My KTS4 package has arrived!

Despite a few UPS headaches, my Knitters Tea Swap 4 package has arrived from Texas. I can't figure out how to add blogger links on my Mac, so here's the link to the swap site: http://knittersteaswap.blogspot.com/.

I've posted the pics on my new craft nerd blog: http://craftnerds.blogspot.com/.

Thanks to my swap partner BJE and to Suzie, Bridget and all the KTS4 organizers!

One of the worst sounds in the world...

... the sound of the furnace kicking in for the first time since winter. Sigh...

I live in the upstairs apartment of an old house, and on Friday morning I awoke to the alarming "thunk" of the furnace being turned on. This was almost immediately followed by that burning smell that accompanies turning on the furnace for the first time in the fall.

In my parents house, it was always a test to see how long we could go before turning on the furnace. It was a measure of our strength as Canadians - how cold did it have to get before we relied on central heating. We'd wear three layers of clothing before giving in. Alas, my landlords are made of much less, it seems. They gave in on the first cold day. It wasn't even winter coat weather for pete's sake.

But I'm still sticking with my annual tradition - no socks until the snow flies (or until frostbite is a threat.)

The human powered blow dryer...

So, tonight I voted. It's (ho-hum) election day here in Ontario and I did my civic duty and voted. For some reason, my polling station was much further away this time, at Hart House on the U of T campus.

The first thing beyond my comprehension? I received two voter cards in the mail, yeah for me, but when I went to vote I wasn't on any voting list. How is that possible? And can I trust the process after that experience?

The second thing beyond my comprehension? Because I wasn't on the voter list I had to fill out a registration form. Here's the thing - all the information I had to fill in on this form was already on the voter card I handed to them. No additional information whatsoever. And since the Returning Officer sent the voter card in the first place, one would think that card would be considered official. Not so. Somewhere a bureaucrat is smiling and a tree is crying.

As I left Hart House, which is, again, on the campus of the University of Toronto, I passed by a guy trying to dry his bicycle seat. It's a cold, misty fall evening here and his bicycle seat was wet, so I don't blame him for trying to keep his tushy dry. That said, he was trying to dry his seat by blowing on it. Yes, that's right, he was blowing on it. He was standing in the rain, his face about 10 cm from his seat, and he was blowing on it. And not just in one spot. He was moving his head all around the seat, I'm assuming in an attempt to dry the entire surface... while it was still raining... I chose to attend two better institutations (Go Marauders! Go Mustangs!) but I'm assuming U of T must have some eligibility requirements. Perhaps the course on how to dry wet vinyl isn't an option until 2nd year.

It's been awhile, but I'm back...

The summer proved too busy to keep up with my blog, for which I apologize. But I'm back and ready to give it another ol' college try.

#1 on my list of things beyond my comprehension today? My hair. I wasn't feeling well, and though I took a shower, I did absolutely nothing with my hair. I thought I'd look hideous but didn't much care. That said, I did have to go in to work for a few hours and naturally, on the day I put no effort into it, I received several compliments on my hair. Why is that? I mean, I'm happy for people to notice, but why does my cursed hair turn out better when left alone? I mean, what's the bloody point of putting any effort in in the mornings? Ah well, I now realize I have a few extra minutes to spare in my morning routine.

Irony is still not dead...

I have an update on the Blarney Woollen Mills saga. A quick recap: most of my order with this Irish shop weren't received. I paid twice as much in duties and taxes as I should have, and they sent me a four-leaf clover charm by mistake.

I sent an e-mail to the Blarney folk and was very impressed with how quickly they got back to me. They apologized for the duty error, which, it turns out, was their fault. They've paid half of my duty costs, which was nice. Most of my order has now arrived, including my two sweaters that I absolutely love. They even sent me a sterling silver necklace that was either a nice peace offering or a complete mistake, but a nice mistake.

