Dress Form

For most of my life I have been considered skinny and I am. In fact, I tend to cause nicer clothing stores a problem. The assistants in my favourite store in my home town will sigh a slight sigh of resignation every time I come out of the change room and indicate that yet another skirt or pair of pants is too big. She doubtfully says, "I'll see if we have a smaller size." and my mother looks at her watch yet again while hissing "ten minutes left on the parking meter".

Here in town, I was taken back when I entered a boutique and the assistant took one look at me and said, "We don't carry your size." I looked at her taken back. She added for emphasis, "Nothing is going to fit you." Plus sized people can complain about how hard it is to fit clothes that fit, but frankly, anyone outside of the "normal" sizes has problems finding clothing that fits.

However, tonight I have discovered that I have large waist, or a small bust, or hips that ought to belong to another person, or that my body is just way out of proportion.

It seemed simple enough. I had decided that I wanted a dress form. All I wanted was a form that I could stick pins into, whirl the knobs and hope for the best. But deep down, I wanted the ultimate dress form - one that was made to your measurements!

A quick look through the sites that do just that - make a form for your measurements - seemed to me way too expensive and well, actually messy. Most places seem to want to sell you a DVD so that you can encase your body in plaster of paris and with the help of a friend willing to extract you from your body cast and a little bit of luck, you will instantly have a body double. And if that seems a little too daunting, then you can pay lots of money and a firm will do it for you.

Next down the lists was a dress form in a higher quality. Oddly enough, it seems that better dress forms are non adjustible. So I started looking at the measurements. I tend to look for the waist measurement, check the bust measurement, see if it's close, then check for the right bust measurement and then check the waist measurement. Really, if girls are told that Barbie is damaging to their self esteem, then they should never try and buy a dress form.

On a good day, I have a 26 and a bit" waist. This is a "I've been eating correctly and I'm not sure what happened" waist. It will go down to 26" which is a "I've been way too stressed recently and it's wrecking havoc on my body" waist. This is also when friends and family start to get a funny look on their face and make comments about how important it is to eat well.

So it was with some shock that I discovered that one manufacturer of dress forms thought that I should, wait for it, have a TWENTY-FOUR INCH WAIST. Does anyone have a 24" waist? Dress pattern sizes are a bit out of touch with clothing sizes, hence being a size four in the store and then a size eight on the pattern, but everyone knows that's because the dress manufacturers keep moving the sizes down. So for those who are supposed to be the guardians of the true size to proclaim that I should have a 24" waist was a serious blow.

I've found a new option. You wear a garbage bag and have someone tape you in. The famous duct tape dummy. It's going to be an interesting week-end.

Collar

Last night I sewed on the collar.

Then I unpicked the seam and ripped it back off.

Just about everything that could go wrong did.

First of all, the underside got caught up in the seam, not by a lot but by just enough. Just enough to make you sit and look at it carefully to try and determine if there was an easier way to fix it then to rip out the entire seam.

But then, horror of horrors, I realised that the lapels were not the same size. One was wider than the other. This was not due to the placing of the collar, that I had checked carefully. It was due to the way I had folded back the lapels.

So out it all came. By the time I had finished ripping out the seam, my eyes and back had had enough.

I'll try again tonight . . . .

Interfacing

My latest sewing project has been going just great - bar one or two major mishaps.

The side and shoulder seams went together no problem. However, I then realised that I should have ironed on the interfacing before sewing together all seams. Luckily enough, it is only the front that gets interfaced as the fastenings are buttons down the front. I was able to place the interfacing correctly and iron it on.

I let it cool and then I started to figure out if I was going to have any unfinished edges that needed to be dealt with before I continued on with the collar. I found that there were a few bits where the interfacing had not properly stuck to the fabric. So I got the iron out again. I'm used to interfacing that's white and stiff. This stuff is black and soft. The only way I know that it's interfacing is that one side is definitely sticky.

Once the iron was ready, I started going at the bits that hadn't stuck.

When I got my nice new shiny expensive iron, I kept my old iron. I only use my old iron for interfacing. I'm not sure why but I find that no matter what you do, interfacing glue goes on the fabric, the iron or the ironing board depending on what goes wrong. If the interfacing is a little bit bigger than the fabric and we're talking an eighth of an inch, you stick everything to the ironing board and have to pry it off. If you get the interfacing up the wrong way, you stick it to the iron. And if all goes well, you manage to get it stuck only to the fabric.

Apparently, my iron way too hot this time. Under my very eyes, the fabric started scrunching up under the iron as though it was being sucked up by it. I whipped off the iron and discovered that the interfacing had 1) shrunk and 2) turned hard like plastic. Luckily, in its shrinking, it had pulled itself off my fabric. Thank God for small mercies! I had no more fabric and the fabric was from last year so there was no way I was going to be able to get more. I took the scissors and very carefully snipped at the interfacing so that it relaxed and the fabric could flatten once again. This left me with an interesting shaped hole in my interfacing and fabric underneath that had tiny little black dots - the interfacing glue.

Very gingerly, I took some more interfacing, a cooler iron, and re-interfaced the hole. That's the one nice thing about interfacing. It's a bit plug and play. You can use bits of interfacing and still make it work. I was back in business.

'Cuse me, Miss

All of a sudden, I saw her again. My eyes widened and I came to a rapid conclusion, "It's so unfair. I hate her" It's not personal. I don't know her. I'm sure if I did know her I would think she was a wonderful person. To be honest, I'm a little bit jealous of her - ok, I'm a seething pool of jealousy.

First of all she's taller than me

and she's thinner than me,

not that I need to be taller or thinner. That's really not the issue that I have.

She always seems to have good hair days.

If I remembered to buy the right product, I too could have good hair days.

The real issue is her clothes. Quite simply I haven't seen her yet wear an outfit that I didn't want - and I mean really want . I rarely look at someone and think, "Wow I wish I owned that." But she's a walking advertisement for clothes I wish I possessed. Today she was wearing a khaki dress that had safari influences. And I immediately wanted the dress - it would look fabulous on me! And I even have shoes that would be a perfect match. Except that she was wearing it and I have no idea where she bought it. I didn't want to run up to her and ask. That tends to freak people out. Plus she had bought it so if I bought it, we could end up wearing it on the same day, which would be awkward.

And then she would hate me.

But at least she would know that she was taller

and thinner

and had better hair days than me.

And that ought to be enough to keep her happy.

I mean, it doesn't bother me. I only want to know where she shops. Maybe I could become her new best friend. We could go shopping together.

Transfer All Markings

After you've laid out your pattern, and cut the pieces out, the instructions will blithely say, "Transfer all markings from the pattern to the fabric."

It sounds so easy and so quick. I was taught, in the best seamstress tradition, to transfer all markings using tailor tacks, great big loopy ones. You then cut all the loops, remove the pattern, gently tease away the two fabric pieces and cut the loops in the middle. Brilliantly easily. Brilliantly time consuming.

I have been told that I should be using transfer paper. As far as I can tell, it's paper with chalk brushed across it. I get it on my hands, next on my face, on the pattern piece but never on the fabric. If I do get it on the fabric, I can't see it after two seconds.

I've started another project. Goal is to have it done in time to wear this summer. (Keep your smirks to a minimum, thank you very much.) It's silk. I've never sewn with silk before and this stuff is slippery. (You can stop anytime.)

I decided that I would try and use the transfer paper. I spent a good ten minutes trying to figure out which colour would show up best on my fabric. End conclusion, none. I managed a faint thin line, which I instantly had to go over with a marking pen. (It's ok, I checked it would wash out first without leaving a mark.). I then spent another ten minutes trying to pin together the back darts. I then had to try and make sure they were actually the same length. Grrr. By this time, I was realising that silk moves, in all directions. So once I had my darts pinned, I then went and basted the seams to ensure that it wouldn't move while sewing.

