Last name, first name, date of birth?

Well it was a productive, if not incredibly busy, weekend. I made a chocolate souffle (pictures to follow, my camera is out of reach at the moment) which turned out perfectly. Mike and I decided to make Montreal style bagels on a whim, and it was way too much fun. Boiling breads and baked goods has become my new obsession. It's just so gratifying as you drop those blobs of dough in the water and watch them puff and rise to the top of the pot. Dumplings were never de rigeur in our household, but I've learned to love them. I think boiling wheat/besan/anything products is highly underrated. It's not just for pasta, people!

I'm thinking a lot about school lately. I hope both Mike and I get in, and are given the opportunity by these random arbiters of destiny to fulfill our dreams. How odd is it that some bureaucrat gets to decide this? And it is all based on a couple pieces of paper, in my case. A short letter pleading my worthiness, and a computer printoff filled with numbers that signify, in turn, my intelligence and stick-to-it-iveness. I've always had a bit of an obsession with school applications. In my senior year I applied to thirteen different universities. My parents, clearly not keeping track, kept doling out the application fees.

"How many is that now?" My mother asked offhandedly. I think I mumbled something vague about open opportunities with a dash of world as my oyster rhetoric that I love so much.

In the end, I got into one university, which was perfect because it was the one that I wanted to get into and it saved me the trouble of having to decide. I should say from the outset that my lack of options wasn't from poor grades, but rather, overambitiousness. I had graduated a year early, but my graduation was only going to come through in August. I hurriedly completed the last of my coursework in the chunnel, reading the Great Gatsby beneath the Tour Effiel. I found the contrast of European historicity and feigned American classism most ironic. Most universities weren't willing to give me a conditional acceptance except my alma mater, which did. As time went on, I would continue to love the bendiness of their administration, the flexibility of their manifestos. There was always someone sympathetic that you could wheedle if your tuition was late, or you really really needed to get into that class that was full.

I think those thirteen applications were the harbingers of the future. I learned to fill in my name, last then first, in caps in those tiny blocks. Birthdate, SIN, address, phone number, signature. It's a formula that is the catalyst for all of the hallmarks of life: school applications, marriage certificates, mortgage papers and your child's birth registration. Little did I know, as I pressed out those facts about myself to thirteen different schools through whitened knuckles and ball point pen, that it would eventually determine my entire future. Even if I did only get in to one of them.

Listen here, you, I used to be somebody.

I feel like I'm becoming stupid. Dumb-er. Umm..you know. Less intelligent. There was a time when my brain, as well as my intellect, was a fine-tuned machine. I knew what I knew, and I knew it inside out and backwards. I was looking through some old sociology papers of mine. Here is an abstract (read: short summary) of a paper that I wrote at one point in time:

Abstract: Brainwashing has long been a controversial notion in understanding religious conversion. In this paper, I utilize Foucault’s notion of bio-power in identifying brainwashing as a form of medicalized social control over human bodies and minds. Discourses created by government agencies, psychologists, and the media have all contributed to understanding the adherents of new religious movements, pejoratively termed ‘cults’, as brainwashed and mentally ill. The counter-hegemonic manner in which some adherents new religious movements live their lives frequently defies the ‘common sense’ of normative societal practices, making them prime targets for social control, as they represent bodies which have failed their purpose in society. Due to some of the lost legitimacy of brainwashing discourses, child abuse accusations are growing as the new stigmatizing force against these groups. In both cases, discourses on the ‘truth’ of the danger of new religious movements are utilized as justification for intervention and control. Conceptualizing brainwashing as a form of bio-power brings to light the political forces and discourses which frame new religious movements negatively. In identifying widely unseen forms of control, there is greater potential for new religious movement members to be seen as individuals with full agentic capacity and rich religious experience.

Ummm...what? Genius, that's what.

I couldn't write like that now if I had all the time in the world. So what changed? For one, I am no longer immersed in academic culture. At one point in time, approximately the time that I wrote the above paper, I hadn't read a novel in over five months. My reading, which took up two hours of my day every day, was entirely composed of academic papers. I was filled with an urgency of importance. What I was writing mattered and everyone needed to read it. Except, no one did. No one, except other sociologists knew what I was talking about. It was baffling. I tried to explain the import of what I was doing. That religious minorities were being consistently marginalized. Anyone who was listening had their own 'pet' cause. No one wanted to adopt mine.

