Last week at a small social gathering, someone mentioned her nemesis in passing and I casually asked if she found it a big commitment to have such a thing. She laughed and we briefly discussed the amount of energy it takes to thoroughly detest something unceasingly and unerringly for a lifetime. To me, at that moment, I could imagine nothing worthy of such attention.
The next day I went to work. It was my first day alone in the shop without the girl who trained me. My boss was around and more than willing to answer questions, but as I've been framing for a long time I've pretty much been able to jump right into being useful.
One thing that is not familiar to me at this new frame shop is the glass situation. Nick uses only UV and museum glass in his frames. I've used one-sided glass before (as these both are), but never these two kinds. UV he uses on most things. Museum glass on a few. Museum glass, he said early on, should never be touched without cotton gloves and handled as little as possible as it is reputedly impossible to clean once dirtied.
I worked slowly on Thursday, as I was constantly doing things like looking for tools that are lying around somewhere in the frame shop at the NAU Art Museum, and spent roughly half the day trying to find my mat blade at intervals, only to realize repeatedly that it was, and has always been, attached to the mat cutter (unlike the one in Flagstaff). Oh the irony -I would never lose it if I would just stop looking for it.
Towards the end of the day, Nick asked me to put glass in a piece. I wandered over to the scrap pile and selected a sheet to cut down. I cut it (proud of myself for not messing up, even tho I haven't cut glass by hand since high school). I slid it into the frame, cleaned one side and flipped it over (keeping careful track of which side needed to face the art in the end).
I consider myself something of a master in the art of cleaning glass. I have had hours of experience learning all the different ways to wipe, buff, shine, polish and otherwise make glass absolutely transparent. I know which strokes work and which don't. I know all sorts of tricks and short cuts. However, I cleaned this glass over and over to no avail, flipping it back and forth and back and forth. The clock was ticking. The glass still sported smug smudges. Nick left to get his son from school and came back only to discover me still in the same place I'd been when he left. Trying to clean the &$%@#$&* piece of glass.
I said, "I just can't seem to get this glass clean," when he wandered in at some point.
"Try some of this adhesive remover," he suggested, pulling a metal cannister out from under the table.
I opened the can, then opened the window, wondering how many of my brain cells each wiff of the stuff was costing me. Using it sparingly, I succeeded in cleaning nothing. Using it profusely, I also succeeded in cleaning nothing.
Nick wandered back in. He gave me a quizzical look reminiscent of how Jasonhess looks every time I ask him a question about how he wants something done on his website.
"This seems to have some sort of scratch on the coating. I don't think it's actually in the glass tho," I told him.
He nodded wisely. "Sometimes you can buff those out. Let me see." He walked over and looked at the glass. "Oh," he said. "This is museum glass. You don't need to use this. I mean, you can if you want but it's really hard to clean. UV is better."
Museum glass. Of course. That explained the odd rainbow of florescent colors that seemed to pool under any moisture I dropped onto the surface. That explained why the text of the "score this side only" notice was slightly different than on the other sheets of glass I had used that day. That explained everything.
"Oh," I said, deflated. "Of course. Maybe I'll just cut another piece."
"Yeah, go ahead and do that," Nick agreed, and walked out of the room.
In that moment I decided that museum glass is my nemesis. Whenever it is near me, I will hate it. If it ever reaches out to me with offers of peace and reconciliation, I will scorn it. However, I have no intention of thinking about it any more than necessary. I plan to forget its existence between my brief flashes of intense and pure detestation.
Which is why I wrote a blog about it...
Dang.
I think it already has the upper hand.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Kakistocracy
Today I discovered the correct word for our current governmental situation.
kak·is·toc·ra·cy (kāk'ĭ-stŏk'rə-sē, kä'kĭ-) n.
Government by the least qualified or most unprincipled citizens.
kak·is·toc·ra·cy (kāk'ĭ-stŏk'rə-sē, kä'kĭ-) n.
Government by the least qualified or most unprincipled citizens.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Winter Sports
It's been cold here in Iowa. By cold, I mean cold. Cold like I didn't even know could happen. I've adapted to this in various ways. One is spending almost all of my time at home under at least one (and up to three) blankets. Another is by wearing many layers of clothing, all the time. However, over time I find myself needing less clothing and less blankets to be comfortable. This is good.
