I was aimlessly scrolling through Pinterest, wishing I had the guts to wear repro Victorian dresses to Mass (bustle and all), when I remembered a very funny anecdote a friend told me about a most unexpected reaction to her trad Catholic outfit which I suspect involved running shoes, leggings, maxi skirt, maxi shirt and a puffa vest. In short, the onlooker involved honestly thought my friend was mental.
At the moment I have almost no clothing because The Closet is NOT All Mine, I work from home, and I am in the process of repairing the damage done to my figure by sitting in front of a computer for the better part of two years. Two more inches off my waist, and I can have a new skirt. Yay!
In preparation for that happy day, I am thinking that the way to go is either full-on, reproduction Edwardian or crisp T-shirts with maxi-skirt, sandals (or, if T-shirt replaced by a lacy blouse, buttoned boots) and a snazzy belt.
Naturally I still have the Indestructible Blue Denim Maxi-skirt of Abject Traddery for hiking, gardening and such housework I am not doing in my gym clothes. But really I look like heck on earth lately.
Showing posts with label Econo-Trad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Econo-Trad. Show all posts
Thursday, 23 May 2019
Wednesday, 26 September 2018
Hens
"Hen" is an old-fashioned term of endearment in Scotland whose usage is falling off as it is now considered insensitive to women's new place in society, blah blah.
That's a great pity, for I much prefer being called "hen" to being called "pal", which used to be reserved for men. Democratic Scotland doesn't care for "sir" or "ma'am" although I suppose we would all "sir" and "ma'am" to the Duke and Duchess of Rothesay, were they to toddle by our places of work to open a new wing, etc. Maybe when I'm older more bus drivers will call me "hen" instead of "pal" because I remind them of their grannies; something nice to look forward to.
"Hen" is also not used overmuch by people who went to university or by foreigners like me, as it sounds funny in our non-Scots accents. B.A. some times calls me "hen" which leaves me in a bind as it sounds wrong to call him "pal" in return. I'm not sure what Scotswomen call their "partners" (another awful word) because the only Scotswomen I know either do not have partners or abstain from endearments in public.
Meanwhile, I have been reading all about hens because I am hoping to buy some in the spring and ensconce them in a hideously expensive but easily cleaned chicken coop under the apple tree.
Hens are the tentative solution to my need to mother somebody or something. B.A. does not want pets in the house, so hens are our compromise. Unfortunately, hens are a lot more work than cats and dogs, and you have to have two or three of them at once, as they hate living alone. But they do lay eggs, and they can be taught to love you through food-bribery, and they even enjoy a bit of a cuddle, so they may be worth all the attention, cleaning, worming, and tremendous chain and padlock I will have to buy.
The most depressing thing I read in the chicken books--and if you want to keep chickens the first thing you must do is read all about them--is that in urban settings you need to worry about humans even more than foxes because humans will steal eggs, chickens, coop and all. That was almost a deal breaker for me, for the last thing I want to worry about is serious sin. I write about serious sin all day long, and I do not want to tempt serious sinners into our garden with chickens.
Although chickens seem to pay their way through egg-production, they are not very economical pets, even if you buy or build a cheap chicken-coop yourself. You have to buy chicken feed, grit, bedding, disinfectant, biannual de-wormer powder, a feeder and a drinker, and the occasional cabbage or head of broccoli so they get their greens. This seems more involved than being a cat-mother, who has fewer things to buy: a comb, a collar, Meow Mix, Whiskas, a litter box, litter, and scoop. Being a chicken-mother is certainly more expensive than popping into Tesco for eggs.
Thus, poultry-keeping comes down firmly under the heading of "HOBBY", and as I already have a hobby--learning Polish--I have to ponder if I really have the time and money to invest in it. It would be easier to get a cat, but B.A. is adamantly against cats and my brother Nulli is deathly allergic to them, so he'd never be able to visit.
In case I haven't mentions, B.A. is adamantly against cats because he firmly believes that they creep into your bed at the crack of dawn and wake you up, and if you prevent them from doing this by firmly shutting the bedroom door, they avenge themselves by scratching the furniture.
