foto friday: hot time, summer in the city

Here are a few shots snapped over the past three months.  Hand-picked, rinsed and presented for your viewing pleasure!

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Back when the weather was at record-breaking heights and I was scheduling my life by moving my pregnant bulk from one air-conditioned environment to another, my friend Jessica and I spotted this charming employee of The Good Neighbour on a break.

Yes, he wanted to see if it was hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement.

The third wedding of the season.

I know, right?  I almost passed out from an overdose of cute.

Solomon, beating the heat in our backyard.

Apartment-viewing with Sarah, my sister-in-law.  This apartment, on Roncesvalles, was posted for just under three days and inspired a parade of hipsters to stand in the rain and wait for a viewing.  Just another day on Ronceez.

The first peek at Baby Gaz's nursery!  I doubt if this drawer will ever be as tidy as it is now (have you ever tried to fold a newborn-sized onesie?) but it was so fun to organize.

The fifth wedding of the season. 

Andrew at childbirth class, learning how to properly change, clothe, and swaddle a fake newborn.  He's a champ.

Fake newborn changed, clothed, and swaddled!  The proud papa displays his accomplishment full of confidence and poise.

foto friday: in memory of 518 jane

Now, from the archives of my iPhone's camera app...

A few weeks ago, my good friend Nicole Evans was wed in Sunbury, Pennsylvania.  Nicole has starred in my blog before, as we once were roommates at the best apartment in all of apartmentdom, 518 Jane: Where Life Is The Party.

This is the diner where we all ate breakfast.  A full breakfast in Sunbury was $3.49.

This was the incredible wall hanging at said diner that was beyond words. 

Baby squirrels have emerged from our neighbour's eavestrough (we are OK with this, primarily, because they are cute and it's not our eavestrough).  This is the closest I could get to three of them - there are four, but one is a bit of a mama's boy and stays inside most of the time.

This is how much fur we can brush off of Solmon once he begins to shed his winter coat.  Better outside on the porch than inside on my floor.

Every year, our church runs a youth conference called Freshwind for thousands of youth.  I have attended the conference for many years and Andrew and I ran it for the past three year in a row.  Since we're no longer youth pastors we don't run it anymore which, this year, was both odd, and very freeing.  

Oberon, hunting wild birds on BBC Life.

My mom and I went to Elmwood Spa in celebration of mother's day.  This was the third picture we attempted to take, but were laughing too hard to take properly.  My mom peed a little.

Here lies The Couch from 518 Jane: Where Life Is The Party.  It was a good couch, and had a good life. It has gone to live in Couch Heaven.

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

foto friday: four fluffy feathers on a fiffer-feffer-feff

Some photos that are mildly entertaining and, at very least, diverting on a Friday afternoon.

 Dinner at a friend's house - after spoiling us rotten with an incredible meal, we were presented with this homemade dessert.  Haze courtesy of its heavenly aura.

 

 

My brother, and basement tenant, helping us set up our new couches from IKEA.  We assumed that couches would, at least, come fully assembled and not require the hated allen key.  We assumed wrongly.

Andrew and my sister-in-law, Sarah.  Not so much helping.

A fancy photo of the juicy tomatoes we harvested from our garden.

Our new video conference screen, whereby we can view all four, newly merged offices: Toronto, Montréal, Atlanta, and New York.  The top right-hand corner shows me, in Toronto, taking this picture.  The bottom-right screen corner shows New York's office, looking at Toronto office, and me taking the picture of them in New York...and me in Toronto.  Next up: holodecks.

A fancy picture of our dog, Solomon, attempting to retrieve his yellow tennis ball in a carpet of yellow leaves.  Photographer: my husband.

These make me want to call the number.  EVERY SINGLE TIME.  If it wasn't for my husband's logic I think we'd have one of those crazy cat houses.

I'm offended that this is the type of junk mail we're receiving now.

Melissa's adorable little salon set-up, where she did my hair for Jordan & Noel's autumn wedding.

Her vintage salon chair.  Can you stand it?  I can't stand it.  It's too cute.  Make it stop.

Jordan (screenwriting graduate) and Noel (journalist-in-training) and their incredible, theatre-themed wedding held at Capitol Event Theatre.

This guy is superhot.  So, incidentally, are my red shoes.

I don't know if I would ever seriously wear one of these, but I'd give respect to anyone who did.

Our cat, Oberon, in our bedroom.  Where he should not be.  Which is why he is looking ruefully back from whence he came.  Because am in bed...with a squirt bottle in my hand.

