I never feel quite at home upon reaching my childhood home until I have a shower. First, there's the shower door, missing its handle for the past decade now. It must be navigated along its rungs with a degree of care. It's not some shower curtain that can be thrust to and fro in an absentminded, hurried gesture, mere prelude to the shower itself. Rather, it encourages an attentive approach to the relationship between man and technology.
Then there's the showerhead itself. It's an ancient, ragged looking thing, at least 25 years old. It is also one of the best, most powerful examples of its breed that I have ever experienced. For the past decade now, I've been showering in apartments, rented houses, and... sigh... rez washrooms. The water is always under someone else's control, and emits itself in turgid, often frigid flows. I am sick of this whiffling water. The older I get, the more I appreciate a good nozzle. You know the saying on what cleanliness is next to? Well, showerhead is next to godhead.
Finally, there is the faucet itself. In most baths, the faucet is attached to the wall at a right angle. Ours has a 45 degree decline. That's because, about nine years ago, I slipped in the tub, somehow twisting so that I landed facing away from the showerhead, and slammed my back into the faucet, lowering it to its current state. And yes, it was pretty painful, and yes, it left a lasting but if you think I got messed up, then, Gentle Reader, you should see the other guy. Er, appliance.
Later Days.
Showing posts with label sask trip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sask trip. Show all posts
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Back in Sask
The problem with an ongoing blog is that there is only so many times you can do the introduction for a subject. I've talked about the airplane flights before: here, here, and here. So you can assume the usual rigmarole here. I came, I flew, I conquered. Only without the conquering. Elements of note:
1. A Shout-Out to the friend who gave me a ride to the airport. She probably doesn't read the blog, but she still deserves some recognition. (And I guess I also should deliver a shout-out to my dad, for driving 1 and half hours to the city, and picking me up at an airport, at midnight, in -30 Saskatchewan weather. That also deserves recognition.)
2. In total, I spent about ten hours at the airport. That was fun.
3. This trip's reading was mostly recreational, as compared to the comp reading I've been doing of late. At the same time, it was a very high-level literate reading: Itano Calvino's "if on a winter's night a traveler" and Umberto Eco's "Foucault's Pendulum." I didn't finish either, but expect a full review for both. Preview: they're awesome.
4. Someone recommended the A&W veggie burger to me a while back, and during my 2 hour lay-over in Calgary, I ordered one. It took some time to prepare, mostly because the people working there didn't know where they kept the veggie patties, but it was worth it. It has a nice, portobello mushroom flavor to it. (Which is a nice change from the "sawdust with grease" flavor some restaurants seem to prefer).
5. The Westjet plane I flew on didn't have any TVs, as it was the newest one in the fleet and hadn't been fitted for them yet. This lack was disappointing, since after my US trip, I was looking forward to the superior Canadian product. On the other hand, to make up for the lack, one of the flight attendants gave a parodied rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." And he pretty much rocked it.
6. I was going to start jogging again today. And yes, I said jogging, not running. After you take a month-long hiatus, you no longer have the right to call it running. And to extend the humiliation, I don't think I'm going to be starting up again today; -30 weather is not good for someone still recovering from the Mother of All Colds.
That's all for now. Hopefully, there will be some new exciting thing to discuss after today's flu shot.
Later Days.
1. A Shout-Out to the friend who gave me a ride to the airport. She probably doesn't read the blog, but she still deserves some recognition. (And I guess I also should deliver a shout-out to my dad, for driving 1 and half hours to the city, and picking me up at an airport, at midnight, in -30 Saskatchewan weather. That also deserves recognition.)
2. In total, I spent about ten hours at the airport. That was fun.
3. This trip's reading was mostly recreational, as compared to the comp reading I've been doing of late. At the same time, it was a very high-level literate reading: Itano Calvino's "if on a winter's night a traveler" and Umberto Eco's "Foucault's Pendulum." I didn't finish either, but expect a full review for both. Preview: they're awesome.
4. Someone recommended the A&W veggie burger to me a while back, and during my 2 hour lay-over in Calgary, I ordered one. It took some time to prepare, mostly because the people working there didn't know where they kept the veggie patties, but it was worth it. It has a nice, portobello mushroom flavor to it. (Which is a nice change from the "sawdust with grease" flavor some restaurants seem to prefer).
5. The Westjet plane I flew on didn't have any TVs, as it was the newest one in the fleet and hadn't been fitted for them yet. This lack was disappointing, since after my US trip, I was looking forward to the superior Canadian product. On the other hand, to make up for the lack, one of the flight attendants gave a parodied rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." And he pretty much rocked it.
6. I was going to start jogging again today. And yes, I said jogging, not running. After you take a month-long hiatus, you no longer have the right to call it running. And to extend the humiliation, I don't think I'm going to be starting up again today; -30 weather is not good for someone still recovering from the Mother of All Colds.