So for the front darts, I went back to the old fashioned tailor tacks. In my mind it was somewhat faster and less frustrating. But now at some point I'm going to have to pull them all out. And I know from experience that there is always one or two that get sewn into the seam and you can't pull them out. This is when you realise that using bright fluorescent pink thread, so that you can see it, was a mistake. And the next thing you discover is that you're trying to pull threads out using tweezers so that you can take it out one hair at a time.

I'm sure there is a magical way out there of "transferring all markings" but no one has let me in on the secret. And when they did, it turned out to be more work. Next suggestion please!

New Sewing Machine II

Someone wanted to see a picture of the new machine so that we could celebrate - even though I don't like electrics. I don't like collecting electrics that is. And getting an electric when I thought I was getting a hand crank . . . well, it's just not the same.

The new sewing machine is a bit of a mystery. One of the first things I did was to look up its serial code on Singer's site. This makes it around a 1904 - and it has a shuttle not a bobbin.



However, it had the plate of what I consider an electric from the 1920's to have.


And there's the fact that it looks like an electric and electrics for the home didn't become common until the 1920's:


I'm mystified by the shuttle. I have a treadle machine and it has a bobbin similar to what you find in today's machines. However, it's a White not a singer. I also have a handy little motor to motorize your treadle sewing machine and it's not like this.

So I think it's an original electric and something's odd with its serial number.

(The machine works - once we replaced the plug.)

New Sewing Machine

Surprise bags. Unknown value. As a kid, they got me every time. They had a set price and an unknown content, albeit within a certain category. The candy ones contained candy. It was up to you to avoid choosing the bag with the sucker. The ones from a hair and accessories shop would contain that. It was by only by carefully sorting through the bags taking the time to feel them, shake them and gauge their heaviness that you would arrive at a decision. You then forked over your cash and ripped open the bag. I got enough good stuff to keep me going back.

I have decided that I have enough treadle sewing machines for now. The size of my living quarters has imposed this decision on me. So it was with some interest that I noted the prevalence of table top models so far this year at garage sales. However, they were electric so I was not interested. Old electrics don't interest me. By the time they were electric, they had stopped being pretty and had become utilitarian.

I was browsing through one garage sale, noting the lack of anything remotely interesting. It was mainly tools and tool related things. Then I spotted a table top sewing machine with a cover. It could be an electric or it could be a hand crank. I wandered over and pulled on the cover. Nothing. So I looked for the latch. Still nothing. As I'm poking away at the cover trying to locate how it was attached to the base, the seller came over. "It's locked," he said slowly. "I'm not sure where the key is. I had it somewhere."

I looked at him. It was clearly locked and it clearly needed a key.

"Perhaps we can find a screw driver" he continued." Someone else went off to find the screw driver. The old locking mechanisms are simplistic. As long as you can jamb something down the hole that will turn, then you can unlock it. After a bit, the person came back. The smallest screwdriver they had was not small enough. I knew that I could get it open at home. I just needed to know what was inside.

"What's it look like?" I asked.

The man gave me a funny look, "It's black and it says Singer on it. "

"Is it in good shape?"

"Yes, that's why I bought it. It makes a nice decorative piece."

"Is it a hand crank?"

"Yes."

I looked at the cover. Beneath it lay a hand crank sewing machine of unknown quality. It was marked $20. I hummed and hawed briefly. I had no idea what it looked like but it was a hand crank. I don't yet have a hand crank. They're as pretty as the treadles but take up much less space.

"Give you $15."

"Done."

So I marched off with my new sewing machine. Once I got it home, I got out the sewing machine screw drivers and choose one at random. I stuck it in the lock at and turned. I heard the satisfying click as it unlocked. Success on the first try.

With great ceremony I pulled off the cover to discover

it was a blimey electric.

Solidarity

Last night I was at a small gathering of friends. One of the couples present has just reached the third month stage of a pregnancy so they are happily informing friends and family that didn't already know. The conversation veered towards baby names for a bit and then back to pregnancies in general. Of large interest was what was deemed acceptable for the mother to eat or not to eat.

Apparently there is a lot more gray area to this then I had previously thought. Apparently, some people say you shouldn't drink caffeinated coffee and others say that decaffeinated is an instant miscarriage. Green tea is out. Various herbals teas are out. This one surprised me. I still don't understand why mint tea is bad for a baby. But no matter.

I was curious where they had decided to go with alcohol. I knew that some people thought it was ok to have a very small occasional glass of wine, for instance. Others swear off alcohol all together. So I asked.

The mother-to-be replied, "Well, it's not clear. So we discussed it and we decided that we wouldn't drink alcohol."

I was super impressed. "Wow. That's great. You're both not drinking alcohol."

I couldn't believe that the father-to-be would go the nine months without drinking as well. It showed a support of and a solidarity with his wife that was unexpected. Furthermore, he had even been experiencing morning sickness too. It was totally a husband was willing to share the pain and discomfort of a pregnancy as well as the joy.

They both looked at me. "Huh?"

I looked at them. "Well, you said you've both decided that you're not drinking alcohol."

His wife clarified, "No. We discussed it. I'm not drinking alcohol."

Of course.

Solid Salad Sauce

I reached into the fridge and grabbed the Greek Dressing. I had a salad already made in the fridge and I was ravishingly hungry. I wanted to dump on dressing and start eating. It isn't exactly Greek Salad Dressing - it's a sort-of all purpose dressing. You can use it for various meats to which you wish to impart a Greek air or on various vegetables to pretend you went to the trouble of making a Greek Salad.

However, it still settles like a Greek Salad Dressing. So I pulled it out of the fridge and gave it a mighty shake. Now before you envision the cap flying off and an oily concoction going all over my kitchen (which is newly cleaned), imagine instead that nothing happens. Absolutely nothing. I give the bottle a shake and the contents do not move. at all. nothing. For all intensive purposes, the dressing has congealed into a solid mass. I stood there perplexed. What on earth? I shook it again. It looked like it was semi-frozen-like. That was odd.

Then it struck me. I had recently played with the setting on my fridge. I found that the milk was turning quicker than it should. I spent several weeks blaming it on the milk manufacturers. Then I decided to make my fridge colder. It appears that the difference between mid-way through mild and medium and just plain medium is a lot. I checked some of my other sauces. They kinda moved but they were very sluggish. I needed to warm the thing up to see if I could get back to a liquid state.

I looked around my kitchen waiting for a brain wave or even a mild idea. I was in the middle of filling the sink to wash the dishes. Warm water - ah ha - I shoved the bottle under the running water. As I stood there holding the bottle, I decided that this was not an efficient use of my time. I briefly considered sticking the bottle in the microwave. However my microwave has a habit of destroying things. I had melted a container in it quite recently and it had several other ruined things on its score card. So instead, I stood the bottle in the washing up water.

I continued to scrounge up the rest of dinner. Every now and then, I would come back to give the dressing a good shake. I could see the olive oil slowing melting and the solid lump in the middle to which the heat had not yet penetrated. The bits at the bottom were slowing managing to mix themselves into the rest of the dressing. The bottle looked ludicrous bobbing up and down next to my dirty dishes.

Slowly it "thawed". Liquidifying the dressing took longer than getting the rest of my meal. By that time I no longer wanted dressing on my salad. I only wanted to see if I could get it to melt. Having accomplished that, I poured a bit on my salad and popped the bottle back in the fridge. Where I am sure it is now slowly solidifying.

Lunch Conversation

"So what did you get up to this week-end?"

"I cleaned my apartment."

"Ah, head start on spring cleaning?"