Last week Brian finally talked me into going cross country skiing. I can admit I was resistant to this proposal (some latent trauma from my ill-fated attempts at downhill). I eventually agreed to rent some skis and hit the trails and, of course, I loved it. It made the cold not so bad. It made the snow something worth having on the ground. We went three times in quick succession. One of these was to the cross country course on the U of I campus. As it's groomed for skiing, there are two little grooves in the snow one puts one's skis in and follows. This is nice for beginners like me as it allows one to concentrate on important things like how to slide along on skis and not fall down instead of piddling, incidental concerns like steering.
Anyway, Brian's friend Sean met us at the course, and the two of them raced off. I slid my merry way forward. The snow was white. The sky was white. There was white in the trees and my skis were even mostly white. Snow that covers large expanses of open land like that seems to impose a hush on everything. It squeaks underfoot. It is beautiful.
I was taking all this in when I saw a skier coming towards me. He was tall, and moving fast. As he approached I began to wonder if he was wearing some strange variety of respirator. There seemed to be lines on his face and mouth.
But when he came within a few feet, I saw his face was uncovered; so bright red and wind-chapped it looked artificial contrasting sharply with his gray beard. And there was a genuine icicle hanging from his nose that was perhaps an inch and a half long.
I briefly questioned the wisdom that had brought me to the middle of a snow covered field in sub-zero temperatures, towards sunset, with long, slick pieces of plastic snapped onto my feet.
Then the other guy skied on, and the sun sank lower. The cool thing about snow is it reflects back light of all colors. I stood at the top of an empty field and watched the ground turn pink.
This weekend I bought boots and poles. Monday, the weather broke. It's been above freezing two days in a row and all the snow has melted.
Next year, I suppose.
Last week Brian finally talked me into going cross country skiing. I can admit I was resistant to this proposal (some latent trauma from my ill-fated attempts at downhill). I eventually agreed to rent some skis and hit the trails and, of course, I loved it. It made the cold not so bad. It made the snow something worth having on the ground. We went three times in quick succession. One of these was to the cross country course on the U of I campus. As it's groomed for skiing, there are two little grooves in the snow one puts one's skis in and follows. This is nice for beginners like me as it allows one to concentrate on important things like how to slide along on skis and not fall down instead of piddling, incidental concerns like steering.
Anyway, Brian's friend Sean met us at the course, and the two of them raced off. I slid my merry way forward. The snow was white. The sky was white. There was white in the trees and my skis were even mostly white. Snow that covers large expanses of open land like that seems to impose a hush on everything. It squeaks underfoot. It is beautiful.
I was taking all this in when I saw a skier coming towards me. He was tall, and moving fast. As he approached I began to wonder if he was wearing some strange variety of respirator. There seemed to be lines on his face and mouth.
But when he came within a few feet, I saw his face was uncovered; so bright red and wind-chapped it looked artificial contrasting sharply with his gray beard. And there was a genuine icicle hanging from his nose that was perhaps an inch and a half long.
I briefly questioned the wisdom that had brought me to the middle of a snow covered field in sub-zero temperatures, towards sunset, with long, slick pieces of plastic snapped onto my feet.
Then the other guy skied on, and the sun sank lower. The cool thing about snow is it reflects back light of all colors. I stood at the top of an empty field and watched the ground turn pink.
This weekend I bought boots and poles. Monday, the weather broke. It's been above freezing two days in a row and all the snow has melted.
Next year, I suppose.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Reconciliation
Whenever one moves from one abode to another, there seems an endless list of things to get used to. Moving to Iowa aside, this past month I've had a new house to discover. This house is over a hundred years old. The glass in the windowpanes has slowly run and settled at the bottom so that when one looks outside, the view is always slightly distorted.
Anyway, it's a nice house despite it's quirks. I am getting used to the way the door down to the basement will initially appear to close but then swing three inches ajar as soon as no one's looking. I'm getting used to the way the thermostat will, if you decide you want it one degree warmer and turn it up, change it's mind about the temperature immediately and declare it is actually already one degree warmer in the house, so there's no need to turn the heat on after all. We've solved problems like the way the couch and bed slid all over the slick wooden floors with lovely little gripper things that someone manufactures for this precise purpose and sells for a very low price at hardware stores. I'm even getting used to the fact that my glee over having two ample walk-in closets is diminished slightly every time I walk into one and remember that here it's 20 degrees colder behind a closed door.