That's all for now. Hopefully, there will be some new exciting thing to discuss after today's flu shot.
Later Days.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sask Trip Day 6: The Best Thing Ever
To bring the story back up to speed, I'm in Saskatchewan, it's June 6th, and my mother's retirement party has just ended. My brothers and I then proceed to drive back up to Someplace Else. We take two vehicles, and I wind up in the family van with the middle brother. (Known now and forever more as MB.)
We're about 20 minutes from Someplace Else when we see a vehicle by the side of the road, with its driver standing beside it, arms waving. We stop, and a brief conversation takes place. His car has been damaged from hitting... something... and we agree to give him a ride back into town.
The subsequent drive was one of the most amusing things I've ever experienced in a moving vehicle.
In essence, we had a long talk with the guy. Well, I say talk, but 'monologue' would be a better description. If someone is giving you a free ride, I think offering something of similar value is appropriate; in this case, we got a life story. (He overpaid, frankly. If there had been more time, we would have had to give him two anecdotes and a reminiscence for change.) He started out simple. He was in town for a band council meeting, and was heading back after visiting some friends. That much we got out of him between his attempts to phone his family. ("Hey S----! I just got in an accident, and the airbag caved my head in, but I'm fine. I SAID I JUST GOT IN AN ACCIDENT AND THE AIRBAG---" Imagine this three or four times.)
Next, he confided that he had two sons who would have been about our age--if they hadn't both died at young ages from horrible accidents, which he proceeded to describe. Which segued nicely into describing his daughters (one just finished a degree, the other's in law enforcement) and we slowly steered the conversational boat into less rocky waters. Then a tempest came out of nowhere, as he switched to the other family tragedy: his brother had been the victim of a hit and run, that, he told us, was probably not an accident at all but arranged to look like an accident by a man who had it in for him. Try bringing that up in conversation with people you've known for less time than it takes to watch an episode of the Simpsons. See how that goes.
The final bit came as we drove through the city to his room at the Ramada. You may have been questioning our choice at picking up a hitchhiker to begin with. Don't worry, so did our hitchhiker. Here's how the conversation went, as close as I can remember it:
"You gotta be careful who you pick up these days. Never know who you're going to get. One time, I was driving with my wife and my daughters, and they were just little things then, and we saw a hitchhiker, and my wife didn't want to stop, but I thought, well, he could use some help, and we stopped. And we drove him to Banff, it was just a few miles, and I told my wife that she had nothing to worry about. But that night, hey, we were watching tv, and he was on the FBI Most Wanted!
"It just goes to show you, you never know who you pick up. He could be dangerous, or have a gun."
(Pause.)
"You don't worry about me, though--I don't have a gun."
(Thoughtful pause.)
"'Cept the one I keep in my pants, for the ladies. (short pause) And that one don't work so well no more."
(dead silence)
Around that time, we reached the hotel. I think he sensed he may have touched a conversational line, so he apologized a few times, thanked us, and disappeared out of our lives forever.
But not our hearts. Or my conversation, for weeks after.
I read a lot, and I aspire towards writing. But there are very few works or writers I know that could get away with a character like that. And God bless 'im for it.
Next installment: At long last, Day 3. Also: drinking in the afternoon.
Later Days
We're about 20 minutes from Someplace Else when we see a vehicle by the side of the road, with its driver standing beside it, arms waving. We stop, and a brief conversation takes place. His car has been damaged from hitting... something... and we agree to give him a ride back into town.
The subsequent drive was one of the most amusing things I've ever experienced in a moving vehicle.
In essence, we had a long talk with the guy. Well, I say talk, but 'monologue' would be a better description. If someone is giving you a free ride, I think offering something of similar value is appropriate; in this case, we got a life story. (He overpaid, frankly. If there had been more time, we would have had to give him two anecdotes and a reminiscence for change.) He started out simple. He was in town for a band council meeting, and was heading back after visiting some friends. That much we got out of him between his attempts to phone his family. ("Hey S----! I just got in an accident, and the airbag caved my head in, but I'm fine. I SAID I JUST GOT IN AN ACCIDENT AND THE AIRBAG---" Imagine this three or four times.)
Next, he confided that he had two sons who would have been about our age--if they hadn't both died at young ages from horrible accidents, which he proceeded to describe. Which segued nicely into describing his daughters (one just finished a degree, the other's in law enforcement) and we slowly steered the conversational boat into less rocky waters. Then a tempest came out of nowhere, as he switched to the other family tragedy: his brother had been the victim of a hit and run, that, he told us, was probably not an accident at all but arranged to look like an accident by a man who had it in for him. Try bringing that up in conversation with people you've known for less time than it takes to watch an episode of the Simpsons. See how that goes.
