On J. Crew

When I was younger, 10 or so, I got into the (totally bizarre) habit of ordering J. Crew catalogues in the mail, then cutting animal heads out of old Owl magazines and pasting them over the model's faces. It was a brief summer craft project that turned into a full-blown obsession. I wish I still had a few of these kicking around--sadly, all of my outsider art was thrown away as kid crafts gave way to teen diaries. Back then, J. Crew was all crinkled khakis and pastel polos; it was more dockside, less desirable. It was the age of Dawson's Creek, what can I say?

(photo via stayinginwithvlada.com)

As much as I love Pacey Witter (which, to be fair--to this day--is a lot) J. Crew had to grow up eventually. And, year by year, it's been getting better and better. Under the creative direction of Jenna Lyons, she of the heavy framed eyeglasses and little boy nail polish controversy, the brand has become more classic and more daring at once.

They've been teasing an entry into the Canadian market for years, but next week it's finally going to happen: at Yorkdale on August 18th. I don't think this will damper my bi-monthly road trips to Buffalo, NY, but it's still a bright spot in a crowded mall. Now we just need to start pulling Madewell up past the border--gently, gently.

From the J. Crew fall 2011 lookbook:

Not so much the pants, but definitely the trench. 

I don't enjoy being swathed in black all fall/winter long, but my coloring (red hair, freckles) usually doesn't give me much choice. This is a combination I can get behind, though. Mint and burgundy? So pretty. Reminiscent of one of my favorite snacks: mint chip ice cream with blueberries. Tastes awful, looks delicious. 

Yes please. 

(photos via fashionolgie.com)

Ikea Kitchen Cart DIY

Truth: I've never wanted a Bekvam cart, that Ikea staple of a million undergrad kitchens.

It's a functional size and shape, but the untreated wood isn't very appealing. Last month, during a DIY drought--our apartment is running out of projects, how will I live?--I decided to give in, buy the Bekvam, lug the box home and start staining. Our existing kitchen "cart" needed to eat it, after all:

I mean, look at that thing. Purchased on sale at Canadian Tire in 2008 for $10. It could barely even stand up straight.  

Staining and painting are hard tasks when you live in a cramped apartment, so I opted to get the job done outside on our (equally cramped) front porch. Let's just say, I spent a lot of time yelling at wind.

After:

(Please ignore the disgusting switch plate. This ain't my house, so I ain't DIY-ing that thing.)

It looks like a million bucks--or like $249.00, which is the price of Ikea's similar Stenstorp cart. 

I'm currently living cheaper than Ikea. I didn't think it could be done. 

Also!

A gift from Devan's mom, or, a book salvaged from a basement in London, ON. Yes, those are goblets of milk on the front cover. 

I may have to start a series of blog posts testing out these recipes. Nay, will. 

My City of Internships

I've been nursing a quarter-life crisis for some time now. It's the culmination of a number of factors: this city, the job market, social media constantly making me feel inadequate, and my own tendency to sweat the small and big stuff. This past week I was mulling over how best to explain my woes through words. Then, today, this article appears: Unpaid interns, working for free

The Globe gets it. And it sucks.

I opted to apply to Masters programs following undergrad, for reasons I can't even remember now. I managed to get accepted to all of the schools I applied to, which only made things worse; it was fuel for my fire, confidence for my crazy. I knew that I liked writing fiction, and that I was good at it. I didn't consider my options-- in my mind, the only option was to get my MFA.

Two years later, I have a surplus of short stories, a rough draft of a "novel", and practically no employable skills.

My biggest problem is that I don't know what I want to do. At age 25, I still don't know what I want to do. I do want to write, but "writer" isn't a real job anymore; it certainly isn't a job that pays. In the world of fiction writing, my age is a positive thing (I'm only 25!). In the real world, the one filled with jobs and expenses and debts, my age is a liability (I'm already 25).

I know what fields I'd thrive in: arts and media in broad strokes, but specifically publishing, advertising, editorial, communications. None of those fields want me as is, though, because I haven't followed the standard path. Haven't you heard about The Path?

The Path: Get a BA--> get a post-grad diploma or certificate--> take an unpaid internship (or several)--> fight to the death with thousands of other kids just like you for the same small handful of jobs.

