Soup's on

I've been making a lot of soup lately. Yesterday was butternut squash, apple, yam curry soup. Today is carrot-ginger soup. And tomorrow? Well, I haven't thought about it that far ahead yet. Maybe a nice gazpacho or a corn chowder.

My coworker likes my soup; he laps it up and is complimentary in the most hyperbolic yet pleasant way, which is so fantastic I could die. It's always lovely when someone raves about your cooking. It does wonders for the ego. It's the culinary equivalent of getting winked at.

All this soup-making reminded me of someone I once knew. Matt Smith hated soup. I didn't think it was possible for someone to hate soup, but he did. He also only drank chocolate soy milk and root beer. Go figure. I was never really that close to Matt, since he lived in Vancouver and I was in Edmonton, but I was always fond of him. Ok, fine, I had a massive crush for years. One might even be so bold as to suggest borderline unhealthy. But those are just details. Anyway, we'd keep in touch sporadically, going through phases where we were e-mailing every few days and alternating with long stretches of non-communication. It's been a really long time since I last heard from him, and I hadn't really thought much about him unless something popped up in my day that reminded me of a conversation we once had or something he may have expressed disdain for. But generally, out of sight, out of mind.

It's funny how in our entire lifetime we come into contact with so many people, yet we really only keep in touch with a select number. Family, close friends, maybe physicians or dentists are constants in our lives. Depending on the period in our lives, we think we'll be forever in contact with some people, only to meet them again 5, 10, 15, 20 years down the line as total strangers. They may trigger a sort of deja vu-esque nostalgia. I find it so odd to run into someone I was once so close to only to be met with a feeble handshake and a weak smile or indifferent wave of the hand. And the thing is, each phase in our lives seems to come with different packets of people. I think it's safe to say not a lot of us are still friends with people we knew in elementary, junior high, high school or even university. Or at least not with every friend from a past era.

I've done more than my fair share of moving around, and despite living in a city for years and promises, when I move away, over time I only end up keeping in touch with a small number of people. I used to pride myself on being really good at keeping in touch. At some point, I kind of stopped making all the effort. All the energy and motivation I'd have to devote to keeping in touch with someone simply became too much. Not to mention some people aren't even worth all that effort.

*A side note about randomness: I've had a number of coincidences in my life where I'd be travelling and meet someone who is a friend of a friend from back home. It used to blow my mind every time this happened, but eventually I got used to it and realized two things:
1) Canada is not that big. Once you subtract all the babies and older people, then further subtract those that don't share common interests, the actual number in my peer group isn't that large. Plus everyone knows everyone else, especially with the social circle I run in. A side of Six degrees of Kevin Bacon, anyone?

2) After listening to Radiolab's podcast on stochasticity
(really just a "smarty-pants word for randomness") I realized it's just a numbers game. What we think of as coincidence, is really just probability and partly chance.

Anyway, back to Nostalgia Lane, it's always so bittersweet to think about people we've lost touch with. No doubt we share some good, nay, great memories, but there's also that untold story of why we drifted. And what do you say when you want to rekindle the fire of communication, when you want to reach out and retouch someone?

I guess you say, "Hi, so-and-so. It's me. Listen, it's been a while. What's been going on in your life? Oh, me? Not much. I'm just making this big pot of soup..."

The doctor is IN

Dear You,

I love letters. I love writing them, I love receiving them. In fact, I make a killer care package. If I knew you, and you were going away, you'd be damned lucky to have me send you packets of brilliance and heart. But I don't know you. Or do I? Wait, now I'm confused. Moving along...

I could go on and on, waxing poetic about how great letters are. But I won't. There are enough people singing the mighty letter's praises. But I will say this. I was absolutely tickled pink when I saw this video about a Cuban writer who makes a living writing love letters. That sounds like my dream job. Nay, it is my dream job. It's like writing song lyrics and fiction. Let me be the Cyrano de Bergerac in your lovelorn, tongue-tied world. Unrequited love? I'd be more than happy to provide the words to win over your beloved.

