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)