I'm DIM: Doing It Myself

I am not what you might call "hands-on." Oh, I'm not one of those super-high-maintenance women, with the high-heeled snow boots and the weekly manicure. I once read a particularly snarky letter to the editor of Homemakers magazine after they featured Mila Mulroney looking chipper and pert on their cover. Imagine how much more money we would all have, the writer groused, if the taxpayers weren't springing for Mila to get her signature bangs trimmed all the freaking time.

That's not me. But neither am I one of those super-crunchy folks who are making their own bike seats out of locally-sourced goat leather and engaging in vermiculture in order to improve the spirit of my garden. I can barely sew, I kill plants by looking at them, and I don't know how to rewire a lamp or help birth a calf. Based on my current skill set, I would that useless, irritating farmgirl - the one who stares wistfully at the horizon and hides in the sweet-smelling hay of the barn, reading, instead of helping out with chores, singing, or carousing with the ruddy-cheeked neighbouring farmboys at the annual barn dance and/or parent-approved snogging festival.

Lately, I feel like there's been an explosion of the DIY culture. You can grow your own food. You can raise your own chickens (although not in the city of Toronto, which apparently has a by-law on the book prohibiting fowl from the downtown core - unless, of course, it's dead and presented on a styrofoam meat tray). You can join a co-op to invest in unpasteurized milk and futures on homegrown beef. Your kids can wear hand-made clothes while you menstruate onto "adorable" feminine products. Call it urban homesteading, the rise of the Etsy generation, or just a simple desire for city-dwellers to connect to where their stuff comes from.

It's interesting to think about it from a class perspective: a lot of my more granola-type pals, the ones who are growing their own food/biking everwhere/making their own beer, are doing it because, um, well: we're broke. I can't afford a metropass; ergo, I use my bicycle. My friends can't afford to buy new, eighty-dollar pants, so they pick up clothes from the Sally Ann. The "free to a good home" barter system that's sprung up on Craigslist in the last decade or so has netted clothes, fitness equipment, pet supplies (and the occasional pet), books, kitchen tools, furniture and more. The library and it's "free! But bring it back or we'll take your money" model of business has given us comics and cookbooks, the likes of which permanently collecting would be financially unfeasible.

And then from the other side, you have folks who purchase their handmade stuff and then behave like it makes them more enlightened. Look, I like Lush soap as much as the next gal, but when I plop down a fiver and receive a product in return, I'm not being special or using magical hippie powers to change the world. All I'm really doing is engaging in what's known as capitalism.

Now, if Etsy, Lush, Grassroots, or the Slingshot collective, or any of the businesses that promote the DIY/environmentally-friendly aesthetic, also accepted the fact that folks often "choose" to DIY not out of earthy lust but because we are poor people, and offered their goods and services on a sliding scale - equitableness is fun! - then I'd believe that their mission statement of being good to the earth and the people who live on it isn't just lip service. I know people gotta make a living, but when my choices are el cheapo No Name laundry detergent that's basically allergenic poison, or expensive retro detergent that won't give my family hives, there really isn't much of a choice.

Personally, I'm not totally useless: my culinary skills, while not particularly diverse (I, like most cooking-for-one types, make the same dishes over and over), manage to deliver consistent tastiness, and I will try new projects in the kitchen; "bloody zombie" cupcakes, anyone? I knit, I bake, I make the occasional collage or art project. I'm capable but not particularly experienced.

I'm wildly interested in things like canning food and brewing my own beer. Part of that interest comes from wanting to save a few pennies down the road - seriously, do you know how expensive fig preserves are?! - and part of it comes from half-seriously wanting to be ready should the end of the world descend upon us (hint: zombies!) Part of it comes from Canada being a nation built on farmers and homesteaders, and to ignore that cultural motif, while embracing fashionable buffalo plaid, seems disingenuous. Part of it comes from the desire to have skills, to be self-supportive, and to know how things work - things like pastry and beer have their own rules.

