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: the new domesticity

One of the blogs I follow, Pacing the Panic Room, recently featured a few guest posts by the author's wife, Cole, here and here.  I've been in love with this blog ever since Ryan (a photographer) began posting shots of his wife's pregnancy and I've been hooked ever since.

Although I usually scan the blog for pictures I found myself reading each. and. every. word. of Cole's Q&A session because a) she's cool, b) I think we could be friends in another life, and c) she has a wicked sense of humour.

One of the questions a fan sent in was:

Dear Cole, Where do you turn to for inspiration? Favorite books/magazines/websites/movies/pop culture?

Cole answered that she recently read Radical Homemakers and Made From Scratch - which, incidentally, are two books on my Amazon.ca Wishlist in case you're interested and you should be because my birthday is coming up next week - and this only heightened my fictitious BFF status with her even more.

I've written about homemaking before and, since taking a work-from-home position with the church, I've found myself thinking about it more and more.  What does it mean to be a homemaker?  How much of a homemaker can I be if I buy everything ready-made?  How can I express my creativity in-home and make our house an expression of who we are and what is important to us?

One of the main draws of books like Made From Scratch is that people, like myself, are feeling a draw back to making things ourselves.  Not picking them up, prefabricated, from a Big Box Store and displaying them as if they were our own creations.  There's a "new domesticity" (a term coined and explained further here) that is more than just hipsterism.

We want to be a part of making things.  It's what humans were created to do: create!  And, yes, it cuts costs and impresses people and gets you hipster status as well.

I encourage you (wifes, husbands, singles, anybody!) to begin your adventure into the new domesticity.  It'll be messy, because the instructions won't come with the packaging, but you'll learn something about life, and yourself, along the way.  I promise.

A good place to start would be looking up DIY projects online the next time you run into a household problem, search creative blogs for ideas to yoink (I like yoinking from ApartmentTherapy, Design*Sponge, Piewacket, Remodelista, and DesireToInspire, to name a few), check out The New Domesticity's group Flickr account, read books like the ones mentioned above (also Domestic Bliss by Rita Konig is another one), go to yard sales ("One man's trash is another man's treasure"), keep your eyes open for curbside adoption options, have clothing swaps with your friends, live a sustainable lifestyle, recycle, sew, build, cook, and get your hands dirty.

Here's a video I stole from my brother's Facebook page to get you all inspired-like.  Don't forget to let me know what projects you get up to!

Makers: Mini Maker Faire Toronto from Ryan Varga on Vimeo.

wifercize wednesday: husbandry fail

I like gardening.  

It is not to be assumed that I am good at gardening.  Like I enjoy painting but generally with my hands and instead of for the purpose of art more for the purpose of getting messy.

For a few weeks little envelopes would show up at our house addressed to Andrew from various locations around the world.  The States.  Thailand.  At first I thought he was buying magic beans, like Jim tricked Dwight into trading on The Office, but they turned out to be organic seeds.

My husband is very good at gardening.

He had ordered lettuce, red lettuce, mint, rosemary, and basil seeds.  I promptly offered to plant and nurture them for him.  

This picture would be less impressive if you knew just how much went into establishing that these plants WILL NOT GROW.

First: the lettuce (of regular and red variety) planted and bloomed nicely at first.  Then I made the error of transplanting my two red lettuce experiments into larger containers, an operation that did not agree with half of the red lettuce family.  Although it could have been the vinegar.

Second: the vinegar.  I planted the mint and rosemary (top two middle containers) one sunny morning and read the package carefully: both required gentle misting as opposed to direct watering.  I grabbed a water bottle from our kitchen and misted generously.  Mist, mist, mist.  Mist, mist.  By the time I began misting the red lettuce for fun I could smell the distinct odour of vinegar.  Because I had grabbed our vinegar/water mix that we use to DISINFECT THE SINK.  

