K(apital)

I've come to the conclusion that sewing is heavily capital intensive. In most people's minds you need some fabric, some thread and a needle. If you're really into it, then you get a sewing machine. I've been mucking about in the hobby for a while so I knew it wasn't quite that simple. Then I decided I wanted to do it properly. I had vague ideas about using better fabric and taking my time.

Oh how could I be so naive? I should have known better. My father is a mechanic. Since I can remember, I've been told there is a tool for every job. As with anything, if you want to do it right, then you'd better use the right tools. I just didn't realise there was so many correct tools. I have seen the tools my mother has for sewing, but I hadn't taken on board that I too might need them - all of them.

The first step was getting a new iron. My five dollar garage sale iron was no qualified for the job. My 1950's garage sale ironing board though is. It's big and it's heavy. I love it, as I can press to my heart's content without it protesting. The iron on the other hand needed to be upgraded. I hung out in the iron aisle on the cell to my mother - thank goodness for cheap long distance - trying to find the best iron for what I needed. This went down as a capital expense. I'm still trying to decided how many years it will be amortized over.

Then, I had to get a cover for the base of my iron, so that I could blast the fabric with the highest heat and steam setting without burning holes in it. I am now terrified of the power my iron possesses. I have the potential to melt fabric so that it disappears.

Then I had to get a clapper so that I could blast steam into all the seams with my new iron on its highest setting, covered with its new base and then smash the clapper into the seam so that they remain forever pressed. The idea is to frighten the seam so much that it becomes petrified and can't move.

Then I had to get a shoulder pressing board for doing all the annoying seams. I am now strongly tempted to make everything sleeveless. Sleeves are annoying to set, they're aggravating to sew, they're a pain to press. Sleeves are over-rated.

I thought I was good for a while. No more equipment necessary. There were a few things that I would like, for instance a dress form but that was on the wish list not the need list.

Then I bought silk.

Suddenly I needed new and finer pins and needles.

I wanted to slightly alter the pattern.

Then I needed a french curve.

I'm waiting for tracing paper and the tracing wheel to come back in stock.

Then I signed up for a shirt making class.

Then I absolutely needed a point turner - it's no longer appropriate to jab at the corners with the longest pointiest object you have on hand. Who knew? Then there was fray away. I don't know what it does but it looks like glue. I found out that a seam ripper is not used for cutting button holes as well. There's a special tool for that. The seam ripper had worked for me until now. I expect much better button holes from here on in. I have a special tool for it.

There's a collar pressing board that I have yet to get.

I think next time I go to the store, I'll just wave my hands at the wall and proclaim, "I'll take it all. I'm sick of buying it a piece at a time."

But I have nowhere to store all the wretched stuff. Which means I now need a sewing box.

Off-road

My favourite question to ask the bike shops was , "How off-road can you take it?"

The answer varied by store and by bike but the general consensus was not very. They all wanted to know how off-road I wanted to take it. Not having had a bike in Ottawa, I couldn't tell them. Ah, well then, they all seemed to imply, you live in Ottawa, you'll use the bike paths. Why do you care?

Well now I can tell them. It's exactly because I live in Ottawa and I use the bike paths that I need a bike that can go off-road.

On my first ride on the bike paths, I took the path by the Rideau River. I didn't want to return by the same route I'd taken, so I was pleased when the path came to a bridge that I could cross which had a path returning up the other side of the river.

The paved path soon turned into a wide dirt track. I could tell immediately that it was a pedestrian worn path - I'd helped to beat a few of them myself back home. I kept going. It turned into a dirt track the width of a bike. At this point, if I didn't stay with the river, I was lost. So I kept going. I navigated around the tree roots and the large rocks jutting out of the ground. I went across grass parks and the path returned - with more rocks and roots. Then it went into a wooded area, in which I discovered fallen trees and a hill with rocks and more roots. It's a good job my bike is light for lifting over and under trees and up rocky hills. Eventually the off-road course joined back to the bike path by sending you back over the river.

So yes, I live in Ottawa and I ride the bike paths.

I need a bike that will go off-road.

Otherwise, I'm not getting home.

My bike

I have a new bike. It's sleek and shiny.

As the bike expert and I searched for a bike, we started with a vague idea of the type of bike I needed. Need being a loose term of course - are your needs the same as your wants? Well . . . I wanted a mountain bike. I needed a road bike. The compromise of course was the hybrid. We were looking at hybrids. The more we looked, the more we came to understand what I needed and the more we couldn't find it.

