wifercize wednesday: hormones and hand sanders

Andrew has been such a dear in keeping up with his hormone-flooded wife.  The downsides have included fits of frustration (generally nesting related or sleep deprivation related) followed by a gush of tears.

A few months ago I decided to tidy the first floor of our house.  AND I HAD TO DO IT RIGHT.  NOW. Coming across a few pairs of Andrew's shoes in the hallway, I asked him if he would like me to put them in the front closet or upstairs in the bedroom.  He told me to hold on one moment, as he was busy paying a bill online.

I waited a moment.  I waited a moment more.  Still answerless, I abandoned the shoes and stormed off to complete some other equally-as-pressing task until Andrew tracked me down and asked me if I was OK (the banging of objects tipped him off).

"Yes.  I'm fine."  (I wasn't.)
"Reeally?  You don't seem fine.  Are you mad?"
"No.  I'm not."  (I was.)
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know."  (I didn't.)

About 10 minutes after this futile discussion Andrew was back on the couch and I furtively joined him.  I sat as close as I could manage with my bulky abdomen, put my head on his shoulder, and started crying.

"Are you crying?  What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry."  (I was.)
"That's OK.  For what?"
"I don't know."  (I still didn't.)

Andrew has been wonderful at decoding (or, rather, lovingly disregarding) many of my extreme ups and downs and for this I am grateful.  The truth is that, most of the time, I truly don't know why I'm upset.  In the past week alone, the answers to "Are you crying?  What's wrong?" have included "I'm tired.  And you're nice." to "This movie is too sad."  Both legitimate answers.  To me.  At the time.

Another behavioural development has been a slightly unhinged desire to refinish furniture, as mentioned on Monday.  The first of which was a stool.

I spotted the stool on the side of the road the day Andrew and I were parking near St. Joe's hospital for an ultrasound appointment.  It was a painted (chipping), white (yellowing), wooden stool with a slab of the seat broken off.  I thought it was marvelous.

After my dad reattached the broken seat with carpenter's glue, it looked a little something like this:

After a generous sanding with my handy Black & Decker GelMax Mouse Sander and Polisher with Touch Zone Technology, it looked like this:

And after two coats of black CIL semi-gloss latex interior paint (primer included!) it looked exactly the way I wanted it to:

You might remember that I've been working on this little plot of the house ever since I designed my own wire hooks to display decorative French cheese plates on the wall:

Since it's completion, I am happy to report that it is the first DIY project that Oberon approves of.  In fact, he approves of it so much he almost exclusively owns property rights to it.

"How handy," he told me when I placed the finished stool in the kitchen.  "You've finally given me the throne I so rightfully deserve.  From here I shall survey my kingdom and all that transpires throughout."

wifercize wednesday: don'ts for wives

While enjoying an extravagant dinner and witty banter with our friends Ben and Sarah, I found (and read) these two books while in the bathroom.  Correction, I did not read the two books cover to cover.  In fact, I skimmed the first few pages, became uneasy about the amount of time I had been missing from the meal, and took the books with me.

They are now on lend to me to write this special Wifercize Wednesday.

Published in 1913, one would assume (as I did) that these two manuals - conveniently blue and red to yet further distinguish the genders and keep colour sexism alive - would be a laugh.  Outdated misogynistic advice written by an opinionated man who desired to put his wife in order and thought it prudent to write a companion edition for husbands to keep the peace.

The author of both books is, in fact, a woman by the name of Blanche Ebbutt.  In prefaces she writes in both volumes, she appeals to each sex in turn.  To the wives: "I hope she [the average wife] may find it worthwhile to take a few hints from an old hand."  To the husbands: "You are neither as bad nor as good a fellow as you imagine yourself to be...  As for men- well, I have a husband myself!"

I wish I could take the time to write out all my favourites from both books but, as they are only 73 tiny pages each, it would basically mean a re-write and you'd be better off buying them for yourself.  Instead, I'll post some of the best from each category to whet your appetites.  Wives, take note.

PERSONALITIES

Don't expect your husband to have all the feminine virtues as well as all the masculine ones.  There would be nothing left for you if your other half were such a paragon.