I Googled "vinegar + gardening" to realize that vinegar does, in fact, have several functions in the garden.  All of them lethal.  How to kill grubs.  How to kill weeds.  How to kill germs on gardening tools.  How to keep neighbourhood cats away.  

Third: planting seeds too deeply.  Although the package read "plant 1/4 inch below the surface" I tried ignoring the instructions for the lettuceseseses and realized what they meant by 1/4 inch was barely dusted in potting soil.  Hence, the lettuce's (partial) success and the basil's utter defeat (top right container).

Now when I look at my little plot of farming I see this:

and I hope that lessons learned in the garden are learned only once and this means I will one day go on to have a long and prosperous career as a horticulturist.

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: absence makes the heart grow fungus*

* A moment of silence for The Barenaked Ladies of the 90s [...]

It's been four nights apart, but it feels like much longer.  For three years of marriage, Andrew and I have not been apart for longer than one night - partially circumstantial and partly by choice.  We're fortunate to both work in the same city at jobs that rarely require travel (or, at least, are flexible enough to allow us to travel together).

During this span of apartness I've thought a lot about couples I know who must spend weeks, even months, apart at a time.  My friend, Courtney, found out on a Tuesday that her husband, Gerritt, was being deployed on Wednesday afternoon for Libya.  For, potentially, six months.  Marriages like those, I think, have such an incredible structure of trust, support, encouragement and compassion that they deserve admiration equal to Notre Dame; each spouse adding a flourish of stained glass here, a supportive flying buttress there, resulting in a monument of love.

Our four nights have been spent restlessly: Andrew getting to sleep later than usual because his Skype conversations with me and me waking up multiple times in the night to adjust Andrew's temporary replacement.

Thanks to the magic of Skype, however, we have been able to talk to each other once (OK, three times) daily about everything from the trite details of our day to updates from the pastors meetings.
 

As you can see by the second photo, Andrew's enthusiasm for being documented waned as the conversations continued.  In fact, he informed me that if I didn't stop taking pictures (the tell-tale sound effect of which was audible to him) that he would cancel his video stream.  So I stopped.

Three sleeps left to go, which should be manageable enough.  Since I go everywhere with my MacBook clutched to me in case Andrew comes online and, this morning, called Sandra (our senior pastor) "Sandrew" by accident, I'm sure my travel companions will be happy when three sleeps have passed.

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: crushes, part 1

After watching Easy A (three times in two weeks) and then Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (which is arguably the best movie ever filmed) I began to recall the angst of high school days, and high school crushes.  You know the kind: the relationships that launched, flourished, and terminated without ever materializing outside of your own contemplations.  The crushes you (still) refer to by their First and Last Names.

The tales only made tolerable through self-deprecating humour and, preferably, Emma Stone playing a quirkier, prettier, more triumphant version of your high school self.

All names used are real.  I apologize if you just now discovered that I am blogging about our fictitious romance over a decade after we went to school together through the magic and horror of Google.  But, then again, you're the one Googling yourself so we can share in the humiliation.

First came Hart Massie.  I didn't realize that his first name was effeminate or his last name derived from the famous Massie family.  I just thought he was cute.  We began "going together" (my mother's term) sometime at the end of grade eight, after our year-end trip to Québec City.  Halfway through summer holiday a friend asked me, "Hey, how's Hart?"  I had completely forgotten we were dating. I called him up and we both agreed that a forgettable relationship was one which didn't require continuation.

His best friend, Dave Foster, systematically dated each of the girls in our group of friends starting with me.  He asked me out by tucking a piece of paper into an the case of an empty permanent marker and passing it to me during class.  The note read: "Would you like to go out?" and two boxes accompanied the proposal, a YES and NO.  I checked YES.  We broke it off a week later.