All of these little adjustments have been minor and relatively painless - but that is perhaps because they do not involve the most important room of the house. Moving into a new kitchen is always interesting. Every stove heats differently. All burners are not created equal. Our kitchen is outfitted with lovely new appliances, but none of them work quite the way I'm used to.
My most hated feature of our new kitchen was the timer on the microwave. I like a simple microwave. I like being able to walk up to it and punch in a number and hit "start" and watch the clock begin to count down. Our microwave seemed unnecessarily cumbersome. One has to first hit the "timer" button before punching in a time. This cannot be done in the opposite order. Then, one may not hit the nice, bright, central, "start" button. No. One must hit the small, deferential, and out of the way "timer" button again, to start the countdown. Time and time again, I would try to start a timer only to accidentally start the microwave cooking nothing, or simply elicit absolutely no response from the appliance whatsoever - not even a changing display (which is infuriating).
And then, to top it all off, this timer does not stop beeping when it runs out. It does not stop for even a moment to make sure you're not somewhere like on the other side of the kitchen with your hands covered in raw chicken. It just beeps, and beeps, and beeps until you go and hit, no, not the oblivious, red-outlined "clear/off" button. Timer. You have to hit "timer" again.
It is perhaps one of the faults of my personality that while I am rarely stirred to rage by truly offensive or upsetting events, small, niggling things can incense me to the core in a very short amount of time. I loathed our microwave. I wanted to smash it's little beeping face in instead of gently pressing the "timer" button every time that alarm when off.
But, it's been over a month now, and today I discover that I have reconciled with the microwave. First, I owe this to the basic human ability to learn. When I hear that beeping, I no longer lunge for the useless start and off/clear buttons. I dart deftly across the kitchen, hit the correct button (with my always chicken-free pinky finger if necessary) and continue what I was doing, none the angrier. Also, I have discovered that the separation of the "start" and "timer" buttons results in being able to cook something while simultaneously running an unconnected countdown. Talk about modern convenience!
However, what has really mended my dislike for the timer is the most magical and enchanting substance on earth. Tea. Anyone who's ever lived with me can tell you how much I love tea, and also how I brew a significantly larger amount of tea than I consume. This is partially because I give tea to anyone else who will accept it, but also because I have a very bad habit of starting my tea, wandering out of the kitchen and forgetting about it until the tea is quite over-steeped and cold. I have tried to set a timer to help me with this problem, and sometimes it works. But sometimes I am so embroiled in whatever I am doing, my mind hears a single beep and goes, "Oh yeah, tea," and promptly and entirely forgets until I innocently wander into the kitchen much later.
This new timer has solved my tea problem. I can't forget. Even when I am all the way upstairs, that delightfully mellow and constant chirping will float up the stairs and inform me, gently, that my tea is ready and I need only scurry down, touch the timer button, and add some milk and honey to my beverage of choice.
Now I sit here, cup of tea at my elbow, feeling quite fond of this new house.
Anyway, it's a nice house despite it's quirks. I am getting used to the way the door down to the basement will initially appear to close but then swing three inches ajar as soon as no one's looking. I'm getting used to the way the thermostat will, if you decide you want it one degree warmer and turn it up, change it's mind about the temperature immediately and declare it is actually already one degree warmer in the house, so there's no need to turn the heat on after all. We've solved problems like the way the couch and bed slid all over the slick wooden floors with lovely little gripper things that someone manufactures for this precise purpose and sells for a very low price at hardware stores. I'm even getting used to the fact that my glee over having two ample walk-in closets is diminished slightly every time I walk into one and remember that here it's 20 degrees colder behind a closed door.
All of these little adjustments have been minor and relatively painless - but that is perhaps because they do not involve the most important room of the house. Moving into a new kitchen is always interesting. Every stove heats differently. All burners are not created equal. Our kitchen is outfitted with lovely new appliances, but none of them work quite the way I'm used to.
My most hated feature of our new kitchen was the timer on the microwave. I like a simple microwave. I like being able to walk up to it and punch in a number and hit "start" and watch the clock begin to count down. Our microwave seemed unnecessarily cumbersome. One has to first hit the "timer" button before punching in a time. This cannot be done in the opposite order. Then, one may not hit the nice, bright, central, "start" button. No. One must hit the small, deferential, and out of the way "timer" button again, to start the countdown. Time and time again, I would try to start a timer only to accidentally start the microwave cooking nothing, or simply elicit absolutely no response from the appliance whatsoever - not even a changing display (which is infuriating).