This city has a dearth of arts-related jobs, yet it's awash in unpaid internships. As the Globe article points out, these internships don't just take advantage of students and recent graduates; they're also inherently classist.

"One of Mr. Perlin’s chief critiques of unpaid internships is they are classist. While they may be a stepping stone to gainful employment, students who cannot afford to spend a summer without pay are shut out from such opportunities."

From my perspective, I can't afford to go to a post-grad college program let alone take a string of unpaid internships. I've cleared all my debts from undergrad and grad school, but it seems like the only way I can get a stimulating job is by putting myself back into the red.


I'm 25. I'm not sure if I have enough fight left in me.  

A Story About Crabs

A story I wrote about crabs can be found in Issue Two of Dragnet Magazine right here. The setting is loosely based around the Peixaria Portugal fish store on Ossington, which may be the smelliest spot in Toronto. Sadly,  my story does not feature scratch and sniff technology. Something to think about for the next issue, eh?

My 7 Year Diaversary

Seven years ago yesterday I was diagnosed with Type 1. I celebrate June 27th every year, without fail-- yesterday's celebrations included running 12km in bright green shorts, ice cream in a waffle cone, 3 low blood sugars and 1 super high sugar. So, not all that different from my regular days, but special nonetheless.

Some people (on Facebook, at school, at work) have expressed to me that my diabetes "celebration" puts them off. Why would someone want to celebrate a shitty disease that makes life worse? It's a valid question. I'm not celebrating having diabetes, though-- I'm congratulating myself on surviving another year with it. From June 27, 2010 to June 27, 2011 I spent a full 365 days with this disease. I didn't get any breaks. I had highs, lows, breakdowns, panic attacks. I got blood all over myself, yelled at by my endocrinologist, woken up endlessly in the middle of the night in a sweat.

I also didn't need paramedics to revive me, didn't end up in the ER on a drip, didn't see my A1C numbers soar out of control. I did okay. And that's good enough for me. So give me ice cream.

Pumped

My insulin pump, a Medtronic Paradigm 722, is worth $7000. It is also two years old, banged up, and covered in little bits of dust, dirt and my own skin, but the price still remains. It is also not waterproof.

It is also, now, broken.

Yesterday marked the meandering start to Toronto's first heat wave of the year: slightly sticky, a little heavy, mostly pleasant. The temperature was stable at 25 when I went for my run at 6pm. I usually remove my pump when I run: too much basal insulin makes me bottom out, and the thing is so fucking expensive, right? What if I trip and smash it? What if my tubing gets caught in a tree branch? Yesterday, though, I decided to keep it on. I shouldn't have it detached for more than an hour at a time, and my training distances will keep going up in advance of my races this year.

So I kept it on, clipped to the inside of my sports bra. Around 11km I dug it out to check the time. It was slick with sweat. Pressed a button. Nothing happened. Pressed another. Nothing happened. The clock was still working alright, but the buttons, it seems, were brucked. When I got home I blasted it with a hair dryer. It started to beep at me like a crazy person. Then it flashed its final message: "BUTTON ERROR".

The jig was up.

This pump may not be waterproof, but it should, at least, prove sweatproof. I'm not a terribly sweaty individual. I didn't drop it in the toilet. It shouldn't stop working for this. I picked up the phone prepared to give Medtronic a piece of my mind...but the customer service agent I spoke to was so surprisingly nice I couldn't even muster up rage. Instead of the standard 24 hour wait, they had a replacement pump sent by courier to me within the hour.

This new pump isn't dented or covered in old skin cells either, so, y'know, every cloud.

21km and Type 1: On Shorts

My dad used to run cross country in high school. He told my brother and I stories about his past "running career" as we embarked on our own, but it was hard to take him seriously. My dad, beer-bellied and forever old, could not have been a runner, right? Some of his stories were a little hard to believe (like the one about him winning the regional championship, or how they had to run through rivers on the course, or how he claimed to have started the 1960's trend of wearing running shoes casually (my personal fav)). But then again, he did have the shorts.

The shorts. Teeny tiny blue satin running shorts edged in red. He even had a yellowed photograph of himself wearing them--proof enough for me.

I decided to wear them for OFSAA 2002. It was November and freezing. The shorts barely fit me (shit, my dad was skinnier at 16 than I was?) and they reeked of oak cabinet and must. I don't even remember my time or place in that race; I don't remember much beyond the shorts, and that's why I'm so thankful for them.