Ingmar Mak was my first alterna-crush.  He was Asian, super smart, creative, hilarious and quick.  Too quick.  Once, during a class we shared, the teacher had not shown up (this detail, in retrospect, is peculiar - what teacher just doesn't show up for class?) and we were all busying ourselves by doodling on the chalkboard.  For reasons beyond comprehension, I took a piece of chalk and wrote "I ♥ INGMAR" in billboard-sized font.  BUT: I WROTE IT IN CODE.  It was a stealthy code used in many intimate high school correspondences between girls.  It was airtight.  Except that Ingmar knew the code.  And Ingmar was confident enough in his findings to summon my, and everyone else's, attention.  "Sarah, does that say I ♥ INGMAR?"  In my panic, I recanted.  "What?  No.  Did you think-?  Oh, no, not what I wrote.  You're probably thinking of the other code..."  I improvised a variation of the well-known code and wrote it up on the board for all to see.  I only discovered later that, according to my made up code, I had written "I ♥ INGQAV" which was not only a phonetic impossibility but also eerily resembled Ingmar's name.

Mack Fyfe, or Matthew Ian Fredrick Darian Fyfe, had the coolest name I had ever heard.  We were schoolmates and also performed together in musical performances at the community Beaches Arts Centre.  Our British director, Anne Butler, referred to us as "hooligans" and spent half of our precious rehearsal time telling us to pay attention.  He is one of a handful of people who can match my energy level.  In a performance of Good News!, a musical, Mack's character said of my character: "She's like a wool sweater.  Hot and drives you crazy!" and, in Jack the Ripper (again, another musical, if you can believe it) his character referred to my character as "Slaggy".  I thought it was endearing until I found out it was a British form of "skank".

Poor Tristan Ticmanis was keen to get my phone number for what seemed like the majority of grade 10. I finally acquiesced by giving him all the digits of my phone number except the last one.  I changed the last one.  That's how cunning I was.  It took him a few months and then he worked out that the phone number I gave him was not the same as the phone number all of our other friends had for me.  I pleaded insanity.

Stay tuned for Part 2 next week.  This is too good to give to you all in one dose.

wifercize wednesday: double time

The question remains: what will I do with my time after next Wednesday at 5:00 p.m.?  (Not that I'm counting the seven days, two hours, and thirty-eight minutes until then.)

As with most of my dramatic decisions, no matter how spontaneous they appear, I put a ridiculous amount of time, energy and contemplation into resigning from my job.  Keep in mind I have been a faithful soldier in the army of corporate administration for a decade.  I can answer phones, coordinate schedules, book appointments, edit correspondence, order supplies, photocopy files, file photocopies, and Brother P-Touch™ label like a champion.  Sometime simultaneously.

Once I'm off the grid, however, where will I find definition?  CBC radio recently reported on the influx of baby boomers hitting retirement age.  The first wave of them have celebrated their 65th birthday but many are loathe to leave their places of employment: for 20, 30, sometimes 40 years they have defined themselves through career.  Once they're out the door, they face the question that a job has answered for them for more than half their life - what do I do?

Practically, I've worked out that I'll be pastoring part-time with Catch the Fire (Andrew and I have been pastoring youth and young adults for seven and four years, respectively) while Andrew continues to teach high school at YDSB.  But that won't define me.

I hope that the tension between who I am and what I do will dissolve and blend in wonderfully nebulous titles: wife, mother, pastor, sister, writer, daughter, homemaker, friend.  I hope that I will live up to these titles in ways I previously have not.  I hope to diffuse the arguments such as:

"Nobody objects to a woman being a good writer or sculptor or geneticist if at the same time she manages to be a good wife, a good mother, good-looking, good-tempered, well-dressed, well-groomed, and unaggressive."  (Marya Mannes)

And I hope to do this by way of example.  I might be frustrated and challenged along the way, I may end up Brother P-Touch™ labeling everything in sight for an afternoon out of habit, I may find myself fearing my self-imposed retirement, but I also may discover that who I am and what I do are not mutually exclusive but mutually comprehensive.

