foto friday: something out of nothing

Near the subway station where I live there once was a blank wall under a bridge.  I featured part of this blank wall before here.  Over the past few months, however, someone has been commissioned to make the blank wall less blanker and with something other than rust stains.  I took these photos during production:

foto friday: bits of brown

A diversion from your Friday tasks.

I love this ad for TTC metropasses.  

It's unusual to find creative government-funded advertising.

A study in rust.

 

Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!  Cleaning day at Maison de Gazaneo.  Dishes, laundry, vacuuming.  The mountainous grouping of pillows seen in the far left are the insides of our couches.  Which we also laundered.  In a fit of cleanliness that left us both exhausted, our pets confused, and our house minty fresh.

Oberon, still determined to shed on the red couch.

This little plant has been wedged in the The Castle's* landing window all summer.  It makes me happy.

I can't tell you the extent of my love of hamsters.  

You would disown me.  This one is Emily's.

A charming place called the Holy Oak Café, at Bloor & Landsdowne.  It smells of cottage and feels equally as cozy.  The (decaf) Americano changed me.

*  More on The Castle next week.

foto friday: table of contents, part 2

Here is this week's mixed pictorial narrative:

The TTC subway system shut down between Keele and Jane stations last week.  This crowd of people was. not. moving.  At one point, someone from miles behind me shrieked, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST START MOVING.  WE'RE GOING TO DIE HERE."  We just giggled.

 

 The Elmwood Spa, where Andrew and I retreat to when the knots in our backs require scolding.

 

This streetcar driver brought his son to work one day.  He allowed him to open and close the doors, ring the bell, and sound the horn.  Knowing the TTC, the child was probably unionized.

 

 What could be more awesome?

Enjoyed lunch with my friend Amy at Queen Mother Cafe on Queen West.  Their patio is accessible only by traveling first through the restaurant, down a flight of stairs, through a long hallway, past the bathrooms, and back up a flight of stairs - but the outcome is worth it.

 

Andrew sorting out his teaching materials on our dining room table.  He becomes Mr. Gazaneo to two special ed classes and a careers class on September 7th!

 

Yes, we do own the most photogenic cat on the planet.  How kind of you to inquire.

 

Life imitates art outside of Café Balluchon.  Yes, that last one is a koala.  

 

I, however, do not ♥ vampires.  Andrew have laughed through watched a few of the movies from the Twilight series and cannot fathom how such an inflated budget could have been spent on a cast who can't act.

 

wifersize wednesday: passive aggressive

In our upstairs bathroom there is a wastebasket. Well, there was. It's impossible to discern where the wastebasket once was since what once filled the wastebasket has now completely overcome and subdued it. It's a volcano of makeup pads, balled up Kleenex, empty toilet paper rolls, hair balls, and Q-tips.

No other garbage receptacle in our house is as mismanaged. It seems as if both Andrew and I are patiently, stubbornly waiting for the other one to break down and empty it.

Once, after I carefully balanced another object on the mountainous pile of waste (it's almost beautiful...like an art installation), I asked Andrew (who was in the bedroom):

"Question. Do you just keep using this wastebasket in hopes that I'll get fed up enough to take it out one day?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Oh. Me too."

In all honesty, Andrew (eventually) empties it about as many times as I (eventually) empty it (which, given the year that we've lived in the house, is approximately one time each), and we chuckled after learning of our bathroom-wastebasket-stalemate. But how often do we use passive aggressive behaviour to get someone to notice, affirm, pity, or perform for us?

There's a website dedicated to it, if you're interested, called passiveaggressivenotes.com. Browsing it today reminded me of the episode of The Office where Pam leaves a note on the office microwave that reads:

"The microwave is a SHARED kitchen appliance.

By not cleaning it up, you are basically telling whoever follows that their time is less valuable, as they will have to scrub out your disgusting splatter.

Sincerely,
Disappointed"

and of the email I sent out just this morning to our all-staff email address:

Could the salt & pepper-napper please return them, unharmed, to the communal kitchen where we can all use them? If you’re looking for a personal set, check here: http://www.custommadeart.com/HortonBeverlyShakers01.htm

Ta ta!
S.

which, ashamedly, is not the first (nor, I suspect, will be the last) passive aggressive email I have sent from reception. I mean, how difficult is it to load a dishwasher, people? How much easier could we possibly make the process? It already WASHES YOUR DISHES FOR YOU.

