Tonight’s post has been made possible by CBG Happy Place Mango Peach and Yuzu Cannabis Infused Sparkling Beverage. Products like these make me glad I’m deaf: I get to point at whatever I want, and the staff will happily grab it for me. I’ve refined my pointing technique so the other person doesn’t have to follow my line of sight to connect my finger to an object 10+ feet away: I take a picture with my phone, then point to the thing on the monitor.
Onto pointless things: the knives on the magnetic knife rack above the kitchen sink. For someone who watches a lot of Hell’s Kitchen, I don’t know how the roomie doesn’t imagine Gordon Ramsay’s horrified expression whenever the roomie places the knives blade-edge down on the wire dish rack.
“Easy tiger, these aren’t Ginsu knives!”
I have neglected to make an issue out of it for one reason: they’re all shitty Vivo knives anyway. I got them by redeeming stamps I’d accumulated from shopping at a local grocery store. The blades are so dull and beat-up that they’d only fare marginally better than trying to cut a potato with another potato.
Also, I have a secret weapon tucked away in the drawer where we store our assortment of awkwardly sized and shaped kitchen utensils. One good chef’s knife. It’s been neglected for a while, and I’ve been meaning to take it somewhere for sharpening. Seeing Jenna and Matt’s extensive collection of fine knives last week reminded me of the knife’s dire need for some TLC.
I thought about how I’d transport it to the knife sharpening place. Is there a non-threatening way to carry a big kitchen knife one-handed in public? I don’t have a sheath for it. I could roll it up in a tea towel.
Or I could make a sheath for it.
I had scraps of leather and two leather glover’s needle on hand. That’s how craft-ready my crafting cabinet is. I was not ready for how difficult the project would be. Poking a needle, even one specially designed for this application, through leather takes much more effort than through any other fabric I’ve ever worked with. I am satisfied with the end result: it’s the right size and functions as intended. However, I am unsatisfied with the level of satisfaction this project brought me.
The pants I started on in March have been revived. Last Thursday, I ran into a cycling buddy, Jill, while shopping for lactase tablets at the drug store like the cool cat that I am, and she asked about the pants. The last time we spoke, I had asked Jill—who has experience in garment sewing—whether she knew how to sew a zippered fly. She had agreed to help me figure it out once she returned from her trip. However, by the time she came back, the pieces of the pants had been stuffed into a paper bag, pins and all, and were tucked away in the dark corners of my crafting cabinet. Evidently, even working with leather seemed more appealing to me at that point.
I still fantasize about making my own perfectly fitting pants with built-in knife sheaths along the sides, like cargo pockets. Brightly coloured jeans would make a comeback, localized entirely within my wardrobe. So, I may have gotten sidetracked, but I haven’t given up on the dream.
With my renewed determination, I booked and paid for a private lesson in the new year. If it weren’t for my need for lactase tablets, the pants project would have remained in limbo. Oh, the twists and turns life brings my way!
I have reached page 926 of 1Q84, which is the final page. The book has been read, but the mind is still trying to process what it’s just read. I agree with the assessment shared by almost every reviewer about the book’s ending, which is that it’s woefully anticlimactic. Murakami leaves me wondering whether he was going too hard with the symbolism, trying to match Orwell’s level in 1984.
Orwell’s 1984, by the way, incinerated my passion for books. The ignition happened the moment my English 12 teacher asked me to explain, in front of the class, what the glass paperweight in the story symbolized. I didn’t know it was supposed to symbolize anything!
“Maybe I’m too stupid for books? Better stop reading and surrender to my stupidity.”
Throughout 1Q84, Murakami describes the characters’ examination of their hands, which alludes to the story’s setting in a different dimension. In an alternate dimension, I’m back in my English 12 classroom, and the teacher calls on me to explain the significance of pubic hair in the novel.
Page 674: “From time to time the wind blows, stimulating her nipples, rustling her pubic hair.”
Page 692: “It was like her pubic hair was a part of her thinking process.” I’ll give Murakami a pass for this one, as I liked it. That line was very Miranda July-coded.
Page 723: “…the hashish smoke, the smiley-face shirt, the thick pubic hair pressed against his leg.”
Page 842: “…randomly thought of Kumi’s thick, luxuriant pubic hair.”
Page 928: “Thick, black, frizzy hair–reminiscent of pubic hair–shabbily surrounded the crown.“
And to finish it off…
Page 910: “She had no pubic hair.”
The story was interesting enough to make me lurk subreddits in which this book is being discussed. I also managed to finish the book, despite it being 928 pages. I rated it 3 stars on Goodreads, which, in an alternate dimension, would be equivalent to two moons.
(You’d need to read 1Q84 to understand.)
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