nb. I didn’t create the awesome Sportsbutter logo.

Icons for the fantasy pool apps in the Facebook environment

Excerpt from the 2012 Media Kit

Excerpt from the 2011 Holiday Emails

Excerpt from the 2011 Holiday Emails

Background for Sportsbutter's 404 Page ("Sorry, Cat Got Into the Butter")

Things are still looking good, and I’m still very happy about where this little wagon is taking me. It was scary for a little while, but now that I’ve had the time to settle in and gain a bit of a foothold, things have become more and more clear.

I’m now primarily with Mainsocial. Alanna has moved on to live in America, the Land of Opportunity, and that had left a big pair of shoes to fill. Right now, they kind of feel like this:

These feel like Alanna's shoes. And that would be me with the Kate Gosselin hair.

But it’s been pretty great. Lots of new things are always coming up, and with each day comes a new surprise. At times, it can be frustrating, for sure. It’s tough not to get discouraged sometimes, but Ben is pretty good at reminding me that I’m essentially learning a new language and system of thought.

The thing is, I don’t like it when I don’t understand something, but I try to keep in mind that while I’m not so good at some things (yet), I can hold my own doing other tasks.

If my dad can learn to operate an iPhone and incessantly call me at inopportune times, I can learn to use JavaScript and create the bitchingest fantasy sports apps in the world!

I think it’s just a matter of confidence and knowing the difference between being utterly useless and just asking for a bit of help. I usually feel that I am putting people out by asking for help, but I also forget how much time we’d all save if I just speak up. It’s a terrible and awkward thing at times, but like getting wisdom teeth taken out, sometimes it just has to be done.

Apart from my crippling fear of being needy, however, the job is all perks to me!

The best and most beloved benefit I’ve been enjoying is the concept of having time for my own development. It sounds a little wishy-washy, and as tiring as hearing things like “Exercise makes you feel good!” and “Que sera, sera!” and “Ginger, put some pants on!” all the time. But having time to do things other than work has made me really think about the idea of well-being and taking care of yourself.

There are dozens of new articles being written every day about creatives and how we all have to roam free and go on holidays and recharge and all that shite—so I won’t say too much more about it.

Okay, maybe a couple extra things.

The main thing that I’d like to add (so it doesn’t seem like I’m griping) is that while everyone does need time to themselves, I think it is also just as important to remain responsible for your work and accomplish tasks ahead. Everyone does work at their own pace—from night-owls to early-birds! I’m lucky enough to be in a workplace that allows for this to be nurtured.

I think I am more of a night-owl, whereas Ben is more of an early-bird. Thank goodness for the internet and mobile technologies that now allow for us to explore this possibility!

It’s pretty cool, actually, as with this type of relationship, I imagine we get a nice Venn diagram happening where we overlap at certain points.

As Chicago puts it, “Everybody needs some time away” (or at least they heard her say), and that is time away from stressful environments. I don’t think it’s a matter of getting away from work and running away to the mountains, but contextualizing the pressures that we put on ourselves in order to achieve our goals. You can still get shit done. You just don’t have to kill yourself doing it.

On a related note, I’m also exploring the notion of wealth in time, not just money. I might not be making shitloads of cash, nor can I afford to eat at nice places all the time, but I think I’m doing wonderful. It takes a lot of the pressure off when there isn’t an exact value accounting for every move that I make. I have a job that I love, and I am able to feed and clothe not just myself, but Hugo too. Well, Hugo doesn’t wear any clothes, but his vet bills are a fair amount to budget for.

I feel less petty and less calculating. I like to think that while I’m not making $100/hour, I’m not stuck in an office at 3am doing something I only kind of semi-enjoy, slowly embittering myself to my tasks. I’m learning to be more content, and to live within what I earn.

Sometimes I still get a small pang of want when I look at a nice piece of furniture at Inform, or All-Clad pots from Ming Wo, or $200 shirts made from the back hairs of virgins, but then again I think about how I am able to have a decent breakfast every morning with Hugo now, and go through my day without worrying about my ulcer. I think about the evenings I have where I can watch Die Hard 4: Live Free or Die Hard with Trung and not have to think about getting something to a supplier right at that moment.

Again, this isn’t a new concept by any stretch of imagination, but it just feels a lot more different and more real now that I’m aware of it. And not to say that I regret any of my past experiences with more demanding or fast-paced environments. I love that I am lucky enough to have these points of reference, and that I can be more confident in the choices that I make today.