Don't put on airs with your husband.   If you can't be natural with him, you shouldn't have married him.

Don't let your husband feel that you are a 'dear little woman', but no good intellectually.  If you find yourself getting stale, wake up your brain.  Let there be nothing your husband can talk about that you will be unable to understand.  

HOW TO AVOID DISCORD

Don't say, 'I told you so,' to your husband, however much you feel tempted to.  It does no good, and he will be grateful to you for not saying it.

Don't keep your sweetest smiles and your best manners for outsiders; let your husband come first.

Don't snub your husband.  Nothing is more unpleasant for lookers-on than to hear a snub administered by a wife, and it is more than unpleasant for the husband; it is degrading. 

HABITS

Don't check your husband's high spirits.  Let him sing a the top of his voice in the bathroom, or whistle out of tune on the stairs, and be thankful for a cheerful man about the house.

Don't think it beneath you to put your husband's slippers ready for him.  On a cold evening, especially, it makes all the difference to his comfort if the soles are warmed through.

FINANCIAL MATTERS

Don't expect to begin where your parents left off.  A little struggle in your early married life won't hurt you.

Don't have any secrets from your husband in financial matters.  Complete confidence is best.  Don't let him have any financial secrets from you.  You are partners, and you have as much right to know what is the balance at the bank as he has.

Don't confuse stinginess with economy.  You can be careful without being mean. 

EVENINGS AT HOME

Don't omit the kiss of greeting.  It cheers a man when he is tired to feel that his wife is glad to see him home.

Don't get the idea that all your husband wants is a housekeeper, or a decorative head of the table.  He wants a companion and when he is at home he doesn't want you to be always somewhere else. 

JEALOUSY

Don't try to excite your husband's jealousy by flirting with other men.  You may succeed better than you want to.  It is like playing with tigers and edged tools and volcanoes all in one.

Don't be jealous, anyway.  It belittles you, puts you at a disadvantage, and, if your husband thinks about it, is apt to make him unbearably conceited.  Nothing makes you look old and worn sooner than jealousy, and nothing makes you more ridiculous. 

RECREATION

Don't forget the anniversary of your wedding.  Keep it up.  The little celebration will draw you closer together year by year.

Don't be afraid to rough it now and then with your husband as a companion.  If he feels that he would like a week's walking tour with you as a chum, don't object that it may rain, or that you haven't a suitable dress, or that you can't manage for a week with nothing in the way of luggage except a nightdress and a tooth-brush.  Enter into the spirit of the thing, and you'll get quite as much fun out of it as he will, and be happier than if he accompanied you to some fashionable resort where you would need to dress three or four times a day.

FOOD

Don't forget to 'feed the brute' well.  Much depends on the state of his digestion.

DRESS

Don't impose your ideas on your husband in matters of individual taste so long as his style is not bad.  He has a right to his own views.

Don't reject your husband's advice on matters of dress without good reason.  Many men have excellent taste and original ideas on the subject.

ENTERTAINING

Don't refuse to entertain your husband's friends on the ground that it is a 'bother'.  Nothing pains a man more than finding only a cold welcome when he brings home a chum.

Don't try to 'amuse' your guest every minute of the day.  If they feel thoroughly at home, the amusement will come naturally.  Don't forget to have books in every room.

 Don't refuse to entertain at all because you can't do it on the same scale as your neighbours.  The 'jolly little party' is generally preferred to the starchy reception. 

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.

wifercize wednesday: BANG

When Andrew and I go away for a week or weekend we have a friend, Matt, come to stay at our house and look after our pets.  Matt has performed this duty on many occasions, being a fan of both cats and dogs (rare) and a clean, responsible house guest (rarer still, for a bachelor). 

LADIES, MATT LOVES CATS AND DOGS AND BABIES AND IS SINGLE.  You can stalk him more efficiently on his blogs here: imattchell.tumblr.com and here: thebachelorguide.tumblr.com.

Matt quite often makes comments, via Twitter, about our house when we are away which we then read in airport gates or hotel rooms and chuckle, because they are usually about the substantial amount of pasta we keep in the pantry or the substantial number of quotes we have written on our fridge.  The last time Matt came to stay he made a quip regarding the substantial volume of hair products I collect in the upstairs bathroom.