The final bit came as we drove through the city to his room at the Ramada. You may have been questioning our choice at picking up a hitchhiker to begin with. Don't worry, so did our hitchhiker. Here's how the conversation went, as close as I can remember it:
"You gotta be careful who you pick up these days. Never know who you're going to get. One time, I was driving with my wife and my daughters, and they were just little things then, and we saw a hitchhiker, and my wife didn't want to stop, but I thought, well, he could use some help, and we stopped. And we drove him to Banff, it was just a few miles, and I told my wife that she had nothing to worry about. But that night, hey, we were watching tv, and he was on the FBI Most Wanted!
"It just goes to show you, you never know who you pick up. He could be dangerous, or have a gun."
(Pause.)
"You don't worry about me, though--I don't have a gun."
(Thoughtful pause.)
"'Cept the one I keep in my pants, for the ladies. (short pause) And that one don't work so well no more."
(dead silence)
Around that time, we reached the hotel. I think he sensed he may have touched a conversational line, so he apologized a few times, thanked us, and disappeared out of our lives forever.
But not our hearts. Or my conversation, for weeks after.
I read a lot, and I aspire towards writing. But there are very few works or writers I know that could get away with a character like that. And God bless 'im for it.
Next installment: At long last, Day 3. Also: drinking in the afternoon.
Later Days
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sask Trip 5: Mushy Parental Edition
There's been a bad turn in the family recently, and I'm kind of hoping this post will be a bit of a morale booster. I'm also hoping it will go a bit of the distance towards a proper Father's Day gift, since the two minute phone call I made yesterday arguably falls a bit short.
For those still following at home, I'm nearing the end of day two of my Sask Trip. At this point, the shopping expedition is over, and my brothers and I are on a brief road trip, to attend my mother's Retirement Banquet. She is/was/always already (Althusser joke!) retiring after decades of teaching this year, and she and the other retirees in her school division were being honored by the division at a banquet. I'd changed my original departure date and skipped a class so that I could be there, and--to skip to the ending--I was really glad I was there.
It was, not that I have a lot of experience, a fairly typical event. The food was good, albeit slightly ridiculous (dessert was a cup of whip cream, with graham cracker crumbs--what is that? Did Jello prove too difficult?). The cash bar was well-stocked. The speeches were more or less what you'd expect from such an event--some really heart-felt reflections on teaching, a few good jokes, and a lot of jokes whose goodness depended heavily on how much you'd invested in the aforementioned cash bar.
I wasn't there for the event. I was there to spend some time with my parents--given that there was an NDP convention that weekend, our paths weren't going to cross too often. I was also there to give some support to my parents, something that isn't easy to do with a few hundred kilometers normally in the way. So basically, my role that evening was to look appreciative while ignoring the complaints of a brother who didn't like being out past 9 pm on a work day. (Seriously. That was his complaint. Now repeat 10 times a half-hour for about three hours.) But even though I was removed from most of it (except for the thank-you speech given on behalf of the retirees by my mother, which was well said, even if it was short on 18th century literary quotations), I couldn't help feel that there was something missing from the affair. Something that was not only a part of a teacher mass retirement, but a necessary condition. It was about half way through the proceedings when I figured it out.
What's missing was the students.
To me, growing up in a family with two teachers as parents, I know that students aren't the only part of the job. There's marking, dealing with parents, being forced into the bureaucracy, lesson plans, textbook budgets, and other thoroughly unpleasant activities. But the students that are the important part. That the auditorium wasn't filled to the roster with children giving testimonies these people made in their lives--that felt wrong to me. Now, I know that that wasn't the purpose of the banquet, and I know that, in my mother's case at least, the public student acknowledgement was coming later. But it was at that point that I really realized that I was glad to be there--not only glad, but lucky. Because for my mother, at least, the students weren't missing. There were three of them sitting right at that table, come especially for her.
Let me be explicit here: as a life spent in academia, I've had a lot of teachers. I've had elementary school teachers, guidance counselors, high school teachers, tutors, TAs, professors, and every possible variation you can imagine. But my first and most important teachers are my parents. While others have taught me how to do this subject or that, they've taught me how to be a person and everything you can say to me to my credit should properly be creditted to them.
All right, let's bring this Hallmark moment to a close.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
Congratulations on the retirement, Mom.
And whatever happens in the next few days, your family member out east is thinking about you, and is proud to be your son.
Later Days.
For those still following at home, I'm nearing the end of day two of my Sask Trip. At this point, the shopping expedition is over, and my brothers and I are on a brief road trip, to attend my mother's Retirement Banquet. She is/was/always already (Althusser joke!) retiring after decades of teaching this year, and she and the other retirees in her school division were being honored by the division at a banquet. I'd changed my original departure date and skipped a class so that I could be there, and--to skip to the ending--I was really glad I was there.