So that video got me thinking. Why not set up a love-letter-writing booth at my next craft show? For two bucks, I'll write a couple paragraphs about amour that you can send along to enchant and delight your babycakes. Plus, it'll be handwritten and on an actual piece of paper. None of this electronic love. Hell, I'll even put on some lipstick and seal the letter with an imprint of a kiss. Go big or go home, right? In this case to the home of your dearest.

If my letter booth fails to take off, there's always the Advice Booth. Take a number from "that round-headed kid" Charlie Brown and his psychiatrist Lucy van Pelt. Only with inflation nowadays, psychiatric advice costs more than 25 cents. You tell me your problems, I tell you how to solve your problems. Or at least what I really think.

I guess if all else fails, I'll have to fall back on crafts. I've been making these wooden greeting cards lately:


And some fuzzy pins:


And magnets:


Love,
Me

P.S. This is not a shameless plug to go to zinedream II. I repeat, NOT a shameless plug.

She's got a gold tooth, you know she's hardcore...

Well, at least I'm not preggers. I went to the dentist the other day and received some bad news. Ouch. Both figuratively and literally. Turns out I'm a grinder. Not of the moneymaker-shaking, cutting the rug, Beyonce-ready-for-my-jelly kind. I'm a teeth grinder. And it's costing me thousands. Apparently my teeth are so worn down, I'm cracking crowns and chipping fillings.

I had no idea. I didn't think I ground my teeth in my sleep. Maybe a little snoring, the occasional flail, but grinding? Who would have thought I had such power in my jaw? According to the dentist, our teeth are meant to break through bones. Huh. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, hardcore vegans who say humans weren't meant to eat meat. Looks like our jaws are indeed the jaws of life, ready to take a chomp out of a mastodon.

All the dental work I'm going to need done is costing me coin I don't have. Enter the parental units. I had to resort to the phone call of shame. I'm lucky I can turn to them for such emergencies, but the call was not without the "tut, tut" and "tsk, tsk" and dodging the "why do you grind? can't you stop?" questions.

I won't disclose the full amount. I can't even bring myself to whisper it to friends without hyperventilating. Let's just say someone once told me I could get a house in Newfoundland for this amount. Deep breaths...

I've always had bad luck with my teeth. Before you accuse me of scarfing down bags of candy and sucking down bottles of cola or fiercely chewing gum like Violet Beauregarde, hear me out. I haven't had candy in ages, nor do I drink soft drinks. I'll chew the occasional piece of gum after a garlic-y meal. So what gives? The positioning of my teeth and jaw is what. Maybe stress. I tend to clench when I'm stressed out. But this is after years and years of damage. Years! Frak.

Like I said, at least I'm not pregnant. Worrying about baby teeth and broken adult teeth just might make me crack. Someone get me a grill.

Three Random Thoughts

1) This is tragic. Turns out the animal kingdom is just as fickle as we are. It's the salacious nature of things. The gay penguin couple at the San Francisco zoo have split up. Wah. One Mr. Harry left one Mr. Pepper and shacked up with a widowed penguin named Linda. I didn't think it was possible for penguins to be home wreckers or bisexual for that matter. Or cunning. One bird curator said Linda's deceased partner was a leader of sorts in that penguin colony. Looks like Harry recognized an opportunity when he saw one. Poor scorned Pepper.

2) More is more. I was talking to Chloe about what makes an outfit stylish, and the conclusion we came to was layers. Wearing layers and having details are key. And jewelry. Indulge me for a second as I try and make sense of this. There's a reason why Italians always look so damn fine. They're dressed to the nines in full suits even when it's sweltering out. What's that saying? Oh yeah. No pain, no gain. You can always tell a tourist in Italy. They're the ones in shorts and sandals.

I've always loved fall because that's when people start covering up again and start wearing stylish jackets and boots and shoes and hats and scarves, oh my! And the beards start to appear again. Gotta love those beards.

3) Frig, it's begun. Mom's started hounding me about settling down. I have a feeling every phone conversation from now on is going to end like this:

Mom: You know you can start dating now, right?