And then, to top it all off, this timer does not stop beeping when it runs out. It does not stop for even a moment to make sure you're not somewhere like on the other side of the kitchen with your hands covered in raw chicken. It just beeps, and beeps, and beeps until you go and hit, no, not the oblivious, red-outlined "clear/off" button. Timer. You have to hit "timer" again.
It is perhaps one of the faults of my personality that while I am rarely stirred to rage by truly offensive or upsetting events, small, niggling things can incense me to the core in a very short amount of time. I loathed our microwave. I wanted to smash it's little beeping face in instead of gently pressing the "timer" button every time that alarm when off.
But, it's been over a month now, and today I discover that I have reconciled with the microwave. First, I owe this to the basic human ability to learn. When I hear that beeping, I no longer lunge for the useless start and off/clear buttons. I dart deftly across the kitchen, hit the correct button (with my always chicken-free pinky finger if necessary) and continue what I was doing, none the angrier. Also, I have discovered that the separation of the "start" and "timer" buttons results in being able to cook something while simultaneously running an unconnected countdown. Talk about modern convenience!
However, what has really mended my dislike for the timer is the most magical and enchanting substance on earth. Tea. Anyone who's ever lived with me can tell you how much I love tea, and also how I brew a significantly larger amount of tea than I consume. This is partially because I give tea to anyone else who will accept it, but also because I have a very bad habit of starting my tea, wandering out of the kitchen and forgetting about it until the tea is quite over-steeped and cold. I have tried to set a timer to help me with this problem, and sometimes it works. But sometimes I am so embroiled in whatever I am doing, my mind hears a single beep and goes, "Oh yeah, tea," and promptly and entirely forgets until I innocently wander into the kitchen much later.
This new timer has solved my tea problem. I can't forget. Even when I am all the way upstairs, that delightfully mellow and constant chirping will float up the stairs and inform me, gently, that my tea is ready and I need only scurry down, touch the timer button, and add some milk and honey to my beverage of choice.
Now I sit here, cup of tea at my elbow, feeling quite fond of this new house.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Jane Austin
"There's nothing worse than a sore throat. It's effects are exceedingly bleak."
Thus spoke Mister Elton.
Okay, so there are worse things. But this is the quote that runs through my head every time I swallow.
Thus spoke Mister Elton.
Okay, so there are worse things. But this is the quote that runs through my head every time I swallow.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Employed
This is where I now work - framing art.
The job looks like it will be flexible and very similar to what I'm used to. Plus, it's only a few blocks away.
So, I won't have to hitch-hike back to Arizona after selling all my belongings for rent money after all.
The job looks like it will be flexible and very similar to what I'm used to. Plus, it's only a few blocks away.
So, I won't have to hitch-hike back to Arizona after selling all my belongings for rent money after all.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Fun With Sub-Domains
My new hosting account allows me 20 free sub-domains. I can't figure out what on earth I'd need that many for, but seeing as how I also have 100 megabytes of space, I could expand my site to ten times what it is before I ran out.
Anyway, the point is, the Inner Vitz can now be found at http://inner.vitzys.com. You still have to login though.
username: guest
password: fill in the blank - Are you calling me a ____?
Oh yes, and this blog. Now http://blog.vitzys.com
Anyway, the point is, the Inner Vitz can now be found at http://inner.vitzys.com. You still have to login though.
username: guest
password: fill in the blank - Are you calling me a ____?
Oh yes, and this blog. Now http://blog.vitzys.com
A new "S"
Due to many changes, vitzy.com is, or will soon be, no more. But don't worry, for vitzys.com is here to keep you company... and it's pretty much exactly the same thing.
All my emails have changed to reflect the extra S. As have all my url's. For now vitzy.com is still operational and you can find my new site through the old one, and the same is true with the old email addresses, but this may only last for about a week.
This all goes hand in hand with the official launching of my bona fide small business, vitzy's. If you know anyone who needs a website, feel free to send them my way.
All my emails have changed to reflect the extra S. As have all my url's. For now vitzy.com is still operational and you can find my new site through the old one, and the same is true with the old email addresses, but this may only last for about a week.
This all goes hand in hand with the official launching of my bona fide small business, vitzy's. If you know anyone who needs a website, feel free to send them my way.
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