It's also why I need new shorts. I've been wearing the same running stuff for years. I've been wearing down my Dri-Fits slowly, convincing myself that I didn't deserve / couldn't afford the wardrobe of a real runner. My boring old black shorts symbolize nothing good to me; they sum up the last few years I spent adjusting basal rates, injuring my legs and training intermittently. It's time for me to change...shorts. Not sure if I'll go for blue satin though.

The Bachelorette Looky-likeys

I watch The Bachelor without fail every season, but it's never as entertaining as The Bachelorette. "The Bette" lasts just as long--two hours every week, are you kidding me Mike Fleiss?--but its cast of potential suitors always keeps me interested way longer than The Bach's fleet of catty bitches.

Season 7 started last night and already promises to be unsophisticated, disingenuous, messy and hilarious. Here are the best cast lookalikes we spotted during last night's episode.

Contestant: William

Josh Lucas, anyone?

Contestant: Frank

Contestant: Constantine 

There are at least 3 Grobans on this season.

Contestant: JP

 Pitter patter.

Contestant: Michael

Contestant: Tim

image sources: abc.go.com, too many to name

Hunting For: Pull-Down School Maps

I've had old school maps (literally: school maps that are old) on my radar for a while now. I love cartography in general, but these pull-down scrolls are something special. There's one hanging in the back portion of The Ossington--every trivia night I hope to get a geography question about South America so I can use the map to my advantage, but it hasn't happened yet. Pretty and functional.

(images via 1, 2)

These aren't hard-to-find treasures. I know where they're at ( The Queen West Antique Centre, for one), but they've always been out of reach, money-wise. This summer I'm making it a mission to buy one at a price that suits my post-grad budget. I have a few tricks up my sleeve: my boyfriend's step-dad, a teacher in Southwestern Ontario, is keeping tabs on schools in the area that might be closing down; I've been checking listings for school auctions out in the country; and then there's Christie. These fingers are crossed. Map: I'm gonna get you.

A Wing and a Prayer

It's been a while since I've be truly excited for a film adaptation of a book. When I was younger, books-to-movies used to make me crazy; I love books and movies in equal measure, so the chance to have both, one after the other, could send me into a tizzy. (It's only now, at age 25, that I've started to realize my emotional attachments to art and media might be a touch freakish.) Sometimes the book to movie transition is smooth; other times, not so much.

I crossed my fingers for the Owen Meany movie. I swallowed that book up when I was 12, in the sixth grade, while my peers were still reading the Babysitter's Club Little Sister series, and felt so adult. An Owen Meany movie couldn't fail, right? And then I met "Simon Birch".

I basically peed my pants over The Virgin Suicides. I'd read the book in the fall of my grade 10 year, knowing that Sofia Coppola's movie was already in the pipeline. The book made me cry. I watched the movie on a Christmas eve. They both hit me, in different ways, equally hard.

Which brings me to this year's model: Lynne Ramsay's adaptation of Lionel Shriver's We Need To Talk About Kevin. The movie is premiering at Cannes. The book I wasn't expecting to like nearly as much as I did.

I came away from Kevin's final page legitimately terrified of having kids. Granted, 'having kids' is a scary notion on its own, but this was different: what if my kid is horrible? What if they do something horrible? What if I don't love them.

Shriver's novel is oftentimes overwrought, repetitive and insincere. I've never read another book, though, that so thoroughly engrossed me in motherhood. I'm not a mother, won't be for a while, but I came away from this book thinking like a mother. Feeling like a mother, probably, too. I bought my mom a copy to read after I did. I expected her to feel as affected as I had been, but it didn't quite pan out that way. She found it more unsettling than affecting, which I suppose marks the difference between a real mom and a maybe-future-mom.

A few clips from the movie were released this week. It took me two days to finally watch them. I was hoping for Virgin Suicides but expecting another Simon Birch. I'm a fan of SWINTON, and I'd die for John C. Reilly, but I just wasn't buying them in the roles. When I finally bit down and watched the clips (what if I don't love them), I realized that my fears had been misplaced.

The movie, at least, looks good.

We Need to Talk About Kevin clip 3 by Flixgr

My future kids might still turn out to be mass murderers, though.