mama monday: mormon blogs

My apologies for last week.  While Andrew and I completed a multi-ring circus week, you may have wondered what happened to my posting schedule.  I had time.  I did.  I just didn't have the inclination or inspiration.  Typical writer mumbo jumbo, but it's true.

Thank the Government of Ontario for Family Day.

So, where were we?  Mormonism?

Andrew sent me an insightful (and witty) article from Salon.com a few weeks ago entitled: Why I can't stop reading Mormon housewife blogs.  Since my hero in the wife/mom/comic/home decor/writer world is Heather Armstrong, aka: Dooce, who hails from the Church of Latter Day Saints - or LDS (she abdicated membership in her 20s although she still lives in Utah to be close to her family) - I figured I'd read into the popularization of Mormon mom blogs a little.

The author of the article, Emily Matchar, writes like a member of A.A. airing her dirty secret.  "I'm your standard-issue late-20-something childless overeducated atheist feminist," she reasons, "yet I'm completely obsessed with their blogs."

The explanation lies in a kind of backlash against the backlash against motherhood (some might consider it to be anti-feminist, but I think it's hypo-feminist: the right to choose and the respect of your choice).  Here's a quote:

It seems that a lot of popular culture wants to portray marriage and motherhood as demeaning, restrictive or simple, but in the LDS church, motherhood is a very important job, and it's treated with a lot of respect," says Natalie Holbrook, the New York-based author of the popular blog Nat the Fat Rat. "Most of my readers are non-LDS women in their late 20s and early 30s, college educated, many earning secondary degrees on the postgraduate level, and a comment I often get is, 'You are making me want kids, and I've never wanted kids!'

I'm sure feminism never meant to narrow women's freedom - well, widen it in one area for the sake of another - but that's exactly what it did.  Options were made available (educated women, women in the workplace, working moms) but, in our excitement, we may have thrown the baby-making out with the bathwater.

Why is stay-at-home mom preceded with or followed by a disclaimer, apology, or anecdote to cut the tension?

I, for one, am interested to see how feminism (in the true sense of the word) matures through this season. I'm eager to encourage the renewal of freedoms we once had: the freedom to be a wife and mother, the freedom to stay at home to raise children, the freedom to home-make.  I'm supportive of my brilliant and creative friends who are doing the same and using technology to help spread the word, like Melissa B., Ruth, Jess, and Melissa L.

And, in the meanwhile, I'll leave you with a few Mormon blogs to check out. because:

The basic messages expressed in these blogs -- family is wonderful, life is meant to be enjoyed, celebrate the small things -- are still lovely. And if they help women like me envision a life in which marriage and motherhood could potentially be something other than a miserable, soul-destroying trap, I say, "Right on."

The Rockstar Diaries

The Langs

Say Yes To Hoboken

Nat the Fat Rat

foto friday: bachelors and hipster restaurants

Today, a sneak peak into two lovely design spaces: first the one-bedroom apartment of our good friend, Paul Kalvaitis (who, I'm sure, thought I was joking when I said I would feature his apartment on my blog), and second is a quirky restaurant on Ossington called Delux.

Paul is one of the coolest bachelors I have the pleasure of knowing.  He's an accountant (NO WAIT! DON'T CHECK OUT), an avid lover of football, a fabulous musician and is hilarious.  It came as no surprise that his apartment was well decorated but what we weren't prepared for was the extent to which his tastes matched his incredible personality: tasteful, classic and charming.  As you will know from previous posts, I always give my readers the option of stalking these eligible friends of mine.  You're welcome.

K, first of all, this was the spread. This picture is not altered.  Veal chops, mussels in white wine sauce, grilled peppers and onions, fresh tomatoes with bocconcini, and baguette.  The boy can cook.

EVEN MORE FOOD!  Next to GQ magazines and mini samurai swords.

Move over, John Mayer.

Every bachelor pad needs a dart board with vintage cigar boxes perched on top.

And killer vinyl collection in old suitcase.

Paul's turntable and dial turned to Q107.  Good boy.

Fish tank (he's nurturing!) and James Bond 007 collection (he's adventurous!).

Jazz posters and - no joke - Audrey Heburn.  Serious point scorage for this.

Next, shots from an adorably hipster restaurant in the so-hip-it-hurts neighbourhood near Ossington Avenue.  

You'll never miss it.  Unless you don't know that W.C. stands for watercloset and don't know that watercloset stands for bathroom.

Andrew, probably Tweeting.

Fresh donuts, made in-house.

wifercize wednesday: crushes, part 2

Welcome to Part 2 of my discomfiting chronicle of grade school and high school crushes.  Your comments are not only appreciated but necessary to the purging process.  Don't leave me hanging.

Now, where were we?  Grade 11?