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: cyber-sentimentality

I have a stubborn habit of having to know.  I just...have to know.  I have to know what you're laughing at, I have to know why you have that scar, I have to know why the lady on the bus is frowning, I have to know how to reupholster a chair*, I have to know when I'm going to become pregnant, I have to know who said the pope could be the pope.  Dan Brown recently told me the answer to that last one.  It's the answer that suits me, anyway.

* (I hope to reupholster a chair of ours and document the chaos progress on this blog.  Stay tuned.)

Andrew and I knew each other for six years before we started dating but that didn't stop me from Googling the heck out of him after our first date.  Family, fine, schooling, fine, interests, fine...that was all covered over Pho and, later, over coffee.  What I really wanted to know was what Andrew was like when I wasn't around.  The best way I know how to experience this is with the wondrous gateway of Google.

A friend of mine aided me in my quest, and we began to email links we found to each other.  The further we scrolled, the more delicious the outcomes:

I figured these moments of discovering e-nuggets about my husband were over.  I WAS WRONG.  Recently, while looking up his Wishlist on Amazon [lover, you didn't read that...at least, not until I give you your gift tonight] I happened upon a much older Wishlist of Andrew's.  First, his profile:

This, I love.  "Andrew D. Gazaneo".  It's not enough that Gazaneo is one of the rarest Italian names on the planet, nor that his family is the only family that shows up in a Canada411 search, Andrew felt it necessary to include the "D".  For "Domenic" - his father's name.  That's just so...Andrew.  Not to mention that the only point he decided to include in his profile is "My dog's name is Comet".  This too, is true.  Or was.  Comet was Andrew's dog since he was 10, and he passed away probably around the same time as Andrew when created this profile.  "My dog's name is Comet" is just as significant a characteristic as "D" for Domenic and he wanted Amazon to know it.

This archaic Wishlist had but one item on it:

A Panasonic DVD-L50 Portable DVD Player...by Panasonic.  "Currently unavailable" probably due to the decrease in DVD sales and, with it, a decrease in all items DVD related but, at one time, Andrew had his eye on this piece of technology enough to add it to a Wishlist.  He wished for it.  I can tell you why.  Firstly, it's portable.  Andrew is nothing if not practical.  I would bet he was thinking long-term and the lightweight, easy-to-handle, travel friendly body of this DVD player in particular appealed to him.  Secondly, Andrew was and still is an avid movie fan.  What better way to watch his beloved legal thrillers than on a built-in colour LCD monitor?  Lastly, it received an admirable 4.5 stars out of 5.  This means that Andrew did his research, as he still does to this day.  I'd put money down on the fact that he read the majority of all "142 customer reviews", if not all of them.

And there it sits, added October 27, 1999, "unpurchased", like a tiny time capsule of longing.  If I knew him then as I know him now it would have been purchased, delivered, wrapped, and presented to him with all the love in the world.

The irony is that Andrew had his name drawn at a church Christmas function when we were dating and won a portable DVD (or was it CD?) player and it remained in its original packaging until we re-gifted it a few years later.

Tonight, Andrew is being ordained as a pastor, legally recognized as a minister by the provincial government.  He's put in so much energy, time, and passion into the long-term vision of our church, he's researched all the stipulations, and, although he might not have turned out to be like Tom Cruise's character in The Firm, he is still a sexy beast and now has something better to brag about than his really hairy chest: he is the Reverend Andrew D. Gazaneo, his dog's name is Solomon, and his wife is very, very proud of him.

wifercize wednesday: suzie home-maker

It hit me like a sneeze.  At first, a slight tingle - an itch, really - barely perceptible and mostly ignorable.  I think it began when my mom gave us a subscription to House & Home for our one-year anniversary.  No harm done.  Just a magazine.  But then the tickle grew, the eyes began to twitch, and the mouth formed a turned-down crescent.  I began to bake (a foreign tradition to me, as my mother was more of a cook than a baker).  I discovered I liked baking.  And Andrew liked my baking.  I tried my hand at gardening.  I requested patio furniture.  For my birthday.  Now, the urge is irresistible.  No amount of superstitious preventative measures could possibly stop this impulse.  I weekly check home decor blogs such as Covet Garden, Remodelista, and Design*Sponge.  We ordered two matching grown-up couches.  I revel in doing laundry, cleaning dishes, and Swiffering.