And yesterday, I was excited to receive another small Blarney package containing the proper charm for my mother. I eagerly opened the package only to find, yes, you guessed it, another four-leaf clover charm. I've been sent four-leaf clover charms twice, both by accident. I'm not sure if this is doubly good luck, or doubly bad luck. I'll buy a lottery ticket this weekend just to try them out.

Do you remember Old Yeller?

At the hands of Mr. Disney, children of the fifties, sixties and seventies were taught many life lessons in harsh, abeit entertaining ways. We went into theatres excited to see Old Yeller, the story of a nice frontier family and their pet dog. But all too soon our warm, fuzzy jaunt to the theatre became a bath of ice cold water as we tearfully watched Travis shoot his beloved dog. There was no warning. This was Walt Disney. A nice little film that ends with a kid having to shoot his own pet. Nice. A life lesson.

This film was, of course, preceded 15 years earlier by Bambi. Another lovely little cartoon story about a deer and his cute little friends living in the forest. Again, ends in a rather harsh death. Another life lesson.

Don't even get me started on The Yearling.

My point is that, I'm guessing in an effort to teach us about life, adults liked to surprise us with lovely little stories that ended in death. Such is life. For better or for worse, we learned these life lessons and I don't know anyone who's needed therapy as a result. In fact, Travis was the person on my mind when, as a teenager, I had to hand over my beloved pet cat to be euthanised. I still resent my parents for this, but hey, I survived and may have learned something from the experience.

So, it was with mixed emotion that I read on the wires Friday that the Kids Help phone centre in the UK was adding extra staff to help kids deal with the deaths in the new Harry Potter book. I haven't finished the book, but since the world has not fallen into a deep period of mourning, I'm guessing that Harry doesn't die. Good, neither did Travis or Bambi. And although I think the Kids Help Phone is great and am thankful it's there for kids who need it, I couldn't help but feel disappointed that such a big deal was being made of the two deaths in the book. Death happens. Kids need to learn that. And it's never easy. Maybe I'm just a big meany, but would it be so bad for the kids to just deal with it, and maybe talk to their parents about it?

It may sound silly, but watching Old Yeller and Bambi made me feel tougher. I was proud to have watched them. They were a badge of honour, like I'd just learned something about the adult world. And I can't help but feel that we're taking those opportunities away from our children, almost as though we have no faith that they can handle life lessons. Shit happens. That's a lesson better learned sooner than later.

Irony is not dead...

As practically no one who reads this blog will know, I recently returned from a lovely trip to the UK and Ireland. One of the places we visited was the Blarney Woollen Mill in Dublin. If you visit http://www.blarney.com and click on the "Customer Comments" link, you'll see photos of Bill and Hilary Clinton shopping in said store. Bill, incidentallly, is in the women's section.

At the Blarney Woollen Mill, they sell lots of jewellry, including charms for bracelets. My mother is a charm bracelet kind o' gal, but they were all sold out of the charm she wanted when we were there. So, good daughter that I am, I thought I'd go online and order the charm for her as a surprise. The other part of this story is that I, too, saw something I wanted at the Blarney Woollen Mill. Here's a hint: it was woollen. Well, THEY were woollen. I saw a couple of sweaters that I absolutely loved but didn't have room for in my luggage. And we'd already been accused of carrying dead bodies in our luggage by a mannerless taxi driver in Belfast. So, while online, I thought I'd throw a few more things in the basket in addition to the charm. Though the charm, of course, was always the most important item in the basket. I ordered the Trinity Knot charm, which matches earrings my Mom bought on the trip.

The bill came to just over $300. Fair enough. When I got home from work yesterday, in a gross, sweaty, heat wave state, I found a note in my mail saying the package had arrived. Yippee! And ahead of schedule too! It was then that I noticed the fee to pick up the parcel - the fee for duties and taxes - $137.93! Holy sheep! That's a lot of money for a few little things and two bigger things.

Expecting it to be a large package for that price, I drove to the post office. However, the unsympathetic staff person emerged from the back with a box about the size of a Mac Mini. Wha? I thought perhaps the Irish were very good at packing things into little boxes. But when I got home I found that neither of my sweaters was in the box, and that the charm, the start of it all, was the wrong charm. And the irony of it all? They'd sent a four leaf clover charm, clearly, by mistake.

