Odd Jobs #1 -- A Day at JT Inc.

When my friend Jessie had a molar extracted last week, she was given strict orders to refrain from putting any pressure on her newly inflicted wound. This included sucking from a straw, spitting, and glass-blowing.

The latter was particularly problematic since this is part of her job and there happened to be a large order of Christmas balls to be filled posthaste. She would have to hire someone to do the blowing. Naturally, I was an obvious candidate (see previous post on odd jobs).

I was nervous about it at first. This is her art, her life. What if I did a bad job? 

"It doesn't matter if you fuck it up," she said. "We'll just keep on doing it until you get it right."

This made me feel better until she added, "And anyway, a seven-year-old off the street could do it."

This was not reassuring. Just because a seven-year-old is capable, doesn't mean I will be. I have been known to botch the simplest of tasks. But I was willing to try, so the next day I went to the JT Inc. headquarters, located in the old Cadbury chocolate factory. 

The studio was bright and clean, with flourishing plants and hundreds of glass rods everywhere. 

                                     

Jessie adorned me with special purple glasses so my retinas would not be seared by the flame and a rubber tube with a mouthpiece on the end not unlike a woodwind instrument. Jessie sat at the torch and I, seated comfortably beside her, waited as she melted the end of a glass rod in the flame.

When the ball was big enough and hot enough, she brought it, glowing florescent orange, out of the flame and said, "Blow!" As instructed, I set my teeth on the plastic mouthpiece, sealed my lips around it and blew tiny spurts of air, harder or softer, depending on the instructions, which were delivered in this manner:

"Blow...blow...OK BLOW BLOW BLOW BLOW!!!! STOP!"

We soon devised a number system which corresponded to the required air pressure. It went like this:

"OK, I'm gonna need a four. Five. Four. Four. Two. One. STOP!"  

It was imperative not to blow too much, or we would face the wrath of a giant dripping ball of molten glass. Daydreaming and discussion was kept to a minimum. But Jessie was right. With her guidance, my task was easy. She was the one doing all the hard work.

Once the ball was blown, it went back in the flame. She turned it this way and that to get it symmetrical, then proceeded to draw on the designs using thin sticks of coloured glass, which she simultaneously melted in the flame while rotating the ball. Then she plunged the whole business into the depth of the flame for a re-heat followed by a couple of blows ranging between a three and a four.

A final trip into the flame to even things out, melt on a little loop of glass where the string would later be tied, and heat the glass on the other side of the ball so that it could be pulled into a perfect, tapered tip. Into the kiln they went for some overnight annealing. Et voila!

I can now update my professional CV to include Christmas ball blowing.

Perfecting Your Craft -- A New Series Entitled Odd Jobs

                                                                                                                     Ilustration by Kinnon Elliott

Georges Bernanos said that writing was like rowing a boat out to sea because the shoreline disappears, it is too late to turn back, and the rower becomes a galley slave.

The same can be true for any art. To prefect your craft, you have to devote yourself. Really, really devote yourself. That means staying home when fun things are happening. It means spending your spare time thinking about or doing your craft, and it often involves working arbitrary jobs so you can stay alive in order to serve your art. Odd jobs allow you to work hours that are conducive to creative activities. These positions are easy to start and quit, which can be useful when bigger projects come up. While these jobs are often terribly paid and physically demanding, they usually don't require you to do or think about the work at home, which leaves your mind and spirit free.

The longer you work arbitrary jobs, the farther away you get from "real" jobs, those stable, secure 9-5 ones some of your friends have. You know, the friends who go out to patios on Friday nights but you can't join them because you're broke and so you stay home and drink cheap wine and ... practice your craft some more.

After years of this, you'll probably discover that your math skills have dwindled, your social abilities have suffered, and any degrees or diplomas you might have earned in the past are no longer relevant. You couldn't get a 9-5 now even if you wanted one.

And that's when you find that you are a galley slave, battling the waves of an open sea. Maybe after a certain point it doesn't matter where you're going exactly. Just as long as you keep on rowing. 

Thus begins another series within this blog entitled Odd Jobs.

Confessions (# 1)

I can't drive.

I have a licence. But I shouldn't, really.

I learned to drive on a pick-up truck in rural Muskoka. There were curves in the road, and the odd deer or fox crossing, but no traffic. Driving in the downtown core of Huntsville is as urban as my driving experience gets. The town has one main street with a few stoplights. There are pedestrians to watch out for when making a turn and a couple of other cars to avoid, but nothing too concerning. Of course there are some parallel parking spots along the main drag, but I simply avoided those.