Me: Um, yeaaaaaaaaah.

Mom: It's time to start thinking about dating seriously.

Me: (grinding my teeth) Mm-hmm.

Mom: Being single is one thing, but when you get older, it's tough to be on your own.

Me: (teeth still grinding) Uh-huh

Mom: Bernie's dad has been asking about how you're doing. You know, he knows some nice boys in the city.

Me: (teeth still grinding) Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.Bernie's dad needs to mind his own business and go *&(%@()*&*&%#) himself.

Mom: Bernie's dad's best friend has three sons and none of them are married. They might be a good match.

Me: (teeth still grinding) Mm-hmm.

Mom: Have you been going to church? You should really go to church.

Fin.

Except that it's really not "fin" at all. This is just the beginning. Ugh. And that's how its going to be from now on.

Hat Trick

Ok, so I didn't get a fedora this weekend, but I did make a sun hat. Now we just need the sun to come out more.

Reach for the stars

Here are some more delicious treats...

Michael Hsiung's art is genius. It's whimsical, playful and sophisticated and witty. And it features centaurs, mermen and baby angora unicorns. As if that wasn't enough, his bio is HILARIOUS. Do yourself a damn favour and read it. Then join me as we roll on the floor laughing and clapping with delight.

Love giraffes? How about a million of them? Who doesn't love the gangly, vegetarian ungulates? Forget about leggy blonds. Necky ruminants are where it's at. Take a gander at One Million Giraffes and get cracking on a submission. Dude's only got 543 days left.

Courtesy of Maria's mad skillz.

I'm going to tell people I'm turning 25 again.

My birthday was yesterday. It was lovely. I spent the day outside biking around and eating a picnic on a rock by the water with many friendlies. I also turned an age of significance. People told me the years that are multiples of 7 are usually important. 7, 14, 21, 28, 35, 42, 49, 56 and so on. They're supposed to signify milestones in your life. I guess 7 is when a child starts to become self-aware and a functioning little person. 14 is the most hellish year of adolescence. 21 is when you technically become an "adult". 28 is when you should be an "adult." 35 is "if you're not an adult by now, you're in deep kaka." 42 is when you finally start to chill out and mellow after having been an adult for some years. 49 is so very close to 50, but you've still got a year to enjoy being younger than a half a century old. 56 is when you're body and mind start to slow down. Aches and pains may be more frequent. 63 is when you're retiring or retired and maybe you've got little ones to look after again. Or maybe you're rejuvenated and can finally do all that travelling you've been waiting to do once you finished working. And so on, and so forth.

For my birthday, the lovely Anni got me this book by Miranda July and Harrell Fletcher. I love Miranda July's stuff anyway, but I especially love this book. The original project was a website that was started seven years ago and had various assignments that people completed and then documented. The book is just a snapshot of some of the amazing entries people posted.

One assignment I particularly love is #55: Photograph a significant outfit. Remember exactly what you were wearing during a recent significant moment. Maybe it was the day that your boyfriend broke up with you, or the day your nephew was born, or the day you decided to become a vegetarian. It should be something that happened in the last six months. Lay out what you were wearing on the floor, as if you are dressing an invisible, flat person. Tuck the shirt into the pants, the socks into the shoes, etc. Don't forget the other things that complete your outfit such as jewelry, purse, hat, etc. Do not add anything extra like a wig or a mask--just the clothes you were wearing. Stand on a chair or table and photography the clothes from directly above. Not from above at a slight angle, but so that the camera is pointing straight down. Send us the photo, along with the importance of the day, for example, "What I was Wearing When I got the Phone Call About Grandma Marris Dying." Do not write on the actual photograph, and make sure your photo is in focus. Note: avoid moments that you knew would be significant and so dressed accordingly--such as graduation or Halloween. The outfit itself does not need to be significant, it is just what you happened to be wearing when something of emotional significance happened.

This is mine from the past few months... I wore this the day we did cartwheels on the street. I remembered what it was like to laugh and play with someone. And that was when I knew one thing in my life was over and something else began.