foto friday: pieces of me

On Canada Day last week our good friends, Jon and Melissa, traded a one-bedroom apartment in Little Portugal above a bar for a two-bedroom apartment in High Park with open lawns.  Mostly because of this.  What I love about the situation is that she can now paint and decorate to her heart's content.  Which she's doing wildly right now due to what I believe to be the "nesting phase".

And if that's calm, easy going, laissez-faire Melissa in the "nesting phase" then we're in for a reorganization of the city of Toronto when I get pregnant.

I love moving.  Not just moving myself (which is grand), but even moving other people.  I'm the person who doesn't have to organize their sock drawer when you ask for help on moving day.  It must be my latent wanderlust.

While the boys lifted heavy objects and made grunting sounds, Melissa and a I began a systematic cleanse of each room as they were emptied.  Dust, sweep, mop, done.  As I swept the floor of their living room I accumulated a few piles of what most people would consider to be junk.  But these piles made me smile.

If you know Melissa, you'd see her represented in that pile the way I did.  I found guitar picks.  I found peacock feathers from her wedding decor.  I found empty tealight moulds.  I found pine needles from their oversized Christmas tree.  I found sequins.  I found beads.

I started to think about all the piles of junk in my life that I've wanted cleaned up.  Old relationships, errors in judgment, disappointments, heated arguments...  In my rush to have God make like it never happened I often don't take time to realize that he's not a fraction as upset as I am.  Even in the piles of junk, he's smiling at the pieces of me that are represented in that mistake, that stall, that entanglement, that frustration.  The pieces of me he made.  The pieces of me he loves.

"so let go, jump in
oh well, whatcha waiting for
it's alright
'cause there's beauty in the breakdown"

Let Go, Frou Frou

wifercize wednesday: hot or cold

As much as we hate our blizzards (unless they result in snow days or military rescue, because those are fun) we Torontonians loathe our heat waves.  It's been the third (fourth?) day in a series of blistering days and I thank God for the air conditioned office I've been able to spend 8 hours of each of those days in.  

Last night, for the second night in a row, Andrew and I slept downstairs (which is at least three latitudinal lines cooler than upstairs) on the pull out couch.  "Slept" is a disputable term since our cat, Oberon, likes to tap dance on mommy and daddy when they sleep downstairs.  

What astounds me is that even when it's in the mid-30s outside, with the humidex making it feel like you're in someone's mouth, my feet are still cold.  Not COLD-cold, but definitely cooler than the rest of my body.

Next to sharing blankets, the temperature discrepancy is one of the top arguments of newlyweds.  Half the time (literally, half: girls, did you know your body temperature is warmer in the last half of your cycle?) Andrew refers to me as his hot water bottle, throwing my limbs away from him, whinging, "It's so HOT." and half the time I have the duvet tucked up to my chin to stay warm.

The one constant is that my feet remain cold.

10 in 10

At the church that I pastor we've been doing a series entitled "Change & Growth". It's been a time of transition for us as a congregation (new name, now new location) so the theme has come in handy.

My question for myself, you, God, the universe in general, is: do we ever stop being in the season of transition? Even as Andrew and I grew accustomed to marriage, our in-laws, our new house, our new pets, our jobs, etc. there were other areas taking their turn at the Wheel of Fortune.

A new haircut, a birthday, traveling...even the seasons keep us actively adjusting to change. Today, for example, I left the house sweating (a friend, without exaggeration, tweeted this about Toronto's recent heat wave) and had to buy a cardigan at lunch because I'm shivering at the office.

I guess that's why Jesus called the Holy Spirit "The Comforter" and didn't promise us constant comfort.

During the whirlwind that was the time leading up to my 30th birthday and afterward, I failed to post a finale for my 30 Before 30 countdown. I think the first thing I decided to do in my 30s is NOT MAKE LISTS OF MORE THAN TEN ITEMS.

So I came up with a new list: 10 In 10. In the next decade I aim to:

1. Become a mother.
2. Have three books published.
3. Read all of C.S. Lewis' works.
4. Travel to Italy.
5. Move to High Park.
   
6. Take vocal lessons.
   
7. See everyone in our small group happily married.
   
8. To collaborate with Andrew on a CD.
   
9. Sharpen my prophetic gift.
   
10. GET MY DRIVER'S LICENSE.
    

What about you? Are you coming up to (or have you just achieved) a milestone in your life? What are the goals you've set to keep you moving forward?

A man thirty years old, I said to myself,
should have his field of life all ploughed, and his planting well done;
for after that it is summer time.
- Lew Wallace Everything

Everything I know I learned after I was thirty.
- Georges Clemenceau

At twenty years of age, the will reigns;
at thirty, the wit; and at forty, the judgment.
- Benjamin Franklin

return of the mack

Two months' hiatus must have done WONDERS for my readership however, for those of you still reading, you deserve an explanation. In the past two months I was laid off from one job, sat around eating up through my severance package for five weeks, interviewed for another job, interviewed for a second job, between the two jobs landed the one I preferred, and began this past Monday.

Add a husband who recently picked up a 3-week supply teaching gig in a special needs class, a lengthy list of things to do around the house that I finally had time to do, the announcement and consequent moving of the church we pastor to a new location, a trip to Montreal for our second anniversary (as per tradition), and my 30th birthday.

SO NOW YOU KNOW WHAT I WAS UP TO.

For my 30th, Andrew - the dear - bought me a very pretty new MacBook. My iBook G4 and I have had so many pleasant memories (I began this blog with her in 2005) but it was time for her to retire. The new MacBook erased any feelings of grief I might have felt.

A new decade, a new job, a church neighbourhood, a new set of dreams, and a new laptop to post on. Life is good.

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."