ugly truth

This morning, my husband sent me a link to an image of Uma Thurman's (recently?) renovated face.  It looks great.  But it doesn't look like Uma.  Uma's face, as Mia Wallace and Poison Ivy and Fantine and Emma Peel and Beatrix Kiddo, is gone.

The sadness I felt as I stared at this new Uma face and tried to find Uma in it was the same as when I stared at Renee Zellweger's face and tried to find Renee in it.  Like looking at one of those "magic eye" stereograms popular in grade school.

What scares me about plastic surgery is not its availability, popularity, aggressive marketing at the back of every fashion magazine, or even the horror stories of botched jobs.  What scares me is that Uma and Renee, talented, gorgeous, wealthy, acclaimed, beloved, and renown, somewhere along the way, thought they were ugly.

Although I (and my husband) are philosophically opposed to cosmetic surgery, and I doubt I'd ever have the budget available to have myself overhauled even if I was for it, I know that I'm not immune to the feeling of ugliness.  Just because Uma and Renee did something about it and I probably won't doesn't make me better and them worse.  We're similar in our struggles and similar in our feeling of ugliness.

If Uma and Renee thought their beautiful, beautiful faces were ugly, what hope to the rest of us have?

So here's a possible remedy.  I've broken it up into three parts.

1. If you know a woman, love a woman, sleep with a woman, are friends with a woman, or are related to a woman, tell them they're beautiful.  Be honest.  Be specific.  Be persistent.  Be poetic.  Be brave.  If you tell a woman "You're pretty" they may not believe you, but they'll find it hard to argue with "I love how restful and radiant you looked in the sunlight yesterday afternoon".
   
2. If you are a woman, believe it.  Don't look for opportunities to negate a compliment.  If your husband tells you he loves your face without makeup on try to imagine why he would, even if it seems impossible.  When your daughter tells you she loves you because you're squishy, accept that you are the zenith of womanly beauty to her.
   
3. Finally, shut your beautiful face about your ugliness.  There will always be "flaws".  They will multiply.  But unless you want to carve them out with a knife and suffer losing all sorts of character, personality, responsiveness, and cellular integrity in the process, it's time to embrace and shut up about them.  When you say you hate your legs a little part dies inside your friends who thought your legs superior to theirs.

Happy Valentine's Day, you pretty people.

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: 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: 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:

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: 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?

wifersize wednesday: the couple that prays together...

If the slogan were true, presumably, there wouldn't be a 21-34% (BTW: who keeps saying 50%?...let's find that person and tell them to stop being a party pooper) divorce rate among those claiming to be Christians.  But I'm not here to rant about divorce or why/when/where/how it functions in society.  I'd rather stick to Precious Moments™ stuffed angel dolls.

No one needs to tell married people that marriage is difficult.  We know.  Just last night I had a near meltdown trying to decide if I wanted to watch "The Client", "Double Jeopardy", or "Micmacs" for date night.  Was I in the mood for a thriller starring Tommy Lee Jones, a different thriller starring Tommy Lee Jones, or a foreign comedy?  We consulted each of the films' Tomatometers, watched the trailers, and eventually resorted to rock, paper, scissors (first, between thriller and foreign, then between each of the thillers).  Andrew learned last night that when I say, "I don't care" about a movie choice, I mean just that.  Making me care will result in me wedging my head between couch cushions to scream.

Life isn't always easy and it doesn't just end at date night movie selection.  Sometimes it's job selection, or car selection, or house selection.  Sometimes it's family holidays, or hard days at work, or trying to have a baby.

Last April, when Andrew and I were in Mexico for a pastor's retreat (sounds glamourous, I know, except that we were only there for 48 hours which was just long enough for me to contract a case of explosive diarrhea), he rolled over in bed and proposed, "Let's pray together before we go to sleep.  It doesn't have to be long, and it doesn't have to be every night, but I'd like it if we prayed together."

It seemed like a decent enough question - after all: we are pastors.  Some of you are horrified that we don't pray together all THROUGH the night but, no, we don't.  We're human too.  We like to dive into bed after a long day, kiss, and fall asleep as soon as our bodies allow us to (10 seconds, on average, for me and about 40 minutes for Andrew).  We'd pray together for The Big Things but hadn't, as of yet, prayed regularly, every night, for everything.

And, because we're human, it was awkward at first.  Often we'd forget.  Often we'd I'd pretend to forget when really I couldn't think of anything to pray about, or I was mad at something, or I just wanted to sleep.  But we became used to it and now we do it fairly regularly.  You know what?  It's really, really nice.  Nicer than I thought it would be.  There's something wonderfully soothing about your husband's-right-beside-your-pillow-voice chatting to God about the day, about the problems we both faced in it, and about people in our lives we love.

