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: 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:

wifersize wednesday: beard, beard, no beard?

In honour of Movember, which is fast approaching, I'd like to outline my feelings on beards.  Or, indeed, facial hair in general.

The fascination with beards began at a tender age.  I'd sit on the edge of the bathtub and observe my dad shave in the bathroom mirror.  Not completely shave, mind you, as it was the height of the 80s and my dad sported a nifty Tom Selleck:

Because he was my dad, I naturally came to the conclusion that mustaches were the embodiment of manliness. I also became acutely aware that girls did not possess the powers of facial hair, since dad's kisses were scratchy and mom's weren't.

My girl friends and I spent high school mocking the peach fuzz that began to encroach on the upper lips of our male peers.  One of my first poems, entitled "Men", was published in the yearbook, much to my delight and my mother's horror, that began with the lines:

men are weird

men grow beards

and pathetic little 'staches

that make them feel 

cool

I fancied a number a few hardly any guys before I dated Andrew, almost all of which exhibited the goatee/soul patch.  I'm not sure when or why I acquired this penchant but I know it began to dwindle at the end of university, which coincided with the height of the metrosexual era.  The equation became: smooth faced boys = desirable. 

Something odd occurred when Andrew and I began our relationship.  He had a goatee at first (which, clearly, since I was so over that I wasn't thrilled about)...and I began to like goatees.  Then he Bic™ shaved once or twice...and I switched back to preferring him clean-shaven.  In spite of my protestation, he grew a full beard to celebrate Movember a few years ago...and I ended up liking that too.  At the end of the month he shaved all but a fat, caterpillar of a mustache that not only reminded me of my dad in the 80s (see above) but also took on a personality of its own as Andrew narrated things like, "The Mustache feels like Chinese food tonight.  The Mustache would like to watch television.  The Mustache made me do it."  Imagine my terror when, at the end of a week, I EVEN LIKED THE HORRIBLE, ANIMATED 80S MUSTACHE.

My theory is this:

I don't care what it is, just as long as it's on him.

Andrew's Italian hair follicles are similar to those of a wild boar - making his smooth face turns spiky by the end of a day, which I adore and is a lovely way to exfoliate.  Plus, his cheek/chin have a lovely way of retaining his yummy scent so I generally spend a lot of time around that area.  It doesn't matter what he's doing - kissing me in return, responding to emails, doing laundry, trying to sleep...  He concedes to my endless kissing as a water buffalo accepts the bird riding on its back.

My poetry matured along with my taste in men, thankfully, and Andrew's scruff inspired one called "Barbed" early on in our dating phase:

like fresh cut grass
on bare feet
his cheek
is ticklish
and pricklish
and delish
my kisses are quick
small skips
on fresh cut grass
it’s my little field of dreams
it’s my little corner lot
it’s my little Brillo pad
more dangerous still
than sandpaper,
though,
are the days
when a razor clears the way
for thoughts too hot to hold
so soft
so smooth
so…
a little barbed wire
to protect a treasure
is not
such
a bad idea

Recently I have fallen for the latest ad campaign from French Connection featuring a handsomely coutured and bearded male model.  Imagine my delight to discover it has made an appearance on our own Bloor Street with the declaration "THIS IS THE MAN.  FEEL LIKE WOLF":

Movember marks a special season in the lives of my gentlemen friends.  They begin to sprout all manners of facial growth, from full beards to Fu Manchus to handlebar mustaches to dirty-French-lip-hair.  My own brother ended up like this last year:

Upon the discovery of PicnicFace's infamous Beard, No Beard Movember madness reached fever pitch.  The possibilities were endless: beard, beard, no beard? beard, beard, MOOOSTACHE.



For further reading, I recommend visiting The Beard Revue which features art inspired by facial hair including this desktop wallpaper and handy legend (click to see larger image):

mama monday: link-a-lot

Here are a few of my favourite sites related to all things mama.  My love of babies dressed as bookworms is only surpassed by my love of witty writing so I hope you'll enjoy the selection.  Not all sites are suitable for work, men who are squeamish, or those with no sense of humour.

This site, called "Mila's Daydreams" was featured in the Globe and Mail last week.  It stars the daughter (Mila) of a mom (Adele) from Helsinki.  It's reached Antoine-Dodson-esque fame in a short amount of time since it's the cutest thing since Anne Geddes.  And 87% less saccharine.

I'm so proud to say I know these people.  Melissa, due on Thansgiving, and her husband, Jonathan, have been updating her Tumblr site, "Melissa Börger", with week-by-week countdown photos of the pregnancy.  Best.

"Pacing the Panic Room" was the original (and rudimentary, in my opinion) inspiration for Melissa's site.  Photographer Ryan took weekly pictures of his wife, Cole, leading up to the birth of their daughter, Tessa.  American Apparel heard of the project and began to send Cole maternity samples to wear in the shots!  The rest is blogging history.  For a completely adorable video of the whole process, click here.

A writer and friend of mine from university, Angela, started her blog, "The Half-Assed Housewife" a few years ago and is still not receiving the global accolades that her writing deserves.  Wife, mother (biological and of the fostering variety), knitter, vegetarian cook, and one of the funniest people I know.  The image below is from a notorious post you can read here.

New parents (as in, just found out they were pregnant a few weeks ago) Nik and Thea are friends of mine from university.  Their blog, "The Craptastics", is occasionally updated by Nik who still writes prose that can make me laugh out loud.  His poetry sucks though.

The original blogger-turned-celebrity, "Dooce", stands alone as my favourite blog of all time.  I once read through several months (years?) of her archives in one sitting.  Author (of blog and books) Heather likes to talk about wifehood, motherhood, living in Utah, her dogs, poop and boobs.  And that wasn't in order of prominence.