I complained to cat-adoring pals about B.A.'s intransigence, but when I explained his reasons, they notably did not say that these reasons were unfounded.
B.A. is also against owning dogs, in part because of the terrible environmental damage to urban and semi-urban parkland caused by dogs and their owners. There are approximately 640,000 dogs in Scotland, and their urine is murder on trees and other plants. What their droppings can do to human beings is no joke. After twelve years at the Historical House, B.A. has seen just too much dog-damage to the precious Historical Landscape.
Chicken droppings, however, make a good fertiliser. So, now that I think about it, although chickens might not make strictly economical pets, they are environmentally friendly.
That's a great pity, for I much prefer being called "hen" to being called "pal", which used to be reserved for men. Democratic Scotland doesn't care for "sir" or "ma'am" although I suppose we would all "sir" and "ma'am" to the Duke and Duchess of Rothesay, were they to toddle by our places of work to open a new wing, etc. Maybe when I'm older more bus drivers will call me "hen" instead of "pal" because I remind them of their grannies; something nice to look forward to.
"Hen" is also not used overmuch by people who went to university or by foreigners like me, as it sounds funny in our non-Scots accents. B.A. some times calls me "hen" which leaves me in a bind as it sounds wrong to call him "pal" in return. I'm not sure what Scotswomen call their "partners" (another awful word) because the only Scotswomen I know either do not have partners or abstain from endearments in public.
Meanwhile, I have been reading all about hens because I am hoping to buy some in the spring and ensconce them in a hideously expensive but easily cleaned chicken coop under the apple tree.
Hens are the tentative solution to my need to mother somebody or something. B.A. does not want pets in the house, so hens are our compromise. Unfortunately, hens are a lot more work than cats and dogs, and you have to have two or three of them at once, as they hate living alone. But they do lay eggs, and they can be taught to love you through food-bribery, and they even enjoy a bit of a cuddle, so they may be worth all the attention, cleaning, worming, and tremendous chain and padlock I will have to buy.
The most depressing thing I read in the chicken books--and if you want to keep chickens the first thing you must do is read all about them--is that in urban settings you need to worry about humans even more than foxes because humans will steal eggs, chickens, coop and all. That was almost a deal breaker for me, for the last thing I want to worry about is serious sin. I write about serious sin all day long, and I do not want to tempt serious sinners into our garden with chickens.
Although chickens seem to pay their way through egg-production, they are not very economical pets, even if you buy or build a cheap chicken-coop yourself. You have to buy chicken feed, grit, bedding, disinfectant, biannual de-wormer powder, a feeder and a drinker, and the occasional cabbage or head of broccoli so they get their greens. This seems more involved than being a cat-mother, who has fewer things to buy: a comb, a collar, Meow Mix, Whiskas, a litter box, litter, and scoop. Being a chicken-mother is certainly more expensive than popping into Tesco for eggs.
Thus, poultry-keeping comes down firmly under the heading of "HOBBY", and as I already have a hobby--learning Polish--I have to ponder if I really have the time and money to invest in it. It would be easier to get a cat, but B.A. is adamantly against cats and my brother Nulli is deathly allergic to them, so he'd never be able to visit.
In case I haven't mentions, B.A. is adamantly against cats because he firmly believes that they creep into your bed at the crack of dawn and wake you up, and if you prevent them from doing this by firmly shutting the bedroom door, they avenge themselves by scratching the furniture.
I complained to cat-adoring pals about B.A.'s intransigence, but when I explained his reasons, they notably did not say that these reasons were unfounded.
B.A. is also against owning dogs, in part because of the terrible environmental damage to urban and semi-urban parkland caused by dogs and their owners. There are approximately 640,000 dogs in Scotland, and their urine is murder on trees and other plants. What their droppings can do to human beings is no joke. After twelve years at the Historical House, B.A. has seen just too much dog-damage to the precious Historical Landscape.