I got my licence when I was 19 (after failing my driver's test once). Then I promptly moved away for school and never really drove again. Now, I simply avoid driving for the following reasons:

LACK OF SPACIAL ABILITY:

When you sit in a car, your spacial awareness expands from the periphery of your body to that of the vehicle. You must adapt as you allow the car to become an extension of yourself. This is something I have never been able to manage, due to my spacial handicap. Even in a small car I feel enormous and clumsy. Completely out of control. Keeping the car within the yellow lines feels virtually impossible and requires all my concentration. 

Even though the car might be like this:

It feels as if it's like this:

When I find myself behind the wheel, it is all I can do to edge the car slowly forward. Stopping, steering, and backing up pose serious challenges that, if not executed properly, can have dire consequences. Which brings me to the second reason I can't drive:

FEAR:

It astounds me that millions of people throughout the world can be so relaxed about controlling a two tonne piece of metal at 100+ km an hour, especially with other lives in their hands. I fear cars. Deeply. And in the city, I feel their oppression daily. Step off a sidewalk in a moment of inattention and you could be killed in an instant. I don't know how people can listen to loud music, smoke, eat, text, or even talk behind the wheel when they could perish at any second. I am unable to concentrate on anything besides the road and keeping the car on it. My hands have a permanent tremble and in elevated moments of panic, I have been known to confuse the gas and the break pedal. 

Recurring nightmares include driving a giant bus full of people in a dense city, trying to keep a transport truck on the highway, and attempting to control a car that has lost its faculties in a heavily populated area.  

Judge me if you will. Laugh if you must. But if you're considering inviting me on a road trip, please reserve the country driving for me and be prepared to provide patient coaching in soft, lulling tones and, above all, make no sudden moves.

There. Now you all know. 

Confessions: A Series

There are aspects about myself that I find truly shameful. Shortcomings. Irrational fears. Insecurities, ridiculous behaviours, and absurd quarks. For a long time, I worried that these details would become known, that people would discover the truth one day and whatever respect they had for me would dry up, leaving me in a descending spiral of humiliation.


The more tightly I clutch onto my fears and undesired peculiarities, the more severe they become, so I have decided to reveal these shortcomings openly, right here on this blog. This might relieve some anxiety and also serve as a warning for others. The chances of disappointment should be lessened and perhaps in broadcasting my shortcomings, I will be able to analyse them better and eventually take steps to eradicate them. Some of them. Maybe.


As they are plentiful, I will be presenting them in a series entitled Confessions. This could potentially become an interactive experience, so if you would like to be a guest blogger on the theme of shameful shortcomings, do get in touch!

Use Your Words

Since moving to Montreal in 2008, I've noticed that people here often use signs to communicate.

There are more in the summer of course, when the snow and wind won't tear them down. They are usually hand written in marker and sometimes have plastic for protection. Most of the time they denote what not to do:

Don't steal my flowers!

Don't leave dog shit bags here!

Here's one in I noticed in one of the alleys by my house:

And one at the local dépanneur (corner store):

(Don't lean your bikes against the store window! Thanks!)

There are other forms of communication recently added to a viaduct where I often walk Lily:  

In fact, the entire wall seems to have become a canvas for expression:

Do other cities express themselves so readily with the written word or is it unique to Montreal?

Signs are effective ways to communicate a desire or emotion and they are usually decipherable, no matter what language you speak. They are simple, anonymous, and can reach a large audience.

This week, I noticed a new kind of sign.

(Where are you, pretty young girl reading in a red dress? You were here. I would like to see you again)


This giant billboard recently appeared in several locations in Rosemont (and perhaps elsewhere).

While I have been known to read in public, I know that this billboard is not aimed at me because:
1) I don't own a red dress
2) There is no mention of a Bernese Mountain Dog
3) I don't make that kind of impression on people

When I first saw the sign, I felt a pang of disappointment that it wasn't me, that I am not that kind of pretty girl who inspires this sort of reaction. But the feeling soon passed and now I'm simply intrigued. Who is this wealthy romantic? Will the girl see the sign? Will she call?

I hope if she does call and they do start a relationship that he will invest in another sign letting us all know. It's only fair. He's got us wondering now. And, in a strange way, I feel like we're rooting for him. For the sake of love. And romantic ideals.