That being said, I would very much appreciate an intervention if I start growing dreadlocks and walking barefoot and looking like this asshole. No, really. Do it. You have my blessing to stop me from being a douche.

Now May is starting to roll in. Spring is in the air, and I’ve almost stepped in dog crap hidden in cherry blossom petals numerous times. It feels like I’ve gotten over the awe of a new start, and it’s now time to really squish my butt into the seat and continue developing what I’ve begun. So here’s to the next few months!

Knit City, presented by Knit Social, is Vancouver’s very own fibre festival. Slated for October 2012, Amanda & Fiona have been hard at work getting the word out!

Here is a link to the free pattern from Pickles.

It’s a lot boxier than I had imagined, so I added the little pocket to offset it a little bit. I also made the sleeves a bit shorter. Definitely a house-sweater rather than a go out and party sweater (unless it is a sweater party, which I have yet to be invited to). I think it can also be one of those sweaters you wear with jam pants around the house and watch action movies in.

As with most things that we make for the first time, there are small bits and bobs that very much advertise this fact. The stitches are not perfect, the sleeves are looser than Rush Limbaugh’s idea of a free woman, and the pocket is actually shaped more like the top of my foot than a regular pocket.

I had also cast-off too early at one point, and ended up with an 80s off-shoulder look, as the neckline ended up being around 36″ all around. I had momentarily thought about keeping it that way, but later changed my mind. I had worked too hard to get to that point, and balls if I was going to end up with a sweater that made me look like Jennifer Beals. I can’t pull of that look.

However, the sweater, surprisingly, did not turn out to be stupid baby-sized and actually fit me well. The raglan increases are a lovely design (if knitted well) and I do really like the Sabrina-cut neckline going on up there. It’s also fantastically warm, as it is made from this roving wool material. I haven’t a clue how wool roves, or what that means, but I have an image of spools of wool roaming a British coast, grazing and rolling around on green, green grass.

Over all, I’m really excited about this thing. Guys, knitting is so fucking awesome. It’s so relaxing and so great for the evenings and fishing trips. If I can find a way to be on a treadmill and knit without killing myself, I’d totally do it. More soon.

I was unable to speak during the service, and am hoping that by posting this here, that some may get to hear what I had to say about my mother, Christina Ngo:

It has been in our experience that our mother has never been a woman of soft words. It is through her actions, and not her words, that we have learned to become who we are now.With everything she already is, it is her strength in being our mother is what made the difference, and it is there where in which her lesson in life lay.

There is nothing weak about Christina Ngo. She has always been a pillar of strength not only for her daughters and son, but for anyone fortunate enough to be associated with her. She is a natural leader, and a lovely and charming one at that. She is an example to be followed, a person to be considered.

She is not insignificant, in any way, shape or form. Her personality, her love for her family and her generous nature is so much bigger than any of us that it is impossible to ignore her. Even those who have never met her are intrigued by her. I speak of her often wherever I am, and anyone who hears about the Christina Ngo are often beguiled by her. They imagine her to be this mythical creature, capable of everything in the world as long as it is for her family. One friend of mine once said, “Wow, your mom is magic.”

Those touched by her are the lucky ones. Those of you who will have stories of my mother to share, stories to remember and keep in your hearts. Her love for travel, to collect little things as long at they came in sets, her commitment and compassion for her parents and loved ones. It is through these memories Christina Ngo will live. She will remain in small and large reminders, but as it is in her character, you will never forget a woman like her—simply because it is impossible.

From the rugs to the kitchenware to the sheets to the shoes that we wear, from our common features and expressions that we use, Christina Ngo is with us. Yet also from the way we give small gifts as apologies, the way we treat our friends with unconditional compassion and love, from the way we understand the world and those within it, from our endless pursuits for not only good futures but the best ones, from the amount of consideration and importance that we put into our work, to the proud feeling that we get when we say that we are the outcomes of Christina Ngo, she is with us.

We will not ask you to feel bad for us or our father or her siblings. We will not ask for your condolences or sympathy, because with a woman like Christina Ngo, who has loved us unconditionally, sacrificed everything not only for survival, but for an exceptional quality of life, we simply do not need them. We are honoured to have been the recipients of her labour, of her love, and we can only wish the same kind of love and attention be bestowed upon each of you.

