wifercize wednesday: food poisoning

It all started with my winter boots.

I have a great pair of winter boots, Steve Maddens, that my mom bought me a few Christmases ago.  They have served me well, providing warm, protective foot shelter for two winters.  The only trouble with them (and Steve, the jerk) was their COMPLETE LACK OF TRACTION.  I'm not joking.  The bottom of these "winter boots" were as smooth as a baby's bum.  And, speaking of bums, I was tired of mine being bruised.

STEVE MADDEN, I DEFY THEE.

Instead of purchasing new winter boots I thought it wise and cost efficient to have mine re-soled instead.*  After consulting a few women at my office, I discovered the best and cheapest option was just outside Bay station in an underground concourse.  A little man with an indistinguishable name took my boots, traced his gnarled fingers along them like he was deciphering braille, quoted me a decent price, I talked him down**, and we shook hands.

Hungry, and nearing the end of my lunch hour, I stopped for a chicken shawarma in the food court.

CHICKEN SHAWARMA, I DEFY THEE. 

After work, Andrew and I drove to the east end to attend a traditional English Christmas party at my parents' house.  Mince pies and Devonshire cream and sherry, oh my!  The festive spirit wasn't hitting me in the same way as in previous years but what was hitting me was an undeniable urge to get some fresh air before I threw up.

And then I threw up.

And then we drove home.

And then I threw up.

And then we went to bed.

And then I woke up at 2:30 a.m. to throw up.

And at 4:30 a.m. to throw up.

And again at 6:30 a.m.  Not to throw up, mercifully, but instead to go through all the motions and muscle spasms of throwing up without a result.  Because nothing was left.  So I sat on the bath mat dragged over to the toilet, frozen and hunched over - the perfect tableau of a cat expelling a hairball.

It was like my body was a computer system searching for any perceivable trace of the offending shawarma and getting rid of it by any means available.  EJECT!  EJECT!  EJECT!

At 7:30 and at 8:30, respectively, I woke to my stomach rolling itself over carefully, inspecting, and ready to EJECT! anything else it might discover.  By then, my system was wiped clean.

I spent the day, zombie-like, lying on the couch and being nursed to health by Andrew who first made me ginger tea (like, ginger boiled in water) and then a simple homemade chicken broth with rice and carrots, which I was only able to stand around 4:00 p.m.  Any mention of food, any thought of it, even Andrew making himself normal, unpoisoned food in the kitchen, even watching actors eat in the movies we were watching, produced an elevator-drop-like reaction in my gut.

The very word "chicken shawarma", even now, comes with a visceral warning much like: "Don't even think about it.  I will turn this car around."

As we went to bed on Saturday night, my back in knots and my abs sore from throwing up, my face pallid, my hair in a half-attempted French braid to keep it out of the tea, the soup, the toilet, and the throw-up, I laid my head on the pillow and patted Andrew's cheek.

I told him I loved him and I meant it.  He told me he loved me and I knew it.

* Frugality does not always come naturally to me.  My Italian husband has been aiding me in this area.
** See?

mama monday: left vs. right

Having very little to do with Mama Monday and everything to do with what I feel like writing about today (spontaneous and unpredictable like a right-brainer!).  I found this quiz on my brother's Tumblr's account and since I love quizzes, and quizzes about me no less (a narcissistic right-brainer! groundbreaking!), I figured I'd find out what type of brain I have.

In high school, I loved biology as much as I hated chemistry.  I suppose 49% of a left-brain wasn't enough to keep me interested in the math required to study the latter.  Genetics fascinated me most: learning about dominant and recessive genes, how a red and a white flower will produce a pink flower, and how genes from previous generations work their way down the line. 

I have my father's blue eyes, I have my mother's snubbed nose, and I suppose the nearly balanced left- and right-brain (since Seth's was 48% left, 52% right and I have to assume Simeon, my other brother, would have similar results) is a mixture of them as well.