And that, is the power of signs, our city's passive but effective way of communicating with each other, from the most violent of rages scrawled in red spray paint across concrete viaduct to massive billboards professing love. There is power in the written word. And Montrealers know how to use it.

How to try to get a Squirrel out of the Back of your Fridge (Or Never Invite a Wild Animal Inside Your Home)

The sequel to How to try to get a Squirrel out of your Chimney.

I thought I was so smart leaving that opening for the squirrel to climb into the kitchen and exit the apartment on his own accord. I imagined him stepping out, tentatively at first, then looking left and noticing the door I had propped open for him. In one giant leap, he would descend from the top of the fridge and make his way out the door. I was wrong.

My friend Lisa was visiting and she was first to discover the "situation." We were on our way home after a walk, and I still had to pick up some supplies so I gave her the keys to the apartment. When I returned 10 minutes later, I found her pale and trembling on the bed.

"There is something running around in the kitchen," she said.

"That's impossible!" I exclaimed. The squirrel was still in the chimney. He had been waking me up every morning for the last week. The opening was sealed. There was no way it was the squirrel. But at the same time, it could only be him.

I went into the kitchen to investigate. There were things knocked over and my orchid was without one of its leaves. There was a half eaten grape on the table, a banana with a bite out of it on the counter and a nibbled-on Lindt chocolate bar:

Despite the obvious evidence of the squirrel's presence, there was no trace of him. I looked everywhere I thought a squirrel might hide. It was only after we realized that the fridge wasn't working that Lisa suggested I pull it out to see if there was any relation.

As I shimmied the fridge out from its nook, I could already see a mountain of chewed up cardboard,  plastic and styrofoam. I unplugged the fridge, pulled it out further and, heart racing, I peered into the back. To my horror, lodged inside among chewed-up cords and a tank and a motor was the squirrel. Only his tail was sticking out. At first I figured I could just move the fridge to the door and he would scamper away, but as I did so I noticed that the squirrel wasn't moving. Not at all. Not even a flick of his tail. I banged the side of the fridge. Nothing. I roared. Still nothing. The squirrel was dead.

I stared at the lifeless squirrel lodged in my now broken fridge and tried to come up with a plan. There are certain moments in life when you just really need a man around, someone who can reach an arm in and remove a recently electrocuted squirrel without being traumatized. Just the thought of trying to dislodge his furry body made me shudder. Memories of finding my pet hamster dead returned with furry. I knew that if I performed this task, I would never be able to forget it; the squirrel's cold body would haunt me forever.

Lisa said her boyfriend would have dealt with it, but he was in Denmark and it would take him a while to get here. Severely sleep deprived and overwhelmed with guilt for having invited the squirrel into the kitchen as well as my imminent task of removing his body, I began to weep. Lisa rubbed my back to comfort me, but there was no way in hell she was going to even glance at the squirrel. There was only one thing I could think of to do. I called my neighbour René and left a message on his machine. If he didn't call back in half an hour, I would extract the body myself.

René didn't wait to hear the end of my message. The tone of my voice indicated that someone was dying or had been murdered, so he came rushing to my rescue within minutes. He seemed almost relieved to discover the true nature of the situation.

But his relief only lasted until he took the squirrel by the tail and it surged to life, shaking and chirping aggressively.

"That moron is alive!" René said. "This is much worse."

I heard Lisa squeal in the next room. She had retreated to the bed and was rocking back and forth.

René grabbed his tail again and tried to pull him out but the squirrel appeared to be stuck. After unplugging some wires and removing some plastic parts, René gave the tail another tug to no avail, which inspired a string of insults towards the squirrel.

"You douche bag! What an imbecile!"

Finally, I duck-taped the fridge closed and we turned it over. I heard bottles smashing together inside and liquid started to seep across the floor. From that angle, René could tell that the squirrel was not  stuck but merely hanging on with his little claws. I shone the flashlight while René pulled his tail with his gloved hand and shoved a spatula in behind. Finally the squirrel released his grip and René hurled him onto the balcony where he scuttled away, unharmed.

René, exhausted, said, "I'll fix your fridge tomorrow."

On his way to the door, I thanked him profusely. I don't know how I would have succeeded without him. Lisa had emerged at this point and the colour had almost returned to her face. The kitchen, however, was a disaster. Tufts of squirrel tail lay strewn about. Liquids were pooled on the floor. Pieces of plastic and cardboard were everywhere, not to mention the disarray caused by the squirrel during his romp around just before he was discovered.