It was, not that I have a lot of experience, a fairly typical event. The food was good, albeit slightly ridiculous (dessert was a cup of whip cream, with graham cracker crumbs--what is that? Did Jello prove too difficult?). The cash bar was well-stocked. The speeches were more or less what you'd expect from such an event--some really heart-felt reflections on teaching, a few good jokes, and a lot of jokes whose goodness depended heavily on how much you'd invested in the aforementioned cash bar.
I wasn't there for the event. I was there to spend some time with my parents--given that there was an NDP convention that weekend, our paths weren't going to cross too often. I was also there to give some support to my parents, something that isn't easy to do with a few hundred kilometers normally in the way. So basically, my role that evening was to look appreciative while ignoring the complaints of a brother who didn't like being out past 9 pm on a work day. (Seriously. That was his complaint. Now repeat 10 times a half-hour for about three hours.) But even though I was removed from most of it (except for the thank-you speech given on behalf of the retirees by my mother, which was well said, even if it was short on 18th century literary quotations), I couldn't help feel that there was something missing from the affair. Something that was not only a part of a teacher mass retirement, but a necessary condition. It was about half way through the proceedings when I figured it out.
What's missing was the students.
To me, growing up in a family with two teachers as parents, I know that students aren't the only part of the job. There's marking, dealing with parents, being forced into the bureaucracy, lesson plans, textbook budgets, and other thoroughly unpleasant activities. But the students that are the important part. That the auditorium wasn't filled to the roster with children giving testimonies these people made in their lives--that felt wrong to me. Now, I know that that wasn't the purpose of the banquet, and I know that, in my mother's case at least, the public student acknowledgement was coming later. But it was at that point that I really realized that I was glad to be there--not only glad, but lucky. Because for my mother, at least, the students weren't missing. There were three of them sitting right at that table, come especially for her.
Let me be explicit here: as a life spent in academia, I've had a lot of teachers. I've had elementary school teachers, guidance counselors, high school teachers, tutors, TAs, professors, and every possible variation you can imagine. But my first and most important teachers are my parents. While others have taught me how to do this subject or that, they've taught me how to be a person and everything you can say to me to my credit should properly be creditted to them.
All right, let's bring this Hallmark moment to a close.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
Congratulations on the retirement, Mom.
And whatever happens in the next few days, your family member out east is thinking about you, and is proud to be your son.
Later Days.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Buying the Book: Sask Trip Part IV
We're still in the midst of the "shopping" story portion of the Sask trip home. According to de Certeau, shopping is one of the every day activities through which consumers express their independent paths through state spaces. Of course, it also demonstrates that we're all stuck in state spaces. For today's act of shopping, I went to buy a ball glove. Long, long story short, and 16km later, I've got a ball glove. Despite everything I've said about my baseballian aptitude, I still maintain it's an investment in the future. I'll probably play again at some point, right?
The reason I bring this up now (besides the fact that it happened about three hours ago) is that, in a sense, part of the value people associate with things is how difficult they were to come by--although it's not a straightforward relationship. If it takes you a few seconds find a prized item you've been searching for, all fine and good, but a truly epic hunting makes a much better story. And if the trip to the local grocery store to buy milk takes several hours because you forgot to wear socks, you may get a good story out of it, but you're not going to feel too happy about that milk afterwards. This glove took the better half of a day and a very long bike trip, so it was slightly more difficult than I expected. Will that translate into a greater appreciation of it? Well, no; in the case of something like a ball glove, the difficulty of procurement in terms of calculating overall value is overshadowed by utility: if it works well in the ball game on Friday, that's much more important than any other measure I can think of.
Still with me? Good. The third part of my shopping trip on Thursday, June 5th, was to buy a book for my middle brother as a belated birthday present. How does gift giving fit into the discussion above? Well, the story of how you got the gift is largely unimportant; if you tell it, you run the risk of making it more about yourself than about the person you're giving it to, which slants the gift-giving towards personal indulgence over actual giving. (And yes, I realise that that's exactly what I'm doing now.) A wise man once noted the other peril in giving a book:"buying a book as a gift can become an overthinker's nightmare--you have to consider not only what the intended receiver means to you, but what you mean to them, what the book means to you, and what the book will potentially mean to them." Well, I said that. Right here. Still true though. So, as far as shopping for gifts go, you're in a double-bind. On the one hand, you want to limit the amount of time spent getting the gift as much as possible. But on the other hand, you want something that is meaningful and expressive. My brother asked specifically for a book because he wanted something to read during his big cross-country trip at the end of the month, and, supposedly, I know books.
My first choice was George Packer's "Village of Waiting." It came up in my postcolonial class; essentially, it's Packer's account of his time in Togo in the 80s, working as an English teacher for an African school. I thought (and still think) my brother would like it; it's thought-provoking, humorous, and just contentious enough that you can have fun picking apart Packer's arguments. But I couldn't give him my copy, since I needed it for the class, and assumed I could easily find a copy in Someplace Else.
I assumed wrong.