My obligatory crush on a poster boy for the 90s (long, greasy hair, wore plaid shirts, rocked out to Green Day and Nirvana) came in the form of Blair Brandon.  On Valentine's Day our school organized several "O-Grams" that students could purchase and the money benefited...something.  No doubt our swim team.  Malvern had an amazing swim team.  I was not on it.  One option was a "Stalker-O-Gram" or "Picture-O-Gram" or something equivalent - it could be purchased anonymously, and required someone to take a picture of your crush on your behalf, delivering it to you a few days later since I went to high school in the 90s and WE STILL USED FILM.  When the photo of Blair Brandon, donning his signature backwards Boston Bruins baseball cap, arrived secretly during homeroom class I swore I would never throw it out.  That was until he slow danced with my best friend at our school's video dance party later that month to Seal's Kiss From a Rose.  Which not only broke my heart but also destroyed my image of his cool, 90s charade.  Seal is so mainstream.

I was Luke Lockyer's girlfriend a total of four times.  Each time, I broke up with him.  The first time, we remained an item for the duration of history class (with Mr. Nider), geography class (with Mr. Butts - no joke), the period of 12 hours following (spent at our respective houses, sleeping), and before morning announcements I had broken up with him.  Via a letter I gave to him via a mutual friend.  The details of other three times allude me, but they were similar in cowardice.  Via his pager (remember pagers?), via the phone, etc.  We wrote bad poetry to each other.  Not bad-indecent, just bad-clumsy.  He wrote one entitled "Confusion" (no doubt due to our on-again-off-again relationship status) and I responded, appropriately, with "Confusion: The Reply".  Suddenly Melissa Etheridge's lyrics meant so much when I heard them on _____, "I don't care what they think / I don't care what they say / what do they know about this love anyway?", and when I reheard them on mix cassettes from Luke.  He went out on a limb and began writing song lyrics of his own for me and made a mix cassette of those too: "I'm walking in the snow / Like Pierre Elliot Trudeau" touched me deeply although it's impossible to say why.  We may have continued our volatile relationship had it not been for my switch to private school for my OAC year.  That, and my brothers' discovery of Luke's musical debut on tape and consequent mockery.  Which continues to this day.

Philip Holman both frustrated and intrigued me.  His marks were first in almost all our classes (I believe I beat him in English), while I couldn't shake the #2 placement, and we often sat together in alphabetized seating arrangements, Holman and Hunter.  Although his intelligence drew me in, his constant teasing (and the stubborn fact that I was a sore loser) guaranteed that the crush never fully developed.  Jerk.

A friend of mine, Charis, asked when I was going to write about the boys who crushed on me.  A valid question, and one that is mighty temping (I still have old poems and hijinxs committed to memory), but my story is the only one I can tell properly and it delves into the touchy subject of exes which I have written about previously.  Besides, the only boy who crushed on me that matters is the one who I married.

(grand)mama monday: scarves, aprons and hankies!

Sometimes, in order to understand motherhood, it's helpful to go back a generation.  To grandmamas.

I grew up quite close to my mother, who became a sister-mom to me in later years, in a way that many girls-with-only-brothers do.  Other than mom, and Dodie, I had few other close female relatives.  My paternal grandparents (along with an uncle and aunt) lived in Halifax and visited annually, another uncle and aunt, along with their kids - my first cousins - lived in London, Ontario and we didn't grow up celebrating birthdays, holidays and occasional for-no-other-reason-than-we-haven't-eaten-together-in-a-while get togethers like Andrew's Italian family.

So boys were my main point of social contact.  Boys were great.  They were funny.  They liked to build things with Lego*.  They were uncomplicated.  Well, until I hit puberty (ie: my 20s) and then boys became very complicated.  But I digress.  My Sistas From Otha Mistas will attest to my initial awkwardness towards a girl until I feel like I can jump in to girlfriendship without falling flat on my face, as with double-Dutch.  Which I was also crap at.

* Lego is, and forever will be, an uncountable noun.  Like money, cutlery or hair.  You do not "brush your hairs".  You do not "play with your Legos".  If you say this, I reserve the right to punch you.

Incidentally, this may be why I have only pictured having boys.  When I dream about a baby, it's always a baby boy.  When I think about designing about a baby's room, I think blues and greens and trains and Lego.

However, my mother's mother - grandma Grace - and I were close until her death in 1988.  And my memories with her were decidedly girly.

I am the eldest of my cousins and was eight when grandma passed away, which meant that I was lucky to have spent the most number of years with her.  But, at age eight, I didn't fully understand how much we had in common or, indeed, how much we would have in common as I matured.

Last week, I acquired a tote bag of her old things and went through it delicately, neatly, documenting each item like an archeological discovery.  The contents of the bag were scraps of my own DNA, preserved for over 20 years.