Chicken droppings, however, make a good fertiliser. So, now that I think about it, although chickens might not make strictly economical pets, they are environmentally friendly.
Saturday, 22 September 2018
Run
My daily habits get a kicking in a little book called Eat, Move, Sleep. Apparently sitting is the new sugar, and every hour of sitting is shortening my life. Also, the more one sits, the more likely fat will collect in one's posterior. Goodness gracious. This is seriously bad news for contemporary journalists who spend eight hours a day or more at our desks.
There was more bad news in an article the Huffington Post, which suggests the the overweight should just give up hope that dieting will ever work in the long term.
I don't actually believe that, as the Fast Diet works long-term for many, and did work for me as long as I stuck to it. I forget when I quit, but I suspect B.A.'s illness had something to do with it. A year and a half of almost unrelenting stress have packed on the pounds, too. Besides all B.A.'s health woes, the flood-from-above, leaving our home-of-nine-years, shuttling about from refuge to refuge, the long, drawn-up process of getting our belongings moved to our new home, there is the sadness of almost everything I read and write about for work.
"How do you bear it?" someone asked---and the answer from June (at latest) until now is "I stuff my face."
Having granola in the house is just fatal.
That reminds me, by the way, of the saddest priest I ever met, who was also one of the fattest. Even then I had an inkling that he was self-medicating on food, but I had my own problems then, so I don't think it occurred to me to suggest to someone in authority that he might need help.
Anyway, Eat, Move, Sleep convinced me that everybody should get at least 150 minutes of cardio-vascular activity a week, so I have been going out for a half-hour run upon getting out of bed, five mornings a week. The first run was so awful, I hope I never quit, for having to do another "first run" is just too depressing a thought.
I haven't had a regular run outdoors since high school, as even in my most athletic days I was a gym rat and preferred the weatherless comfort of indoors. However, running outdoors--if you already have running shoes--is free, and my route along the river to the Firth of Forth and back is scenic. It provides a mental lift to see the ducks and swans and to hear the oystercatchers peeping.
There was more bad news in an article the Huffington Post, which suggests the the overweight should just give up hope that dieting will ever work in the long term.
I don't actually believe that, as the Fast Diet works long-term for many, and did work for me as long as I stuck to it. I forget when I quit, but I suspect B.A.'s illness had something to do with it. A year and a half of almost unrelenting stress have packed on the pounds, too. Besides all B.A.'s health woes, the flood-from-above, leaving our home-of-nine-years, shuttling about from refuge to refuge, the long, drawn-up process of getting our belongings moved to our new home, there is the sadness of almost everything I read and write about for work.
"How do you bear it?" someone asked---and the answer from June (at latest) until now is "I stuff my face."
Having granola in the house is just fatal.
That reminds me, by the way, of the saddest priest I ever met, who was also one of the fattest. Even then I had an inkling that he was self-medicating on food, but I had my own problems then, so I don't think it occurred to me to suggest to someone in authority that he might need help.
Anyway, Eat, Move, Sleep convinced me that everybody should get at least 150 minutes of cardio-vascular activity a week, so I have been going out for a half-hour run upon getting out of bed, five mornings a week. The first run was so awful, I hope I never quit, for having to do another "first run" is just too depressing a thought.
I haven't had a regular run outdoors since high school, as even in my most athletic days I was a gym rat and preferred the weatherless comfort of indoors. However, running outdoors--if you already have running shoes--is free, and my route along the river to the Firth of Forth and back is scenic. It provides a mental lift to see the ducks and swans and to hear the oystercatchers peeping.