Probably the best example of palatable passive aggression is public transit. The bus arrives and after waiting over 20 minutes in the freezing cold, or spitting rain, or blistering heat, the doors whoosh open and five hundred irritated commuters shove towards it. But slowly. Almost...politely. As if to say, "So help me, 80-year old woman, I am going to get on this bus and I sure as heck think you're standing well enough out here that you won't need to steal a seat from me once I'm in there, but, BY ALL MEANS GO AHEAD OF ME. I INSIST."

The Wiki definition states that passive aggressive behaviour

"can manifest itself as learned helplessness, procrastination, stubbornness, resentment, sullenness, or deliberate/repeated failure to accomplish requested tasks for which one is (often explicitly) responsible. It is a defense mechanism, and usually only partly conscious"

which is only partly comforting, since it's only partly conscious. But the fact that it's recognized as a defense mechanism is much more helpful. If we spent as much time working out why we are in distress (a wise woman often reminds me: "The issue isn't the issue.") as we spent concocting passive aggressive language, habits, games, and notes we'd probably be better off. And our spouses would know exactly what they're dealing with...instead of having to guess.

I'm guilty of passive aggression on occasion (partly conscious, I assure you) but I've realized that straight forward conversation usually gets the job done faster, and with 87% less feigned smiling. When I get upset by something Andrew does or says (or doesn't do or say), the least I can do is honour him and the honesty of our marriage by telling him that I'm hurt. As an added bonus, I might work out what the issue is behind the issue.

If I'm feeling extra wiferly, I'll even empty the upstairs bathroom wastebasket.

2-in-1: wednesday wifersize & friday foto

Since it's been three weeks since my last post, here is both a belated Wifercize Wednesday and a Friday Foto.

Wifercize Wednesday Friday:
Poking around a blog I frequent (BUT CAN NOT CONDONE), I found a curious question posted on its community section:

If you have them, what are the three "nevers" of your life?

Ignoring the number of people that wrote "never say never" as one of their three...followed by two others (really?), I waded my way through until I found one that resounded: "Never marry a man unless you want your son to be just like him."

I had heard variations of this before - comparing a prospective husband to other influential people in your life, including your father, yourself, your male role models, etc. - but never in relation to a son. Fortuitously, since I did not know about this rule prior to marriage, I won. Andrew has so many admirable qualities and characteristics, I would be proud to have a mini-Andrew.

Understanding that people (even little people) make their own decisions and can choose differ greatly from their parents, and understanding even more than many of the flaws and generational garbage that Andrew and I have can and hopefully will be eradicated in their lives, I still believe in the power and blessing of posterity. In mulling over when and if it should be time to start a family (and, in essence, forever changing the two-person "us" factor of our first years of dating and marriage), I recently came to the conclusion that if our kids would be an extension, an amalgamation, of him and me: knowing him, wouldn't I see him in them every day? Wouldn't I, seeing them, love him more?


Friday Foto:
I'm happy to say I've completed a 10 year old goal. For those of you who commute via public transit, you will be familiar with the graffiti art displayed from Dundas West station to Keele station as the subway emerges from its tunnel.

At the age when I began to use the TTC I lived in the Beaches, in the east end of Toronto. My fascination with and ignorance of the west end was partially due to never exploring the city past Spadina station (that's where Kensington market was and, therefore, as far west as my teenaged heart could desire) unless it was from what I gathered from the window of a subway car, partially due to Old Mill station (I could spot the magical Old Mill itself, where my parents were married and which was familiar to me from old wedding photos), and partially due to this graffiti mural. I naturally assumed the west (especially between Dundas West station and Keele station) was a dark, seedy underworld of crime and violence, pitting itself against the majestic forces of Old Mill.

The trip from the Beaches to Kipling is long. You would not fault me for fanciful daydreaming if you knew.

Ever since those years I wanted to make the time to get off at Dundas West and document the mural on foot until Keele, but never did until recently. Unfortunately, the original mural that I grew up with has been painted over and this is a new incarnation.

There's something about graffiti - illegal (unless commissioned, which these murals no doubt are) and vandalistic - that transforms an otherwise drab city into a palette of colour. I mean, if you're going to break the law, there are worse things you could do.

From west (Keele station) to east (Dundas West station). Click on an image to see a larger version. Please try to ignore any obscenities. It adds to the colour!