And part of it is just wanting to get my hands dirty. A lot of things in the DIY movement make your life harder - seriously, baking your own sourdough is a commitment - but in the end, you end up pretty much what you want, made with your own hands.

Little Red Hearts

We live in a curious age, and I have questions. Not in a weird, steampunk sort of way - although some of those girls can be mighty sexy, the men generally come across as pervy and slavering - but in the sense that our time gets ever more complicated, and the boundaries and expectations aren't clearly defined.

To wit: Facebook. Web 2.0 has its own grammar of etiquette, and not unlike email 15 years ago, or the more recent texting revolution, we're still learning the capabilities of what it can do...and what it should do. In an era when so many folks are putting so much about themselves online, it definitely helps to have some boundaries.

Especially when it comes to romantic and friendship entanglements, and the murky waters between the two. I remember the first time I was "in a relationship with" someone - I mean, not someone's girlfriend, which had happened before then, but had the chance to show it off on Facebook. A little heart icon appeared next to the news item (!) It was adorable. Conversely, I remember the end of that relationship, and the heart-wrenching moment I went from "in a relationship with" to "single." I'm not kidding when I tell you that the little icon was, at that point, a little broken heart. (I think Facebook has since wised up, and now accompanies any relationship updates with a heart.) It sounds ridiculous, and it sort of is, but it's now a part of the young-person break-up process to have your friends get in touch with you via Facebook to commiserate your newly ended relationship.

And after the breakup, there's all the uncertainty: do you stay friends? Do you "hide" the person from your newsfeed? (for the non-Facebooked among us [hi, Mom!], your newsfeed is what shows up on your main page - it's all the stuff your friend have been doing and saying, their photos, their posted links, roughly chronologically. "Hiding" people means they don't show up there, so their incessant updates about their angry politics or engagement showers are blissfully out of sight for you.) Should you delete altogether? Is there a cooling-off period before you start interacting with them again?

I personally like it when people are "in a relationship" with someone on Facebook, if they are in real life, too: newly friended Faceook pals are often snooping around looking for deets on one's relationship status, and a firm statement that you're off the market is nice to see. I know it's awkward if/when folks break up to change it to single - that can feel very abrupt and frankly, horrible - but it's nice while a couple is together. Likewise, if folks are married, they don't need to be all OMG I'm totes hitched or whatever - one of my very favourite couples went from "married" back to "in a relationship" on Facebook because, as she put it, "I'm puking at married- buy a house - live all alone - have a pack of kids. That's not what I signed up for!!!" - but some acknowledgment of your girlfriend, boyfriend, wife, husband, whatever they are to you, is important.

I'm torn about the best post-breakup strategies, though. Nobody likes seeing their ex jumping around the city, gleeful and hilarious, while you sit at home surrounded by bourbon-filled chocolates (from which you've sucked all the liquor) and the evidence of your sad, lonely life. On the other hand, many breakups are mutual, non-heartbreaking affairs, and it's nice to keep in touch. Facebook is great because it's exactly as invasive as you make it: you can obsessively go through photos and comb their wall, or you can be like, "Huh!" when your ex posts that they've started a catering company and are generally doing awesome, and then go back to thinking about what kind of sex noises Al Gore would make, based on his Futurama guest spots.

I asked my friends about this issue last week - what do you do with a Facebook ex? - and most folks erred on the side of caution. If you hate her, they counseled, then delete her. If you're ambivalent, hide him. And if it was amicable and friendly, then stay friends. Facebook sort of mirrors real life with this strategy, and cuts down on the number of stomach-churning digital run-ins you'll have with an ex-lover. And deliberately checking in, on the internet, on an ex, feels really invasive. Never mind that you're still friends, or that all that information is there because s/he put it there - I end up feeling like I'm spying. Deleting them can help curb that impulse, since most people don't have viewable profiles, but it can still be a challenge.