One would assume that the left-side came from my father, a carpenter, who has spent the last 30 years measuring twice and cutting once.  Likewise, my mother, who attended OCAD back when it didn't have a "D" - art only! - may have easily donated the right-brain portion.  As their daughter, however, I know that my storytelling skills come from dad and I keep lists upon lists just like mom. 

Whatever the DNA cocktail I consist of, I'm happy for it.  I love even more that I can pick out interests and propensities from stories of grandparents and great-grandparents, some of whom I have never met. 

And here I am, my genetic makeup tracing back for generations, married to Andrew, with his own trail of genetic signatures.  I daydream (daydreaming! how right-brained!) about what our kids will be like.  I wonder which dominant and recessive features will emerge, like a developing Polaroid.  Until modern science makes it possible for us to creepily design our offspring (Andrew's perfect teeth! my 20/20 vision! his musical skills! my freckles! his sensible attitude! my imagination!), I'm happy to let genetics work its magic. 

foto friday: fa la la la la la la la la

Some yueltide photos to tide you over while I leave work early to finish my Christmas shopping...yes, the Christmas shopping I vowed to have completed by November 30th.

Less urination in the elevator, please.

If I could magically suck anyone's creative brain out of them and use it for my own, it would be Melissa's.  The following are some decorations she's implemented in their adorable, 2-bedroom apartment. 

 

The photo doesn't show it very well, but that's the fireplace station on cable TV.  With crackling sound effects.

 Our work Christmas party.  I've been pretty good at keeping the agency I work for vague (so as not to be dooced), and the tradition continues...

Our "Betty Draper" drank too much and had to nurse his mean hangover the next day.

wifercize wednesday: exes

I lament that most of my posts lately are inspired by episodes of How I Met Your Mother, not because it's a bad show (we're hooked) but because it's a sign of how busy this season is.  I'm really scraping the bottom of the muse bucket when I exclaim: "OMG.  This show is sooo much like my life!" because, let's face it, that's what Everyone Else does.  Not True Writers. 

Whatever.  In the episode where Ted goes to see a movie with his girlfriend only to discover that it's directed by the current husband of the girl that left him at the altar.  I can sense that you who haven't seen the show are already glazing over, so here's the punchline:

Ted is forced to watch a movie, thinly veiled as fiction, depicting his relationship with an ex - but though someone else's (unkind) perspective.  The type of perspective that paints him as the villain although we, the long-time audience, knows better.

Exes are an awkward subject no matter who ("But he was such a nice guy!"), what ("But it wasn't even serious!"), when ("But it was over three years ago!), where ("But it was on vacation!"), or how ("But the breakup was amiable!").  I've just come to accept that Andrew wants to hear of my previous relationships about as much as I want to hear about his: not at all. 

Unless it's just enough information to make me mad, curious, worried, or a mangled trifecta of them all.

I am lucky in this area for two reasons: firstly, I can't, in clear conscience, declare any of my trysts to be Actual Relationships because they generally lasted for two weeks before I departed the scene (or town, or country).  A milestone both Andrew and I were happy - and surprised - to reach and pass with ease.  Secondly, these Two Weekers are random and/or geographically scattered enough that there is little to no chance of running into them.

Andrew, on the other hand, had a couple of comparatively mature and humane Actual Relationships.  And Andrew, on the other hand, dated these girls from within our group of mutual friends so we run into them often.  Marriage and babies later, though, it doesn't seem to matter as much.

Which brings me to my point: whether it's a Two Weeker as hastily assembled as demolished or it's an Actual Relationship of mutual admiration and sensible termination, what would the movie directed by them make us look like?

It is generally held that there is a "winner" and a "loser" in the relationship (I believe this movie-scenario, if implemented, would blur those categories quite effectively) and, in your life, starring you, the winner is clearly you.  But in their life, starring them the opposite is true. 

And I guess that means that a movie directed by me would depict me thus:

Whereas the movie made by by exes about the same situation would portray me thus:

foto friday: first aid

Last week I attended a St. John's Ambulance first aid training course (S.J.A.F.A.T.C., for short).  Concerned as I was about having to potentially give a stranger mouth-to-mouth to pass the course, I ended up meeting some lovely middle-aged, power-suit-clad women who were all thrilled to be there: 

I did not have to practice mouth-to-mouth on any of them.