Everyone we told suggested we leave earlier, like, in the car and out of the city at 5am, but if there is anything worth knowing about me and Mark Stokoe, it is this: We don’t like early.

Stokoe’s line rang for a couple of times until he picked up an gave me the familiar, “A-yehlo?” but in a much softer, sleepy tone.

“Time to wake up. Are you ready for the day?”

“Mm-hm.”

I mentioned to him that I had quite a fitful sleep. I didn’t know why, but I always felt like sharing my dreams with Stokoe. “Dude, can I tell you my dream?!”

There was a pause, “Okay.”

My thoughts then began to unfold over the phone, picking out bits and pieces of what I could scrape out from the insides of my brains. It was quite vivid.

Some parts involved us not even getting to America at all, other parts had me being deported. There was one part of my dream that I saw clearly, though. Instead of the little rental car we had planned to take to the border, Stokoe had somehow managed to get an 18-wheeler truck as our mode of transport.

Skip ahead a few dicey chapters, and I told him the part where he walks out of a convenience store with seven plums in his arms. Dream Stokoe, carrying his plums like a bouquet of flowers, pulls the back truck door up and open to reveal an expansive white room inside, empty and overwhelmingly bright, save for a couple of tiny weekend bags in the far corner. He then proceeds to roll—not throw or drop—roll each plum into this room one by one.

It was so screwed up, and I couldn’t even explain why we had weekend bags for a day trip.

Anyway, as far as Stokoe-Ginger hijinks go, this day trip did not fail to deliver its fair share. My crazy-ass dream was a great opening for the day.

I’d been working towards getting permanent residence in Canada for a few years now, patiently swimming through bureaucratic paperwork and confusing government resources. There had been kerfuffles along the way, dozens of fees paid, and perhaps even more terrible, unflattering passport-sized photos taken.

To be honest I didn’t really know if I would ever get to this point. Again, my self-created theory might be worth mentioning: I am a firm believer that bureaucracy exists as a means to test a person’s will.

And for me, I really wanted to be a permanent resident.

Only through bureaucracy will you find yourself having to drive to the corner of Canada, where she meets the USA, only to turn back around to be able to enter again. Same goes to consulates that only accept applications via courier and mail, even though it’s 4pm in the middle of a hot Filipino summer’s day, and you’re standing outside the very building it needs to go to, with your papers in hand.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing, I guess. We all need some semblance or order in our lives. But anyone who knows what I’m talking about can understand the frustration and anxiety.

What actually happened is a bit of a longer story, and maybe something to be saved for later, or to be told in person. I’ll just make a list of what it involved:

• An impressive Chevy Impala (as Stokoe says, there is no way in hell he is driving a fucking Fiesta), and this short exchange:

Me: “I don’t know what it is, but something about an Impala makes me think of bloody murder.”
Stokoe: “Maybe because ‘impala’ is so close to the word ‘impale’?
Me: “Well, yea, I guess, but I can’t help but think that more murders happen in Impalas.”
(cue awkward silence)

• Stokoe suggesting that maybe I should just walk back to Canada while he waited in America, and then walk back over again to meet him.
• Me somehow agreeing to this.
• Stokoe driving into the US alone, and being questioned as to why he had two cups of Tim Horton’s coffee in his car. (He won a donut!)
• The realization that perhaps Immigration offices were actually open for 24 hours, rather than our stupid assumption that they were more of a 9-to-5 sort of bunch. This realization, however, came too late. I was already hiking towards the other end of the Peace Arch.
• Stokoe I think also managed to get lost between the two sides of the border, which I didn’t think was possible.

I have also lost count of how many stink-eyes we got, both together and individually, from customs officials once we told them our “Ginger can walk back to Canada and then walk back to America again” plan.

I got the impression that it was perfectly legal, just really kind of stupid. In the end, while still stupid, it did save us an hour or so of waiting at the US border twice.

To me, bureaucracy also exists so that we can all have dumb stories to tell our friends, and more creative ways to get things done. It’s a vessel for stress to turn into camaraderie. Or a murder-suicide. It’s really a 50/50 chance outcome.

Here’s the outcome of this specific ordeal (yes, the Canadian Immigration Services gave me a tiny paper flag to celebrate with):

Photo by Stokoe

Thankfully, Stokoe and I did not get into any fistfights this time, although we were both kind of expecting it. We spent the rest of the trip in the car making dumb jokes, stopping at an American Starbucks for a terrible sandwich (to keep my h-anger at bay), and finally walking around Seattle like the couple of cheap tourists that we are.