Volume being the operative word.

Ever since I took a pair of child-safety scissors in first grade and cut off an inch-long lock of hair (they can't cut fingers but oh! how marvelously they cut hair!), which my mother found out about, and I may have denied, the details are fuzzy, but it was harder still to deny the hole I later snipped in the front of my private school pinafore, because they marvelously cut fabric too! I just had to know! and I was strictly informed to only use scissors on paper or crafts or other such constructive activities, ever since THEN I have been fascinated with the ability to change my hair.

As you will remember, my earliest memories of hair fantasy began with Princess Aurora's long, full curls.  I had straight, flat hair so it was difficult to achieve but I'm still trying.  Hence, shampoos and conditioners marching along every available ledge of our shower promising "volume", "extra volume", and "maximum volume". 

I suppose one could conduct a study in the number and type of toiletries a person collected and the corresponding lack of confidence in the area those products guarantee to cure.  Moisturizing products for the self-consciously dry.  Bronzing products for the self-consciously pale.  Smoothing products for the self-consciously rough.

For me, it's hair products.  Armies of hair products.

Last night, for date night, Andrew and I watched "High Fidelity" and it reminded me of another hair-related obsession I have struggled with, third only to volume and curls: bangs.  In honour of Rob Gordon (played brilliantly by John Cusack), I give you...

THE TOP 5 LIST OF MOVIES THAT INSPIRED ME TO CUT MY BANGS EXTREMELY SHORT:

#5:  It started innocently, with Julie Andrews in "The Sound of Music".

#4:  Then not-so-innocently, with Angelina Jolie in "Girl, Interrupted". 

#3:  Then Iben Hjejle's character in "High Fidelity".

#2:  And, always and forever, Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast at Tiffany's".

#1:  But the most influential, most desired, and most illusive cinematic bangs, for me, were Audrey Tautou's in "Amélie".

No matter how hard I tried, my baby-fine hair wouldn't conform to the forehead fringe I saw on the silver screen.  It probably didn't help that whenever my stubborn bangs would rebel, I simply cut them shorter. 

And all this ties into Wifercize Wednesday because Andrew knew me when I had crazy bangs and crushed on me anyhow.  That's when you know you have a winner, ladies.

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?

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:

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)

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

wifercize wednesday: domestic bliss

[Note: this is a post I saved in draft form on October 7th, 2009.  It was left unfinished due to a hunt for the quote at the end of the post - a hunt that took, apparently, AN ENTIRE YEAR.  Fortunately, the post is still true today as it was a full year ago.]


Perhaps it's the change in the season, and that change signaling the long months of hibernation to come. Perhaps it's reading "A Room with a View" recently, with its cozy, early 1900s colloquialisms. Perhaps it's hormones. Perhaps it's age.

I'm just so happy being a wife. Having a home. Sleeping in the same bed, next to my fabulous husband, night after night. After night.

Not ground breaking for you homebodies, but you who suffer from wanderlust? yes, you who are already plotting your next trip? you who can't seem to settle down but rather feel that what you're searching for is Out There? This is for you.

Instead of browsing more travel porn, let me give you a piece of advice. "You may need to see the world in order to find your place in it". That was God's advice to me in 2004, as I was weighing the pros and cons of spending a year in Korea teaching English. I took it as a green light (what traveler wouldn't have?), packed my bags, and spend a fabulous year in Asia.

I spent my 25th birthday on a beach on the coast of South Korea and discovered something: no matter where I was, there I was.  The same fears haunted me, the same hopes, the same dreams, the same desires, the same frustrations.  The only difference was that, on the other side of the world, I was miles away from a hug or a coffee or a kind word with anyone I knew well.  And anyone who knew me well.

It was while in Korea that I read A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry and discovered this quote:

How can I leave that earth?  It is not good to go far from your native village.  Then you forget who you are.