Now is the summer of my discontent, made less glorious by this sun of York...

The heat! My God, the heat!

Baby, it's hot outside and I'm feeling queazy. No, not from the heat, but from the painful sights I've had to endure by poorly dressed people. Yes, it's warm and yes it's humid and we're all suffering for it. But do we have to suffer even more by looking at mass amounts of cleavage and ass?

I don't care how hot it is, there's no need to dress like a skank (male or female) and burn a hole in my retinas in the process. So, in an effort to do my best for the greater good, here is a list of how not to dress no matter the temperature.

WOMEN

- If I can see your cheeks, they're too short. Find bottoms that fit OVER your bottom. Whether your buns are like steel or are dimpled like jelly, this is real life and not a Snoop Dog video, I don't want to see your booty.

- Dress appropriately for work. Even if you have a casual workplace, what you wear on the weekend isn't necessarily proper work attire. Remember: you want to be a PROfessional, not a HOfessional.

- If I can see the muffin top, your pants don't fit. And what's with the fatties in lowrise? Hello! It's OK to be a little overweight, but sometimes you can't squeeze all the cheese back in the tube. I don't need to see the excess oozing overtop. Wear clothes that fit, and that fit above the flab.

- if it looks like you've sprouted a baby's ass on your chest, you're showing WAY too much cleavage. And honey, don't worry, if they're big enough to look like ass, they're big enough to be noticed under a shirt that isn't from the tween deptartment.

- If you're bigger than a B cup, skip the spaghetti straps. Oh honey, do your boobs hang low? Can you tie 'em in a knot? Can you tie 'em in a bow? Can you throw 'em over your shoulder like a continental soldier? Do your boobs hang low? Don't let them swing low sweet chariot. Enrol the girls in a 12 step program and give them the support they need.

- I fully admit that I have ugly feet. However, your toes should not hang over the front of your shoes, nor should the heel hang over the back of the shoes. Act your age and get your shoe size mama! Also, let's try to baby our feet and buff and moisturize once in awhile. This goes for the men too. Gross, callused feet are just icky.

MEN

- see note above about being bigger than a B cup - insert "please wear a shirt" in place of "spaghetti straps". Same rule applies if your back or chest look like a Brillo pad.

- Don't wear shorts so high or so tight that we can see your b'niz. Your bits are your bits. Let's keep the mystery alive, shall we?

- Don't wear shorts and boxers so loose that we can see your b'niz. We want to see no wiggling or bulges of any kind. And please be sure to wear underwear and keep the mouse in the house.

- Never, under any circumstance, do you wear socks with sandals. We all get sweaty feet. Deal with it.

- Unless you're a competitive swimmer, and perhaps not even then, never, EVER wear a Speedo.

- Keep the shirt on, Tarzan. Women don't go whipping their shirts off when it gets hot (though you may prefer it if we did.) There's something to be said for modesty. Try it. You'll like it.

Now, go forth and dress with a little class. Not with a lot o' ass.

Dear St. Peter...

Tonight, while walking home from work along Spadina, my faith in humanity was both quashed and renewed.

I was crossing a little side street in Chinatown, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted something moving on the road. There were three baby racoons mvoing along the street toward Spadina. They were very cute, as racoons go. But also very young. They were barely bigger than a guinea pig. And they were also headed for a very busy street where they would get squished in no time.

There were at least 10 people standing at the corner with me, and at least half noticed the racoons and said "awwww...." but none of them tried to stop the babies from going to Spadina, which struck me as odd. If you think they're cute, then maybe you should stop them from heading in the path of many, many cars.