Thursday, 20 September 2018
storm ali
here's a fun post written by my left hand for reasons that will become clear.
yesterday storm Ali came by with its promised 80 mph winds and tore down most of the rest of our apples. when I could I rushed out with a big blue Ikea bag and collected all the windfalls worth saving. then I put them in the bathtub and went back to work, which is a surprisingly physically demanding one, at least for my arms.
when work was done--which actually means I couldn't type anymore, since I still have articles left to do--I got to work preserving the apples in the few ways I can, these not being apples that store well. late apples store well--you can wrap them in newspaper and eat them all winter--but September apples do not.
the fermenting bin is occupied, so after I made about 3 litres of apple juice, I poured them into 7 500 ml water bottles (BA is not an eco-trad), and put 6 of them in the freezer. at the same time I turned 3 lbs of apples into apple pie filling by cooking them down over low heat with lemon juice and then adding sugar and spices. I froze that too.
but now we still have 3 dozen apples and I can barely use my right hand. I am not sure what to do, other than buy another lemon for more apple pie filling and ibuprofen for my arm and soldier through.
yesterday storm Ali came by with its promised 80 mph winds and tore down most of the rest of our apples. when I could I rushed out with a big blue Ikea bag and collected all the windfalls worth saving. then I put them in the bathtub and went back to work, which is a surprisingly physically demanding one, at least for my arms.
when work was done--which actually means I couldn't type anymore, since I still have articles left to do--I got to work preserving the apples in the few ways I can, these not being apples that store well. late apples store well--you can wrap them in newspaper and eat them all winter--but September apples do not.
the fermenting bin is occupied, so after I made about 3 litres of apple juice, I poured them into 7 500 ml water bottles (BA is not an eco-trad), and put 6 of them in the freezer. at the same time I turned 3 lbs of apples into apple pie filling by cooking them down over low heat with lemon juice and then adding sugar and spices. I froze that too.
but now we still have 3 dozen apples and I can barely use my right hand. I am not sure what to do, other than buy another lemon for more apple pie filling and ibuprofen for my arm and soldier through.
Tuesday, 11 September 2018
Cider House Tools
Exciting news! Benedict Ambrose and I have just ordered cider making equipment. Before supper I made a list of what we would need, based on the British apple cider making videos we watched on Youtube last night.
(Here's one of the videos.)
Again I reflect on the dizzying experience of spending way over £100 all at once after weeks of counting pennies. However, B.A. says it is an investment, and I think of it as a way to cut back on our £75/month wine bill.
Stay tuned for our cider adventures.
(Here's one of the videos.)
Again I reflect on the dizzying experience of spending way over £100 all at once after weeks of counting pennies. However, B.A. says it is an investment, and I think of it as a way to cut back on our £75/month wine bill.
Stay tuned for our cider adventures.
Monday, 10 September 2018
Mantra against Misfortune
I have a new technique against useless retrospection. Every time I begin a thought with "Oh, if only..." or "I wish I had...", I say, "What can I do today to make tomorrow better?"
This mantra popped into my head--very possibly at Mass---when B.A. and I were living in the New Town this summer. At a certain point after the Deluge drove us from our happy home in the Historical Flat, I began to say such mournful things as "What terrible decisions have I made in my life that have led up to this moment?"
This was nonsense, of course, as neither of us made decisions that led to the sudden malfunction of the HH's fire extinguishing system. Neither of us was responsible, either, for poor B.A.'s brain tumour deciding to grow again. And neither of us was responsible for the delay in taking possession of our flat, which was caused by some shoddy map-making at some registry office, plus a crack in the concrete around the [redundant] chimney.
As a matter of fact, our life decisions had left us well-off, not only because we had kindly friends with a kindly tenant who allowed us to rent a room, but because we had been working and saving against the evil day we would have to leave the Historical House. So in reality we had made excellent decisions that led up to the joyful moment in August went B.A. took possession of our new home.
This mantra "What can I do today to make tomorrow better?"is a good dispeller of gloomy thoughts, I have found, especially as making tomorrow better includes digging a few dandelions out of the lawn. It occurred to me this morning that I may never finish digging dandelions out of the lawn, as they keep coming back, but that does not mean I should give up. (Giving up would lead to a brutal dandelion occupation.) The victory is in digging up the dandelions as long as I have breath and strength---which is also true of the struggle against sin.
Gardening is a very theological activity.
After reading a simple but persuasive book called Eat, Move Sleep by a pop scientist named Tom Rath, I decided that another thing I could do to make tomorrow better was to start running for 30 minutes a day. Despite my athletic years (ages 25-36), this was a very radical decision--especially as this running will be outdoors instead of in a comfortable gym.
