Late Night "Booty Calls..."

Way back in 1983 (when I think I went on my second to last date) a "booty call" referred to a late night call from a significant or not so significant other for sex.

Well last Monday night at around 11:30 I got a booty call and let's just say that they weren't what they used to be.

When you become the parent of a teenager with fast growing feet a"booty call" becomes imbued with a whole new meaning.

The Road Runner , "Oh good you're awake."

Me: "Awake is relative state, what do you want?"

The Road Runner: "Your kid skis right?"

Me: "Well kind of." (Let's just say he has spent time on skis and on skill hills but that while on them he becomes a danger to himself and others...a big danger...)

The Road Runner: "He has ski boots right?"

Me: "Ah ha."

The Road Runner: "What size."

Me: "A 12, I think he's in a 14 now...he has paddles for feet." (Accidentally hang Up)

Cellphone rings again.

The Road Runner: "Can I borrow them?'

Me still not quite cogent: "Okay."

The Road Runner: "Can I borrow the skis too? Your boots may not work with our bindings."

Me (mumbling): "Whatever, we can arrange an exchange in the morning."

(I silently curse the day we became friends.)

The Road Runner (as if he were speaking to his 15 year old): "No I need them for tomorrow first thing!"

(Apparently it's his school's annual ski day.)

Me: "Okay I'll leave them on the porch"

The Road Runner: "I don't think I can get down there, my car's stuck in a snow bank, can't you bring them up."

(He lives uptown and doesn't think it's a good idea for a Black man to go down town to my neighourhood at night--I get the overpolicing of racialized men, but really, the guy drives a Buick...no how many men, black or not get pulled over driving while Buicked?)

Me: "So how do you propose to get them?"

The Road Runner: "Well I thought because you had a Volvo...you could...you know..."

Sound of me hanging up the phone...

Sometime between 12:30 and 1:30 there is a bang at my door; it gets louder and louder and louder.

I answer the door.

The Road Runner is standing there, snowy but unapologetic: "I'm here for the boots."

I stomp downstairs find two pairs of ski boots (hoping they are the wrong size), stomp back upstairs thrust them in his general direction. He makes soothing noises, "Poor sleep baby...."

I threaten to throw him out if he doesn't leave. Given that at 6"5 he's a foot taller than I am he takes no notice. Instead he says, looking at my faded flannel sheep printed pajamas and once fluffy but now grungy lamb slippers, "No wonder you're not getting any, those PJs are scruffy and scary, why don't you get yourself a sexy negligee or something."

I give him the look of death. He exits my foyer at top speed.

30 seconds later. More banging.

The Road Runner: "You wouldn't have a couple of pairs of hand-knitted socks to go with these would you?"

I get very, very angry.

Fortunately for me the neighbours never called the police and sistah knitster Karen-the-Criminal Lawyer lives a block away!

Knitting and Dating

Okay, okay for all of you that wanted to know why I haven't been blogging. I was busy getting a divorce, practicing witchcraft and considering becoming celibate. I was also drowning in hand knitted tits but that is a whole other story. I also almost got arrested for knitting while trying to steal a John McCain sign in L.A. but that was Minty, the Wild Fiber Girl's fault (note the Americanization of fibre.) So have stopped knitting until recently, online dating definitely convinced me that I need to stay home and knit on Friday Nights.

Diary of the Dating Cesspool

Day 1:

List my profile on website; no picture; list religion is Buddhist; promptly receive 10 emails from nice men in the 905 all of whom are fundamentalist Christians wishing to convert me; “Only through a good man you will find Christ”; writes one, “Accept Jesus into your heart; I invite you to Church on Sunday writes another.” Consider changing my profile to read: “feminist.” Realize there is not a drop down option for this.

Day 2:

Get 13 emails requesting picture; upload picture from Rebel Knitter's new book Knittishisms, Promptly get another 8 emails from the “rice boys”—white guys who have Suzy Wong complex and wear Hai Karate. Change profile so that only Asian men can view me. No emails

Day 3:

No emails.

Day 4:

No emails.

