wifersize wednesday: margot tenenbaum, a case study

I have a friend, Angela, who writes much better and wittier than I do and who recently became a mother. Long before Gabe (or "behbeh", as she fondly refers to him in her blog) appeared on the scene however, she and her husband were parents of the fostering sort.

I vaguely recall them giving updates on their application process (I was a young, wild, single 20-something at the time and like way more interested in cute shoes than I was in their life-altering decisions) and, then, what seemed like a few weeks later (I think it was years), they were attending our wedding with a child in tow. A foster child. He was adorable and, somehow, Angela and her husband looked more adorable with him. The girl I had attended university with, had perfected my writing craft with, and had made lewd jokes with, had turned into a foster mom.

Before we were married, Andrew mentioned that he had been inspired by a youth leader and his wife who adopted. At the time (and, to be honest, sometimes even now) the idea intimidated me. I had always dreamed of being a mother but via the regular, grow-an-embryo-in-my-uterus kind of way. Mothering someone else's child? Calling it my own? What if I didn't bond to him/her? Or, worse yet (especially in the case of fostering), what if I did?

I am still in awe of and inspired by couples such as Angela and her husband, that influential couple in Andrew's life, and Carlos and Catherine who in the process of adopting a boy. It makes me wonder: would I have it in me? I'm not sure what the "it" even is. Love? Endurance? Goodness?

I'd be worried that I'd duplicate the scene from The Royal Tenenbaums of Royal stating, "This is my adopted daughter, Margot Tenenbaum."

It's not a question we have to address any time soon, but it's a question that lingers. What are your thoughts, stories, and opinions on adoption/foster care?

"I would like to thank what this film is about for me which are the moms that take care of the babies and the children no matter where they come from."
- Sandra Bullock, 2010 Oscar acceptance speech for The Blind Side

dear michael flatley

I went to your show Lord of the Dance last night in Mississauga.

I'm wondering what the thought was behind taking a centuries-old tradition, such as Irish step dance, and turning it into a low grade strip show? It wasn't enough that the makeup on your female dancers resembles the later years of Tammy Fey, nor that their stylized Playboy bunny wigs must have weighed them down by ten pounds, nor that they used on-stage prop columns to swing from and grind on, but did they have to whip their Velcro-attached shirts off to reveal (albeit Celtic-designed) sports bras and matching cheerleader skirts? I was with my 11 year-old nephew and 75 year-old grandfather at the time, but couldn't cover both of their eyes simultaneously.

I'm also curious as to the audition process in selecting your male dancers. Obviously the male lead - the one painstakingly selected to replace you in the part that was so obviously written for you...by you - was a tremendous dancer, but the rest? If the girls are attempting to reprise (in content and notoriety) the 1995 film "Showgirls", could the guys at least lose their beer guts? It's convenient that you made sure wardrobe had them fitted with plastic Celtic chest plates but the love handles managed to even leak out from under them.

I've noticed, too, that you've used flashy (ooh! strobe light!) effects, near-naked girls, and plastic Celtic chest plates to cover the fact that your dancers are feigning proper poise and skill. Indeed, I was so overwhelmed by your prerecorded, base-boosted soundtrack that I almost missed the dancers arms limply hanging by their sides instead of tautened. My own Irish dance teacher, Michael Patrick Ferrell, would have sworn at me in Gaelic if he caught me lazily dancing in the manner of your troupe.

And speaking of Gaelic, you could have ensured that your lead vocalist knew an Irish lilt before giving her three solos. Instead, she roamed the stage, each costume more alarming and each tiara larger than the time before, until she stood before us in a thigh-slit evening gown, fishnet stockings, and ruby red lips, waiting for the sash to complete her victory as crowned Miss America.

I would gladly blame the creator, producer, or director for these follies but, as the program pointed out, you are all three. In fact, in the page you took in outlining your extensive and acclaimed career, I found it interesting that the dancers were not mentioned by name at all. One would assume a talent agent or two would have requested recognition, considering their clients' performances included partial nudity. I also found it odd that your biography (autobiography?) did not mention Riverdance because, without it, you would not be the celebrity you are today.