The quote stuck with me, I wrote it out in my journal, it trailed behind me like a cartoon thought bubble for the rest of my time in Korea, it comforted me when I experienced re-entry difficulties back in Toronto, and it still makes me smile today.  My native village turned out to be better than I ever thought it could be.  And I know who I am.

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):

wifersize wednesday: sexy time!

Yeay!  Another post on sex!  Let the peasants rejoice!  Let the hit count on my blog overflow!

So I was reading an article by one of my favourite online authors, Jon Acuff, who writes on his blog "Stuff Christians Like:

I hope that every time we say sex before marriage is harmful, we’ll say “sex after marriage is neon awesome.”

Christians have done their fair share of guilting, shaming, and condemning the general public into saving sex for marriage, but then the view of married sex they give to back it up looks like this:

When it should look more like this:

Psychologists have long held the opinion that we react better to positive reinforcement than negative reinforcement, so why are we vilifying premarital sex without balancing out the equation?  At least balancing!

Perhaps its a puritan backlash against the way premarital sex is discussed in the media.  This article on sex on broadcast television does an amazing job of breaking down just how one-sided (and unrealistic) the depictions of single/married relationships are:

In this article (summary of a book with the same title) the statistics do one more than balancing the scales:

About 40% of married people have sex twice a week, compared to 20-25% of single and cohabitating men and women. Over 40% of married women said their sex life was emotionally and physically satisfying, compared to about 30% of single women. For men, it's 50% of married men are physically and emotionally contents versus 38% of cohabitating men.

This reminded me of an episode of How I Met Your Mother we recently watched in which Ted (single), Barney (single), and Marshall (married) were arguing over who had "more game".  Ted and Barney had ignored Marshall almost entirely until he did the research and recounted:

If Lily and I have sex twice a week, which, let's be honest, we all know is being conservative, and we've been together 10 years, plus 17 more times on the honeymoon, minus the two-week drought when I said the checker at the grocery store looked like a young Lily, then, we have had sex a total of, wait for it, 1,053-1/2 times.  My mom called once.

More frequent, more fulfilling, more fun sex after marriage.  Should we be surprised?  Isn't that what the plan was all along?

wifercize wednesday: mr tickle

In 2006 I wrote about the Five Love Languages.  At the time, Andrew and I had been dating for a total of five months, so I was pretty sure that my results would be entirely different now that we've been married for nearly 2.5 years.  They weren't.

Complete set of results

Quality Time:		11
Physical Touch:		9
Words of Affirmation:		7
Acts of Service:		2
Receiving Gifts:		1

Take the quiz

I began to wonder if our love languages change at all over the course of our life time.  My childhood pretty much consisted of seeking an audience with various members of the family either before, during or after a cuddle, tickle, tackle or wrestle.  Nothing could surpass a road trip.  Endless hours of time together while sitting in close proximity.

How my husband is able to deal with this (especially when his second love language, when last we checked, was "acts of service" and I use my measly 2 less frequently than I should) is a mystery to me.  Thank goodness we both have "quality time" as our number one, because sometimes I wonder if my "physical touch" obsession concerns him.

Last night while we were making dinner I bounced around him (in a display not unlike our chocolate lab when we say the word PARK) and latched to him in a koala hug, possibly injuring his back.  I AM NOT ALONE.  Friends of mine share similar confessions: chasing, squeezing, and cuddling without consent are more frequent among wives than you might expect.

I hear this diminishes once children enter center stage and, wives-turned-to-mothers, our kind spends time chasing, squeezing and cuddling them instead.  Which is handy because babies can't run for the first few months or so.

I loved this book when I was little:

I loved that his arms could go anywhere in the house where he lived.  Upstairs, downstairs, out the front door.  For me, my arms only have to be as long as it requires for me to tuck my hand under Andrew's shoulder or arm.  We call it "plugging in": my love tank gets filled while I sleep.

wifercize wednesday: travel companion

I just realized that half the time I write "wiferCize" and the other half I write "wiferSize".  Jazzercize is spelled with a "c"...should this make a difference?  Jazzercize is also a mix of "jazz" and "exercise" which is spelled with an "s" instead of a "z".  

Wifercize it shall be.