We knew that middle range components were the right range. I didn't need the top of the line and the bottom ones, well the snob in me wasn't going to get a bike with sub-par parts. Not when I knew the names of better components. I was having trouble keeping the derailers ranked correctly so the expert gave me a list which I carefully carried. Quick, how far from bottom is Alivio? Four! YES! I'm not sure you're supposed to do a victory dance in the store when you get it right. Then again, three weeks ago, I wouldn't have had a clue what he was talking about, which was clearly grounds for doing another victory dance.

There was ensuring that the geometry of the bike was appropriate and the expert was stuck on a front suspension. I could have cared less, but you listen to your advisor and his rationale and you go, ok, whatever, you win.

I also wanted rapid fire shifters. I didn't trust the other sort.

Privately, I was not going to get a bike that screamed girl. Younger brothers will do that to you. You get scared for life.

We returned to the store where we had had the best luck. They'd rearranged the store. Using my newfound knowledge, I explain to the sales assistant the bike we were looking at last time used to be here. Where I was looking, there was no longer a bike rack. Upon further questioning, I explained that it was blue. She looked at the expert. He obligingly translated. So they didn't have that bike anymore. We were back to square one.

We pulled out the mental check list. A few bikes seemed to be a possibility. Then I discovered the shifters were not rapid fire. The sales assistant assured me that they could be changed. I looked at her. She went and confirmed. "On this bike, it would be easy. "

As I rolled the bike towards the door for the test drive, the expert looked at the bike.
"I have good feeling about this one."

I was still annoyed about the shifters. The first thing I noticed was that my back didn't start to hurt and the seat was comfortable. I then realised that the bike was light and the crank was really smooth. I headed for a pot hole. Not too bad. I then took it on gravel. Nice. I was almost sold.

There were a few things I wanted to double-check on the bike and I caused the sales assistant some problems by asking to see various parts of the bike moved into another position. It looked like this might be the bike. So I handed it over to the expert and said, "You try it."

Upon his return, we regrouped and went through our mental check list - components, check, shifters, with adjustment, check, suspension, check, geometry, check, comfortable seat, check. It was black and silver and not some baby blue or fuchsia so I was happy.

I had found a bike, the bike. The perfect bike. We could put a check mark next to everything on the list. We had found the bike we were beginning to think might not exist in Ottawa. It seemed surreal.

Buying a bike is hard work. Making the decision about what else to get is even harder. By the time we had finished, I was exhausted. Then it slowly sunk in, we had found a bike. It was reality. I had a bike, which was clearly grounds for another victory dance.

In riding the bike home from the store, I quickly realised that the expert was right, as always when it's bike related, to insist on front suspension. Pot holes and cracks are everywhere. Front suspension makes all the difference.

Shake it till it falls apart.

Sometimes shop assistants surprise you and not always in a good way. Take for example, during my latest bike buying expedition, the young kid who helped us out. I had a sneaking feeling that I was supposed to babysit him at seven yet here he was pretending he knew enough to assist me. I think he was fifteen - just old enough to work legally.

He had not been much use really. We'd had to outright ask to test drive a bike and he hadn't seemed too sure of the process. Having test ridden several bikes by now, I knew the drill. The assistant finds the bike in your size, he puts it in the stand and checks the brakes and the tires, then he asks you to get on the bike while he holds it to ensure the seat is the right height. Then he hands you a helmet and you go for the test ride.

The kid after a while found the bike in the correct size. He mentioned that it was on hold, but said that I could still try it. It didn't look like he was going to do any checking of the bits. So I tentatively checked the tire. At this point, the kid checked the tire, then he picked the bike up and dropped it so that it bounced. He repeated a few times for good measure and effect. He looked at the brakes. Then he picked the bike up and shook it - hard. Then he did it again. Nothing fell off . . .

Then he motioned for me to sit on the bike to check the seat height. I knew that I was heavier than he was. Furthermore, he wasn't braced to take the weight of the bike and me. I took a deep breath and thought, this is going to hurt. It was the scariest five seconds of my bike buying expedition. So scary that I touched my feet to the pedals, gave a quick back pedal and put my feet back safely on the floor. He made me do it again. Deep breath . . .

I've never seen anyone shake a bike before. Not when he's already bounced it off the ground.

Did I mention it was on hold?

Symmetry

My mother was telling me about a phone-in radio show she had been listening to, the kind where the host tells people how to "fix" their problems. The phone call she heard was from a wife who wanted three kids. She and her husband currently had two but the husband did not want to have another child.

"What are his reasons?" asked the host.

The lady replied, "He's an engineer. He doesn't like the fact that if we went to a theme park, we'd take up three cars and someone would have to sit by themselves."

The show continued.