However, for over a year I have been sitting down for over 8 hours a day, I have gained a lot of weight, and I have arms that ache from too much typing. It seemed to me that I had better take up cardiovascular exercise NOW, or I will be very sorry SOON.
So this morning I got up at 6:50 AM and ran along the river and back for what turned out to be 24 minutes, and it didn't kill me. Eat, Move, Sleep promises (as have other books I've read) that cardiovascular activity improves learning, too. so that will be useful for my Polish.
Thursday, 6 September 2018
The Indestructible Denim Maxi-Skirt of Feminine Traddery Redux
A bad thing happened to the Indestructible Denim Maxi-Skirt of Feminine Traddery while we were in the New Town: I put it in the dryer.
Alas! Somehow the zipper got terribly stuck afterwards, and when B.A. tried to unstick it, it broke.
Quite apart from my affection for the Hitherto Indestructible Denim Maxi-Skirt of Feminine Traddery, the accident had serious ramifications for my minimal wardrobe. I find those "capsule wardrobe" posts on minimalism blogs quite amusing, for they contain many more clothes than I have now.
That said, I envy nuns their habits, and my ideal is to have one hard-wearing skirt and 6 T-shirts for week-days, one nice dress for Sundays (per season), one suit for the very rare occasions I have to dress professionally, and a knock-out dress for evening parties.
How far I have come from my seventeen magazine reading days when my dreamiest daydream involved a walk-in closet decked with an endless array of designer clothes.
The trad women I know best my age or younger prefer to always wear skirts and never trousers*, and I have felt like a traitor wearing grey summer slacks for the past month, but I more-or-less had to because of the gaping wound in the Hitherto Indestructible Denim Maxi-Skirt of FT.
After pawing through racks in charity shops and looking online for another one, preferably the exact same make and size, I decided that the most economical and simple thing to do would be to take out the broken zipper and put in a new one. So I took out the old zipper and bought a new one (£2.05) and have been putting it into the IDMSFT with the running backstitch.
The fact that I am sewing is evidence of how badly I want to be frugal.
While putting in this zipper, though, I see that the denim is actually wearing thin here and there and so even with the new zip the IDMSFT really isn't I. Therefore I probably won't go the whole hog and attempt to dye it back to its original indigo.
Garden Note: I read last night that sitting all day is terribly bad for your health, so today I spent 2.5 hours in the garden--two hours before work and half an hour after--and maybe half an hour grocery-shopping. To my surprise, I had one of my most productive workdays ever.
Update: This trouser-hate is very NICHE, by the way. In Scotland, as in other places in Europe, women wear trousers to the Traditional Latin Mass unless there is a sign around saying not to. Many women don't wear mantillas. Some women go bareheaded, which is especially common in Germany and France.
Alas! Somehow the zipper got terribly stuck afterwards, and when B.A. tried to unstick it, it broke.
Quite apart from my affection for the Hitherto Indestructible Denim Maxi-Skirt of Feminine Traddery, the accident had serious ramifications for my minimal wardrobe. I find those "capsule wardrobe" posts on minimalism blogs quite amusing, for they contain many more clothes than I have now.
That said, I envy nuns their habits, and my ideal is to have one hard-wearing skirt and 6 T-shirts for week-days, one nice dress for Sundays (per season), one suit for the very rare occasions I have to dress professionally, and a knock-out dress for evening parties.
How far I have come from my seventeen magazine reading days when my dreamiest daydream involved a walk-in closet decked with an endless array of designer clothes.
The trad women I know best my age or younger prefer to always wear skirts and never trousers*, and I have felt like a traitor wearing grey summer slacks for the past month, but I more-or-less had to because of the gaping wound in the Hitherto Indestructible Denim Maxi-Skirt of FT.
After pawing through racks in charity shops and looking online for another one, preferably the exact same make and size, I decided that the most economical and simple thing to do would be to take out the broken zipper and put in a new one. So I took out the old zipper and bought a new one (£2.05) and have been putting it into the IDMSFT with the running backstitch.