The Washington Post wrote an article a little while back entitled "Couples who share religious practices tend to be happier than those who don't".  In it, an interviewed woman sums it up nicely:

"Prayer is the great reconciler."

Since marriage is difficult I figure we should invest on being reconciled to each other at least daily.  And since God was with us on Day 1 of our marriage, it's nice to end each of its days with him.

"The family that prays together stays together; 

and if you stay together, you will love one another with 

the same love with which God loves each one of us."

[Mother Theresa]

wifercize wednesday: five years ago

Andrew came up with the idea to watch all of Seinfeld's episodes, from the beginning, as dinner entertainment.  And we did.  All nine seasons.  One episode at a time.  I now salivate when I hear the opening theme.

When we ran out of Seinfeldseses, we switched to How I Met Your Mother.  It's a current show, but we wanted to start from the beginning.  Because we're precise like that.  SO DON'T TELL US WHAT'S CURRENTLY HAPPENING ON THE SHOW.  Ted and Robin, like, just got together so I'm really, really happy right now.

I've often occasionally fantasized about telling our kids, one day, the crazy storie(s) that lead their dad and mom together.  In my fantasy, our kids listen with rapt attention to the labyrinthine tale of romance and intrigue.  In reality, I'll probably dish them pieces of it throughout the years as anecdotal warnings of what not to do.

However, if I were to tell our kids the story of how we met I'd have to start with the story a year before the story which, conveniently, was around the same time we each started blogging.*  Although we originally met ten years ago, it was 2005 that became the year of the set up even though we were on different sides of the globe.

September 7, 2005 (click here)
Andrew was on his first trip to Italy, visiting relatives and celebrating his grandparents 50th wedding anniversary.  His post outlined 11 thoughts from his travels, including:

"I’m ok on my own but I don’t want to be ok on my own… it would be nice to have a wife here with me."

September 19, 2005 (click here)
I was teaching ESL in Pyeongchon, Korea.  My plans for further travel to Scotland had been thwarted (hence the dramatic post), essentially forcing me to return to Toronto after my contract ended in November. 

Andrew started a young adult church, finished his B.Ed, and suffered mild heartbreak and I spent six weeks in Great Britain, and joined as staff at the YWAM base in Port Credit, and suffered mild heartbreak all before we reunited at Billy & Sarah's wedding on March 10, 2006.

Looking at these pictures, I want to say to them: "Don't worry, past me.  Your plans have been foiled for a very good reason.  Don't worry, past Andrew.  Your wife will come to Italy with you one day."

How does your story begin?


*  Andrew has been blogging a full year longer than I have, and I have reason to believe he'd want you to know.  Because he's precise like that.

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.

wifersize wednesday: a civilization of two

One night, as Andrew and I were getting ready to leave a crowded pub, I squeezed behind a friend's chair to get out and Andrew followed behind.  I was already laughing that we were thin enough to navigate the tiny space, as Andrew asked our friend to pull in a little farther...

"We're skinny minis."

I thought it, and he said it.  Or did I say it?  The shock on Andrew's face let me know that we said it simultaneously, in the same breath, and with the same intonation.  It was as if I opened my mouth and his voice came out.

We joke about our "bluetooth" ability, a kind of marital telepathy, but this was bizarre.  Not only do we never use the expression "skinny mini" (who does?  grannies?) but the surprise of using it at the exact same moment freaked us out.  Thank goodness a table of friends witnessed the phenomenon.

Since that night, and subsequent retellings, the Skinny Mini Episode has joined the barrage of Gazaneoisms, turned up on Facebook, and is now used as a handy reference tool.  A replacement for the expression formerly known as, "Jinx!  You owe me a beer Coke."

This kind of stuff fascinates me.  I loved this quote from an article from The Boston Globe written by Joan Wickersham:

"I guess that most longtime couples have their own lexicon — phrases that have come out of some shared experience and entered the private language of the marriage...  There’s a clichéd idea that what makes people stay in love is things like candlelight and flowers and sexy glances across crowded rooms. All that is lovely, and it helps. But so does our nerdy private language. The language of marriage is personal. It doesn’t translate, and it’s not transferable. Nobody reading this column is going to start mentioning serrated knives or waiting rooms. You have your own phrasebook, developed naturally, over time...  And for me, it’s a way of remembering that first glimpse of marriage as a team, a civilization of two; and remembering how lucky I still feel that he and I share a language, and a life."