As my mother relayed this information to me, after a particularly trying episode with the resident family engineer, we both knew the lady stood no chance. It was the simple explanation she gave. My husband is an engineer. End of story. She either had to have two or four kids. Three was untidy and left loose ends. There was no way a true engineer was going to have an unsymmetrical family. Unsymmetrical flower arrangements, yes, odd number of family members that caused havoc at theme parks, no. (And in envisioning the argument about who has to sit by themselves, he has a point.)

It's funny how symmetry creeps in when you least expect it. On the last bike shopping expedition, it became downright eerie how everything came full circle.

The bike expert and I met up at the bus stop. "Do you think that Subway's open? I didn't have time for lunch." I thought it was so we hit subway and then hit the bike stores.

We were on the last leg of our bike hunt and as we're looking around a store, the expert says, "Does it feel different this time?" I blinked. I hadn't thought about it and I wasn't too sure of what I was supposed to be thinking. It must have shown that I hadn't a clue what he was referring to. He raised his eyebrows, "This is the first shop we went in." Right, check, opps. It did feel different. This time I knew what I was talking about, well almost..

Last time, the expert had waxed on about rims and tires and the engineering concepts behind the different sizes and treads. This time he explained the theory behind spokes and how to make them aerodynamic, and light. As we gazed at the bike suspended above our heads, I carefully noted that the spokes on one side had to bow out while on the other they were flush with the line of the bike.

Last time, the shop clerk had hurried us out because the store was about to close. This time the shop clerk wasn't too helpful and we hurried out because quite frankly, the store was starting to scare us. So we headed to the next store, which happened to be the next store we had gone to last time.

Last time, after I was wrapping up looking at bikes, the expert had gotten distracted and gone to look at running gear. He's one of those annoyingly fit people - the kind that do marathons for fun. Not the kind that are pleased to finish the marathon but the kind that finish it with a really good time and then jog home. He had a marathon coming up for which he needed new gear. I never realised before what a difficult thing it was buying running gear. There's different fabrics, different cuts, different colour schemes, and brands. It was great to watch someone else agonize over the details. Normally it's me. It was even more fun to be able to offer advice about something I knew nothing about. I couldn't help with the technical aspect but I could help with the fashion. "You can't wear those shorts with that top. It doesn't match." Silly thing to say. We then had to determine if the matching top matched too much. Try and explain that to a sales clerk. End result - just the shorts.

This time, as I was wrapping up buying the bike, Simon wandered off again to look at gear. He did the half marathon - he did well. Now he's doing a triathlon. I'm pretty sure he'll do the iron man next. My part was again helpful, "Wrong colour." End result - two tops. (Which for those of you keeping track will match the shorts.)

We'd promised to meet a friend up for a concert but buying a bike is hard work. We were exhausted. "We're coming later. Sorry."

We met up at the same bus stop. Simon greeted me, "Do you think Subway's still open?" I looked at him in horror. "Didn't you have time for dinner?" A giant grin spread across his face.

As we got on the bus, the bus driver gave us a funny look. "You two have already been on my bus today!" Sure enough, it was the same bus driver, from the same bus stop, going in the same direction to the same destination.

And then as we left the concert, we ran into the salesperson who had sold me my bike. It felt complete.

The entire bike buying experience had come full circle.

I have a bike.

The expert has a running outfit.

There was completeness and symmetry. No loose ends.

It gurgles now!

Right now I am very excited. I am refraining from phoning all my friends.

"Do you have any bathtubs that are slow to drain? I can fix it."

With the help of a simple tool, google and a little bit of perserverence, I have unclogged my bathtub drain.

It was getting silly. I would have a shower and the water would slowly collect at my feet. It took forever for a bath to drain.

I live in an old building so I chalked it up to old pipes and bad design. Until I spent a week trying to slowly clean my bathtub. It had the nastiest ring around it simply because the water sat in the bath for so long while draining that all the soap residue clung to the side. I couldn't clean the tube because the water I used to clean it wouldn't drain away.

This week-end I went and bought a bathroom agar. I gave it a go and there was no inkling that I was getting anywhere near the problem. So I spent a few minutes on google and went and gave it another shot. Still nothing, back to google for the missing piece. Another go and success - it said you knew you'd done it when you pulled out something that looked like a dead mouse. Bingo, one dead mouse.

At this point I would normally describe how one goes about this, but I would much rather show you. I am ecstatic. I have saved a massive plumber bill. I have learned a new skill.

I wish I had more clogged drains to practise on. Plumbing is strangely satisfying.

LIfe is Exciting

Life is exciting!

My day has been full since I woke up and the rest of the day is fully planned.

The first item on my agenda was cleaning up the food my cat threw up. I have two small areas of carpet in the house and the rest is wood. She choose a nice central area of carpet and then, denied having anything to do with it. There's only two of us in here, I pointed out, and it wasn't me.