On a recent trip to Raleigh, North Carolina to visit with our good friends (and sometime pastors), Duncan and Kate, I realized two things:

1. I love (I mean l-o-v-e) traveling with my husband.
2. Marriage is, at best, shared life experiences.

Neither conclusion is ground breaking but both would be considered revolutionary by my previous self.  I used to love (I mean l-o-v-e) traveling alone.  By.  My.  Self.  Traveling in packs or even with one other companion would irritate me to no end.  My inner monologue was that of George Clooney's character in Up In The Air:

Never get behind old people. Their bodies are littered with hidden metal and they never seem to appreciate how little time they have left. Bingo, Asians. They pack light, travel efficiently, and they have a thing for slip on shoes. Gotta love 'em.

Traveling with others wasn't practical or fun.  It slowed my routine, it disrupted my contemplation, it ruined my pace, it killed my buzz.

On one of my last solo flights I sat at the window and stared out of it as the plane took off.  For an instant I pictured a husband - faceless and nameless - sitting beside me, reading a newspaper, fiddling with a cell phone, or otherwise being husband-y.  In my mind I turned to give him a kiss.  Nothing glamorous.  Just a kiss.  For fun.  I later wrote a poem about that image: my fictitious travel companion, and I was hooked on the idea from that moment.

flight to korea
november 2004

just one kiss
can’t I kiss you just once?
your lips on mine
just once
just now
I thought of you
your lips on mine
I smiled at you
in my mind
just mind
that you don’t waste
your kisses
save them for my lips
kiss me enough
your lips on mine
to make up for
today

Five years later, Andrew sits beside me and reads the in-flight magazine, plays games on his iPhone, and often tolerates a kiss (or two, or eighteen) from me.  I still prefer the window seat and he likes to offer it to me.

Last night I heard a Jamie Cullum song, All At Sea, for the first time in ages.  The lyrics used to be my anthem during the peak of my solo-travel days:

I'm all at sea
Where no-one can bother me
I sleep by myself
I drink on my own
Don't speak to nobody
I gave away my phone
Like a warm drink it seeps into my soul
Please just leave me right here on my own
Later on you could spend some time with me
If you want to
All at sea

Hearing those dismal words again reminded me of a second song, Swallowed In The Sea by Coldplay; the one Andrew told me was his favourite when we first started dating.  It became a kind of response to my resolute "all at sea" lifestyle, and challenged my isolation:

The streets you're walking on a thousand houses long
Well, that's where I belong and you belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea
You belong with me, not swallowed in the sea
Yeah, you belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea

I guess we are all susceptible of falling into one of two sentiments: either that couple-hood is the enemy, or that it is the answer.  I was once a card-carrying member of the former group but, although I don't fully agree with the latter, I now know that marriage solves many more issues than it creates.

Life, although whimsical enough if experienced unaccompanied, is best shared.

wifercize wednesday: chosing a champion

A few nights ago I sat down with my favourite girlies to watch "The September Issue" but didn't get past the first trailer.  Instead, we talked.  For two hours.

We talked about growing up as squares in high school, about health and fitness, and about boys who turn into men who turn into husbands who turn into fathers.  Two of us, married, marveled at the labyrinthine path that lead us to being a Mrs., while one of us, single, sang the "all the best ones are taken" dirge while we sympathetically disagreed.

I'll tell you, guys, what women are drawn to.  We might look you over once, twice, or even for six years, but that doesn't mean that we haven't noticed you.  We're looking for signs of strength, for signs of courage, for signs of honesty, for signs of kindness.  Confidence is great (and touted as the number one characteristic for both men and women who are seeking) but it's not enough. 


It takes more courage to admit weakness than it does to boast of strength.

Recently, I was watching the trailer for "Eat, Pray, Love" and, although I don't like the premise of quitting your life in order to find it, I loved this quote:

"You don't need a man.  You need a champion."

And, contrary to popular belief, a champion is not someone who wins at any cost.

It's a paradox - we feel most comfortable with a soft/strong man - but if you can't handle paradox, mister, you ain't gonna be able to handle a woman.

foto friday: my guy

This week is a mishmash of Wifersize Wednesday and Foto Friday, since Wednesday attacked me like a barrel of rabid monkeys.  My one faithful fan keeps reminding me when I miss postings.