That one notch on my belt has finally been put in, and the next step eventually will follow in the form of Canadian citizenship. But I’ll have a few years yet to test out my permanent residence and see if it suits me.

It makes me feel a little bit more free with what I can accomplish here in Canada, and it is partnered with the fact that I got to do this all on my own. Well, with the help of great friends, of course.

Over all, it was a great trip which marked a personal accomplishment. I’m really glad that Stokoe was part of it, because I don’t think I’d have a better version of two dumbasses trying to cross the border in an Impala with a bag of knitting and an iPad of Google Map screenshots (because neither of us wanted to pay for extra data).

Baaad Anna’s is setting up a local community rental program for fibre-based equipment!

All hand-bound and some embroidered in our old little studio in Gastown.

Now, it’s a pretty well-known fact that I hate public speaking, the sound of my voice, and the empty looks on people’s faces when I talk. I become overly nervous, my hands and voice start to shake, and my face always feels like it’s been set on fire. My Filipino accent actually gets thicker and inexplicably more provincial, and there is 80% chance I will drop the f-bomb.

At times I wonder if it’s just me being overzealous about what I’m talking about, kind of like how Hitler gets really worked up in his speeches. I don’t bang on a podium for effect, but I do choke at my own spit and gargle my words most of the time. I tend to switch between the personalities of a deranged lunatic and that of a swaddled baby when under any sort of stress.

Other times, I wonder if my speaking makes any impression at all. You know, besides bad first ones.

I was invited to talk about my senior thesis project once, a few months after I had graduated from Emily Carr. Don and Tak at Free Agency were teaching a class, and had asked me to prepare a quick presentation to get their students revved up about the next semester, which was expectedly going to be full of shirts stained with caffeine, yelling at strangers in the hallway and crying into paper bags.

On that day, my presentation included me insulting one of my professors, showing a photo of Jean Claude Van Damme for inspiration, and imparting a quote from a movie about young boys being molested by their high school teachers.

At one point, a student in the back had asked me a question. I had forgotten what it was about already, but I do remember my response, which was something along the lines of, “Just be total assholes to your teachers.”

I also remember Tak sort of doing a double-take on that.

Suffice it to say, Don and Tak never mentioned it again, nor did they offer me a second invitation. They said they wanted to keep it fresh by inviting new speakers and recent grads each year. I think I believe them. But I also don’t blame them.

As for the Langara bookbinding demo, I was glad that I wasn’t alone. Stokoe was more like Pat Sajak that afternoon, while I was regarded as the more inappropriate, less good-looking version of Vanna White.

The students were a great group, and quite keen on getting some books bound. They were good sports as we both fumbled through the demo, misread our handouts and almost strangled ourselves with entangled bookbinding thread. Or, to be more exact, as Stokoe did.

We walked around helped them individually with their sewing and gluing, making sure that they would come out of the demo with beautiful soft-cover journals with alternating signatures.

In the end, I think they all did great work. I’m both quite proud and a little embarrassed, to be honest. I had bitterly thought that I’d be in front of a bunch of young punks, each just as terrible as I was in university. Whew, I’m so glad that I was wrong.

I really liked that we were able to help them get started with this craft. I remember how excited I got once I realized that making a book was extremely feasible—with the right amount of patience and a wide enough knowledge of various expletives. I’m also sure that some were more enticed by bookmaking than the others, but all in all, I heard no complaints. Actually, there were zero assholes in this group, which was awesome.

Once I got home that evening, I started going through old books I’ve bound and old projects I’ve done. Sometimes I forget how much Chloe and I had done that summer. Bookmaking I think will always be a really special craft for me, ever since my good friend Grace Partridge (whom I regard as warmly as most women do Oprah Winfrey) spent a lovely afternoon teaching me how to make these beautiful things.

And I think my love for all of this overrides my absolute hatred and fear of speaking in front of people.

While I will forever be an idiot in public situations, I’ll be honest and say that there are some times where I won’t mind it.

David Wotherspoon, friend to all, told us that he wanted us to make a special book for his lovely wife on her birthday. It was to be from him and their kids. Chloe and I created a hand-bound embroidered book with their family photos, with secret fold-out pages for David and his kids to write messages for Maureen.