We were each given a hefty first aid manual to follow along from.  The diagrams kept me amused for most of the day - everything from how to deliver a baby (I spared you the image) to what to do with a severed human appendage:

Alas, mouth-to-mouth had to be practiced eventually and plastic dummies were handed out along with chest (similar to an air mattress foot pump) and makeshift lung (plastic bag).  I named him Esteban:

(In the above image you can also see the detailed notes I took purposelessly...our trainer gave us all the answers to the quiz and a little part of my A+ ideology died.)

Speaking of things that died, Esteban was not resuscitated despite multiple rounds of ventilations (2) and chest compressions (30).  Here, you see, he looks a little pale.

I did, however, pass (well, we all did - but I would have scored 100% if I was allowed the chance) and I'm now certified to save your life if you choke or have something lodged in your skin or are chemically burned or sever your hand or accidentally go into labour.

wifercize wednesday: reacher & settler

We watched the How I Met Your Mother episode the other night that outlines the "Reacher and Settler" phenomenon in a relationship. 

Robin: "Every good relationship has a Reacher and a Settler."
Ted: "Exactly, one person reaches for someone out of their league, the other one settles for someone below theirs."

Which makes me think of the romantic banter that ruins single people's appetite the world over: I love you, I love you more, I love you more, no I love YOU more, etc.  Andrew and I, as in most things, are ferociously competitive in this area:

DON'T YOU ANDREW GAZANEO IS NOW OFFLINE ME.

I had a date with my dad the other week (a tradition we began in my 20s and try to maintain despite busy schedules) and he recounted the tale of when he took Andrew out on the sailboat for a chat, mano a mano, when we first began dating.

Out in the middle of Lake Ontario, my Italian, I-don't-swim-very-well husband did a clever thing.  He told my dad, "To be honest, when I first met Sarah, I thought I didn't have a chance because she was out of my league."

Dad was satisfied, and scratched the plan to stage a capsizing.

"Leagues" aside, I figure the best partnerships are found where it is necessary for both parties to participate as Reacher and Settler, depending on their situation, season, or strengths.  Where both parties are convinced that they are loved the most.  Andrew had to reach for a good, long first year of our dating relationship while I wrestled my petty angst, and I reached for the next year while he worked out his independence.  

In the end, we both settled: for someone less than perfect, less than ideal, who wakes up with pillow scars, who is cranky when they're tired, and doesn't always communicate effectively.  We also settled on the one that neither of us could ever imagine living without.  We settled on the best.

Nearly all marriages, even happy ones, are mistakes: in the sense that almost certainly (in a more perfect world, or even with a little more care in this very imperfect one) both partners might be found more suitable mates. But the real soul-mate is the one you are actually married to.  (J.R.R. Tolkien)

It's easy to speculate about a relationship, even your own, and diagnose who Reached and who Settled.  I believe that there is love between every couple, whether demonstrative or subtle, and we may never know its nuances.  

As for me, I'm happy to leave the mystery unsolved.

"We're adrift on a sailboat

My love is the sea

Yours is the horizon

Constant and steady"

 (Brook Fraser, Sailboats)

foto friday: mannequins remind me of "today's special"

Sporadic postings over the past few weeks are due to a rather busy schedule, at work and otherwise.  As soon as I find a rhythm to this gong show I'll be posting again regularly.  In the meantime, may I distract you with pictures?

I'm genuinely beginning to wonder: are they teaching improper use of apostrophes in school now?  Infractions are more common than proper use.  Could someone who graduated grade school recently or with children let me know?

 Excellent marketing campaign: include a tiny QR code image on a poster for people to scan with their smartphones.  Place poster on the opposite side of subway tracks.

Another view Yonge Street from my office.  Even traffic can be beautiful.