And no matter how much distance you put between yourself and an ex, there are always going to be emotional ties that bind - do you really need digital ties as well? Facebook, like email and stored numbers in your phone's memory, can be nasty or nice, sweet or bittersweet. I'm not saying that folks have ditch all their exes, but distance, in time and cyberspace, is good.

Your Revolution Will Not Happen Between These Sighs

I love a good call to arms in the morning. I've been so invested in this whole job-hunting thing that it's sometimes good to scrub out your soul.

Yesterday, instead of going to a job interview like I had planned, I ended up having mega-panic and sort of shutting down. This isn't so uncommon for an anxious gal, but it was demoralizing. After applying to jobs for months, I've only had a few interviews - a combined effect of reaching, just a little, of a tough old job market, and of only applying for jobs I actually, you know, want. All the job postings I've seen for cafeteria lunch lady or part-time bookkeeper have been noted, but not applied for, because I don't want to be a lunch lady or part-time bookkeeper. So getting an interview was sort of A Big Deal, and to blow it due to panic was a little lame.

Anyway, said the oyster, buck the hell up. It's a new day today, and a new day comes with a new, ass-kicking mindset. And there are brothers and sisters in the fight against bullshit. Sarah Jones's "Your Revolution," which I first heard all the way back in high school, is a nice manifesto (womanifesto?) about not putting up with crap. It's a take-off of Gil Scott-Heron's spoken word slam "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised," and both the original indictment of TV society, and her next-generation raised eyebrow at misogynist hip-hop culture, are great tools for howiztering a bad day.

It's my belief that everyone has their own tricks and shortcuts to busting a bad day. Some folks go for runs - getting those endorphins moving through the bloodstream is a great way to annihilate a lousy day. On the oppos a ite end of the spectrum, there are the people who get all Bukowski on us and drown their sorrows into numerous kegs of beer. As a woman who is trying to avoid the keg-like physique this technique often results in, I'm shying away from the alcoholic bad-mood buster...although some days demand a ginger beer and bourbon, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. In the category of "things I don't understand" are the folks who engage in what's known as "retail therapy;" shopping adds to my stress levels. My idea of hell is Kensington Market on a Saturday afternoon in the summer. Smells, people, and jostling? Gross. The last thing I want to do when I'm feeling fragile is head to Winners and look at flats.

I have this sweater that I call "the flu sweater," because it's the single most comforting article of clothing I own. It's blue, cashmere, holey like whoa, and so soft I wish I had jumpsuits made of the stuff. It's what I wear when I'm home and feeling like I need a hug. I also have this floor-length black skirt, which is flowy and sort of Angelina-ish, but when I put it on, I feel like a sneaky lady-ninja and I'm ready to kick some ass. Putting on the lady-ninja skirt and making breakfast is a powerful experience; wearing the flu sweater while I eat yogurt and bananas is a comfort moment. It's all about the headspace.

In any case, there's been precious little ass-kicking going on in my head lately. Cowed by the middling success at job hunting, I've gone on the defensive, curling myself around my psyche's soft belly in order to protect it. No more. Sometimes strength comes from the inside out - the indomitable feminist rant about where, exactly, the revolution might take place - and sometimes you need to put on your armour, lace up your running shoes, pour out a shot, and get back into the world with a smile and a fake-it-'til-you-make-it attitude that glosses over the nerves until its embedded in your core. See you at the revolution: I'll be wearing my ninja skirt and holding my resume.

Join The Club

My mom, who is a member of a book club, has been calling me up every few weeks to bitch about her reading choices. "Eat Pray Love is terrible," she groaned. Having read the dust jacket and seen the trailer for the movie (the thesis of which seems to be "Isn't Julia Roberts just swell?"), I wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment. That woman, the one with the smug writing style and the white-lady travels to Bali, Belize, and some guy's futon, was a huge source of derision for my mom and I - she having had the reading experience, and me being the knee-jerk judgmental reactionary I am.