So, being the suck that I am for all animals, I started to shepherd the babies back from whence they came. I thought some of the people on the corner would help, but no. They were only little, and weren't violent at all. In fact, they seemed pretty damn scared and probably just wanted to get home. As I was guiding them away from Spadina, I heard a voice from above. No, no God. Some other guy with long hair called to me and said that the babies lived on the roof near his patio. And did I want his help to move them back to the roof. Thankfully, he and two of his friends came down to retrieve the babies. They lived there, so they had gloves to wear, but the gloves weren't necessary. The racoons didn't try to bite or really fight at all. One yelled a bit, and then covered his face and pooped. Poor thing. Each of the patio dwellers took a baby and headed to the roof. I thanked them for their help. They thanked me. And I thought we did the right thing and I felt good about it.

I know they were only racoons, but they were harmless babies. And it's not their fault that we've built on top of the land they used to call home. I'll try to remember then the next time they try to get into my garbage or wake me with a fight in the laneway behind my house.

New blog by talented newcomers...

I was working on this tonight instead: http://catfoodnation.blogspot.com/. Check it out!

They were journalists, and then they died...

In the past two months, two of the most influential people in my life as a journalist have died. And I hadn’t met either one of them.

For twenty years Doris Anderson served as the editor of Chatelaine magazine. With Doris at the helm, Chatelaine became a more than the stereotypical women’s magazine of the fifties and sixties. Moving beyond just recipes and household tips, Chatelaine became a vehicle for social change, carrying groundbreaking articles about gender equality, divorce and abortion rights.

And as we celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Charter of Rights, it is with gratitude that I remember Doris Anderson. Feeling that the Charter undermined women’s rights, and pressured by the government not to talk about it, she resigned as head of the Advisory Council on the Status of Women. That inspired an uprising of women across the country. And the result is the short but significant Constitutional clause that states that men and women are equal under the law. Doris Anderson died on March 2nd.

Like Doris, June Callwood was a pioneering member of the press. She started in the newspaper business when women were the typists, not the journalists. We know her as June Callwood, and not June Frayne, because in the forties, The Globe and Mail didn’t employ married women. So she used her maiden name. Doris had the stigma of being a working single mother. And June had the stigma of being a working married woman. The operative word there being “working.”

June died on April 14th, which happened to be my six-year anniversary as an employed journalist. No other person has had a greater influence on my career. In 2002, June delivered the first Dalton Camp Lecture in Journalism. It was broadcast on IDEAS that fall, and a friend gave me a cassette copy. I’ve listened to that lecture countless times, and each time, my passion for journalism is renewed. Addressing students at St. Thomas University in Fredericton, she spoke about journalism being at the heart of democracy. And said that “the profession of journalism enjoys its finest moments when it speaks against oppression and greed, but journalism does a glorious job of celebrating the triumphs of human spirit that elevate us all.” Through all that June accomplished, the awards, the foundations, it is that lecture that most endeared her to me. She said that you don’t have to be a journalist to be a good person, but you have to a good person to be a good journalist. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. And now she’s gone.

And I’m left wondering to whom the next generation of women journalists will look for guidance. Who will be their mentor? To whom has the torch been passed? And you know, I can’t think of a single person in the same category of Doris and June. They were peers, and yet peerless.

Sure, there are female colleagues that I admire and look to as mentors, but it’s not the same. I’m not sure why that is. Doris and June paved the way for us, breaking down barriers that seem ridiculous by today’s standards. Today, we take for granted the open doors for which they cut the key. And I fear we’ve stopped to rest on their laurels. We’ve come a long way baby, but there’s still a long road ahead.

When she was 15, Judy Maddren wrote to the CBC asking for advice on how to become a broadcaster. She received a polite letter in reply saying thanks but no thanks, there were several fine gentlemen already performing that role. She’s now the host of CBC Radio’s World Report. And on occasion, fine gentlemen fill in for her.

To see how far we have yet to go, we need look no further than the news events in the days surrounding June Callwood’s death. Belinda Stronach announced that she was stepping down from politics. Love her or hate her, no other politician in recent years has been scrutinized as closely as Ms. Stronach. Even the sponsorship scandal could be forgotten when the sexy blonde was in the room.