Eyes squeezed tight, face distorted and stretched, a large gasp of breath, held, and...

I've caught the home-making bug.

As surprised as I am to have been struck with this contagion, I largely blame my married status, my home ownership, the influence of my wife-friends, and my biological clock - which once I assumed was digital, but has now morphed into a city hall clock tower.

Don McKay, a Canadian poet Andrew introduced me to when we were dating (the story is a little more romantic than that: we were at Starbucks on a date, one of those Starbucks attached to a Chapters, when he grabbed my hand, pulled me into the poetry section, selected McKay's Camber from the shelf, and read selections to me out loud, such as: "I want to spread the shed years on us as a mulch"...I know...I win - and others which I posted a few months later) wrote in his book Vis-à-Vis: Field Notes on Poetry & Wilderness:

"Home, we may say, is the action of the inner life finding outer form; it is the settling of self into the world."

I love that sentiment.  Our home, our little house nestled in what otherwise would be a strictly Portuguese neighbourhood, with its butter-yellow stucco exterior, its heating/cooling issues, its dark bamboo flooring, its seamless blend from living room to dining room to kitchen, its two matching grown-up couches, and its tiny patio furniture on its tiny patio is an expression of Andrew and myself.  The bamboo floors are scratched because we love our chocolate lab, Solomon.  The dish rack is nearly always full because we love to feed our friends.  We have three 6.5-foot bookshelves, all full, organized into fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and reference, by author's last name, because we both graduated with English degrees and love literature...and we're anal retentive.

It's our little plot of land.  A little plot of land that speaks of who we are on the inside.

What McKay continues with explained my current fancy with home-making:

"To make a home is to establish identity with a primordial grasp, yes; but it is also, in some measure, to give it away with an extended palm.  We might try to sum up the paradox of home-making by saying that inner life takes place: it both claims place and acts to become a place among others.  It turns wilderness into an interior and presents interiority to the wilderness."

I've been pondering what a funny thing home-making is. Its a dusty concept, buried behind suffragettes, feminists, and mommy wars.  It makes me think of Betty Draper, coiffed and at home, preparing meals, keeping house, and gossiping with neighbours over cocktails.  But if home, as McKay puts it, is weighty enough to warrant the definition "inner life finding outer form" why should a the role of home-maker be so drôle? 

I'd like to think that the movements begun on our behalf by women who we will never meet were to give us the freedom of selection.  When home-making was the only entrée on the menu, our choice was limited, and social norms cruelly kept us there.  Likewise, if being a career mom with children in daycare were the only widely accepted option for women, the equation would still be unbalanced. 

I watched the movie Mona Lisa Smile when it first came out, and one speech in particular stuck with me all these years:

Joan Brandwyn: You stand in class and tell us to look beyond the image, but you don't. To you a housewife is someone who sold her soul for a center hall colonial. She has no depth, no intellect, no interests. You're the one who said I could do anything I wanted. This is what I want.

I'm eager to experience for myself what home-making will offer.  I'm eager to see what my particular brand of home-making will incorporate.  I'm eager to turn wilderness into an interior and present interiority to the wilderness.

---

She looks over a field and buys it,
   then, with money she's put aside, plants a garden.
First thing in the morning, she dresses for work,
   rolls up her sleeves, eager to get started.
She senses the worth of her work,
   is in no hurry to call it quits for the day.
She's skilled in the crafts of home and hearth,
   diligent in homemaking.

(Proverbs 31 woman)

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):