My mom has had mixed success with book clubs, as have I. My favourite book club story is when she sent me on a search for Sophie's World, the mega-bestseller about philosophy and adolescence, two of my least favourite things. I spent almost an hour in the second-hand bookstore, combing the S section, gave up in frustration, and then got uproariously laughed at by my mother, who informed me that the author was Jostein Gaarder, not Joe Steingardner. Mission eventually accomplished, but like, come on. The book, which was like, seven hundred pages of philosophical, sophomoric, moronic gabbling, was not well received at casa di Mama.

When I was a youth, I was in a book club, along with several other of the less social successful kids in my fourth-grade class. We read titles like Maniac Magee, The Bridge To Terabithia and The Great Gilly Hopkins (whose name I'll admit to still not knowing how to pronounce). We had meetings at one of the many Jennifers's house - there were seriously, like, eight Jennifers in my class that year - and she was one of those kids who had been saddled with all the unfortunate allergies and/or hypersensitive parents. Her birthday cake, which weighed an easy ten pounds, was made of rice flour and stevia. Anyway, I was lucky to come of age when some classic kids lit was being written - Gordan Korman novels, Paula Danziger books, all the Newbery award winners that were thought-provoking and well-written.

I know Oprah thundered all over the concept of the book club in recent years, and the subsequently embarrassment of the Frey debacle sort of took the wind out of her sails a little. Not to mention Franzen and his eff-you take on the whole phenomenon. I do like a good book club, though - Canada Reads is an especially good one, what with the whole home-grown bent and the fight-to-the-death element that's so pleasing. But really, any old group of folks can get together in the name of literature.

We tend to want to share the things we love, be it books, movies, comics, music. One of the best variations on the "club" theme was the Music club one of my friends joined. Each member chose two albums to listen to, and discussion ensued. Themes and similarities were debated and discounted, and the whole undertaking could be as shallow as a cursory listen on the subway, or an obsessive, repetitive round that both destroys and rebuilds the soul - you know, whatevs. But no matter what kind of media you're delving into, it's not about the book...it's about the community.

I miss the days of my childhood book club, mostly because I still love reading books meant for children, but also because books are amazing, life-changing ways of accessing emotions and information. I miss sitting down with the written word, knowing that, at some point, I was going to talk about it. Maybe my early years as a reader helped shape my interminable stint as an English student, or my writing, or the miles of bookshelves I've stuffed with my favourites. I believe early access to reading helps make readers, the way dancing with my dad to Mike Oldfield helped shape my interest in electronic music. And early access to other people makes children into human beings. Book clubs? That's some good humanity right there.

InStyle: Winter Worn

My friend Rachel is the single most stylish person I know. I don't know how she does it, but she's a dazzler. I've seen her sick with the flu, and even in her febrile state, she's rocking a slouchy toque and the rosy cheeks. When she's not running a fever, she manages to combine these outfits that just amaze me with their insane awesomeness - bangles, DIY haircuts that feature "unicorn horns" and mini-braids, band pins and dresses and hats. I told her years ago that she could place a handful of cabbage on her head and I would totally buy it if she told me it was new, jaunty chapeau, and it's still true.

She's gifted, of course. Not only has she run the gamut from gothic-fabulous to stylie-raver to earthy bohemian, she's saved others from fashion disasters. Notably, she once hid the enormous beaded necklace of a high school buddy in a barbecue - the "beads" were seriously the size of billiard balls, and painted a humiliatingly clownish red. Rachel can be like some fashion oracle, saving those less visionary from tragic missteps and leading the way.

