that is one of the many shortcomings of the academic system; and I also recognize that those dates are in place so that professors have enough time to finish their marking before grades have to be submitted. Nonetheless, my true objection isn’t rational; I object on a visceral level to missing deadlines simply because they’re deadlines and they’re meant to be followed.

My biggest pet peeve is when people park big cars in “small car only” parking spots. I get it, there’s nowhere else to park. But I don’t have any sympathy – either walk a few blocks or trade your big truck in for something smaller. When people park big cars in small car spots, I am overcome with the urge to kick them. Don’t they get that the small cars’ doors don’t have enough room to open beside them, if they even fit into the spot in the first place? The rule is in place for a reason, even if it’s not an earth-shattering one. I came to a parkade one night after a lovely time at the Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra to find an extremely irate man pacing around my car. I had parked right in the middle of my “small car only” spot, meanwhile blocking him access to the driver’s side door of his big-ass SUV. I did it deliberately. When he yelled at me I self-righteously berated him for breaking the rules. I had to get out of there fast.

I’m probably going to meet my end at the hands of an angry SUV-driving redneck who just can’t handle my having haughtily told him his inconvenience was his own damn fault. That seems like an embarassing and pointless way to go, but I still maintain that those are the rules.

“Domestic Goddess”

I had a friend visit recently who was completely baffled by the way I eat. It wasn’t the raw ingredients or even the finished products that she was unfamiliar with, but the fact that I actually cook most meals from scratch. Then one morning, while we were eating the omelettes I had made for breakfast, she complimented my socks and asked where I bought them. When I told her I made them she was shocked. Who the hell knows how to make their own socks?! Who would even want to?! She then called me a “domestic goddess.”

This gave me pause. As a woman in the twenty-first century, it is impossible to hear that phrase and not wonder, even for just a moment, if there is an insult embedded in there somewhere. Or if it’s even a compliment at all. And then comes the bigger pause. When did knowing how to feed and clothe yourself become worthy of “goddess” status? Are we truly that alienated from our basic needs? I’ll readily admit – if modern civilization collapsed today, I probably wouldn’t last any longer than anyone else. Sure, I know how to make socks, but I certainly don’t know how to shear a sheep or spin wool. Maybe I would last until all the yarn shops had been fully looted, but then I’d have to move South like everyone else. And hell, I might know how to make bread, but I certainly don’t know how to grow wheat or grind flour. So I don’t think of myself as being more self-sufficient or as having a more authentic home life. What I do feel is that I am practicing an art. The art of “women’s work,” for lack of a less inflammatory description. This art takes everyday practices that are for the most part devalued and turns them into opportunities to create something new and beautiful, even if the result is only ephemeral, like a meal.

This might seem like a throwback, and I might be setting myself up for attack by decades of feminist progress, but I actually like domestic work. Or at least, I like my version of it. I sometimes fantasize about just not joining the labour force, even though that would probably require the justification of also being a wife and mother. I am happiest when I am at home cooking, knitting, mending, even sometimes cleaning. I gain great satisfaction from having an orderly but comfortable home, and even greater satisfaction from having made it that way myself. But let’s face it – my domestic oasis is pretty far from the everyday reality of modern life. With all the mod-cons having invaded the home so completely, managing a household can be just as alienating as working in a factory or being a cog in a major corporation. Not to demonize progress – some of those conveniences have indeed had positive effects. But the landscape of the home has certainly changed and become more mechanized. Style has given way to efficiency. And if I were, in fact, a stay-at-home mom, my domestic life would not be nearly so leisurely and – should I admit it? – pretentious as it is now. It wouldn’t be art, it would be work. Hard work. And how miserable would I be if I had to call my husband for permission to just watch TV and order pizza? On the flip side though, I don’t really want to submit to the double burden either – work all day at some shitty job then work all the rest of the time at home. Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not longing for some lost domestic ideal. “Women’s work” has never been ideal. What I long for is probably impossible unless one is independently wealthy. To live the everyday with style, as an art, and to gain access to the carefully guarded tradition of finding pleasure and power in the mundane.

Grumpy

I wrote a post yesterday complaining about something that made me angry and I got a nasty comment basically calling me a bitch and telling me that, with all this war and suffering in the world, I should be grateful that I’m okay and that I have friends at all. I deleted the comment. Then I deleted the post. Maybe I am a petty bitch and that’s not the person I want to be, so I was embarassed. At the same time, don’t I have a right to complain about some things? My complaints were in response to actions that I felt were fundamentally disrespectful and inconsiderate. So should I never get upset when people are inconsiderate towards me? Should I just let it roll off my back every time? If I have a reaction does it necessarily mean that I don’t care about war and suffering or that I’m not grateful for all the gifts I have in my life?