Three years later and still, no one cares. For some reason, even though I claimed I read that academic literature because I found it interesting, I no longer read it anymore. Maybe it's for lack of having anyone to talk to about it. I really miss having my brain work in overdrive, my heart pounding as someone concludes their argument and then the three seconds of silence as they await my retort.

Academia is the only form of competition I appreciate. Everything else is too sweaty and smells of India rubber.

So I suppose I shouldn't complain the way I do about my completely useless fifty thousand dollar education. You know, the education that sucked away 5 prime years of my life into abject poverty so that I could be a secretary post-graduation? It had its benefits. I'm sure if I hadn't of gone, I would have been consumed by the idea that my life was in some way incomplete. I'm like that. I tend to focus on the tiny missed stitches, rather than the fabric of life. I like to think of it as being detail/goal oriented. I'm horrified by the idea that I will wake up one day, an incomplete person, too old to fix what I find lacking. I'm glad I went to university. I enjoyed the hell out of it. I just wish that what it gave me wasn't so fleeting.

My sense of confidence in my brain, the ability to articulate my feelings with a rational backing, is all gone. It's something that I don't think most people realise (I know I didn't) that your academic field, no matter how immersed you are in it at the moment, no matter if you live and breathe it, is just like a language. If you don't use it, it's gone. I no longer talk sociology, and I miss its adjectives, its way of wrapping everything up in a neat little package and at the same time blowing it to smithereens. But it, like the toys of my childhood, needs to be left behind. It is a part of my former self, rather than my present. It was an adult decision, realising that I needed to do concrete things with my life to be happy, rather than resting in the realm of the abstract, where the only risks I took were using Foucault as a theoretical framework for religious persecution. Since then, I've birthed a person through my body. I've promised myself to not one, but two people, for the rest of my life. I may feel stupid sometimes, but I always feel important.

Lotus Feet

I've been lacking inspiration lately, so I'm just going to give a rundown of the events of my past few days, so as to keep this thing alive:

On Sunday, I had plans to go to the Unitarian church. At the last minute (ie. fifteen minutes before we went out the door) I freaked out that I hadn't called in advance to find out more about their infant care that they state exists, on the website. Having never left my son in any kind of public childcare before, not even at teh gym, I was convinced that this was a valid reason not to go. My bad. So, all dressed up and with nowhere to go, we decided instead to take a trip to the Bata Shoe Museum. Mike wanted to go to the Art Gallery of Ontario, since we have a membership that was lovingly gifted as a babyshower gift almost one year ago, but we go there SO much and I'm very tired of their permanent collection. So the Shoe Museum it was!

We saw the permanent collection, which was fun, and then went up to see the chopines. Chopines, for those of you who aren't bizarro historical fashion freaks like myself, are the original platform shoe. They were popular in 16th C Italy and Spain especially, and most of the examples were from there. The Italian chopines were simple, some towering almost three feet high, and the soles were in the shape of flowers so that each step made a little flower pattern in the earth. Leave it to the Italians to turn shoes into poetry. Interesting the way women's feet are frequently referred to in terms of flowers. I'm thinking particularly of the lotus feet (bound feet) of chinese women during the turn of the century. 

The shoes themselves were mostly pale leather with flowery cutouts. The Spanish chopines were of equal height, averaging, I would say, around one and a half feet, but much more richly decorated with velvet brocades. These tall shoes were a way for women to have longer, more elaborate skirts to show off. Men attempted to keep up, but mostly they wanted to be able to walk, so their shoes were more reasonably sized.

This exibit was exciting for me because A. It was my first chance to see any antiquated textiles, and B. It is my first foray into the world of historical footwear. Usually I've interested myself in what one can see, such as skirts, bodices and tunics, or what shapes the garment, like underwear. I basically overlooked footwear. I think that I will probably blame this on the fact that as a tall woman, beyond six feet tall, with what I shall call a 'generous' shoe size, I have avoided loving shoes. Isn't that sad? Because I know most shoes won't fit me anyway, I avoid following the trends, picturing them on my foot, or coveting them in magazines. There is something very stifling about shopping based on your size, as opposed to based on your preference. You could give me a room full of shoes in my size and it just wouldn't be the same as picking something out of some random magazine, tracking it down and buying it. That's probably why I love purses so much.