Needless to say, I'm way, way less debonair when it comes to dressing myself. I'm short - not "tiny" or "petite" or any of those delicate ways of telling people that you're five-nothing and a gossamer little sprite of a pixie of a person; I have some heft to me - and have big, curly hair. Not on purpose. If I was a different kind of gal, I'd be like Dolly Parton, all boobs and hair and smile. But I'm a moody sumbitch sometimes, and I can't quite pull off pleather clamdiggers. My fashion tastes run a little odd sometimes - floaty maxi skirts and dresses paired with kimono-cut tops, tight little jackets, cargo capris, slutty tank tops, scarves and wrist gauntlets. The colour palette is a lot of grey and black, with some red and navy in there to lighten the mood. It's sort of a post-industrial prettiness, one that wouldn't be out of place in a stylized zombie invasion or a bummer of a WWOOFing trip.

Winter is my favourite time to dress, not least because I get to shrug my shoulders at all the girls on the U of T campus who wear tights under their booty shorts for a year-round take on the Daisy Duke. I also get to maximize my layers: one of my favourite games to play mid-December is to count how many shirts are between my bare skin and the outside world. It averages out to five or six, leaving me with a plethora of options when I get into the overheated bar or onto the packed-yet-chilly streetcar. It also beats the hell out of summer, when going topless feels like too much clothing. I love a layered-up guy, too: a rolled-up-sleeves shirt over a band tee matched with a hoodie, some scarves, a hat: they become sexy little bundles of coziness and fashion.

I'm not one of those people who thinks that every outfit represents something essential about its wearer - but I do believe in thoughtful fashion. Even if your closet is stuffed with nondescript tops and blah sort of bottoms, there's a method to one's madness (even if the final result is a weak "please don't look at me"). Just like musical taste, fashion choices can show the world who you are, but only up to a point...you also have to be an interesting person when you're naked and your stereo is busted.

And this is such a great time of year for stuff like this. A brand-new coat or sweater can make a world of difference in feeling ready for the seasonal oppression. The other day, I put on my snowpants (a video-game green) and a black tank top and felt very tough and winter-ready, like I'd been fistfighting in the snow all day. I'm figuring out ways to incorporate my silly summer dresses into Canadian winters - sometimes by wearing two or three at a time - and breaking out woolly hats and legwarmers in order to ease the transition. Sure my feet are sometimes cold, or I misjudge an overcast day and end up sweating in my down vest, but it makes me feel better to know I'm suited up, fashionable (-ish), feeling like myself, and feeling good. And I rely on Rachel to size me up occasionally, maybe putting a particularly ridiculous accessory in the oven in order to save me from myself.

Schmaltz Balls

So, sorry about the lack of updates. It's been one of those weeks when my computer's hard drive grinds itself into dust, my volunteer hours are spent arguing, my continued job hunt is miserable, my bank account is evaporating, my bike breaks, and my romantic life is a rollercoaster. My broke, fat ass has been dragging around, moaning about the lack of awesome in my life. Hopefully the situations will be rectified, and soon...

In the meantime, some things that are successful these days include the heart-shaped sunglasses I bought this afternoon, the gluten-free chocolate-cherry pound cake from the new java joint in Kensington, Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World out on DVD next week, new (okay, "new") clothes from Value Village, and a recipe for buttermilk pancakes that looks like a wicked way to spend a Sunday morning. One of my gals treated me to a pedicure this week, my mom took me out for matzoh ball soup, and I had a very satisfying phone call from an out-West friend who is a shining star in my friend constellation.

What's the point of renumerating the good stuff up there? I'm trying to remember that not everything is horrible. For every meh, there's an alright. For every stupid argument, there's a pat on the pack, a buttermilk pancake, a phone call from a friend. Sadly, my glass is often half empty. I struggle with remembering the good stuff, especially when all the lameness threatens to overwhelm: when I'm up to my neck in shitty feelings, it's easy to forget the difference a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses can make.

I'll keep this post brief, since the computer I'm updating on is roughly three thousand years old and likely to keel over dead any second. I've been blessed - not in that Judeo-Christian sort of way, what with the holies and touching and the whatnot, but in a more cosmic, human(e) sort of way - with so much support and love. For me to moan over shitty emails or univited parties makes me miss out on how good most things are. While a bowl of matzoh ball soup won't cure unemployment, the people around me give me mad strength to keep my chin up, stare down my email inbox, and keep going. My friends and family are the people who keep me going when it's all computer explosions and indigestion, and to them, here's a fat thanks.