First the scarves, which (from what I can surmise) are vintage from the 50s, 60s and 70s.

Detail of one scarf.  Who puts coral, mint green, khaki and azure blue together anymore?

What surprised me was the colour scheme.  Grandma and I had the same "seasonal colour" (does anyone go by this anymore?), Spring, and, if these scarves are any indication, we also shared the same taste in patterns and tones.

Then the aprons!

COULD THESE BE ANY CUTER?!!

Finally the hankies.  O, the hankies...

One was delicately monogrammed with an "L", for Lois: my little mom's little hanky.

As I took the last photo and stared at the hankies - fine linen, lace, floral-patterned, embellished, embroidered in pinks, lilacs and spring greens - I thought about my mom's little hanky, and her mom's choice in hankies, and how much I adored them both.  I thought to myself, I'd like to pass these hankies on and tastes on.  I might even like to pass them on to a little girl.

Solomon crept up to comfort me and I took a decorative hanky to use.  A hanky that, as I brought it to my eyes, still smelled of grandma's perfume.  I felt as consoled as if grandma had offered it to me herself.  A mother who, as only mothers can, understood what it was like to wait for motherhood.

wifercize wednesday: crushes, part 1

After watching Easy A (three times in two weeks) and then Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (which is arguably the best movie ever filmed) I began to recall the angst of high school days, and high school crushes.  You know the kind: the relationships that launched, flourished, and terminated without ever materializing outside of your own contemplations.  The crushes you (still) refer to by their First and Last Names.

The tales only made tolerable through self-deprecating humour and, preferably, Emma Stone playing a quirkier, prettier, more triumphant version of your high school self.

All names used are real.  I apologize if you just now discovered that I am blogging about our fictitious romance over a decade after we went to school together through the magic and horror of Google.  But, then again, you're the one Googling yourself so we can share in the humiliation.

First came Hart Massie.  I didn't realize that his first name was effeminate or his last name derived from the famous Massie family.  I just thought he was cute.  We began "going together" (my mother's term) sometime at the end of grade eight, after our year-end trip to Québec City.  Halfway through summer holiday a friend asked me, "Hey, how's Hart?"  I had completely forgotten we were dating. I called him up and we both agreed that a forgettable relationship was one which didn't require continuation.

His best friend, Dave Foster, systematically dated each of the girls in our group of friends starting with me.  He asked me out by tucking a piece of paper into an the case of an empty permanent marker and passing it to me during class.  The note read: "Would you like to go out?" and two boxes accompanied the proposal, a YES and NO.  I checked YES.  We broke it off a week later.

Ingmar Mak was my first alterna-crush.  He was Asian, super smart, creative, hilarious and quick.  Too quick.  Once, during a class we shared, the teacher had not shown up (this detail, in retrospect, is peculiar - what teacher just doesn't show up for class?) and we were all busying ourselves by doodling on the chalkboard.  For reasons beyond comprehension, I took a piece of chalk and wrote "I ♥ INGMAR" in billboard-sized font.  BUT: I WROTE IT IN CODE.  It was a stealthy code used in many intimate high school correspondences between girls.  It was airtight.  Except that Ingmar knew the code.  And Ingmar was confident enough in his findings to summon my, and everyone else's, attention.  "Sarah, does that say I ♥ INGMAR?"  In my panic, I recanted.  "What?  No.  Did you think-?  Oh, no, not what I wrote.  You're probably thinking of the other code..."  I improvised a variation of the well-known code and wrote it up on the board for all to see.  I only discovered later that, according to my made up code, I had written "I ♥ INGQAV" which was not only a phonetic impossibility but also eerily resembled Ingmar's name.

Mack Fyfe, or Matthew Ian Fredrick Darian Fyfe, had the coolest name I had ever heard.  We were schoolmates and also performed together in musical performances at the community Beaches Arts Centre.  Our British director, Anne Butler, referred to us as "hooligans" and spent half of our precious rehearsal time telling us to pay attention.  He is one of a handful of people who can match my energy level.  In a performance of Good News!, a musical, Mack's character said of my character: "She's like a wool sweater.  Hot and drives you crazy!" and, in Jack the Ripper (again, another musical, if you can believe it) his character referred to my character as "Slaggy".  I thought it was endearing until I found out it was a British form of "skank".

Poor Tristan Ticmanis was keen to get my phone number for what seemed like the majority of grade 10. I finally acquiesced by giving him all the digits of my phone number except the last one.  I changed the last one.  That's how cunning I was.  It took him a few months and then he worked out that the phone number I gave him was not the same as the phone number all of our other friends had for me.  I pleaded insanity.

Stay tuned for Part 2 next week.  This is too good to give to you all in one dose.