Day 5:

Finally get one email! 45 year old man; never married; is concerned about unruly children. Suggests meeting me, suggests meeting children, to determine their level of naughtiness, no he was not being cheeky. Tells me how much money he makes (hey it’s a Chinese thing), how much he has saved, how much is house costs and uploads picture of his car. (A Toyota Camry); Definitely NMT (Not My Type)

Day 6:

Get 3 new emails, all guys from the 905 who work downtown. Agree to meet the one of colour who actually graduated from university for after work coffee (even though it is against my better judgment—none of my single Black female friends would forgive me if I hooked up with “one of theirs’). Mr. BBA does all the talking; tells me about his job; how many people he bosses around; all his favourite hobbies Cricket (well maybe he isn’t all that bad); fixing his cars and cross border shopping. Shows me album of all his cars and tells me about all the outlet malls in Niagara Falls NY; in collision insurance report language, even with the Cricket bat, he’s a definite write off.

Days 7-10

Ignore all dating site emails—like 2 of them; play on Facebook and MySpace instead.

Day 21 (or so it seems lost count here)

Receive email from reasonably nice guy who seems to be able to spell. Education listed as graduate school. Email re: Grad Degree; well he graduated from high school (“Isn’t that what ‘Graduate School’ means?”) not that I am classist or anything (yes, I am). Ask him what he thinks about the state of the IMF. He asks if it’s a Hip Hop group.

Silently roll my eyes.

Day 23

Receive email from one of my drinking and poker buddies (a guy) who tells me that my profile is lame, check his out, it is equally lame; this online thing is getting scary.

Day 26:

Yeah email from first real human being, who is a Trekkie; asks me to Comic-Con convention. Upload a picture of me in my trek gear receive email asking me why I have blue trek suit given that I am not on the Star Trek Fan Data Base as a science officer; I'm listed as a security officer. Clearly this guy needs to see Free Enterprise.

(“Don’t you people have lives?”)

Day 30

Get email from broadcast journalist, wants to do lunch next day. Agree to meet at Jamie Kennedy for lunch. He’s half an hour late covering a story; I eat, he shows up. Apologizes. I once dated a journalist so this has a hint of very bad deja vu. His blackberry goes off at least 15 times during remainder of 30 minute lunch. I pay the bill for both of us and run for it. Totally get why this guy does not have a partner, he’s already committed to his crackberry. Don’t bother to return his calls or emails offering to pay for his half of the lunch. (I mean why bother, I’d just wind up in the crackberry void!)

Day 42 or somewhere thereabouts

Get email from first relatively “normal” person; he knows what Mensa is; he went to university AND graduate school; asks to go on walk. Read profile. Relatively normal person lives in Vancouver. Next time I’m in Vancouver…. August 2009? Maybe but unlikely. Walk is definitely not going to happen. Blame relatively normal person for getting my hopes up. He has a PhD but didn’t both to read my profile where it clearly says I live Toronto, Ontario?

Rant, “Life’s not fair, life’s not fair " 27 times.

Email normal person back,

"Sorry but uable to afford the plane fare necessary to go on aforementioned walk."

Day 43

Resolve to take my profile off dating site and become a nun. Really. Unfortunately cannot figure out how to do it. Give up and focus on the flipping frozen turkeys at work.(With the goddess as my witness I did not know that frozen turkeys can be used as weapons--c.f.-WKRP)

Day 44

Get email from relatively normal person who mentions that he is in Toronto. Do happy dance around the office. Smile.

Day 47

Meet relatively normal person for drinks who mentions that when not in Toronto he lives on the West Coast and is thinking of buying a herd of angora and cashmere goats....Smile...Think I am in a new relationship for all the wrong reasons...but fibre is fibre.

Day 50

Realize that new relationship has serious sweater curse issues two ex-wives both of whom knit...although he ofusicated on this fact, I suspect the knit him sweaters and then left shortly after discovering he was indeed not knit worthy!

The KnitKnit Launch

It's been a week now and I'm just coming down from my trip to New York from the launch of Sabrina Gschwandtner's book, KnitKnit: Profiles and Project's from Knitting's New Wave. More commentary is coming but enjoy the photos of contributor Jim Drain's work in the meantime.

