wifersize wednesday: gentle people of san fran

More pictures here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

wifercize wednesdays: la fiancée

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

wifercize wednesday: chosing a champion

A few nights ago I sat down with my favourite girlies to watch "The September Issue" but didn't get past the first trailer.  Instead, we talked.  For two hours.

We talked about growing up as squares in high school, about health and fitness, and about boys who turn into men who turn into husbands who turn into fathers.  Two of us, married, marveled at the labyrinthine path that lead us to being a Mrs., while one of us, single, sang the "all the best ones are taken" dirge while we sympathetically disagreed.

I'll tell you, guys, what women are drawn to.  We might look you over once, twice, or even for six years, but that doesn't mean that we haven't noticed you.  We're looking for signs of strength, for signs of courage, for signs of honesty, for signs of kindness.  Confidence is great (and touted as the number one characteristic for both men and women who are seeking) but it's not enough. 


It takes more courage to admit weakness than it does to boast of strength.

Recently, I was watching the trailer for "Eat, Pray, Love" and, although I don't like the premise of quitting your life in order to find it, I loved this quote:

"You don't need a man.  You need a champion."

And, contrary to popular belief, a champion is not someone who wins at any cost.

It's a paradox - we feel most comfortable with a soft/strong man - but if you can't handle paradox, mister, you ain't gonna be able to handle a woman.

wifercize wednesday: let's get (a) physical

 

There are still moments that sneak up on me that remind me: you're not your own person anymore.  The in-laws, the shared accommodation, the bed, the I'll-let-the-dog-out-then-you-grab-the-breakfast-and-lock-the-back-door-while-I-start-the-car Sunday morning routine: all of these are reminders that I have become used to over two years of marriage.

The latest reminder was finding a family doctor.  Andrew grew up with a family doctor who delivered him and still remembered his allergy to peaches when Andrew visited in his 20s.  Then Dr. Tennenhouse retired.  

My experience was of a vaguely-remembered family doctor through infant and childhood, and several friendly but utterly forgettable doctors in walk-in clinics and E.R.s as circumstance dictated.  Since 2006 I have been registered with the marvelous Dr. Donna Edwards, but her office was close to North York General.  Which is not close to us.

So Andrew and I realized: WE need a family doctor.  A doctor for US.  After many months during which we realized that every MD in the High Park, Roncesvalles, Bloor West Village and Junction area (much like every house in the neighbourhood) was happily occupied and would most likely continue to be happily occupied by the offspring of their occupants until the end of time, we were given insider information.

Andrew's mom, a medical secretary, had heard of a new family doctor just southwest of us who was accepting new patients.  We booked an appointment.  We love him.  He's professional, relaxed, funny, works from an iMac, has an iPhone, and drinks from an Obama mug.

And, just like that, we have a family doctor.  We sealed the deal with booking physical check-ups for both of us in the same week (I mean, nothing seals a deal like having your nether regions prodded by the same doctor and giggling about it in the kitchen later).  

A family doctor for us to share, a family doctor to have for years to come, a family doctor to take our kids to, a family doctor who will, hopefully, still know our kids when their in their 20s.

foto friday: my guy

This week is a mishmash of Wifersize Wednesday and Foto Friday, since Wednesday attacked me like a barrel of rabid monkeys.  My one faithful fan keeps reminding me when I miss postings.

I think some people assume that we're lying or exaggerating when Andrew and I tell them how great marriage is.  For this reason, I figure I might as well keep mentioning it. 

On Wednesday (yes, barrel-of-monkeys Wednesday), Andrew came by my office to give me a bouquet of flowers.  My favourites, Gerber daisies.  When I rejoined the lunch crowd, the jokes began.

Dude 1: "Flowers?  What did he do wrong?"
Me: "Nothing.  He just brought flowers."
Dude 1: "He didn't do anything that you know of."
Me: "No, really.  He does this sometimes."
Dude 2: "He totally did something.  He's just buttering you up."
Dude 1: "So that when you find out, he hopes you'll just think of flowers."

No amount of explanation could deter them from the idea that a husband would only bring flowers to apologize for something, or that I could be so easily distracted by bright foliage. 

I shrugged and replied that I had a husband that occasionally made other husbands look bad.  The husband in the room stopped the conversation, followed by the single guys, since...well, there isn't much to say after that.  The graphic designer went back to eating the delicious lunch that his mom had made him.

A little friendly competition isn't always a bad thing.

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.