That night, all three of us were ravaged by squirrel dreams. I dreamt that I ran a rodent sanctuary and had to care for dozens of sick and injured rats and squirrels. Lisa dreamt that I had a squirrel tail and when I turned around I would strike her in the face with it. René dreamt of sneaky, elusive squirrels that were impossible to capture.

The next morning, for the first time in a week, the squirrel did not wake me. After a decent sleep-in, I was ready for the last remaining task. I climbed onto the roof and layered the chimney opening with chicken wire. What was once an inviting opening is now a jagged, metal jumble.

As promised, René returned the next afternoon, spliced the wires the squirrel had chewed, and before long the motor was humming again. The sound used to irritate me. Now, I am soothed by its low, comforting drone. All is well, it says. All is normal and well. For now.

How to try to get a Squirrel out of your Chimney

My neighbour has been doing renovations lately, so when I first heard the scraping and hammering, I figured it was him. When at 6 a.m. the sounds returned, I thought, "That's a little early isn't it?" But I soon realized that the sounds were coming from the chimney and that a squirrel was making them, though I wasn't sure how. It sounded like hammering, banging and sawing.

The chimney has long been out of use. It is on the exterior of the building with only a small metal circle remaining on the wall in the kitchen where the chimney once entered. It was behind this tiny metal circle that the squirrel was hiding out. 

The noise got increasingly louder and more unbearable and since my workspace is in the kitchen, concentrating was impossible. My dog cocked her head at the noise and looked at me like, We should do something, no?

She probably just wanted an excuse to go to the hardware store, where they give out giant dog biscuits. But she was right. We had to take action. I figured that the squirrel must have fallen into the chimney and was trying to get out, hence the urgency of the sounds. After a quick google session, I decided the best solution was to lower down a rope smothered in peanut butter to help him climb out.

So Lily and I went to Rona, the local hardware store, and as she was scarfing down a biscuit, I described my situation to one of the workers. He suggested some drywall tape as it was cheaper and would still allow the squirrel to climb out, if indeed it was trapped (the worker was convinced it was not).

The procedure went as follows:

Climb up on roof.

Prepare materials.

Proceede to fold the adhesive tape in half and lower it down the chimney adding a generous smear of peanut butter in the middle for added incentive. Tie the end of the tape onto something solid to anchor it for when the squirrel climbs out.

Wait.

For the rest of the day, I didn't hear the squirrel stir, so I assumed the little fella had gone on his way. I put in a productive evening to make up for the disruptions during the day. I felt relieved, not just that the squirrel had gone, but that he would no longer be trapped and scared and alone. He was probably with his family at that very moment, telling them all about his adventure and the kind human who helped him to freedom.

That's why, at 6 am the next morning, I was annoyed when the banging started at full force. No, I was more than annoyed. I was enraged. That little ungrateful bastard didn't want to leave. He was probably renovating the place for his family and soon I'd have a whole slew of little squirrels fucking around in there. There was no way I could sleep with al the noise. Nor could I work. I lay there for a little while, seething at the injustice. Finally,  I marched into the kitchen, pulled over a chair, and pounded on the metal circle yelling "Shut up!"

He was quiet for about five minutes. Then the noises started up again, loud and defiant. Again I pounded on the circle and to my surprise it loosened. In fact, with a little pulling, it came right off. I downloaded a flashlight app on my phone and shone it in the hole. I could see my drywall tape but the squirrel must have been hiding in a little borrow. I propped open the door to the kitchen which leads out onto the balcony and decided to take Lily out for a walk. Hopefully the squirrel would come out, help himself to the piece of bread I left on the counter and then scurry out the door.

 When I came home an hour and a half later, I couldn't determine the squirrel status. There were no footprints anywhere and the slice of bread I put on the counter was still there. I replaced the metal circle and for the rest of the day, no sounds came from the chimney. This time he must have gone. Now he'd really have something to tell his family over dinner that night. He had been inside a human's house, in the kitchen, something most squirrels merely dream of. I would have to glue the metal circle back on and re-paint, but at least the little guy was free.

But this morning, at 6 a.m. sharp, incessant banging. I think the guy at Rona was right. The squirrel is choosing to be there. He insisting on being there. Which now, of course, means war. And by war I mean future annoyance, cursing, complaining and brainstorming on new ways to try to get a squirrel out of a chimney.