My other brother and I searched two separate bookstores, and came up blank. So we searched for a new book. I wanted something nonfiction and with a political edge. Of course, since I don't read a lot of that type, it was hard sluffing. We finally found a book (or at least my little brother did) called... I honestly don't remember. I remember it was hardcover, which I approved of, since it made it closer to the amount I spent on the younger brother's last birthday present, and that it was signed, which the middle brother would approve of, since it meant the book had value beyond being, you know, a book. So, with absolutely no ceremony, I handed him the book. He thanked me, but not without a wince that he quickly covered up. It was at that point that it hit me. Someone going on a long cross-country trip was looking for one primary factor in a book: that it didn't take up a lot of space. So the hardcover? Bad choice.
Moral: Gift-giving is best left to professionals.
This turned out to be much longer than I thought. There's probably a metaphor to be drawn between the post and the discussion regarding ease in shopping, but I'll let you decide whether it's worth the effort to retrieve it.
Later Days.
The reason I bring this up now (besides the fact that it happened about three hours ago) is that, in a sense, part of the value people associate with things is how difficult they were to come by--although it's not a straightforward relationship. If it takes you a few seconds find a prized item you've been searching for, all fine and good, but a truly epic hunting makes a much better story. And if the trip to the local grocery store to buy milk takes several hours because you forgot to wear socks, you may get a good story out of it, but you're not going to feel too happy about that milk afterwards. This glove took the better half of a day and a very long bike trip, so it was slightly more difficult than I expected. Will that translate into a greater appreciation of it? Well, no; in the case of something like a ball glove, the difficulty of procurement in terms of calculating overall value is overshadowed by utility: if it works well in the ball game on Friday, that's much more important than any other measure I can think of.
Still with me? Good. The third part of my shopping trip on Thursday, June 5th, was to buy a book for my middle brother as a belated birthday present. How does gift giving fit into the discussion above? Well, the story of how you got the gift is largely unimportant; if you tell it, you run the risk of making it more about yourself than about the person you're giving it to, which slants the gift-giving towards personal indulgence over actual giving. (And yes, I realise that that's exactly what I'm doing now.) A wise man once noted the other peril in giving a book:"buying a book as a gift can become an overthinker's nightmare--you have to consider not only what the intended receiver means to you, but what you mean to them, what the book means to you, and what the book will potentially mean to them." Well, I said that. Right here. Still true though. So, as far as shopping for gifts go, you're in a double-bind. On the one hand, you want to limit the amount of time spent getting the gift as much as possible. But on the other hand, you want something that is meaningful and expressive. My brother asked specifically for a book because he wanted something to read during his big cross-country trip at the end of the month, and, supposedly, I know books.
My first choice was George Packer's "Village of Waiting." It came up in my postcolonial class; essentially, it's Packer's account of his time in Togo in the 80s, working as an English teacher for an African school. I thought (and still think) my brother would like it; it's thought-provoking, humorous, and just contentious enough that you can have fun picking apart Packer's arguments. But I couldn't give him my copy, since I needed it for the class, and assumed I could easily find a copy in Someplace Else.
I assumed wrong.
My other brother and I searched two separate bookstores, and came up blank. So we searched for a new book. I wanted something nonfiction and with a political edge. Of course, since I don't read a lot of that type, it was hard sluffing. We finally found a book (or at least my little brother did) called... I honestly don't remember. I remember it was hardcover, which I approved of, since it made it closer to the amount I spent on the younger brother's last birthday present, and that it was signed, which the middle brother would approve of, since it meant the book had value beyond being, you know, a book. So, with absolutely no ceremony, I handed him the book. He thanked me, but not without a wince that he quickly covered up. It was at that point that it hit me. Someone going on a long cross-country trip was looking for one primary factor in a book: that it didn't take up a lot of space. So the hardcover? Bad choice.
Moral: Gift-giving is best left to professionals.
This turned out to be much longer than I thought. There's probably a metaphor to be drawn between the post and the discussion regarding ease in shopping, but I'll let you decide whether it's worth the effort to retrieve it.
Later Days.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
I truly believe Beavis and Butthead ruined the phrase "corning" forever: Sask Trip Part 3
Ughhhhhhh. I'm very glad I got a little ahead for my classes while on the trip, because it seems I'm going to spend the lion's share of this weekend indoors fighting off a monstrous cold that I believe I picked up from certain family members during my trip back. I take small condolence in knowing that I spent most of my infectious days at a university and in airports, so at least I've spread it as far as possible.
Anyway, after the clothes shopping was done, the next phase was finding the right wedding gift. I was, frankly, dreading this part. Searching the store from top to bottom, interacting with salespeople, trying to figure out how to wrap the inevitable abnormal shape, using the user-less-than-friendly registry--all activities that are less than fun.