My awesome brother dressed up as his hero, Antoine Dodson for Hallowe'en.  Actually, for Sunday church on Hallowe'en morning.  Which makes him even awesomer.

And as soon as Hallowe'en is over...

I love packages from our Montréal office.  I'm "Mme".

 NICOLE, LOOK!  CHRISTMAS CAME EARLY!

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: bedside manner

On Saturday of the long weekend, my three-and-a-half-day-stomach-cramp turned into a more sinister stabbing-and-pulsating-pain-that-wouldn't-go-away, so we drove to ER at St. Joe's while I rode in the passenger seat curled in the fetal position. From this position I was still able to see the Snowbirds practice their Labour Day routine in the skies over Toronto, which is why I included them in my post picture. The fetal position didn't really help, it just made me feel...like I was helping?

The real star of the show was Andrew. He didn't laugh at my bottled pee, he alerted nurses to my increasing pain while we sat in the waiting room, he held my hand and WATCHED them insert an IV into not one but two! veins (I later told him it felt like the newbie-nurse was inscribing her signature on the inside of my arm) before it worked properly, pretended that what I mumbled while on morphine was brilliant and response-worthy, went home to fetch my own pillow when we found out I would be staying overnight, amused me during the wait for an ultrasound the next morning, and brought Aventureland for us to watch on his laptop during the grueling, all-day wait for the doctor to read the ultrasound results.

Results: kidney infection.

Between the nurses, the doctors, and both moms I realize that this is a serious enough issue to be taken seriously. Seriously. But, for a moment, can I relay a few of the highlights?

Imagine the busy ER of an inner-city hospital, bustling at all hours to provide comfort and care for members of the community from every possible walk of life. Now imagine that you're behind a thin curtain on a gurney approximately 2.5 feet wide and impossibly short for even my 5'3" frame, with an IV injecting morphine, Gravol, antibiotics, and saline into your body via a needle that requires your arm to be not exactly straight but NOT BENT EITHER (lest the digital machine it is connected to alert the entire medical staff that you have BENT YOUR ARM), while a drunk homeless gentleman recently admitted to a bed across the hall is yelling to a team of nurses, "Y'know what? You and you should get MARRIED. Yeah, you two. Y'know why? 'Cause yer both a$$holes, thaz why. YER an a$$hole, and YER an a$$hole. You'd make a fabalous couple."

Oh, did I mention it's approximately 3:30 a.m.? Now try to sleep.

G'head. Sleep.

Instead of sleeping (or, rather, between hour-long snatches of sleep I collected throughout the night) I noticed the watermark on a ceiling tile gradually expand from half a tile to an entire tile over a 12 hour period (I brought this to a nurse's attention), became a pro at managing my own IV drip machine (including turning the incessant beeping off when the saline ran out), and kept my eye out for a "woman, age: 62, weight: approximately 150 pounds, shoulder-length grey hair, wearing blue blouse, blue jeans, and sneakers" that seemed to have a habit of wandering off from wherever she was expected to be and having a "code: yellow" announcement narrated (four times) over the hospital intercom system on her behalf.

When I heard Andrew shuffling in my curtained-off-room at 8:37 a.m. the next morning (did I mention what a star he was?) I woke up from my half-sleep and felt better despite the gurney, the IV, and the all-hour ER activity. We didn't do much over the next day, Sunday, other than travel from the ER to the ultrasound area and back to the ER, watch a movie, and kid around with a few visitors who came to see how I was (Andrew blew a surgical glove up like a fat hand for Amanda, our cousin, until it suddenly exploded and we shook in silent laughter while we overheard another visitor attempted to explain the sound to an elderly patient who was, apparently, half-deaf: "It's OK, it was just a balloon popping...A balloon popped...IT WAS A BALLOON...A BALLOOON!!!").

During one of the lulls we discussed how we couldn't remember exactly how we had included the "in sickness and in health" bit into our wedding vows, which we wrote ourselves, but we were sure we included something like it. It didn't matter at the time. I saw in his actions, heard in his words, and felt in his multiple little kisses that there was no where else he would have rather been than at the hospital with me, waiting all day for ultrasound results. And with him with me, it didn't seem like that long a wait.

So when he tells me to sit down and rest already, or remember to take my tea that helps heal my urinary tract, or tells me it's lights out while I'm checking my iPhone in bed, or forbids me to do even the slightest lifting because YOUR KIDNEY, WHAT ABOUT YOUR POOR KIDNEY? how could I not submit?