This post is, in part, a companion to last week's "editor-in-chief", since there are so many more personal idioms we allow than have been blacklisted.  We can share the stories, explain the intricacies, and lend it out like a Seinfeld episode, but I know that only Andrew shares my "nerdy private language".

wifercize wednesday: editor-in-chief

Andrew and I both graduated from University of Toronto and majored in English and, although he doesn't think that Erindale campus "counts", Andrew is one of the only people I know who can match me in a battle of vocabulary.  We whisper sweet grammar in each other's ears.

The only possible downside to this situation (other than driving our friends crazy and making them nervous to write us emails, lest we send them back with a failing grade) is that we take our editors into everyday life with each other.  Clichés are out of the question, social memes are allowable only ironically, and sources must be quoted verbatim.

Over the years, Andrew has drawn the line with a few of my favourites.  He recently canned verbal usage of "O.M.G."  and refers to my punctuation as suffering from Commaitis.  I have parried with forbidding "praiselluia" and "B.T.dubs" (which is a horrendous short-form of "B.T.W." which is already a short-form of "by the way"...atrocious).  We hold each other to account each time we use the popular fillers such as "like", "whatnot", "what have you", and have almost eradicated any usage of the verb "to get", which I deem the Lazy Man's Verb (LMV for short) since you can almost always use another verb to explain yourself more clearly:

"I got this on sale." = "I bought this on sale." (better: "I purchased this on sale.")
"I got a cold." = "I caught a cold." (better: "I acquired a cold.")
"Did you get that?" = "Did you understand that?" (better: "Did you comprehend that?")

I hear the practice isn't uncommon to most relationships, including friends, siblings, and co-workers.  I'm curious: what colloquialisms will you not stand for?

wifersize wednesday: gentle people of san fran

More pictures here.

Andrew and I went to California for vacation last week and fell in love.  With California and with each other.  There was a lot of love going on.  California seems to have that affect.

During the week we were attending a school at Bethel Church in Redding, but on Saturday we opted for a road trip to San Fransisco.  Prior to the trip we joked about being as touristy as possible: wearing flowers in our hair, riding the cable car, and dancing like children of the night.  Unfortunately, we forgot to pick flowers, I rode the cable car for 30 seconds while Andrew took pictures from the rental car, and we danced-like-children-of-the-night in the car as we drove past the Palace of Fine Arts Theater because we couldn't find the entrance.

Despite the items that we didn't check off of our list, we spent the afternoon doing pretty much everything else.  Golden Gate Bridge, shopping at Haight/Ashbury (double rainbow!), and lurching down Lombard Street were all part of the day's adventures.  Everyone was right: we needed our cardigans.

By my favourite part of the journey was the six hours (three hours each way) spent in the car listening to satellite radio (Tchaikovsky on the way there, comedy on the way back), driving through the Central Valley of California (the birthplace of valley girls), distinguishing almond trees from olive trees, and daydreaming together.

A friend of mine recently went on a canoeing expedition with her husband in Temagami for over a week.  She told me that they canoed for eight to nine hours every day with hardly anything said between them.

I've always loved the idea of shared silence between spouses.  So much of marriage is based on communication (...talk about the future, talk about your fears, talk about your feelings...) that it's a treat to say nothing and let all the thoughts and love hang in the air like wisps of smoke.

And that's what I'll remember of our trip to San Fransisco.

wifercize wednesdays: la fiancée

Other than having a fancy French title to call each other by, many couples discover that engagement has few frills.  While congratulations, gifts, and parties are plentiful they usually find themselves overwhelmed and under-rested; at some point at least one of them will grab their beloved and, with a look of crazed enthusiasm in their eyes, whisper: "LET'S JUST ELOPE."

The list of duties cascade like endless confetti, celebratory and chaotic, all while the betrothed are required to juggle family traditions, budgeting, premarital counseling, sleep deprivation, and losing (or gaining) a dress size or two.  Sadly, romance threatens be squeezed out of what should otherwise be a very romantic season.

Andrew and I survived engagement fairly well, thanks to the best family and bridal party two people could have, but it was not without its hiccups.  If you or someone you know have recently shed a tear over reception seating arrangements, here are a few guidelines to help you keep perspective:

1. Learn to delegate.  Even the Martha Stewarts of us need to learn to give jobs away to those who are eager to help.  Moms, sisters, aunts, cousins, bridesmaids, friends...they might be hesitant to inquire (remember when you gave them a seven page printout of detailed instructions regarding the last time they asked?) but, trust me, they want to support and help you.  Let them.
   