Turns out, it's a very important part of historical fashion. And since most historical fashion wouldn't fit me anyway, and my interest in it is about dressing other people anyway, I might as well start taking notice.

Pair of Venetian Chopines we saw at the

Shoe Museum, with flower petal soles.

So then, on Monday, we went back to the daily grind of whatever it is we do. Then Mike had a dentist appointment today. Life is comfortably boring.

Oh, and my stupid alma mater seems to be screwing around with my transcripts AGAIN. I seriously can't get a break with these people. Sent them my transcript request on the 10th of February and the charge hasn't come off my credit card yet. I tried to call them on Friday, and it was some concocted holiday. Then again on Monday, and they had above average call volume so they just...wait for it...hung up on me! Same today. I hope I can actually talk to someone soon, because this is driving me nuts!

The Things I Was Supposed to Be

Writing this letter of intent (seemingly endlessly) has set me on the track of thought of all the things I've wanted to be over the years. When I was younger I had such tunnel vision about my future. There was only one possible version, and I thought if I clung to it as hard as I could then it would become a reality. While this is probably true, I overestimated my own tenacity. I think this is a generational issue, though. Most people I know are just now becoming what they think they should be, after a myriad of majors and minors, jobs and volunteer positions. So, here is a list of the things I was supposed to be. Consider it to be a sort of non-traditional resume.

Orthopedic Surgeon
Why: My dad was in a motorcycle accident before I was born, and as a result suffered permanent disability. Simply put, I wanted to fix him.
What: I read Grey's Anatomy when I was in grade three, and announced proudly to everyone who would listen that I was going to be a doctor
Why not: I took a week of grade 13 level calculus and then dropped it. Calculus was a prerequisite for the science program, and I decided if calculus was needed to become a doctor, I probably shouldn't be one. Calculus makes no sense to me.

Model
Why: I was six feet and a hundred and fifty pounds in grade nine. You do the math.
What: I did some photoshoots, learned the runway, trucking myself from my country home to Toronto most weekends.
Why not: In the end, I didn't really care about it as voraciously as was needed. Some of those girls lived and breathed fashion, whereas I did not. Upon quitting the job, I had my lip pierced.

Professor
Why: I was picked out by one of my professors as being 'special' and more apt than some at sociological dissemination.
What: I worked way too hard as a research assistant, burned myself out, and then dropped out of a master's degree six months from completion.
Why not: Became disenchanted with ivory-tower intellectualism, as well as the poverty of academia. Being too poor to buy groceries just so you can argue about Foucault's version of the panopticon is SO not worth it.

Lawyer
Why: It was always a backup plan of mine, even back in the 'I'm gonna be a doctor' days. Whilst not as reputable as being a doctor, it was a profession and therefore good enough.
What: Took courses and interest in constitutional freedoms. Made loud noises in bars about rights and original intent. Worked in a law firm as a lawyer's underling.
Why not: Crappy LSAT scores, which may or may not be a result of complete disinterest in law school on my part.

When I was a kid, I went to a summer camp where we would stay on one of those recreation pioneer villages and 'work' as the children actors. This was legal because it was technically camp, and we were paying to be there. Anyway, for one of the activities, they had us sit down and talk about time and how time changes things. Deep stuff for camp, really. No wonder it was my favourite summercamp experience. They asked us what we pictured ourselves doing in fifteen years, and then we would make a presentation on it. I must have been nine or ten at the time. I gave my presentation about starting med school and living on my own. This is my most certain memory of my picture of my future. Needless to say, my future turned out much differently than that childish perception of what adulthood would be like. Still, I hope she (I) would be proud of me. I've realised since then that it's so much more important to be happy with yourself and what you're doing than to have a job that other people think is important.  That's all you're supposed to be. Content.