I think some people assume that we're lying or exaggerating when Andrew and I tell them how great marriage is.  For this reason, I figure I might as well keep mentioning it. 

On Wednesday (yes, barrel-of-monkeys Wednesday), Andrew came by my office to give me a bouquet of flowers.  My favourites, Gerber daisies.  When I rejoined the lunch crowd, the jokes began.

Dude 1: "Flowers?  What did he do wrong?"
Me: "Nothing.  He just brought flowers."
Dude 1: "He didn't do anything that you know of."
Me: "No, really.  He does this sometimes."
Dude 2: "He totally did something.  He's just buttering you up."
Dude 1: "So that when you find out, he hopes you'll just think of flowers."

No amount of explanation could deter them from the idea that a husband would only bring flowers to apologize for something, or that I could be so easily distracted by bright foliage. 

I shrugged and replied that I had a husband that occasionally made other husbands look bad.  The husband in the room stopped the conversation, followed by the single guys, since...well, there isn't much to say after that.  The graphic designer went back to eating the delicious lunch that his mom had made him.

A little friendly competition isn't always a bad thing.

wifersize wednesday: i've got the joy, joy, joy, joy...

I was reading a New York Times article - forwarded to me by Andrew - which had very nice things to say about marriage. In fact, it links a successful marriage with overall health and happiness. The author, David Brooks, quotes:

Marital happiness is far more important than anything else in determining personal well-being. If you have a successful marriage, it doesn’t matter how many professional setbacks you endure, you will be reasonably happy. If you have an unsuccessful marriage, it doesn’t matter how many career triumphs you record, you will remain significantly unfulfilled.

And, later, he mentions a study claiming that "being married produces a psychic gain equivalent to more than $100,000 a year". Most of us know a married couple or two that challenge these findings, and have more of a marital deficit than a surplus, but let's FOR A MINUTE think about the couples that are doing well, the couples that are still in love, the couples that are better for being married, the 50% that aren't divorced or separated. What are they doing right?

A reader left the comment:

The flaw that always exists in happiness surveys is that one never knows if good marriages make happy people or if happy people make good marriages.

which got me thinking. I like the idea of, and have written before about, "epic tales of retrospect". Couples that are most happy are those constantly retelling the parts about their relationship that were the best, that were the happiest, that were the most blessed. Of course stories linger in their past that are difficult, upsetting, disappointing, infuriating, and heartbreaking, but they even manage to tell THOSE stories with a "happily ever after" tagged on the end. Are they delusional? Or do they merely see the glass half (or entirely) full?

I figure it's neither happy marriages making people happy or happy people making good marriages but rather people choosing to rejoice that make both. "Rejoice" means "to be joyful again", and isn't that what epic tales are made of? Let's remember all the good times, again, and feel joy over them once more.

Bill Johnson says: "There's the choice of joy and there's the demonstration of rejoicing. If you wait to rejoice until you have joy, you will only have it in seasons. But if you rejoice to have joy, you can have it all the time."

Brooks warns that "most of us pay attention to the wrong things" in marriage, in our faith, in life. Wouldn't you rather be constantly joyful - if even to be confused with delusional - rather than seasonal?

"Joy is the serious business of Heaven."
- C.S. Lewis

foto friday: up in the air

The best man on the planet turned 30 on March 6th (he brilliantly chronicled about this milestone here) and as a surprise I took him on a private flight around Toronto. As born-and-raised city kids, there isn't much left in the way of Grand Things that we haven't seen/done in Toronto: the ROM, the Museum, the AGO, the TSO, etc.

We joke that, last year, Andrew took me to the CN Tower for my birthday and this year, well, this year I took him a little higher.

Here are some of the highlights:

Chris, a friend from work, who has his piloting license.
Also very good with keeping secrets.

The plane. Smaaaaall.
Yeah. We're talking small.
The view!
A 45° angle. Fun > what you're imagining.
Handsome on his 30th.
Headphones = looking important.
Andrew flying for a bit! Toronto is in the distance.