Why do I forget to take pictures?

I have spent a significant amount of time over the past year knitting and doing other crafty things. I’ve progressed from scarves in the beginning to learning how to knit socks, cables, interesting stitch patterns, lace, and I recently made my first sweater. The thing is, some of the nicest things I’ve made I’ve given away to people as gifts and I didn’t take pictures of them first! These include an oriel lace scarf, a pair of lace armwarmers, a couple of hats, several cool pairs of socks, and several elaborately stitched headbands. I’ve finally posted pictures of what I have left on flickr. I’m going to have to keep better track of my projects.

The Hangover

I promised a friend of mine on Friday, then again on Saturday, that I would write a post about something entertaining I had said. Maybe because I was drunk both Friday and Saturday when I talked to him, I can’t remember what that entertaining thing was. Oops.

Sad But So True

“Deciding What to Wear”, courtesy of PhD Comics.

Exhibit A

I don’t mind doing laundry but I hate putting it away after.

Beautification, Anarchy, or just plain fun?

I’m a little obsessed with what I’ll call Anarchist Knitting. I came to it through a Vancouver-based blog called Yarn Bombing. It turns out there have been anarchist knitting groups cropping up all over the place for the past few years, the most notable of which seems to be Knitta. Their objective is to beautify the urban landscape by “tagging” urban structures with patches of knitting. It’s also a movement to reclaim knitting as an aesthetic activity, as knitting is one of those things that we are usually only expected to do for others or for a particular purpose.

I’m drawn to anarchist knitting for other reasons in addition to these. To me, it seems like a way to not just beautify the urban landscape, but also a way to critique it. Tagging a structure draws attention to it, makes people acknowledge and think about it. How many telephone poles, signs, benches, mailboxes, etc. do you walk by every day without even noticing them? In a way, we are alienated from the very spaces within which we live. Not only do we not build them, we don’t even really see them. To go a step further, tagging doesn’t just make us think about urban space, it seems to me like a nice way of making that space our own.

The other day I tagged a sign in my neighbourhood. Two elderly women were walking by while I was sewing the tag on and they stopped to watch me for a moment. They initially looked confused, then one of them said: “You’re giving that pole something to wear on this chilly day. That’s very kind of you!” She wasn’t being sarcastic, she was genuinely pleased, if a little mystified. That’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

If you live in Victoria, keep your eyes peeled for more…

“I am a Giant Cockroach”

Excerpts from “Social Security Denies Gregor Samsa’s Disability Claim” by Alex St. Andrews, in The McSweeney’s Joke Book of Book Jokes:

The Decision on Gregor Samsa’s Case

You listed the following impairment(s) on your SSI application:

I AM A GIGANTIC COCKROACH
DEPRESSION
BACK PAIN

You said the above impairment(s) affected you in the following way(s):

I CANNOT STAND OR WALK UPRIGHT OR SPEAK ANY HUMAN LANGUAGE.
I CANNOT HANDLE OR MANIPULATE OBJECTS WITH MY MANY LEGS OR ANTENNAE.
WHEN I AM ON MY BACK I HAVE DIFFICULTY RIGHTING MYSELF.
MY FAMILY HAS IMPRISONED ME IN MY ROOM AND IS FEEDING ME SCRAPS. [...]

Doctors and other trained staff looked at this case and made this decision. They work for the state but used our rules. The following findings were made:
- You are not engaged in any substantial gainful activity.
- Your impairment causes more than minimal limitations.
- Although your impairment(s) result in some problems for you, which are more than minimal, they do not equal any of the impairments listed in Table 2 of Appendix 1 to Subpart P of Chapter 20, Part 404 of Federal Regulations (“the Listings”).
- You are not able to perform your previous employment. You listed the following job(s) in your work history report:
TRAVELING SALESMAN
- We have determined that your impairment prevents you from continuing in your previous employment, because you cannot handle or finger your sample cases, you cannot speak any human language, and your customers will be frightened by your monstrous clicking mandibles.
- You are able to perform other work which exists in substantial numbers in the national economy. A vocational expert was consulted, and determined that your Residual Function Capacity (RFC) allows you to perform the following jobs:
STAPLING MACHINE OPERATOR
NUCLEAR WASTE MANAGEMENT
ENTERTAINER (foreign cinema, circus)
TAX PREPARER

14 Verbs

Caffeinate.
Write.
Contemplate.
Theorize.
Read.
Search.
Obsess.
(Re)organize.
Love.
Cook.
Eat.
Craft.
Sleep.

Repeat.