"Um, no, actually." Slight pause, "My cat was ill."

"So it threw up every where?'

Slightly awkward pause. "Other end."

"oh."

"Hey can you tell this story next time my girlfriend's around? She wants a cat."

Clackety-Clack

Recently I have begun to wonder about getting a new machine. Mine keeps going on the fritz - not enough to warrant going out and buying a new machine but rather just enough to make you start pondering the possibility. I believe that most machines have a slight temperament. It takes a while to know what your machine will and will not do. You soon learn that before sewing certain types of fabric, you need to take a deep breath, close your eyes and hope for the best.

Apparently though, sewing machines have advanced since I bought mine. I've had mine a few years now. Yesterday, I went and investigated some new machines.

I learned that electronics are big. No longer do they use turn dials where you can hear the machine clicking into place - it's quietly done by the electronic dial or buttons. Some machines come with a needle threader. It will automatically thread your needle for you. I can thread my machine's needle faster and with less hassle.

You can hit a button and the machine will put the needle down. You hit another button and the machine starts sewing, you can adjust the speed using the slide on the body of the machine. The machine screams "Look Ma! No hands!" I was amused to find that the machines stitches looked a bit free hand. There was no chain where the stitches followed on one from the other in a perfect straight line. A few of the stitches went out of their neat row. For a new machine, it was disconcerting. Especially when the rep started talking about how the straight stitch is the most important stitch and these machines have beautiful straight stitches.

The machines will do button holes - themselves. Now this was neat. You put the button in the back of the foot, hit the button and the machine makes a button hole specially to fit the button. No more spending ten minutes trying to locate a tape measure so you can measure the button, add the extra 1/8 of an inch, make a test button hole, try and fit the button, discover that it doesn't fit so you make a slightly larger button hole. Now the button hole is too big and on you go. Except the goal of a button hole is to have a very close satin stitch - if my machine had produced these button holes, I would have ripped them out and investigated the machine to see what had gone wrong.

I did like the knee lever for lifting the pressure foot. For those times when you need to re-adjust the foot but don't want to move your hands as you're trying to prevent the fabric from skidding off in all directions. Now that I could use.

I'm not sure I have a use for 140 different stitches. I don't use the 16 I already have. I did like the 11 different button hold options. I just didn't like the way they were done.

The machine had a 25 year warranty. The electronics were only guaranteed for 5 years. The electronics get me. I know that machines eat fabric, while simultaneously wrapping the thread around bits of the machine that you didn't know exist and it is only with brute force, several choice words, and scissors that you will slowly extricate the fabric. With any luck it will be in one piece. Maybe the new machines are not like that. But I'm suspicious. I can't get at the electronics to force it to give me my fabric back. Sewing is a tactile hobby and for me that goes for the machine as well as the piece.

I came out with several goals. One to do more research to see what other brands were up to. And two to get one of my other machines up and running. I determined on my Singer. It just needed to be dusted off, oiled and a quick adjustment to the belt. I was thrilled to find that the stitches were absolutely beautiful. They were tight and ran in a straight unbroken line. They looked sturdy.

The Singer is a brute force of a machine and as mechanical as you can get. It's so simple not much can go wrong. You just have to think a bit more about using. And it was so many cool attachments I can't wait to figure out how to use them.

Reactions to my Shirt

As I got up and started putting on my coat, one of my friends looked at me, "I can't believe you made it, " she said matter-of-factly. Then realizing the possible implications of what she had said she started stammering and soon became an incoherent mess. I smiled, "Neither can I."

What I really meant was, I can't believe I finally finished it - I can't believe it's wearable and I can't believe it fits. I'm still in denial about the whole thing.

It took me nine months. I checked. I'm a bit in denial about the process too. It didn't seem that long. I mean, I have a gazillion reasons why it took so long. Some of them are incredibly valid. You can't sew when your machine goes on the blitz and you have to take it apart and put it back together to get it going again. It takes awhile to figure out that the machine is going to need to be serviced and it won't just fix itself. I even asked it nicely. In return it jammed and tried to eat my fabric. Then it broke the needle for good measure. I may have said some rude things. I may have threatened it with anger management courses. After that, it quit.

Generally though it was my conviction that I was going to screw up and so therefore, it was best not to put the presser foot down and whip up a seam as I was only going to have to rip it out again. I did have to rip out seams and redo them. Often enough to get a bit nervous, which tends to make you make mistakes and have to rip out seams. It becomes a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy and a downward spiral of constructive progress. It was partially due to self-inflicted pressure. When you decide to use the smallest possible stitch and that you will only be satisfied with sometime approaching perfection - well you need to redo stuff - repeatedly.

However, I think that the decision to start out aiming for the best was justified in my end product.

Case in point: I had casually mentioned at lunch that I was going to be wearing my new shirt the next day. At this stage, it still needed three buttons sewed on and to be pressed. Having made the declaration though, I was honor bound to finish the thing. My lunch mates know that I've been working on a shirt. "Ah-ha, " one of them went, "we'll be able to see if it's any good and we can place orders." I smiled wanly. I didn't think they could pay me enough to make them a shirt.

The next day, I wore my shirt. I got zilch of a reaction. At first I was puzzled and slightly miffed. Then I got sight of myself in the mirror. I furtively regarded my reflexion. Hmm, I thought. That looks like a shirt. It looks bought. In no way do the angst and tears that it caused radiate from its seams. It looks like an ordinary shirt. I decided that my co-workers have a memory with holes larger than a sieve and had promptly forgotten that I was going to wear my shirt. The shirt itself didn't appear homemade and so therefore did not trigger their memory.

I took the shirt to Darrell. He said some nice things about it. He congratulated me on getting it done. He said it looked worth the effort and that I had done a beautiful job. I think he was so flabbergasted by the fact that it was done he didn't know what else to say. I think he thinks that I could have hurried it up a bit. I wouldn't deny it. I would go into a rant about my machine. I think he did. He told me about the upcoming sewing machine sale. Uh, yes. If I had a machine that didn't have emotionally issues, I could get my sewing done faster. If I didn't have emotional issues, I could get my sewing done faster.

I now have a new shirt. I am a bit in denial about where it came from and how exactly it ended up in my closet. I think that's best. There are some things you shouldn't remember - especially when you are about to embark on a new project.

Hurray! Shirt Making X

I paused for effect, "I finished my shirt." There was silence on the other end of the phone, then, "Oh wow, Kim . . . I'm so pleased. That's awesome." He should have been. It was thanks to my brother that it got finished. On the week-end he had given me a pep talk about buttonholes and my ability to do them. The basic idea was that I was no worse at doing button holes than anyone else and that I should get up the courage to do them. So I did.

I would detail how I managed to lose my button hole cutter between Monday and today (the gremlins are back!) or how I had to sew on some buttons twice to ensure they were properly placed, or how the machine didn't run entirely smoothly, but instead I am going to put up lots of pictures.

The Front:

The Back:


The Inside:
Note the flat felled seams (which caused problems during construction due to my inability to tell the right from the wrong side.)



The Armhole:
Again flat felled - not easy on a curve.


The Cuff:



Stitches so small, they looked like they had been by mice:

Miracles Do Happen

Sometimes lightening hits the same spot twice. It happens. It is possible, although not likely plausible that you could win the lottery and never have to work again. But I would like to argue that what gives you a greater sense of satisfaction and is even less likely to occur than these events is the ability to make a special dish by having the appropriate ingredients on hand without pre-mediation.

This rare and utterly satisfying event happened this week-end. I was browsing a cookbook in a local culinary shop. I knew that I was having a roast chicken for dinner but I had not determined the details. I glanced upon a recipe that talked about grapes and chicken and kept flipping. Then later in the store, it struck me that I had grapes at home. They had come with my latest basket. I also had a recipe for chicken and grapes in my Venetian cook book.