Communist Kitsch

In Milan Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being the character of Sabina, an Czech artist who emmigrates to Switzerland following the Prague Spring is celebrated for defying socialisim. Yet Sabina claims that her "enemy [as an artist] isn't communism, it's kitsch." After a week in Cuba I see what she means by kitsch--in particular communist kitsch. The public murals of Jose Marti, Che, Fidel and Raul really became overbearing after a while. (Not unlike the Chinese propaganda poster art of my Beijing excursion in the 1980s)

The ST however, discovered after a 10 hour walk through Habana

that there is real art to be found and it's everywhere!

"Kitsch? I thought you said 'cat.'"

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

To be real I didn't have one. Life sucked the summer of 2007. We did get away to Cuba, where no one ever goes in August and had a blast--except that I absolutely hated resort life in Varedero. I can't believe that there are people in the world who pay thousands of dollars to sit on a beach, drink rum and do nothing. After the first day I'd had enough. Fortunately Habana was two hours away. I've now been back 2 weeks and worked the last 10 days straight. But I'm not resentful or anything.

I knew something was wrong when I got to the resort and found towel art

Luckily there was rum...

and little tiny sea creatures for the IGT to play with

but it wasn't enough and we went looking for something more fun

"This is fun!"

In the U.S. "It's Pimp My Ride" But In Cuba It's Fix My Lada

The RAWD-D Mobile

After weeks and weeks of trying to knit a new door the Uber Volvo out of hideous acrylic yarn I finally threw in the towel. I didn't have the right gauge or a metal frame plus Blog Mistress Kat pointed out that the door would not be fire proof nor conform to Ministry of Transport Regs.

The B & C in the meantime, started watching that MTV reality series "Pimp My Ride" and got inspired.

Six weeks later I came home to a "tarted up" Volvo. Sure it still big, boxy and boring but it has a whole new sound system, tower brace, tinted windows, lowering springs, GPS, brushed steel trim and an air intake system that makes it go vroom, vroom even at low speeds. Apparently new rims with mag wheels are on the way. The B & C whose first name is Roddy, even (briefly) considered ordering vanity plates that say RAWD-D (the ST's idea). I hope this isn't the start of a midlife crisis or something. Maybe I should knit a red lace garter or pair of fuzzy dice to go on the rear window mirror or something.

Shortly after this transformation we went to Cuba where we got to watch a whole new reality series called "Fix My Lada" it's playing all over the country. On city streets, country roads and highways Ladas of every shape size and colour are being fixed. Some Cubans can even be spotted cannibalizing parts from their car to put into a comrade's as they putt -putt along.

The Communist Youth League in Habana has a whole fleet of Ladas in really loud psychedelic from the 1970s some with bumper stickers that read "The fast and the furious." (My long held belief that the leftists are without irony is now shattered.)


I don't know what this is but it is NOT a fixed Lada, it's likely some American Monstrosity from the 195os

Dora Got Married, I Went to High Tea and Now Cuba Si!

After months and months of being overworked I'm finally getting my elusive two week vacation. I spent the first day of it helping my much loved friend Dora Nipp whom my children refer to as "Auntie Hardliner" marry the wonderful Lorne Foster whom the B & C refers to as a "Cool Dude" and I think of as a fab academic. After years of planning rallies and protests with Dora (where we would shout "No Justice, No Peace" for hours on end into a bull-horn while marching up University Avenue) it was so good to be able to help out with a wedding. The only disaster if you can call it that was the sound system failed and we were forced to pull out the bull-horns for the "I dos." It figures, this was after all Dora.

The reception though was something else. What do you get when you get a 4th generation Chinese-Canadian ethnologist, filmmaker and lawyer together with a Black Canadian educator, scholar and community activist with roots going back to the United Empire Loyals and the Underground Railway? A BIG, LOUD AND COLOURFUL PARTY at the Ontario Multicultural History Society.

The next day I followed that party with another by going uptown for high tea at Alterknit Cafe where I nursed my sushi and white chocolate, raspberry mousse cake hangover with even more indecent savouries and a white chocolate mango pudding. I did however, stay on my yarn diet.

Now we are off to Cuba, where I will sit on the beach and wait for hurricanes while the Surly Teen communes with the spirit of Che and the Imperious Goth Tween practices being a dictator by telling all the boys hanging around the hotel pool what to do. Cuba Si!