   
2. Don't sweat (literally) the small stuff.  Almost every blushing bride is nervous about their appearance in one way or another.  I must grow my hair longer, I must lose pounds, I must stop losing pounds, I must tone my arms/butt/stomach, I must be more tanned, I must whiten my teeth, I must improve my complexion...  Think about it: by now (hopefully), your fiancé has seen you weeping mascara all over your face, lying on a couch with the flu, red in the face during a fight, and after a PMS induced ice cream binge.  He has still thought it wise to invest a lot of thought and money into purchasing a ring to adorn your untanned finger.  To him, you are beauty.
   
   
3. Keep perspective.  Your wedding might be the biggest event of your life so far, but what lies just beyond it is far superior to it in terms of importance, enjoyment, and length.  Make sure your hopes for a special day don't land you with a mountain of arguments and debt to sort out in your first year of marriage.  In the wise words of my mother: "This too shall pass."
   
   
4. Take a look at him.  This crazy man has begun a process that will end in him promising to love, protect, protect, challenge, encourage, support, and sex you up for as long as you both shall live.  Don't let him get lost in the yards of tulle.  Make time to have a regular, weekly date night where wedding details are off the agenda (this will have to be your initiative, since it's usually us who casually bring them up...all...the...time) and you can spend time remembering why you're doing this in the first place.  Because you've found your man.

It's only a blip in the spectrum of your life but engagement is loaded with lots of opportunities to enjoy yourself, your future husband, and your prenatal marriage. 

Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the "Fiasco"--family honoured pun on fiance.

- A Room With a View (E.M. Forester)

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: married sex

During the credits of "Date Night", Steve Carell and Tina Fey's overworked, middle-aged, suburban characters make out on their front lawn after rekindling their romance throughout the film. Oh, *spoiler*, sorry. I'm pretty sure you would have worked that one out on your own. Please go out and see it: it's a great movie and I laughed so hard at one point I thought I almost threw up.

The make out session prompted Andrew to conjecture on the way home that Hollywood was really changing it's game: portraying sex as a sign of a happy relationship.

"Wha-at?" I argued. "Hollywood ALWAYS shows the sex side of relationships!"
"No, I meant of marriage relationships."

He went on to remind me of Meryl and Stanley's adorable portrayal of Julia and Paul Child in "Julie & Julia", as they romped around in their bedroom in Paris (while Julia memorably narrates: "Morning class ends at 12:30, then I go home and make lunch for Paul...Then Paul takes a nap.").

I can remember the tag line of a Carlsburg commercial that aired a few years ago:

"A friend of mine once tried to tell me that the best sex I'd ever have would be with my wife. He was right."

Not only am I a big fan of married sex, but I also wonder if we all - deep down - are fans of it because it means comfort. If an unmarried couple hooks up on screen we feel excited, nervous, and titillated. If a married couple acts scandalously, we giggle. We're a little embarrassed, yes, but also pleased. And...comforted. Married sex means commitment, married sex means permanence, married sex means (eww!) OUR PARENTS.

How many people of my generation grew up seeing their parents hug, kiss, flirt, and joke with each other? But for those who did (and I consider myself incredibly blessed to be in this group), were we not pleased? We'd be making gagging sounds but, inside, we knew that they were still very much in love and that meant that we were safe.

Growing up, my brothers and I would yell GET A ROOM when our parents kissed in front of us. EW, GROSS, DON'T DO THAT HERE, GO DO THAT SOMEWHERE PRIVATELY (...but, really, we like it and it makes us happy inside...)

Andrew and I are happily sending the message to anyone that will listen that marriage is good, that married sex is the best sex, and that PDA is not only healthy but necessary for the security, comfort, and education of those who look up to us. Half the time we don't even mean to - it's just that good! On Wednesday, Andrew had my favourite flowers delivered to the office for no particular reason. The note read: "I love you. I always will. Andrew."

And thanks to my brother who casually pointed out to me: "You might want to keep your vacuum away from your neck next time."

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

Wifersize Wednesday: manly men, part 2

(click above image to read the ad)

Last week I posted about a turn I recently spotted in media: masculinity revived. Seems as if I wasn't the only one.

Heated debates here: The Inspiration Room, here: NY Daily News, here: WalletPop, to link but a few (including ones on websites called feministing.com, treehugger.com, and jezebel.com...natrually). Just type "dockers ad wear the pants sexism" into Google for more inspiration. You'll have your fill of "Does the Dockers ad campaign promote sexism? Click 'yes' or 'no' now!" banners.