It was also only the second time I've ever used a registry. This particular couple had registered with Sears, which made it a bit easier than the first time, in which the registry was split between a Home Hardware and Home Depot. (And until I typed those out just now, I honestly never thought of the connection between them.) I understand the concept of the registry. It prevents people from struggling with what to buy, saves relatives who may not actually know the couple very well from... uh, getting to know the couple very well, and saves the bride and groom from receiving 50 million or so toasters. But it still feels... impersonal. I suppose there's nothing preventing me from getting them something else, or something else in addition to the registry gift. In fact, that's exactly what I did for the last couple: in addition to some fairly cheap saw or something, I included a copy of "My Best Friend's Wedding," just because:
a) I thought the bride would like it.
b) It's the best wedding movie.
c) It's the best movie period. (No, it is. Don't argue with me on this.)
But I didn't do that this time around, largely because once you count the plane ticket, my presence was all ready enough of an expensive gift. (Don't get me wrong, I wanted to go and I'm glad I went. But man, I've NEVER spent that much money on anything that didn't provide me shelter or an education.) So my brother and I searched for a 5-piece corning ware set instead. And it went very, very easy. We found kitchenware, a salesperson came up to us and identified the right set, the box was simple to wrap, and she took care of updating the registry. Admittedly, my parents took care of providing the card and wrapping paper, (thanks for that) but all in all, it was two consecutive painless shopping events.
Imagine that.
Next time: buying the book.
Later Days.
Anyway, after the clothes shopping was done, the next phase was finding the right wedding gift. I was, frankly, dreading this part. Searching the store from top to bottom, interacting with salespeople, trying to figure out how to wrap the inevitable abnormal shape, using the user-less-than-friendly registry--all activities that are less than fun.
It was also only the second time I've ever used a registry. This particular couple had registered with Sears, which made it a bit easier than the first time, in which the registry was split between a Home Hardware and Home Depot. (And until I typed those out just now, I honestly never thought of the connection between them.) I understand the concept of the registry. It prevents people from struggling with what to buy, saves relatives who may not actually know the couple very well from... uh, getting to know the couple very well, and saves the bride and groom from receiving 50 million or so toasters. But it still feels... impersonal. I suppose there's nothing preventing me from getting them something else, or something else in addition to the registry gift. In fact, that's exactly what I did for the last couple: in addition to some fairly cheap saw or something, I included a copy of "My Best Friend's Wedding," just because:
a) I thought the bride would like it.
b) It's the best wedding movie.
c) It's the best movie period. (No, it is. Don't argue with me on this.)
But I didn't do that this time around, largely because once you count the plane ticket, my presence was all ready enough of an expensive gift. (Don't get me wrong, I wanted to go and I'm glad I went. But man, I've NEVER spent that much money on anything that didn't provide me shelter or an education.) So my brother and I searched for a 5-piece corning ware set instead. And it went very, very easy. We found kitchenware, a salesperson came up to us and identified the right set, the box was simple to wrap, and she took care of updating the registry. Admittedly, my parents took care of providing the card and wrapping paper, (thanks for that) but all in all, it was two consecutive painless shopping events.
Imagine that.
Next time: buying the book.
Later Days.
Friday, June 12, 2009
I Prefer to Call Them "Damn, These Look Good on Me": Sask Trip Part
Part of the early problem with the blog was that it was taking too much time to decided on a topic. So, I'm pretty much going to milk the trip home for all it's worth. ALL it's worth. Enjoy.
The first notable activity on my first day back in Someplace Else (if you're ever picking oft-repeated pseudonyms, btw, be sure to pick something shorter) was a shopping expedition. I needed a much delayed birthday present for my middle brother (born in February, so, yeah, late), a gift for the wedding (the purpose of the trip), and some new clothes. My little brother was acting as chauffeur and fashion consultant, since the family decided years ago that I cannot be trusted with anything resembling a fashion sense. I, on the other hand, maintain that black socks and shorts are a perfectly legitimate wardrobe choice.
Anyway, I picked up a pair of shorts, two pairs of pants, two t-shirts, a button-up shirt, and... well, therein lies the problem. They're a pair of shorts. Sort of. They're shorts that go past the knees, to about half way past the ankles--but stop well before they reach the ankles. And they tie off at the ends.
Yes, all right, they're capris.
And judging by the mocking I received in grad class on Wednesday, (mid 20s males can be so cruel), given that they were my brother's idea, I'm not the only member of my family with questionable fashion judgment.
Being English students, of course, the mocking consisted of what the proper label for such apparel was. Manpris? Clam diggers? Man-diggers? Hepris?
And, though I am clearly on the defensive, and can no longer speak objectionably, I still want to say: Really? Is that where we're at? I am, arguably, in one of the most liberal, open-minded places in the country (or at least as close as you can get to it inside an institutional setting), and we're still hung up on gender designations and clothing? I'm dwelling way more on this than anyone in the room did; a few comments, and no one cares. But still.
Still.