On Kindness

I was supposed to go to the symphony tonight. I say 'supposed to' because I am no longer going. I mean, I'd like to go, but with a clogged duct and a baby with a clogged nose, I've decided not to. It was a plan I'd made with my mother-in-law to go to this wednesday series, which I did once and have now cancelled twice. I am a bad symphony partner. I believe it will probably be many years before I can hold tickets in my hand and say with certainty that I will be attending. There are too many variables. And unlike the usual variables, these variables trump everything else. Baby trumps everything. Husband who I only get to see a few hours a day trumps everything except baby.

That said, I probably should have gone. I am spending so much time alone with the baby that I am practically surprised when people talk to me in plain english.

"Are we going to the store today Ender?"

"Blamabababa-ma."

"We don't have time to go to the library"

"oooh-mabagaboo"

While this is representative of a conversation, it's not representative of our activities. Mostly we sit around on the carpet and play with blocks. I've called Babyhawk about my carrier, which still has not arrived after 11 business days of waiting. When speaking to their customer service representative, I recieved the same crappy customer service I've come to expect from most American companies. Bored, unfriendly and unhelpful. I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt and say that she probably worked in some horrible office building, wearing sensible shoes and a modest-lengthed skirt, staring at the clock, counting the minutes 'till she could get home to her babies, but I can't. Her kid was in the background. She was working at home, and still couldn't even muster up any form of friendliness.

I'm not quite sure why friendliness is cultural. It makes people happy to be smiled at, to be talked to positively. And yet there are countries that are well-known for their friendliness, or lack thereof. Friendliness is even interpreted differently, it would seem, as I find Montreal to be one of the more friendly cities, and my mother feels constantly the butt of some kind of joke she didn't hear when she visits.

It still begs the question though, which ancestor was it that decided that friendliness was something that was important to instill in his children? And who was it that decided that his common man required no courtesy?


We're very close to finishing our school applications, and then I'll have a weight lifted off my mind. My mom is coming to watch the baby for Mike and I on Valentines Day. She's taking him out of the house, which means we will be alone together in our home for the first time in 9 months. I need this so badly. There's something about parenting that just makes your relationship so public. Privacy is highly underrated, and a lack of it makes us snap at eachother and not appreciate one another as we should.

Anywho...I'm now going to drink two very measured glasses of the fancy organic wine we bought the would-be babysitter, and encourage Ender to crawl. A night to remember indeed!

Letters of intent

Well there's been a bit of a lag in my posts over the weekend, but I think that's probably characteristic. Somehow having my husband around to help out around the house makes my days busier, not calmer. I've also been dealing with Ender's cold, my cold, and a bout of mastitis. For all of you who don't know what mastitis is, I'll spare you the gory details. I treated it with hot rosemary poultices and an overdose of echinacea, and I'm on the mend. From what I understand, it's normal for mastitis to strike when you're doing too much, and that probably is the case. As my son becomes more independent and able to play on his own for minutes at a time (oh the sweet luxury) I am spending less and less time on my butt and most time on my feet. Today I'm trying my damndest to relax, but both Mike and I are trying to get our transcripts in order for school applications, and because we do not have a printer nor fax machine, it's proving difficult. We briefly had a printer, gifted to us from my in-laws electronic graveyard, but after battling with it for several days, we decided it was definitely broken.

On the menu today: Sole Chowder and homemade bread. I've never made chowder before, so this will be an interesting experiment. The bread is made with leftover fat from a pork roast I made last week. Very depression-era style baking. I can only imagine animal fat would make bread even better.

I'm also kind of creatively tapped out. I'm trying to write my letter of intent for a costume studies program (so many letters of intent this year!) and I'm coming up completely empty. I guess it's hardest to write about the things you're passionate about. That is, without sounding creepy. The letter in my mind is playing out like this:

Hello, there. I think everything you guys do is awesome. I used to work across from your classrooms and stare forlorn through the window. Even if you don't let me in, I'd like to just stand around for a little while and touch things. Is that ok?

No that's not okay, Nicole, you weirdo. So the letter writing continues, fruitlessly.

I guess that's all for now. I'm not feeling well so forgive me if I'm not as loquacious as usual.