Can't sexism go both ways? Haven't we been telling men to shut up long enough that they have forgotten how to speak up? Haven't we been telling them that they're stupid long enough that they've stopped giving their opinion? Haven't we been telling them that we're strong enough to do our job as well as theirs that they've let us?

(this can also apply to other "isms"...haven't we been telling our culture that youth prized above age so we are devoid of the wisdom that honouring the wise brings?)

When I read the Dockers print ad in the Metro on Monday, I was impressed. Impressed by its composition, impressed by its wording, impressed by its balls. I know this world would benefit from men who aren't afraid to be manly.

Just so we don't misunderstand each other: I'M ALL FOR EQUALITY. Equality does not mean sameness. I am equal to Andrew, but very (very) different. Andrew was the first to say that he didn't want to marry a pastor's wife, but a pastor. We are equally strong, ambitious, creative, educated, and opinionated. We plot together, plan together, produce together, and promote each other. But I love it when Andrew wears the pants.

Last night, for Tuesday Date Night, we caught "The Young Victoria" at the Revue Cinema. Emily Blunt and Rupert Friend do a tremenous job of portraying the young marriage between Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. It's not without its feuds over gender roles. Imagine, instead of who wears the pants it's who wears the crown! And yet their hope for a solid union - in marriage and reign - was in allowing Albert to be more than a first-class servant boy, and instead a man, a husband, and a father.

fruit of self-control

It started this morning when I read over someone's shoulder that 32-year old Adam Giambrone, city councillor, TTC chair, and mayoral hopeful, publicly admitted to engaging in multiple "intimate relationships" other than with his live-in girlfriend, Sarah McQuarrie. Bummer.

I've written on political sex scandals before, as well as how things should be done, but, to be honest, I'm tired of even hearing about it. Sex scandals have become ubiquitous.

My own opinion of Giambrone has been altered little (as a TTC patron I had hoped for improvements, not fare hikes), but still I'm saddened. I'm sad for my husband, who admired (perhaps vicariously) Giambrone's young ambition, I'm sad for the politicians who had supported his run for mayor, I'm sad for Sarah McQuarrie, I'm even sad for Kristen Lucas - the U of T student involved in one of the affairs. In my opinion, no one wins.

I'm sad for Giambrone. It seems that the self-control he lacks has plagued him for a while. Last year he was in the news for a "hastily-composed email" he sent to a fellow councillor:

“Stop messing in my ward or there will be problems. I generally ignore your actions, but I am going to start looking for ways to cause trouble for you and when I start you’re not going to appreciate it.”

I thought we outgrew this behaviour in grade school. Bummer.

Later this morning I came across news that legendary guitarist John Mayer had created a stir in the news after recently giving a candid, yet sordid, interview. He then tearfully apologized. But much like Giambrone, it was not his first brush with vulgarity. His interviews interviews and antics have become increasingly distasteful. He admits that he "fell into a wormhole of selfishness, greediness and arrogance".

A few months ago I wrote about etiquette and the lost art thereof. At the heart of etiquette, or common decency, is self-control. Andrew and I call it "the filter". Filtering out what shouldn't be said or done and allowing what should. It's not just a case of battling against your urges, appetites, and bad habits for the sake of piety, or points, or good karma. That's an exhausting, never-ending, and ultimately backfiring solution. I know: bummer.

The reason we make stupid decisions is because we're trying to fill a lack. We don't need to let off steam in emails, or let loose in office daliances, or let a "quest to be clever" dictate our vocabulary, or let ourselves run up on stage and grab the mic to voice our opinions... What we need is a dose of being told we're better than those things. That we'd be OK - we'd still be loved, admired, satisfied, understood - if we didn't do those things.

The lives we envy are lives governed by self-control. A happy marriage, a successful career, and a sensitive conscience are just by-products.

"Everything is permissible"—but not everything is beneficial. "Everything is permissible"—but not everything is constructive. Nobody should seek his own good, but the good of others.
(1 Corinthians 10:23-24, NIV)

"A bit in the mouth of a horse controls the whole horse. A small rudder on a huge ship in the hands of a skilled captain sets a course in the face of the strongest winds. A word out of your mouth may seem of no account, but it can accomplish nearly anything—or destroy it!"
(James 3:3-5, The Message)

Carter Duryea: "Dan, you seem to have the perfect marriage. How do you do it?"
Dan Foreman: "You just pick the right one to be in the foxhole with, and then when you're outside of the foxhole you keep your d**k in your pants."
Carter Duryea: "That's poetic."
("In Good Company")