Okay, that takes us 1/3 of the way through the shopping trip, and 1 and one-twelfth seventh through the entire trip. Stay tuned tomorrow, when the subject shifts to the exciting topic of corning ware.
Later Days.
The first notable activity on my first day back in Someplace Else (if you're ever picking oft-repeated pseudonyms, btw, be sure to pick something shorter) was a shopping expedition. I needed a much delayed birthday present for my middle brother (born in February, so, yeah, late), a gift for the wedding (the purpose of the trip), and some new clothes. My little brother was acting as chauffeur and fashion consultant, since the family decided years ago that I cannot be trusted with anything resembling a fashion sense. I, on the other hand, maintain that black socks and shorts are a perfectly legitimate wardrobe choice.
Anyway, I picked up a pair of shorts, two pairs of pants, two t-shirts, a button-up shirt, and... well, therein lies the problem. They're a pair of shorts. Sort of. They're shorts that go past the knees, to about half way past the ankles--but stop well before they reach the ankles. And they tie off at the ends.
Yes, all right, they're capris.
And judging by the mocking I received in grad class on Wednesday, (mid 20s males can be so cruel), given that they were my brother's idea, I'm not the only member of my family with questionable fashion judgment.
Being English students, of course, the mocking consisted of what the proper label for such apparel was. Manpris? Clam diggers? Man-diggers? Hepris?
And, though I am clearly on the defensive, and can no longer speak objectionably, I still want to say: Really? Is that where we're at? I am, arguably, in one of the most liberal, open-minded places in the country (or at least as close as you can get to it inside an institutional setting), and we're still hung up on gender designations and clothing? I'm dwelling way more on this than anyone in the room did; a few comments, and no one cares. But still.
Still.
Okay, that takes us 1/3 of the way through the shopping trip, and 1 and one-twelfth seventh through the entire trip. Stay tuned tomorrow, when the subject shifts to the exciting topic of corning ware.
Later Days.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Prodigal Son Returns Home...
Nothing drives home the "life-long student" status like calling a university campus "home." But honestly, when I made a brief sojourn to the University of Somewhere Else today, it felt like going home. Honestly, it's as much as a home to me as anywhere else. It's been almost a decade since I left Where Else, Blank is still too new, and I never stayed at any of my actual homes in Somewhere Else long enough to really make them feel like a "home." (Ok, the previous sentence makes absolutely no sense unless you know where Where Else, Blank, and Somewhere Else refer to. Oh, the price paid for anonymity.)
So anyway, the university campus gets a "home" designation. I went over to campus today to have lunch with some old English grad friends--which was great--and to take out some books via the national library agreement, which was less great, but also less of a hassle than I was fearing. I also took the opportunity to just walk around campus a bit, which was tres weird--like I was tourist looking at scenes of my past. I wrote about this more extensively in a short piece called "the Couple" ("Person of Consequence! You can't put in a plug for an unpublished work! " "Oh, can't I? That sounds like a challenge to me!" "No, I mean, there's no point... you know what? Never mind."), but it's amazing how much a person's life--by which I mean this Person's life-- can be influenced by the people they run into on a daily basis. I don't even mean friends and family; I mean just the people you see on a regular basis, and never talk to, never approach, and never really know at all. These people become a part of my personal context; just by being there, they contribute to my sense of familiarity. It's like a nice warm blanket of sameness.
Sadly, this being December, most of the actual students are busy studying, so they weren't around to contribute to my personal people-blanket. (Very selfish of them.) The people at the library provided enough scraps to make a few quilt patches, the students who were present provided the design, and, as always, my friends were the threads that bind the whole thing together. (Awwwww.)
Arts and crafts aside, it was fun to return to the alma mater, and I think that the books I found finally gave me a solid approach to my paper. But here's hoping that future ventures in the next week feature more of the friend side of the equation than the work side.
Later D--
Oooh! Almost forgot. No trip down nostalgia lane would be complete without a brisk trot through lunch at the campus restaurant. And however much anything else has changed, their student bargain-priced grilled cheese is EXACTLY how I remember. If the campus is a quilt, then that restaurant is definitely a... signature stitching form? A matching throw-pillow? A ketchup stain in the upper right corner that draws the eye?
...I think think this metaphor has gotten away from me.
Later Days.
So anyway, the university campus gets a "home" designation. I went over to campus today to have lunch with some old English grad friends--which was great--and to take out some books via the national library agreement, which was less great, but also less of a hassle than I was fearing. I also took the opportunity to just walk around campus a bit, which was tres weird--like I was tourist looking at scenes of my past. I wrote about this more extensively in a short piece called "the Couple" ("Person of Consequence! You can't put in a plug for an unpublished work! " "Oh, can't I? That sounds like a challenge to me!" "No, I mean, there's no point... you know what? Never mind."), but it's amazing how much a person's life--by which I mean this Person's life-- can be influenced by the people they run into on a daily basis. I don't even mean friends and family; I mean just the people you see on a regular basis, and never talk to, never approach, and never really know at all. These people become a part of my personal context; just by being there, they contribute to my sense of familiarity. It's like a nice warm blanket of sameness.