And therein lies the rub. Riverdance made you, but you couldn't be happy. After a dispute with the team (there is no "I" in team...), you broke off and less than a week later had begun work on (Michael Flatley's) Lord of the Dance. In interviews you boasted that Riverdance could never replace you, as talented, brazen, and open-shirted as you are. But they did. Internationally, many times over. And you went off to create, produce, and direct that embarrassment I saw last night.

I commend you. Lord of the Dance effectively does away with the repressed, Irish tradition of unparalleled dance technique, disciplined live bands, and mythical Celtic storylines. In place of it, you provide a mediocre, nameless dance troupe acting out West Side Story meets Wicker Park, wearing bedazzled spandex neon aerobic outfits.

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."

foto friday: keg mansion

A few weeks ago, Andrew and I enjoyed a fabulous dinner at the Keg Mansion downtown. We had been accumulating gift certificates as thank-yous and Christmas presies for a while, and realized we had enough to eat an entire cow each.

We were sat in a room on the main floor just off of the main dining hall, called The India Room, or the Delhi Room, or The Bombay Room, or something. The Curri Room? Anyway, the decor was stunning so I figured it was time to check out the new TiltShift Generator app on my iPhone.





My cow was particularly delicious.

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

number 38

I heart the website Stuff Christians Like (a spin off of Stuff White People Like, which I also heart) and its creator, Jon Acuff, posted this a few weeks back. So I responded. As did 726 other people.

However - and I'm not sure how he decided - I became #38 in a 127-question quiz Acuff wrote called:

The “Is that contestant on American Idol a Christian? Scorecard”

38. Wears TOMS shoes = + 1 point

To add up your score with over a 130 other ideas on this scorecard, visit stuffchristianslike.net.

The questions were assigned at random which is awesome because I ALSO LOVE TOMS SHOES.

Because I'm a Christian. And I'm white.

foto friday: dodie's chair

My great-great aunt Dorothy is a legend. We all called her "Dodie" since my grandmother (when she was a child...that's how far back Dodie goes) couldn't pronounce Dorothy. Dodie lived through two world wars, scarlet fever, and 20+ years as a retired, single woman living in a high rise at Yonge & Bloor. She passed away when I was 18 but she's still one of my heroes.

When she, in her 80s, was diagnosed with cancer she invited family members to her apartment to pick out what they'd like to take. The thought horrified me, mostly because it was my first old-person-almost-about-to-die situation since my grandmother died when I was 8, and partly because I just wanted Dodie to stick around. Forever. I didn't want her stuff, I wanted her.

When I was younger (5? 6 years old?), as we walked through Queen's Park to feed the pigeons, I asked her, "Dodie, when I have kids you're going to be their great-great-GREAT aunt, right?" Dodie squeezed my hand and answered, "We'll just see, won't we?"

Now here we were, her closest family members, in her apartment on Isabella street, half-visiting and half-scoping the place. I remember sitting near her oversized armchair, on the floor, with my back against the arm while she played with my hair. She asked me what I wanted to take. I said nothing. "Pick something out, for me. It would be nice for me to know what you took."

In the end, I asked her travel journals and photo albums, and a poem about the city of Toronto she had written and my uncle Jeff had framed. I remember feeling pleased that it pleased Dodie to have me ask for those particular things. To me, Dodie was a world-traveler but was also a Torontonian at heart. Just like me.

Along with those prized possessions, I inherited a few pieces of furniture after she died. They've resided with me in four apartments and, now, in our first house. One of them was her oversized armchair which we've opted to reupholster and put in our (current) guest room/(future) baby room.

And when our baby is old enough, I'll tell stories about great-great-GREAT aunt Dodie. We'll sit in the oversized armchair and look at travel photo albums.

Anyone know of a reputable reupholsterer?