One night last week Andrew worked late at his school for a long and boring meeting.  Amusing each other on our iPhones, I took this shot of Oberon and sent it to him.  "He looks skinny!" was my Italian husband's reply.  "Was he fed?"

LCBO's holiday advertisement clearly shows, beyond any doubt, that our dog is the preferred pet of young white couples in love.  

And we are a white couple in love.

There's something about this opera collar that makes me want to break into this Swavorski store front, bypass the jewelry, and steal the dress.

This mannequin shocked an appalled me, hiding around the corner of the Gap.  Boys will be boys.

Is it just me, or are the legs on these mannequins grossly unsubstantiated?

mama monday: guts

If you haven't acquainted yourself with the phenomenal site I Heart Guts take a moment or two to check out a few profiled organs.  I love any initiative that takes regular objects and animates them.  Like Marcel the Shell with Shoes On.



In keeping with the mama theme of Mondays, and the patience/hope required along the way to pregnancy, I've been thinking a fair bit about guts.  All those internal bits of us that (usually) feel nothing and (seemingly) do nothing.  They're just...inside.  Like the guts of a computer or a car.  Few understand how they operate and even fewer know how to fix them if something is amiss.

When I had a kidney infection, and because I had never before experienced the particular surprise associated with a kidney infection, I couldn't figure out what was wrong.  I'm not hungry...I guess I have a stomachache?...sort of a side cramp...but in my back...OK, now I need to assume the fetal position to keep the pain at bay...and now we're at the hospital and they're administering morphine and antibiotics and it's all over.  That was weird.

A scrap or cut or bruise is obvious, and the pain is acute.  Internally, things tend to work out on their own or send you muted, cryptic messages until a specialist is able to translate for you.  Guts are obscure, vague, enigmatic.

In African culture, I'm told, what we in the Western world refer to "heart" is not located in the chest but in the belly.  In Hebrew tradition (including translations of the Old Testament), heart and soul are intermixed with liver, stomach, and guts.  There was no separation for them: body, soul and spirit was one and the same. 

I know this to be true because when I'm sad I feel it in my stomach, and when I'm happy I feel it in my chest, and when I'm frightened I feel it shooting through my veins. 

Somewhere in my guts, I believe, God is sorting out the mystery of conception.  Somewhere in my guts, I believe, I harbour the hope that we'll meet the babies of our future.  Somewhere in my guts, I believe, I'll find the strength to bridge between the two seasons: waiting and welcoming.

---

"And the knowing in her guts

Something's still gonna grow

She ain't leaving 'till it does"

(Brooke Fraser, Crows & Locusts)

"By the God of your father, Who will help you,
and by the Almighty,
Who will bless you with blessings of the heavens above,
blessings lying in the deep beneath,
blessings of the breasts and of the womb."

(Genesis 49:25, Amplified)

wifercize wednesday: princess hair

I'd like to tell you of a time before wifedom.

When I was but a wee thing, my parents would read me Disney's Sleeping Beauty before bed.  The version, published by Disney Editions, included the original 1959 illustrations:

And, yes, I was a die-hard romantic at age 4 (although I really had a thing for Snow White's Prince Charming instead, because of the whole "Prince Buckethead" thing...anyone with me?)

(click to enlarge)

And, yes, I loved the mice and the fairy godmothers and the dragon-slaying and such, but what I was really fascinated by was Princess Aurora's hair:

The big honey-coloured locks, tapered down into a finely sculpted curl.  THIS was princess hair.  I had to have it.  Problem was: I had fine, pin-straight hair that defied all curl.

I became obsessed with princess hair for a 6-8 year period after that, sketching page after page of princesses with hair that I began to call "eight curls".  This was, simply, because I drew them using figure eights:

(I'm not making any of this up)

When I was eight years old I persuaded my mother to give me a perm* and gave her the strictest of instructions: "I want it to look like princess-eight-hair." 

* Error message: do not perm your hair if you only have a bob to start with and expect it to look like long, flowing Princess Aurora hair afterwards.  It will, instead, resemble Little Orphan Annie:

While I waited a few years for my clown curls to grow out, I resigned myself to the fact that I was born to have straight hair.  Not princess hair.  Not eight curls.  Just straight, straight hair.