When I got home, I pulled out the recipe book and looked up the recipe. I needed a chicken - check. I had a chicken. I needed white seedless grapes - amazingly enough check. I needed white wine - check, I currently have red and white plonk for cooking. Cream - check, it had been on sale and I had scooped some up. Lastly, I needed large amounts of parsley - check, I had bought it on a whim. I had everything I needed. I was in slight shock. Who has all those ingredients on hand just because?

The recipe was easy. Roast the chicken, basting it with butter and wine. Mix the pan juices, chicken stock, cream, parsley and grapes together. Serve with the chicken. It was pretty. It tasted wonderful. But I knew it would. Anything that calls for an odd assortment of ingredients that you just happen to have on hand is going to taste fabulous. It's like what winning the lottery would taste like - when you didn't buy a ticket.

Cleaning

Cleaning tends to mount up and become oppressive. Doing a quick sweep is doable. Realizing that the floors could do with a wash turns an easy task into something more.

Yesterday, it struck me that I really needed to do something about my kitchen. In the end, it didn't take too much effort. It's now all gleaming white and shiny again. I have room on the counters again. I still need to do the rest of the place. But I keep walking into my kitchen and saying to myself, "Look at my nice clean kitchen, isn't it nice? Doesn't it look pretty?"

I had rather hoped that having one nice room would motivate me to get the rest of it done. But no such luck. You find instead that you would rather google different decorating styles, envision different pieces of furniture and furnishing that would totally transform your living space. So then, you put the kettle on and make a pot of tea and loose yourself in decorating dreams.

Then you get swept into gardens. Spring flowers are in the stores and they smell wonderfully like spring. Once you've mentally outfitted a few indoor rooms, you start designing a few flower beds for a change. Mulling over the pros and cons of annuals versus perennial, shrubs and trees, ground cover, your garden becomes spectacularly full of colour and texture; you can smell the grass, the light perfume of the roses, feel the sun on your back and hear the hum of the bees.

By this time, it's lunch. As you leave your mental world and return to this one, it takes a few minutes to readjust. You're trying to figure out where your new sitting room went - you just spent a fortune on new furniture. You're not sure but you think you may have imported it from somewhere. And you had the walls painted and a new floor put down. You were pretty sure that you had knocked that wall through. Then it starts to come back, you were cleaning. Then to make it worse, you realize that the sky is still overcast, the snow is still piled to the sky and spring is still a good month away.

You still need to take the garbage out.

Le petit lapin

Last week-end, I was idly browsing the meat department at the grocery store. I was trying to decide whether on Wednesday I would be feeling like Chicken, Beef or even say Veal. Not that it really mattered what I wanted to eat on Wednesday. It would most likely be the same as what I had on Tuesday. Cooking is easier if you take the option and choice out of it. If you only have fish, then you know you have to make something with fish. You don't waste time trying to decide if you would rather have chicken.

And as I slowly moved across the section, I saw an employee with a roll of bright stickers. She was eyeing the meat packages and then every now and then, she would stick a sticker on a package. My eyes started to gleam. She was doing the meat reductions. And as she was only doing it right now, the meat was still fresh. I started looking for the bright stickers. And as I moved down the freezer looking at the packages, I realized that the package in front of me contained rabbit; to be precise half a rabbit. Nine-something for a piece of meat seemed expensive, but four-something seemed reasonable. I briefly thought and popped it in my basket.

To my knowledge, I had never had rabbit. I had no idea what it was going to be like. The piece of meat looked nice, however. At home, I decided that I had better cook it tonight as I was not going to have the mental energy during the week. Browsing through the cook-books, I discovered that rabbit was a white meat, low in fat, and basically fairly good for you. I looked for the simplest recipe that I could find.

One was mustardy rabbit. It claimed to be a classic French Bistro dish. There's something about being told that a recipe is a classic French Bistro dish. You feel that not only is it going to be good but there will be something rather nice about it. However, I am beginning to suspect that the something rather nice about a dish means that at some point, it's had alcohol tipped into it.

The recipe was rather simple. You smeared herbs and mustard over the rabbit pieces, browned them, removed them from the pan while you did onions and made the sauce, then you put the rabbit back in, clamped the lid on and let it all simmer away.

End result - incredibly moist meat that was nicely flavoured with a sauce that was rather nice. Near the end, it began to feel a bit rich and you had to watch for the smaller bones, but on the whole, I was pleasantly surprised. I think it would be a good dish for guests. Fearfully simple and hardly any work and yet it packs a high gosh factor. As your guest tries to figure out why the piece of meat that seems like chicken at first, clearly isn't chicken and dares to inquire, "What are we eating?". You can causally reply, "Oh, I am so sorry, I should have said. It's rabbit. We've been having rather a lot lately. They've been eating all the radishes."

4 Weeks at a Time

As I left work today, I had one sole concern: what to do with spinach. I had not gone to the grocery store at lunch to buy feta or ricotta cheese, so that spinach triangles or cannelloni were out. In fact, as far as I could tell, for most recipes that used whacking great loads of spinach, I was missing the key ingredient that made it appetizing.

At the back of my mind, I was mulling my squash. I already knew it was destined for soup - predestined almost. There was no way, I was going to eat an entire acorn squash by myself. And it had had the audacity to be a large one. I was unsure if I should roast it before turning it into soup or if I could get away with boiling it. I had an uneasy feeling that roasting it would give the soup-to-be more flavour.

Wednesdays have become a new day of panic. For on Thursday, I can get my basket for the next week. After my utter inability to find non-rotten fruits and vegetables that would last an appropriate amount of time before becoming rotten that looked mildly edible at my local grocery store, I had taken the plunge and joined a local organic fruits and vegetable club at a local greengrocer. The store is a greengrocer in every sense of the word. It's small, feels slightly like a step back in time and it's the only place I've ever been in that received an order of edible flowers. They do fruits and vegetables.

I was iffy on the organic portion. Organic is a nice fuzzy term that means a lot of different things. The only thing various definitions have in common is a higher price than for normal fruits and vegetables. I had reached the stage though where I was willing to pay a slight premium for something that I would actually eat.

When I went to pick up my first basket, I knew that this was going to be better. I had my fruit presented and explained to me. I was instructed on how to store my lettuce.

So far I have had grapefruit - both normal and breakfast (still not sure what the difference is), blood oranges, mango, plums, mandarin oranges (the best I've ever had), more cauliflower than I knew what to do with, many different types of apples and pears (I know that I don't like Gala or Ambrosia apples. I do like Red Delicious. I'm still working on the difference between a red, green or Bartlett pear.), golden beets (you cook them like the red ones which didn't help me at all!), tomatoes (even out of season organic tomatoes are tasteless and not ripe), baby baking potatoes (incredibly cute), and a whole bunch more.

The club is simple. You pay in advance for four weeks. Every week you get a basket of fruits and vegetables. You don't say what you would like this week. The store tells you what you are getting. You can look it up online on Wednesdays. This leads to the Wednesday panic. You know what you have left in your fridge and now you can see what else is about to descend on you.

I'm trying to be somewhat systematic. On Wednesday, I see what is coming and how well it goes with what I have. If it would mesh well with what is coming, then I won't make a concentrated effort to get rid of it. If it doesn't go with what's coming, then I try and figure out how to use up what I've already got.

Hence, my concentration on using up spinach and squash. My new problem is the discovery that I have a cauliflower and fresh green beans in my fridge. Who knew? They were under the spinach. Oh yeah, that's the other problem. Storage. There just is simply not enough space in the crisper for everything I currently have. And more is coming . . . .

Cats!

Right in the middle of my hemming!