Sadly, this being December, most of the actual students are busy studying, so they weren't around to contribute to my personal people-blanket. (Very selfish of them.) The people at the library provided enough scraps to make a few quilt patches, the students who were present provided the design, and, as always, my friends were the threads that bind the whole thing together. (Awwwww.)
Arts and crafts aside, it was fun to return to the alma mater, and I think that the books I found finally gave me a solid approach to my paper. But here's hoping that future ventures in the next week feature more of the friend side of the equation than the work side.
Later D--
Oooh! Almost forgot. No trip down nostalgia lane would be complete without a brisk trot through lunch at the campus restaurant. And however much anything else has changed, their student bargain-priced grilled cheese is EXACTLY how I remember. If the campus is a quilt, then that restaurant is definitely a... signature stitching form? A matching throw-pillow? A ketchup stain in the upper right corner that draws the eye?
...I think think this metaphor has gotten away from me.
Later Days.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Superfluity of Topics
One of the quotations that stuck with me from the autobiography portion of the blog class said that every act of telling is an act of telling is an act of omission. It's a notion that seems contrary to the spirit of the blog: if you have the option of saying anything, that seems to also imply that you can say everything. But of course, that's not the case. The first hurdle is the numerous social obligations that prevent one (ok, me) from totally disclosing some subjects. After all, there is a reason I'm a pseudononymous author. And beyond that, as any writer worth his or her salt knows, there is no absolute truth to an event, but every time you commit it to paper, (electronic ones and zeroes, whatever) you're privileging one interpretation above countless others. Since my last post, I've been through a fair bit. What to do I talk about? What's worth stating?
Should I talk about the car ride over to the airport?
The conversation on that car ride?
The four hour wait in the airport boarding area, in which I nearly friggin starved because the only place there selling food didn't accept debit?
The four-hour plane ride, in which I once again made the weighty decision on whether to choose Pepsi or Sprite for my complimentary drink?
The frustration towards the Samurai Sodoku puzzle I brought? The way it felt to look down from the window and feel the contrast between the lights from the stars and the lights from the ground? (Awesome, by the way; I never had a night time plane trip in clear skies by a window seat before.)
A review of the two novels I read on the plane, one featuring human/sheep hybrids, sentient computers, aliens with advanced olfactory sensors, and a religion founded on skepticism and another novel that was by John Barth? (Guess which one was easier to follow. Zing.)
The privilege I felt, at just being witness to a woman who stepped off the plane after a year spent abroad in New Zealand, coming into the arms of her family?
The relief I felt myself to be here?
The oddity of feeling that I was back, but slightly misplaced?
How I'm adapting? Whether or not I feel glad that my essay has finally swung the other way, that instead of having nothing prepared, I now have enough notes that they take up more space than the finished essay is supposed to? (Answer: I feel very glad. Glad enough to put off the actual writing another day or two.)
The precautions that should, nay, must, be taken for cold-weather jogging? (Very important.)
So many topics, so much yet so little space. And this doesn't even take into account a few things I left out entirely I suppose the nice thing about life is that these things sort themselves out, sooner or later.
Later Days.
Should I talk about the car ride over to the airport?
The conversation on that car ride?
The four hour wait in the airport boarding area, in which I nearly friggin starved because the only place there selling food didn't accept debit?
The four-hour plane ride, in which I once again made the weighty decision on whether to choose Pepsi or Sprite for my complimentary drink?
The frustration towards the Samurai Sodoku puzzle I brought? The way it felt to look down from the window and feel the contrast between the lights from the stars and the lights from the ground? (Awesome, by the way; I never had a night time plane trip in clear skies by a window seat before.)
A review of the two novels I read on the plane, one featuring human/sheep hybrids, sentient computers, aliens with advanced olfactory sensors, and a religion founded on skepticism and another novel that was by John Barth? (Guess which one was easier to follow. Zing.)
The privilege I felt, at just being witness to a woman who stepped off the plane after a year spent abroad in New Zealand, coming into the arms of her family?
The relief I felt myself to be here?
The oddity of feeling that I was back, but slightly misplaced?
How I'm adapting? Whether or not I feel glad that my essay has finally swung the other way, that instead of having nothing prepared, I now have enough notes that they take up more space than the finished essay is supposed to? (Answer: I feel very glad. Glad enough to put off the actual writing another day or two.)
The precautions that should, nay, must, be taken for cold-weather jogging? (Very important.)
So many topics, so much yet so little space. And this doesn't even take into account a few things I left out entirely I suppose the nice thing about life is that these things sort themselves out, sooner or later.
Later Days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)