. . .

UNTIL MY WEDDING DAY when Melissa attacked my mane for a few hours and unloaded half a bottle of hairspray on it and I came away looking as close to Princess Aurora as I ever had previously:

It was obviously perfect timing to celebrate the fact that I had found my Prince Buckethead Charming:

Most days, I use a curling iron to keep my princess-eight-hair looking princessy:

I have been officially approved by Adelaide Hardy, age two-and-a-half, who came to our church one Sunday and pointed to me throughout the service, whispering to her parents, "Princess!  Princess!"

Thanks, Addie.  xoxo

mama monday: this too shall pass

Too busy to post today.  A place holder will have to do.  This one is from the fabulous band OK Go, who I have been a fan of since 2006.

Sometimes, when you're being snapped at at both of your jobs (and one of them voluntary!), bureaucracy is driving you bureau-crazy, a fire alarm goes off in your building for a half an hour, and the thought visits you frequently, sometimes hourly, that you'd just rather be breastfeeding in a rocking chair, well, sometimes all that helps is a beautifully mastered music video entitled, aptly, "This Too Shall Pass". 




You know you can't keep letting it get you down
And you can't keep dragging that dead weight around
Is it really all that much to lug around
Better run like hell when you hit the ground

When the morning comes
When the morning comes

Can't stop those kids from dancing but why would you want to
Especially when you are already getting good?
'Cause when your mind don't move then your knees don't bend
But don't go blaming the kids again

When the morning comes
When the morning comes
When the morning comes

Let it go, this too shall pass
Let it go, this too shall pass

You know you can't keep letting it get you down
No, you can't keep letting it get you down

Oh, is it really all that much to lug around
And you can't keep letting it get you down

When the morning comes
Oh, you can't keep letting it get you down
No, you can't keep letting it get you down

foto friday: november rain

Let's begin:

This is what my husband regularly prepares for me on a Saturday morning, to show me his love.  He's pretty much this awesome at everything he does AND YES THAT MEANS WHAT YOU THINK IT MEANS.

A book title that caught me off guard. 
Is this what literature has come to?

These four (one not shown) women were on the subway yesterday evening as I rode home from work.  Each impeccably dressed, each lively and laughing, each conversing with each other as if they had been for years.  I must admit I stared at them the whole ride.

My fabulous husband is ordained as a minister!

A date with my dad at Korean Grill House.  Dad and I have been going on dad/daughter dates since I was just out of high school, and I love them.  This was our first in almost three years (my Reverend Husband takes precedence now) so it was about due.

Before we threw ourselves at the all-you-can-eat meat menu:

...and after:

wifercize wednesday: cyber-sentimentality

I have a stubborn habit of having to know.  I just...have to know.  I have to know what you're laughing at, I have to know why you have that scar, I have to know why the lady on the bus is frowning, I have to know how to reupholster a chair*, I have to know when I'm going to become pregnant, I have to know who said the pope could be the pope.  Dan Brown recently told me the answer to that last one.  It's the answer that suits me, anyway.

* (I hope to reupholster a chair of ours and document the chaos progress on this blog.  Stay tuned.)

Andrew and I knew each other for six years before we started dating but that didn't stop me from Googling the heck out of him after our first date.  Family, fine, schooling, fine, interests, fine...that was all covered over Pho and, later, over coffee.  What I really wanted to know was what Andrew was like when I wasn't around.  The best way I know how to experience this is with the wondrous gateway of Google.