The fact that I am sewing is evidence of how badly I want to be frugal.
While putting in this zipper, though, I see that the denim is actually wearing thin here and there and so even with the new zip the IDMSFT really isn't I. Therefore I probably won't go the whole hog and attempt to dye it back to its original indigo.
Garden Note: I read last night that sitting all day is terribly bad for your health, so today I spent 2.5 hours in the garden--two hours before work and half an hour after--and maybe half an hour grocery-shopping. To my surprise, I had one of my most productive workdays ever.
Update: This trouser-hate is very NICHE, by the way. In Scotland, as in other places in Europe, women wear trousers to the Traditional Latin Mass unless there is a sign around saying not to. Many women don't wear mantillas. Some women go bareheaded, which is especially common in Germany and France.
Monday, 20 August 2018
Gardening Tools
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| Happy birthday, honey! |
While thinking about what careers would best fund a writer, it never occurred to me to work like a slave for 10 years, save at least 65% of the money and shove it all into index funds that eventually make me $20,000 a year. Then I could quit and write all day long.
If I wrote advice for teenagers, that would be my advice. Get trained in something highly valuable, work like a slave for 10 years while saving as much as possible, and only THEN go to Paris to sit around writing/painting about Le Beau Homme Sans Merci or whomever.
This rather flies in the face of my advice to have children as soon as you graduate from university, so either marry a young man who is eager to retire in ten years, and do the hard graft of scrimping and saving from the distaff side, or start work at 16, doing your pre-university courses at night school.
Dear heavens, I have just looked up the UK wages for apprentices. Never mind starting work at 16. Finish high school, do a 3 to 4 year uni course in something useful, work like a slave for a decade/get married to willing-worker-like-slave (if can find), have babies (if applic.), then work part-time for fun when can. Do not read Vogue, Elle or Marie Claire.
I do not know about you, but I think if I were a man I would find it very thrilling if I took a woman out to dinner and she told me her life goal was to be financially independent by 32 so she could retire and have babies and fun forever more. I imagine this person having one tube of lipstick--a Christmas present from her mother--and one date dress--ditto--carefully preserved in a cloth garment bag when not in service.
I have wandered far from my chosen topic, which purports to be garden tools. Well, the one extravagance allowed by my Early Retirement gurus is high-end tools, possibly because they are men and really like high-end tools, but also because such things retain their resale value and last decades. Now that B.A. and I have a garden, and we need tools, I did some research to determine which garden tools count as high-end and went out this morning to buy some.
It is a bit odd, after buying supermarket own-brand pizza on the grounds that it is £1 cheaper than our favourite, to spend £132.95 on garden tools, but that is what I have done. The big expense was the Fiskars hedge shears, which cost so much that they will live indoors, not in the tool shed.
"Happy birthday," said I to Benedict Ambrose upon mentioning the price of these hedge shears.
For I correctly intuited that BA would enjoy the thought of cutting the hedge with such a righteous piece of kit, and the pruning shears alone inspired him at once to cut up the embarrassing sapling sprouting over our rose bushes towards the neighbour's garden.
Mr Money Moustache says that when you go shopping you should have a hot shower afterwards to wash off the shopping juice. I am both horrified that I have spent £132.95 all at once and deeply desirous of adding grass shears and secateurs to my arsenal in the tool shed (and spare room).
Over supper I casually mentioned to B.A. that I might dig up part of the lawn to make a vegetable bed, and he thought this a good idea as long as I pick a spot not under the clothes lines. I am pleased by this although, speaking as a North American, it seems slightly heretical to dig up part of the lawn. I mean, the LAWN!
Over supper I casually mentioned to B.A. that I might dig up part of the lawn to make a vegetable bed, and he thought this a good idea as long as I pick a spot not under the clothes lines. I am pleased by this although, speaking as a North American, it seems slightly heretical to dig up part of the lawn. I mean, the LAWN!
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