And I wonder why sewing takes so long.

Icing

I have a mental list that resides in the back of my head. It's full of all sorts of cool stuff that at some point I want to a) try and then b) become really good at. Somewhere on this list is icing cakes. Icing cakes is a deceptive art. While you would expect it to be finicky, which it is, you would not necessarily expect it to be temperamental. There are some times when you just can't get the icing to adhere to the iced cake or it's gotten too warm so it's not holding it's shape or the colour is not at all the shade you needed. But also, it is surprisingly expensive. It's one of those arts where you need quite a bit to start up and while each piece, in themselves, are quite reasonable, the final bill is not.

So when I discovered the tips on sale at a local culinary store at a mere twenty-five cents, I carefully chose to ensure that I got nearly one of each style. The fact that all the basic ones were gone and I was getting the exotic tips did not bother me. I could still buy the basic kit and not duplicate what I already had. I ended up buying just short of twenty. I was thrilled. Until I realised that I had neither the coupler nor the bags. These were not on sale and as it was a proper store which sold better quality icing bags, they were more expensive than your normal run of the mill bags. In fact, they were German made and guaranteed to be heavy duty and long lasting. The bags and the couplers cost much more than the tips.

I only have two bags. On a proper cake, two different colours is not enough. Icing bags are a pain to wash too. This I remember. There's enough fat in the icing that the bags continue to feel greasy after they've been washed and rewashed. You don't want to be washing bags to change colours in the middle of a cake.

No matter, I told myself. I only needed two to practice. It wasn't as though I was going to be washing a cake anytime soon. I didn't even have icing sugar.

So I made sure I bought icing sugar just in case the whim to practice cake decorating hit me. As far as I was concerned, I had everything I needed.

Then it did hit me - I was baking cookies and decided that I could practice my decorating on them. Practicing on a tray is such a waste.

So I pulled down my cook books to look up the recipe. I discovered to my horror that the recipe called for egg whites. Great, now I was going to have egg yolks which cause problems in themselves, because you have to use them up. This normally leads to making something ridiculous like Bernaise sauce. I needed three egg whites. I didn't want three egg yolks. I contemplated making a third of the recipe but decided not to.

I did however still want to decorate my cookie. I'd made it especially large on purpose. So I decide to make sugar paste instead.

I'm pleased to say that it turned out quite well.

Although I still have to practice with the icing bags.

Soap

I realised this morning that I have a relatively large amount of soap. Not only do I relatively have a lot of soap, it's rather good in quality. The nice thing about good quality soap is that, as long as you choose wisely, it smells really nice and lasts a very long time. These two qualities are what got me hooked on expensive soap in the first place. I reasoned that if it lasted practically forever then the higher upfront cost was offset by the lower long-run cost. Instead of having to remember to buy more soap every month, I would have the luxury of forgetting about it for months at a time. Furthermore, I would have the better scent and feel of an awesome bar of soap.

My mother introduced me to the joy of quality soap when we discovered that Winner's or Home Sense carry quality lines of soap at a cheaper price. There's something rather nice about deciding whether you prefer Rose to Lavender, or whether you like Mandarin Orange with or without Ginger, how you feel about Bluebells, Lillies,, countless other flowers and combinations of flowers, Linen, Oatmeal, Milk, baby powder, cocoa butter; if you would like freshly milled, if you wish it molded or in bars, the size of bar.... In fact you can spend quite a few minutes sniffing lots of bars of soap looking for the right combination of all the factors. Once you've made your decision, then you have a wonderful sense of expectation - the joy of a new bar of wonderful soap. It is critical to get it right however. For if you don't like it, you will be stuck with it for what will seem like an eternity.

Lush also has wonderful soaps. These tend to be less classical in texture and scent but rather appealing in their brightness of colour and fabulous scent combinations. I had never indulged as I always deemed it to be on the expensive side. Then they had a tremendous sale. Three for the price of one. It was too good to pass up. I choose three in a reasonable size. They recommended cutting a slice of the main block to prevent wastage from the soap sitting in a puddle. I happily cut off two slices from two separate types and put the rest away.

In the morning, I now have a wonderful choice. Do I wish to use my traditional and very girly rose soap, my perk-you-up-as-you-would-rather-still-be-in-bed citrus soap(which has had the added bonus of stinking up my bathroom, in a good way, ever since its arrival), or the spicey can't-remember-what-the-scent-is-supposed-to-be soap? I spent a couple weeks enjoying the array of choice.

However, this morning it struck me that none of these lumps of soap was in any way noticeably diminished. In fact, except for some bubble residue, they were pretty much the same size as before. I did a mental check of my stock of soap and suddenly realised I had a massive stock pile of soap and I only had a few bars.

It turns out that one aspect of nice soap is in fact one of its worst qualities. My small soap pile will last a very very long time. I haven't been able to precisely determine how long it will last. Right now, it seems that by showering twice daily and three times on the week-end, I might be able to justify buying more soap in a year or so. And that's an optimistic outlook. Perhaps, I'll justify it away by calling it a soap collection. Which would also enable me to buy more . . . . hmmm.

Shirt Making VIIII

The problem with using Roman numerals is that when you approach the X, it's taken too long to do whatever you're doing. No list should hit X.

My shirt now has two finished cuffs. One was finished a long time ago. The other one is newly finished. I wish I could say that it was done without a hitch. It wasn't. As the fabric is gray and all the seams are flat felled. I can't tell the wrong side from the right side unless I look at the plackets. I edge-stitched the cuff and the line was a bit wonky. It wasn't wonky enough to justify ripping it out, not when I was determined to press on. Then I realised that I had sewn on the wrong side so that the seam had to come out. The new seam, sewn correctly, was an awesome seam. I was glad that I had to redo it.

Tonight I have attached the collar. It's not quite finished. I have to press, trim the seam, press again and then edge-stitch. The instructions called for the inside of the collar stand to have one side sewn up - an effective hem. However, hemming anything curved invariably leads to a pucker. I couldn't tell why this seam needed to be sewn there so omitted that stage. So far so good. However, I shall soon find out if that was a mistake.

All that remains is the hem and the buttons. Hems don't count. They're not difficult. Buttonholes and buttons do count. Screw up a button hole and you've screwed the entire garment up. Sewing buttons on by hand takes forever. I'm always scared that I won't sew them on tight enough. The whole process calls for a stiff drink.

Retail Therapy

Recently work has been a bit much. Quite frankly, as far as I'm concerned there's been too much coming my way. I've started working through lunch, which leads to my mind getting zapped and more mistakes being made. I've also ended up working late. I defy anyone to say that I haven't yet entered the real world. I have and I want out.

My latest Burda magazine had come in so at lunch I went to get it. My theory was that taking time off would save me time in the long run. On my way to Darrell's, I started musing about indulging in some retail therapy. As far as I could tell, it would not be hard to justify. One of my friends had attended a training course and described to us how utterly awful the experience had been. She finished her story saying, "And then I walked through the mall on the way home and I was feeling so bad I went into Banana Republic. I bought a skirt, a pair of pants, two tops and a sweater." We looked at her aghast. The mall was the shortcut for the way home, going through the mall was entirely reasonable. To our tentative questions, she gaily answered, "no guilt. That's how bad it was. I mean it's been several days now and no guilt. Retail therapy."

I need a new pair of jeans. I mused about indulging in a good pair this week-end. Except that finding the perfect pair of jeans comes closer to torture. I wasn't in the mood for more torture. I couldn't think of anything that I wanted. I knew that retail therapy was in order and I couldn't think of what would make me happy.