Next, I started making my grocery list. Before I could start, I had to determine what in my fridge was still good. I started looking and then hauled over the garbage. I'm still of the opinion that expiry dates are a guideline. Things turn before they're supposed to and others last long after they should have developed two legs and ran away. I was surprised at how much didn't need to be thrown out. Then I started looking at the vegetables. Need to rethink how many and how often I buy vegetables.

So onto grocery shopping and going to the hardware shop. I am to buy an agar, which sounds like a cook stove but apparently is a tool to stick down the drain. I'm spending my afternoon doing laundry and unclogging a drain. I've been told to wear gloves as it will get nasty quickly.

I have to find my window fan which means turning the place upside down.

I have a cupboard to reorganize. I'm scared to start in case I don't finish it and it becomes one of those unfinished jobs that's a bigger mess than when you started.

I have bills to pay.

Life is so exciting . . . .

Done!

I finished my dress.

It looks awesome.

I wore it to work today and then as promised, I went round to Darrell's to show off my finished product. Last time I was in, I was told that the next time they saw me, I had to be wearing my dress. Denise told me that if I just put my mind to it, I could finish it this past week-end. She was right.

Darrell made all the right noises. He called a fellow customer to have a look. "This is her first time using professional fabric and she was so nervous when she bought it. But look, absolutely fabulous." He made a running commentary as I rotated - "Fits nicely, like the way you've worn the collar, buttons are perfectly spaced . . ." (Collar was at an angle appropriate for attitude. I think the buttonholes are actually out a few sixteenths of an inch in some places but who's measuring?)

I love this store. They push me to do things that I am unsure I can accomplish and they make the correct sounds when I get it right. They're also willing to help me along the way and if I am willing to hear the criticism, then they'll tell me when I get it wrong. I was in there multiple times asking for clarification on the pattern, choosing buttons, getting more thread, having the arms checked yet again, etc. I realised that this was a process that took two months. I am very proud of the fact that I finished it. I have too many unfinished projects in my past.

I asked where Denise was so that I could show her. She was the one who had told me to wear it in. She wasn't there. Darrell paused for a few seconds. "I have my digital camera. Hang on, I'll take a picture and e-mail her tonight. She'll be so excited."

And there in the middle of the shop, with my back to the bolts of fabric for contrast, I had my picture snapped. In what other shop, do they take your picture to show the assistant who isn't there?

"Did you get lots of compliments?", he asked.

"I work mainly with guys," I replied, "no."

"Then they're idiots."

I love this store.

So Close

My neck hurts and my back aches. My fingers have pulled skin all over them. My eyes are tired and sitting is a chore. Over the course of the week-end I have slowly and steadily inflicted this soreness on my body. Tomorrow night, I shall have one last go before giving myself a break for the time being.

I have spent the week-end working on my dress. It was the week-end of buttons. This dress has fifteen buttons down the front. I had to practise button holes until I found the right size. I then had to put fifteen buttonholes down the front - trying to keep them at right angles to the seam and parrallel to the floor. I was hunched over my sewing machine trying to ensure that all button holes started and ended the same distance away from the edge. My machine did a few hiccups. I was stuck ripping out black stiching out of black fabric - both cotton so that the texture did not assist me in any way in determining what was what. My eyes were not happy.

I ran out of thread and had to buy more Saturday morning. I had the sleeves checked and recieved the green light to sew them in place.

Then I started on the buttons. I had to check the placement of each and every button - to the hole and to the edge. I hunched over even more over my work, straining my neck and jabbing the needle into my index fingers. I've heard people say that when running, you reach a pace and even though you're tired it's more effort to stop then to keep going. I have a buttoning pace. You keep going through sheer determination.

When the last button is sewn in place, there is no release through relief. Instead, you put the garment on with shaking hands, hoping that everything is correctly placed and that the garment fits. Fit is a multi layered word. There is that which fits and there is that which fits correctly and there is that which looks as though is was made only for you. The last one fits.

My dress fits. Looking at myself in the mirror, I was impressed. Not with the work and the effort that had gone into the garment, but at my reflection. There are some things that you try on in a store and you can't leave them on the rack. I have a few items that were just so right that they had to come home. Looking in the mirror, I saw a dress that I would have bought and paid dearly for, so that it could belong to my wardrobe. Except that this time, I could say that I had created it.

Tomorrow I shall hem it with tiny stiches. I would do it now except that my neck and back couldn't take it. Tomorrow night I shall ache all over.

The next day, however, my back will be straight, my head will held high and I shall hide my hands by my side. With no effort, I shall walk ten feet tall.

I shall be wearing my dress!