Don Imus, a nationally syndicated American radio host was fired making racist and sexist comments about the Rutgers women’s basketball team. And only days after June’s death, a shooting in Virginia was thought to be a domestic dispute, an event so common it wasn’t important enough to lock down the campus of Virginia Tech.

I have a male colleague who completely disagrees with me. Who feels that there are so many women journalists today that the focus is diffused, that there isn’t one person to look to, and that I should celebrate that fact. I do celebrate that there are so many women journalists, and there are many that I look to as excellent writers and broadcasters. That said, there isn’t anyone on a national level that I would hold up as a mentor. June Callwood stood out among the masses because she used her position of influence for the greater good.

I looked to the generation of trailblazers, and come from the generation of Promo Girl and Contest Girl. I have colleagues who hide their pregnancies for fear their contracts won’t be renewed. It wouldn’t hurt to take a step forward.

June Callwood and Doris Anderson were feminists before feminist became a bad word. The definition of feminism has since been hijacked. These days, if you’re called a feminist, it’s like being called religious – both sound radical and exclusive.

So, perhaps in moving forward, we should adopt a new term in the fight for equality. Today, I declare myself a Junist. A person defending the principles of Junism – the theory that all people are created equal, that good journalists are thorough and accurate and that kindness should prevail above all.

Abe Vigoda is still alive!

This is a four days late, for which I apologize. I shouldn't procrastinate when the man is 86 years-old. Twenty-five years ago People magazine mistakenly reported that Abe Vigoda had died. Congrats Mr. Vigoda on making it to the blunder silver anniversary! Abe Vigoda, for those who don't know, played Fish on the TV show Barney Miller. He even had his own spin-off show, and was in the films Good Burger and Underworld, but we won't hold those against him. Happy Birthday Abe! And in your face, People!

My true calling...

There have been few moments in my life when I have felt truly inspired, when I felt as though my life had real meaning. I am going through a period of inspiration right now my friends, and I owe it all to the As it Happens Complaints Choir. Unfortunately, the complaints are reserved for AIH listeners, and as a member of the choir I can't contribute. But alas, the Knitted Bikini has saved the day and I can spew my complaints o' plenty. Feel free to send a few of your own.

Muted, the first song of the Lori-Ellen Non-Vocal Complaints Choir

Britney Spears has shaved her head an is losing her mind.
I can't believe he's famous enough that we all know the name Kevin Federline.
My skin is dry and my cats are static-y.
Why don't they make single-people loaves of bread - mine always goes stale or moldy.
George Bush is President and he pronounces it nook-u-ler.
Why do women dye their hair in colours not found in nature?
And why is dealing with Bell such a nightmare?
And why is dealing with Bell such a nightmare?

Real estate costs too much for those who want to buy.
Public radio is so underfunded it makes me want to cry.
All my neighbours do is yell and fight and make a lot of noise.
Quiet time to myself is one of my former joys.
The people in decision-making roles at work can't make any decisions.
Why, with 71 channels, is there still nothing on television.
And the snooze button on my alarm clock is only five minutes.
And the snooze button on my alarm clock is only five minutes.

Feminine hygene products cost too much - it really is unfair.
Opening plastic toy packaging makes me want to swear.
I hate wearing socks and they keep slouching down.
Just how many t-shirts does Anderson Cooper Own?
Loud music and noises make me feel sick.
It's February and my middle is feeling much too thick.
And why don't employers offer real jobs anymore - I'm still on contract.
And why don't employers offer real jobs anymore - 6 years and I'm still on contract.

Oh Lord, please don't buy me a Mercedes Benz...

I've long had a theory that the most expensive cars are owned by the worst drivers. It is, by no means, a scientific theory. But I suspect that if you stood on a busy street corner for an hour, and made a list of all the high-end cars to go through that intersection and a separate list of the visibly bad drivers to go through the intersection, there'd be more than a minor correlation between the two.