At Darrell's, I was relieved to find that there was no fabric that tempted me. I have enough fabric and unfinished projects at home that I wasn't going to add more. So I flipped through the magazine and bought it. Then as I stood there talking to Darrell, my eye glanced at the linings behind the counter. Ohhh. The paisley lining for the jackets.... The rare and will never get it in again paisley lining for the jackets.... They are gorgeous.

"Are those the linings?" I ask, "Can I see them? Don't let me buy them." Darrell pulls them off the shelf. Amazing.

He's starting a jacket course in a few weeks which I'm not taking. I know that everyone in the course will buy the patterned lining. There will be none left. This is a problem. I want these linings. I just don't want them now. I want them in several months. I start to think.

It's only two dollars a metre more than the regular lining. Ah-ha. And I need less than two metres. I would totally pay five dollars more to have a lining like that. I'm just not making a jacket anytime soon. But this is totally classic. It will never not be elegant and sheer amazing. This is an investment. In a trance, I say I'll have some of this one.

Darrell cuts it, chattering away. He says how this is the slow time so he could ill afford to buy it himself but he's never seen anything like it since he's been in business. Like me, he knew he had to get it now. He carefully folds up the piece. He catches me eyeing one of the other ones. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I nodd.

So he cuts that one too. He talks about how he was at a recent event for his partner's work and how well-dressed the men were and how poorly dressed the women were. There were the awards for the best salespeople and those winning them were making insane amounts of money. A woman won an award for the top grossing sales. Darrell pauses for emphasis, "Kim you would have died. She was wearing a black polyester backless dress with a fake feather boa. I mean . . ." he goes off slagging her outfit. "No one there was wearing silk. It was all synthetic. All these women making all this money and they can't dress. It was unBELiVable." I quickly mention my new all wool skirt, lined with cotton.

And so we chat and as we chat, I can feel my spirits lifting and my mood improving. We spend a good chunk of time, just passing the time talking about nothing in particular. When I had left work, I had felt awful. I now feel so much better. Retail therapy works wonders. And the fact that I now have two new incredible linings doesn't hurt.

Shirt Making VIII

With some trepidation, I put the presser foot down, held the threads to the left with my left hand, while turning the wheel with my right hand. I gently pushed the pedal. With a slow soft whirling noise, the fabric started to feed through the sewing machine.

I guided the seam carefully, apprehensive about not keeping the correct margin. I held my breath as I turned the corners and as I carefully backstiched the seam. When the seam was finished, I slowly exhaled. A slight feeling of elation followed. I had done it.

At some point, my machine had gone on the fritz. It started skipping stitches and the tension was off. I had tried to fix it but I had been unable to notice either an improvement or a deterioration in the situation after fiddling around with the knobs. In the end, it had become apparent that I needed to take the whole machine apart, clean it, grease it and put it back together.

Over a period of time, I had done the necessary google search to ensure I knew what I was looking for, and I had bought the correct lubricant. I had taken the machine to bits, cleaned it and miraculously gotten it back together again. Even more amazingly, the machine had still worked once I had reassembled it. And the tension was once again correct.

Yet still, I did not dig out my shirt. I had a challenge for my sewing group that took priority. After hours of considerable consideration, I had chosen the pattern, cut out the fabric and assembled the skirt. As always, the skirt did not fit. However, I decided that when the group next met, they could help me to fit it. Then to my astonishment, the leader of the group decided to cancel the group. I had spent hours to create a garment that did not fit and I had no means of getting the necessary help to make it fit. I shall bypass the extreme mutterings that I uttered.

It was around this time that I got my knitting back out. I'm in the process of knitting an afghan. It doesn't have to fit and there is no chance of a mechanical failure. I began to understand why my mother had seemingly gone off sewing and done more knitting.

Then earlier this week, in a sudden burst of energy, I rearranged my apartment. I managed to squeeze in a sewing corner. A table where I could leave the machine and the work. An area where I would not have to clean it up but could leave it for when I had a spare moment to sew a seam. Tonight I pulled out my machine and set it up.

I got out my shirt and looked at it. I looked at the notes from my class. They were as clear as mud. A mild sense of panic started to form. I was so close to the end and I had no idea what I was to do next. Well, I did know what I was to do next but I didn't know what to do after that. I was tempted to put the shirt away again. I was scared that I wouldn't be able to hold the seam straight. I was worried that the machine would start acting up again. I felt that I wouldn't be able to do the precise sewing that was required. In short, I imagined that I would not be able to do it. Even worse, I knew that I wouldn't be able to do it.

I had a slight dilemma. I decided that the next seam was not that difficult and I could do it. I had to do it. So I sat down and I did the seam. That's all I did. I haven't trimmed it or pressed it. I haven't done another seam. However, I think that I can do the next seam. I'm not as scared anymore. The machine didn't skip or eat my fabric so I no longer need to worry about it.
I stopped after my one seam to celebrate my tiny victory. I decided to stop while I was ahead. Tomorrow, I'll do a little bit more and maybe the day after, I'll do another seam or two. In fact, some day, I might finish the entire thing.

Weights and Measures

I remember watching my mum getting dinner ready one night when she suddenly hauled out the scale. She dumped all the meat on it with the wadding to catch the liquid, carefully weighed it and wrote down the weight. She compared that weight to the weight on the packaging. She then weighed the wadding. As it was before 5pm, she reached for the phone book. After a quick search, she dialed a number. "Hi, I wanted to know what the acceptable amount of liquid is that can drain out of a piece of meat?" Yes, my mother had called weights and measures. And sure enough, the amount of liquid coming out of the meat was not acceptable. When my mother came off the phone, I asked for an explanation. It was short and sweet. "I paid so much a pound for this piece of meat. And this percentage of it is liquid. So I paid x amount for the liquid which is not what I thought I was buying." I got it. It was a type of customer fraud.

Weights and measures are wonderful. When you call, they take your complaint and tell if you if you're being reasonable. They then go into the store. No store wants weights and measures to come knocking. Weights and Measures will do a random audit over a period of time. They're checking to see if this is a one-off occurrence or a systematic pattern. Either way, when after weights and measures has been around, the store improves massively. Most stores fly close to the regulations. They go as close as they can without actually failing to follow them. When a customer complains, they realise they've flown too close to the line and start giving themselves a bigger margin of error. As a customer, it's just nice to know that your gut feeling about how much of a product you're getting can easily be verified. If you're wrong, then you're wrong. But if you're right, then it will quickly be sorted out and you will have much better service in the coming days.

To Whom it May Concern

It seems that I have a new hobby. And it's one that I don't want and I don't enjoy. It makes my blood pressure go through the roof, I subject friends and family to an endless tirade and then when I've exhausted their patience, I phone the relevant company and complain bitterly.

Yes, I have become the type of customer that gets wild enough about an issue to create.

The latest upset was with Aeroplan and Air Canada. I recently flew across the Atlantic, returned and check my point balance. No new points. Thinking that that was odd, I waited and in a few weeks checked again. Nothing, so I submitted a missing point form. It returned today. My flight was ineligible. Taken back, I phoned Aeroplan. "There must be some mistake," I said, "I flew Air Canada. This is their program." The girl at the other end looked at my file, "Oh," she said, "you flew class k. That's not eligible. I'm so sorry. I get this all the time. I'll show you." So she showed me deep within the Aeroplan site, a nice little chart explaining that the one flight I managed to pick, doesn't get points. My internal voice went, WHAT! "How was I supposed to know this?" She basically insinuated that I had not done my research, that a lot of people didn't but that neither Aeroplan nor Air Canada made it clear. I took a deep breath, "Who do I need to talk to to point out that this should be made clear?" She paused, "Well, Aeroplan gives out the points but you book on the Air Canada site. So there really is no one to blame." She then helpfully gave me the complaint numbers for both orgainizations. I decided this was Air Canada's fault and have fired off an e-mail. I used the phrases, "I think it is deceitful that . . . . I think Air Canada has an obligation to" In hindsight, this may have been a bit dramatic. However, my blood pressure is still high. I'm convinced they're not following some law on transparency. Ideally, I want my points. However, I want them to change their web site. I'm tempted to become an activist.