I promise to return soon, with significantly less schmaltz. Until then, who wants to lend me a hundred bucks so I can get my laptop back from the highway robbers (I'm sorry, "technicians") who currently have it? Eh? Any takers? EH?

Missing The Boat

There's a time and a place for everything, including Hunter S. Thompson (I have to admit, I always think the S in the middle there is one of those Homer Jay/J. Simpson things, along the lines of Harry S Truman, whose S stood for nothing, but I'm wrong - the S. in Hunter S. Thompson stands for Stockton). I'm reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas right now, and while I like it, I think I would have loved in high school. Now, I'm just sort of like, "Dude, enough with the ether and the mescaline and the knifeplay," although I do recognize that those things are sort of the point of the whole thing, and that it's kind of interesting in a corrupt-American-Dream sort of way.

But I get the sense that it's not for me. Written in 1971, back when American troops were busily losing the Vietnam War, and before the War On Drugs had been launched, the dizzy, lurching story of the Mint 400 features Raoul Duke, a Thompson stand-in, and his debauched attorney, as they try to survive a weekend fueled what Thompson describes as a "mobile police narcotics lab," in Las Vegas no less. It's mostly about how many drugs they can stuff in their maws, and how loopy they subsequently feel.

If I had read this ten years ago, back when drugs held a certain glamour, I would have been in awe of their dirty weekend. I had girlfriends who cried when Thompson died in 2005, since they had read his books in high school and seen their own drug consumption justified. If Thompson could gobble sheets of acid and still get played by Johnny Depp in the movie, then they, logic went, were pursuing art by doing stepped-on blow during weekend barbecues.

The same thing comes up with Requiem for a Dream, which I did actually see when I was sixteen. The climax features an amputation, an ECT session, and a double-ended dildo, and is all about how drugs are fun until they're really, really not. It was the alpha and omega of drug movies - a particularly stylish PSA about heroin and how crappy it'll make your life. The book, which is actually more upsetting, left me in a navy-blue funk for a week. The whole experience makes heroin seem awesome, until you're inevitably on the ward without an arm.

And on a much less drug-terror note, I finally saw Edward Scissorhands this summer, way, way too late. I loved it, because it's good, but if I had seen it when I was a kid, it could have taught me a ton about, you know, acceptance and difference and blah blah blah. Plus, Johnny Depp as Edward is just great, all tortured silence and ratty hair. I could have had a childhood kindred spirit in Edward Scissorhands's horribly messy 'do, instead of the Wakefield twins and their ridiculous heart-shaped faces and perfect blonde hair.

It's hard catching up on pop-culture references. Internet memes have a shelf life of weeks - once you've missed the boat on those, you're basically out of the running, joke-wise. Movies and TV shoes are a little more durable, but smoke-monster jokes are dunzo and "I am Jack's raging sense of inanity" are a dying breed. Not that it's impossible to cast your mind back to full stuff you loved a decade ago; more that, if you miss the moment, it's sort of hard to join in at a later date. You lose that head-space: things that were amazing to your younger self (the drug lore, the fight clubs, the dirty lays) morph into things that make us go "ew."

I remember the first time I saw The Matrix. I literally rewound the tape - this was back in the olden days, when movies didn't have chapters - and watched it again, straight through, barely breathing. It was so awesome, so epic, so punchy and green and blue and Keanu! It was awesome in a way that, twenty years from now, is going to be dated. Teenagers, looking for the thrills that thrilled their parents, are going to download that movie and watch it, wondering what all the fuss is about. Making it, not bad, but very much of its time - like Hunter S. Thompson, it'll be a kind of pop culture Mary Celeste, drifting along, influential and exciting but ultimately meant for a certain person in a certain moment.