It's a theory that is proven almost every day. For example, on Friday night, as I was walking home from work, I watched as a woman was almost hit by a car. We'd been standing on opposite sides of the street, and both stepped forward as the little white man appeared permitting us the cross the street. But as we stepped forward, a woman in a Porsche drove straight through the crosswalk and turned right on a red without stopping. She never even slowed down and I'm sure has no clue what she did. And then this afternoon, as I went out for an overpriced coffee, I was at the exact same intersection when the exact same thing happened. Only this time, I was the one nearer the car as it drove through the crosswalk, and the car was an Infiniti, not a Porsche. And again, the driver was completely clueless about what had happened. How can a person be smart enough to make enough money to own a Porsche, but not be smart enough to know how to drive? Although, I guess it doesn't require smarts to inherit Daddy's money.

I'm sure this is a coincidence, but I was recently speaking with a radio producer regarding his documentary about psychopaths. It's very interesting. Film and television would have you believe these are the scariest, weirdly interesting people in the world. It turns out, they're pretty boring. They just lack a connection to other people. They lack a conscience and thus commit serious crimes. But the producer was telling me about a new book that says not all psychopaths commit murderous, bloody crimes. The book has a theory that many crimes in the business/corporate world are commited by non-violent psychopaths. Hmmm... Psychopaths and big business, bad driver and expensive cars... It sounds very interesting, at the very least. You can hear more about it on CBC Radio on Sirius on Monday, February 19. It's on Producer's Choice, which follows As it Happens at 6:30 and 10:30 pm ET (pardon the shameless plug.)

And speaking of As it Happens, they've put out a call for your complaints. That shouldn't be too hard to manage for CBC listeners, but the main goal is to use your complaints in a song performed by Canada's first national complaints choir. Here's a sample from the Hamburg Complaints Choir: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMixEXn2SG8. Send your complaints to aih@cbc.ca. My complaint? Why do jerks drive the nice cars?

My happy thought du jour: I bought a pair of tall pants on my way home tonight. If you've read my Interests in the ABOUT ME section, you'll know that finding pants long enough for me is a lifelong quest. I'm 5'10", most pants are made for women shorter than me. So I sit here feeling glee, dreaming of wearing full-length pants tomorrow. No floods Tuesday! Woohoo!

In the beginning...

This is my very first posting for Knitted Bikini. In fact, it's my first blog entry ever. Yeah, I like to think of myself as being on the cutting edge and on top of the trends. I'll bet that one day they'll even invent something to replace my Sony Walkman cassette player.

I started Knitted Bikini as an online journal for my thoughts on daily events. For as long as I can remember, my head has been filled with a running commentary on everything happening in my life and in the news. My thoughts are organized into mental journal entries, as though I'm telling someone a story, or offering commentary on everything that's happening around me. From the woman I saw yesterday, cutting off a police car while driving through a red light, to the many fathers of Anna Nicole's baby, there's a commentary in my head. And I thought: "why keep these thoughful/intelligent/downright snarky comments to yourself?" Well, thanks to this new technology called the I-N-T-E-R-N-E-T (thanks Al Gore!), I can share my thoughts with you.

The title of this blog, Knitted Bikini, came to me while soldiering through an attack of an afflication I was diagnosed with as a teenager - chronic sarcasm. I am a nerd, and I do nerdy things like knitting. I have several knitting books, and almost every book has a pattern for a knitted bikini. Now, I ask you, what is the bloody use in a knitted bikini? I've never seen a real person wear a knitted bikini. I can't imagine I'd want to wear a knitted bikini when it's 30 degrees outside (celcius, I'm in Canada.) And if it actually got wet, a knitted bikini would likely weigh a tonne, sag or get itchy. The garment is beyond my comprehension. I suspect that most of my entries on this blog will be about things beyond my comprehension, so I thought the title fit.

I hope you find some level of entertainment in reading my blog. I'll try to add entries as frequently as possible. And I'll continue to add links and work on the appearance of this site. Guide's honour (three fingers.)

Thanks for looking.

L-E