I'm still waiting on a response for my complaint to Loblaws. Loblaws has stocking issues. I had trudged through the cold and snow to discover that they didn't have kidney beans and no idea when new ones were coming in. Apparently, they had had no eggs in the store on the previous day. The previous week, I had wanted onions. They had no onions. Well, they had organic onions. I needed onions, I wanted normal ones but I ended up having to get the expensive ones. The produce section is a mess. I've recently started looking into getting a weekly basket of vegetables and fruit from a local store that specializes in organic. My private conviction is that organic food is a new type of classism. The poor can't afford it so the better off demonstrate their higher standard of living by buying more expensive food. This is on top of the rising cost of food caused by other factors. But I digress. I'm looking into alternative means of food because Loblaws is a mess. I pointed out their shoddy supply chain and how for a store that wants to be a one stop shopping experience, they weren't cutting it. Who wants to go to a grocery store three times a week to see if an item has come in? No one has that type of time. I'm still waiting for a response.

Time before that, I had seen a production that turned out to be entirely different than publicized. I was aiming to get my money back. Instead, I got tickets to a production I wanted to see and got an upgrade in ticket. So far this has been the only success story.

I think I have the training to get results. I worked in the fast food industry. I know the type of complaints that are successful and how to spot a scam. I know that the person you can reach isn't the person you should be yelling at. They have no power except to apologize. They would rather you didn't yell at them. So I don't. You can't. Judging by my method of dealing with complaints, they have a sure fire way to make sure you don't yell at them. They will agree with everything you say but point out that the policy is such and such and there is nothing you can do. So I find out to whom I should be presenting my case, and present it in a calm but obviously annoyed manner.

I find e-mail isn't very effective at this. I think this is why most companies use it. Trying to find a company's phone number is like looking for gold - great when you find it but nigh impossible to find.

Toy Mice

It quickly became clear that my apartment, complete in just about every other respect, was missing one key element - a live mouse; in my cat's opinion, that is. I was thoroughly relieved that I could find no evidence of mice. The mouse problem was dealt with but I was still left with the problem of the mouser.

Thus I found myself in the grocery store trying to decide which of the cat toys would most appeal to a dissatisfied feline. I was drawn to the fish toys. They had a fish on a string which was attached to a stick that could be stuck to the wall. Endless hours of fun, the packet assured me. I was pretty sure the last time, she'd had a similar toy, she had destroyed it within the week. Still, one might as well try. I also found the fish carcass endearing. It had a blue plush head with painted on black eyes and a nice smile. It's bones were a nice yellow made of a heavily pressed foam. The head was full of catnip and the body seemed ideal for a cat to pick up and carry to a new location. I was sure she was going to love it. They also had packets of toy mice. There was no way I was putting something that looked remotely like a mouse on my floor. I didn't care that they were white with fluorescent pink, blue and green bodies. The shape and texture seemed to be that of a miniature mouse. Gingerly I picked the packet up between my forefinger and my thumb. Closing my eyes , I placed the packet in my basket. I surpressed the shudder that made its way down my back.

Once home, I eagerly ripped open the packaging of the fish on a string. I quickly assembled the pole and inserted it into the suction cup. I then discovered, just as quickly, that it would not stick to the wall, the closet door, the kitchen door, in fact any door, the table, the cupboards, my forehead. It would not adhere to any surface. The endless hours of fun seemed more likely to be causing me endless hours of frustration. My cat sat in the middle of the room and watched me bemused, as I tried to stick this object to any surface. In the end I gave up.

Onto the catnip fish carcass. She quite simply was not interested in it at all. I pointed out its smile and the advantages of the pressed foam body. She yawned and began to clean herself. Daunted, I picked the mice package out of the bag.

With some hesitation, I removed the pink mouse from the packet and dropped it on the floor. Instant reaction. The mouse was batted and pounced across the floor to come to a sliding halt under the couch. I retrieved it. It then was taken back across the room, picked up and killed to be picked up and taken elsewhere. The mouse lasted four hours before I could no longer locate it. It was not under the couch, the chair, the desk, the freezer or the chest of drawers. In fact it was not under any piece of furniture that I had already retrieved it from under. That was a week ago. I still haven't found it.

So that evening, I removed the blue mouse from the package. I heard it being killed all night. In the morning I couldn't find it. So I removed the green mouse from the package. Within 30 seconds, it was inbetween the stove and fridge. I didn't think anything could fit under the stove or the fridge. They've barely 3/4 of an inch of the ground. In fishing out the green mouse, I fished out the blue mouse from under the fridge, two empty spools of thread, several elastics and a small ball. Clearly, my cat can fit quite a lot under the fridge.

I've also discovered that the areas in which the baseboards don't quite touch the floor are just big enough for a determined cat to fit a toy mouse. I've realised that it is now my lot in life to find and retrieve toy mice from underneath which ever piece of furniture, they have skidded under. It seems that out of a total of five mice, I will only ever be able to locate two at any time. These two will not be consistent.

My cat has warmed up to the fish on the string. She enjoyed batting it and chasing it as I waved it around for a while. Then, I dismantled the stick so that only a five inch piece remained attached to the string. This amuses her much more. No matter which end, she picks up, something will follow her as she drags it. She becomes so fascinated in watching the moving object that she stops watching where she is going. I now have a cat that will walk into objects while dragging a fish attached to a string.

I try not to watch when she plays with the mouse. I know that she's practicing. I know that she's creating situations in her head where the mouse ducks to the right and she goes to the left and cuts it off at the pass. She's attacked it on carpet, she's attacked it on the tile and she's attacked it on the wood. I fear she's taking notes. Note 1 - easier to get traction on the carpet. Wood seems to be more slippery than tile. Further testing needed to verify.

I fear that at some point, she will have finished experimenting and will expect me to provide her with a live specimen so that she may put her practice into action. Right now, she has to stop letting them escape under furniture. I refuse to fish a live mouse out from under the fridge with a wooden spoon.

Of Mice and Cats

When I found a dead mouse in my apartment, I thought I had a problem. I spent the week-end checking for signs of mice. I tore my apartment apart and cleaned every inch of it. I found no signs. If it hadn't been for the dead mouse, I would not have known there had been one in my apartment.

I was surprised to find the mouse. My apartment is on the top floor of the building. It's a feature of our building that lots of cats and dogs live here. With the number of cats in between the ground and my apartment, the mouse should have been dead long before it arrived.

It turns out in the end that the mouse was only the beginning of a problem. Not the mouse problem that I had feared, but rather a cat problem. It seems that my overweight and rather lazy cat discovered her true calling - to be an excellent mouser. At first I was nervous about her new tendency to look into corners and under furniture. She can hear far better than me and I began to imagine mice were lurking all about me. Then I realised that when she couldn't find anything, she was coming and chirping at me.

These was a type of chirp that I had not heard since she was a proper kitten. Back then it had meant, "I'm bored, entertain me, play with me." It turns out that it still means that. Quickly improvising a toy for her, I created a ball out of paper which I then flicked towards her. To my astonishment, rather than batting it back, she ran and hid behind a piece of furniture. She crept round the furniture and peered around the corner. Intrigued, I backed my ball behind the ottoman and flicked it out into the open, but away not towards her. She bolted out and ran after the ball, batting it with her paws until it came to rest against the wall. She turned and looked at me as if to say, "Um, it stopped moving. Do something about it." Slight pause. "please."

l went and picked it up and batted it towards her. She just looked at me and did not move. I went and retrieved the ball, and took it behind a corner of the furniture. She watched to see what I was doing and then turned her back. I flicked the ball out and it started to go some distance. Quick as a flash, she turned and chased the ball. "Now you're showing off!" And she was. She demonstrated her mousing technique to me. One hides, crouches and seems unconcerned in the affairs of others and then just when the mouse thinks the coast is clear, you pounce. At this point the demonstration falls flat and she kinda looks at the ball and at me, "Well you get the idea, there is slightly more to it than this but look at what I'm working with. It gives up so easily."