A friend of mine aided me in my quest, and we began to email links we found to each other.  The further we scrolled, the more delicious the outcomes:

I figured these moments of discovering e-nuggets about my husband were over.  I WAS WRONG.  Recently, while looking up his Wishlist on Amazon [lover, you didn't read that...at least, not until I give you your gift tonight] I happened upon a much older Wishlist of Andrew's.  First, his profile:

This, I love.  "Andrew D. Gazaneo".  It's not enough that Gazaneo is one of the rarest Italian names on the planet, nor that his family is the only family that shows up in a Canada411 search, Andrew felt it necessary to include the "D".  For "Domenic" - his father's name.  That's just so...Andrew.  Not to mention that the only point he decided to include in his profile is "My dog's name is Comet".  This too, is true.  Or was.  Comet was Andrew's dog since he was 10, and he passed away probably around the same time as Andrew when created this profile.  "My dog's name is Comet" is just as significant a characteristic as "D" for Domenic and he wanted Amazon to know it.

This archaic Wishlist had but one item on it:

A Panasonic DVD-L50 Portable DVD Player...by Panasonic.  "Currently unavailable" probably due to the decrease in DVD sales and, with it, a decrease in all items DVD related but, at one time, Andrew had his eye on this piece of technology enough to add it to a Wishlist.  He wished for it.  I can tell you why.  Firstly, it's portable.  Andrew is nothing if not practical.  I would bet he was thinking long-term and the lightweight, easy-to-handle, travel friendly body of this DVD player in particular appealed to him.  Secondly, Andrew was and still is an avid movie fan.  What better way to watch his beloved legal thrillers than on a built-in colour LCD monitor?  Lastly, it received an admirable 4.5 stars out of 5.  This means that Andrew did his research, as he still does to this day.  I'd put money down on the fact that he read the majority of all "142 customer reviews", if not all of them.

And there it sits, added October 27, 1999, "unpurchased", like a tiny time capsule of longing.  If I knew him then as I know him now it would have been purchased, delivered, wrapped, and presented to him with all the love in the world.

The irony is that Andrew had his name drawn at a church Christmas function when we were dating and won a portable DVD (or was it CD?) player and it remained in its original packaging until we re-gifted it a few years later.

Tonight, Andrew is being ordained as a pastor, legally recognized as a minister by the provincial government.  He's put in so much energy, time, and passion into the long-term vision of our church, he's researched all the stipulations, and, although he might not have turned out to be like Tom Cruise's character in The Firm, he is still a sexy beast and now has something better to brag about than his really hairy chest: he is the Reverend Andrew D. Gazaneo, his dog's name is Solomon, and his wife is very, very proud of him.

mama monday: tick-tock, biological clock

I was out with a lovely young lady for lunch today who asked me when my biological clock began to chime.  She, concerned that she wasn't as "baby crazy" as her peers, wondered if it was normal not to want to pop out infants in multiples during her early 20s.

I assured her it was.

Last week, I joked that my friends were once convinced that my biological clock was digital.  It make no sound, it sounded no alarm.  For years, while girlfriends dated, engagified, married, pregnacized, and baked cookies, I dated, wrote, worked, traveled, and ate out.  I didn't really "climb the corporate ladder" as much as I dramatically cascaded along bookshelves on a wheeled one, like Belle in Disney's Beauty & The Beast belting out a musical number.  I wasn't opposed to children, I just didn't have time for them.  They weren't a priority, and neither was domesticating.

On my 25th birthday (to the day), I felt the urge to go home, home to Toronto, like a migrating bird.  I wanted to nest close to my family.  When I met up with Andrew I experienced the unnerving sensation of being with the person the I was going to be with for the rest of my life, which added to the drive to settle down.  But once we were two years married and looking to start a family did I begin to suffer the phenomenon of Everyone-Is-Pregnant-Itis*.  Pregnant bellies bulge everywhere I go.  They bump me on public transit, they delay the elevators, they waddle throughout the supermarkets, they post ultrasound pictures on Facebook. 

I am convinced that the "settling down" chip, implanted in us from birth, implements whenever and however it is made to - each according to its host.  Some people make effervescent younger parents, either on purpose or by surprise, and some become refined older parents, again, not always according to script. 

When it does, all of a sudden, things like this will make you all quivery inside:

*  Similar to Everyone-Is-Getting-Married-Itis, which generally strikes those looking to find a special someone.