I have a mouser who has no mice.

Ma Jupe Favorite

It's been a long time since I had what I could unequivocally say was my favourite skirt. Favourite skirts aren't like any other item of clothing. I know that my favourite sweater will make me feel better when I'm not feeling well and that my favourite jeans are as comfortable as can be, but a special skirt is much more.

At first glance it seems rather simple, nothing to write home about. And then the wearer moves. The skirt gracefully swishes as she walks and then as she descends a staircase, the skirt catches the wind ever so slightly and flutters up so that it floats. The skirt is fluid.

Most little girls know the type of dress or skirt. It's the type where they stick their arms out and twirl around. And as they spin, the dress comes up and out so that they look like a spinning flower. They instinctively understand that a dress with more movement is much more fun - plus it has the added bonus that you can run in it without much effort. A straight skirt is a serious impediment on the playground.

Recently, such a skirt made its way into my closet. It drapes very softly. It swishes just so. It floats upon a staircase. It's wool so it's horribly practical for winter. It's the type of skirt that ensures a good day. Everything could go wrong that day but the fact that you are wearing a special skirt will give you a little glow inside.

I can't remember what I did at work today. I know I "moved things" and I "sent things up" and that I accomplished something. I do know however that I wore my special skirt, and that when I twirled in the bathroom, it spun out, just enough. I had a fabulous day. I wore my favourite skirt.

Survival of the Fitest

In my absence, there had been a terrible battle. A battle fought to the bitter end that had tested the skills of both combatants to the utmost. I could imagine the scene as it played out across my apartment. The one running as though its life depended on it and the other waiting, watching and calculating. The fight had been relatively quick as there was almost no evidence to attest to its occurrence. There was an unexplained stain, some mystery dirt and that was all. If it hadn't been for the corpse, no one would have been any the wiser. But there was a corpse and I found it, stiff as a board. My cat has earned her first mousing badge.

Just say no, just say no

"Ouff," I clutched at the clothes that had been thrust into my arms. Wide-eyed with shock and apprehensive about where this was going, I followed the assistant around the store as she went from rack to rack, talking non-stop.

"You need a suit? This is a very cute suit, straight from Paris. The fashion won't come here until next winter." She picks out the jacket and skirt in my size and hands them to me. Still talking she moves onto the next rack. "Now these are veeery nice pants, you need black pants? yes." Without waiting for an answer, I find my self holding a pair of pants. Occasionally I manage to squeak out, "I've got a pair of pants like that," or "I can't wear sparkles at work." I'm not sure if I can or not. I do know there is no way I can take myself seriously wearing anything with a metallic thread in it. The number of clothes that have been put aside for me to try on is growing. Just when it looks as though she's finished, she claps her hands and says, "Riight, now we go upstairs." I manage a wane smile and follow up behind her. In my head, I'm freaking out. There's an upstairs?

Like the excellent saleslady that she is, she asked me what I was looking for and I said I needed a pair of black wool pants that were lined. Somewhere in the pile of clothes waiting for me to try then on, there is a pair of white wool lined pants. I'm hoping one of the three pairs of black pants is wool. I'm hoping to get out with my wallet in good repair. All I had wanted was a pair of pants. Now I've got several suits, both pant and skirt, as well as sweaters and tops to try on. And this was just from downstairs, upstairs I accumulate another skirt, its jacket, a pair of jeans and a sweater in my arms. I demur before we head into the shoes. She nodds, "We do shoes at the end." She takes the pile from my arms and leads me back downstairs.

"Heere is the changeroom!" So, now I am to try it all on. However, this is not my show, I am merely the model. She picks out a pair of black pants, and a top. "Try these on!" It's a command so I do it. There are shoes in the change room which I have been instructed to wear. I teeter out on the heels where I am to be appraised. Currently there are two sales assistants, a young girl and my mother. My mother has been placed in a chair and is looking bemused. The young girl belongs in some capacity to the shop.

The fit of the pants is granted approval and the sales lady takes another top from the clothes reserved for me to try the on. "Now leave those pants on and try this on with them." So I do. The top is a cute wool top that has a scoop neck and is fluid through the body with cream detailing. It's pretty. I am handed a turtle neck and told to try it on under the top that I currently have on. At this stage, I realise that I am to get each outfit made a gazillion different ways. And on it goes, "Wear this skirt with this top and this jacket." "Leave the skirt on and wear this blouse, put this jacket on top." I keep the same bottom on and try on different tops, sweaters and jackets. I leave jackets and on try them with skirts and tops. I have necklaces draped over my neck, scarves artfully arranged on a jacket and the promise of the appropriate footwear. I feel like Barbie. I do not feel empowered. I do know that this lady is in charge. Perhaps Barbie does make little girls feel empowered. I make a mental note to think this through later, right now I'm being given yet another complete outfit.

If it doesn't fit well, "Take it off, that won't do!" Occasionally I reject pieces due to personal peeves. But the vast majority of it fits and it fits well and looks even better. I get to the stage where as I pull an item on, I hope it doesn't fit so I am not given ten more things to try on with it. I get lucky a few times and I am able to say authoritatively, "this doesn't fit" and hand it back out.

The rest is going into a "maybe" pile. My "maybe" pile allows me to rank items according to how much I like it and how much use I will get out of it. It also allows for me to do a mental calculation so that I am prepared and satisfied when I head to the cash register. By the time I'm finished, I can't remember what's in the pile. I'm about to start weeding the pile when it is gathered up and swept off to the cash register. I look at my mum in horror. She looks back at me but she is powerless to do anything.

I take a deep breath and remember that I have rent to pay next month. I will refuse to be bullied.

The clothes have been hung on a clothes post at the cash register. The lady starts holding up items. There's a cute plaid skirt that all the sales staff loved and I was indifferent about. I shake my head, "no." Behind the skirt is a top that I didn't try on. It is now gone too as it was to go with the skirt. So we weed. I agreeing to items that I loved that would be useful. And we're down to a jacket, a pair of jeans, a pair of black pants, and a sweater. I take a breath. "What would be the final total of this?" I watch the calculator and realise that I am not happy. I look at my mum. She's maintaining her poker face. I ask to see the black pants.

The sales lady decides that I need coaching. "What are you going to wear more? these black pants or the jeans? the pants, no? We leave the jeans." I flip the content label on the pants. They are not wool and they are not lined. I point this out and the fact that it's freezing cold where I live. "Alright then, you had better leave the pants and take the jeans." I do a quick calcualtion. "I'll leave the jeans and the pants." She looks at me. European sales staff are tough. They don't give up a sale easily. I looked back hoping that I looked determined rather than petrified. She shrugged her shoulders. "Ok. you get the jacket and the sweater." I could tell that she thought I was an idiot shopper. Not the most useful out of what I had tried on. However, they were the best pieces for mixing into my wardrobe. And they would round out my wardrobe very nicely.

I came home in slight shock. I wasn't used to doing a personal fashion show. I needed a drink. I've started doing two shopping expeditions a year : one for summer and one for winter and avoiding stores like the plague the rest of the year. And now I know why, I can't take that level of intensity on a more regular basis. It's too intimidating.