wifercize wednesday: mr tickle

In 2006 I wrote about the Five Love Languages.  At the time, Andrew and I had been dating for a total of five months, so I was pretty sure that my results would be entirely different now that we've been married for nearly 2.5 years.  They weren't.

Complete set of results

Quality Time:		11
Physical Touch:		9
Words of Affirmation:		7
Acts of Service:		2
Receiving Gifts:		1

Take the quiz

I began to wonder if our love languages change at all over the course of our life time.  My childhood pretty much consisted of seeking an audience with various members of the family either before, during or after a cuddle, tickle, tackle or wrestle.  Nothing could surpass a road trip.  Endless hours of time together while sitting in close proximity.

How my husband is able to deal with this (especially when his second love language, when last we checked, was "acts of service" and I use my measly 2 less frequently than I should) is a mystery to me.  Thank goodness we both have "quality time" as our number one, because sometimes I wonder if my "physical touch" obsession concerns him.

Last night while we were making dinner I bounced around him (in a display not unlike our chocolate lab when we say the word PARK) and latched to him in a koala hug, possibly injuring his back.  I AM NOT ALONE.  Friends of mine share similar confessions: chasing, squeezing, and cuddling without consent are more frequent among wives than you might expect.

I hear this diminishes once children enter center stage and, wives-turned-to-mothers, our kind spends time chasing, squeezing and cuddling them instead.  Which is handy because babies can't run for the first few months or so.

I loved this book when I was little:

I loved that his arms could go anywhere in the house where he lived.  Upstairs, downstairs, out the front door.  For me, my arms only have to be as long as it requires for me to tuck my hand under Andrew's shoulder or arm.  We call it "plugging in": my love tank gets filled while I sleep.

mama mondays: just chill

Obnoxiously, one of the things I keep reading about conception is the need to relax.  This is about as helpful a piece of advice as telling someone who has arachnophobia alllll the scientific findings about spiders that make them harmless.  Well intentioned.  Entirely counterproductive.

In my quest to discover this elusive state of rest (am I allowed to call it a "quest"?...is that too stressful a term?...is my over thinking the subject contributing to stress levels?) I've come across helpful advice and not-so-helpful advice.

This has lead to a symptom not unlike having Arnold-as-Mr-Freeze narrating chill puns looping in my mind.




I read this article which was helpful right up until I clicked to the third page of helpful hints and discovered the title: "15 Ways To De-Stress Your Life" wasn't lying and that 15 individual tips were too many to remember.  I'm supposed to be relaxing.

Browsing my office copy of Chatelaine magazine (because I'm 30 and Canadian and not at all predictable) a few days ago I came across another article called "7 Days to a Stress-Free You".  Fortunately, the list down from 15 to 7 and also pitched a stress-free me in a week's time!  Unfortunately, the Getty image they chose to show relaxation was of a peppy woman flashing an energized smile as she ties up her running shoe.  No.

So I turned to TED.  There's nothing like a TED talk to make me feel like whatever I'm spending my life doing isn't big, exciting, weird, enlightened or brilliant enough...but in a good way.  This time, Nic Marks talked about the Happy Planet Index: a global index of the "happiest" countries on earth, based on human well-being and environmental footprint.



In it, he outlines the 5 Ways to Well-Being: 

1. Connect
2. Be active
3. Take notice
4. Keep learning
5. Give



I completed #1, "Connect", the other day by telling a friend of mine about my plans to decrease stress in my life this autumn, starting with a lighter weekly schedule.  She, knowing me well, responded:

"My only recommendation, the fertility expert that I am, LOL, is that you don't just plan to take more Sarah-time from your weeks, but that you actually do take it. "

And so I've successfully cut down my methods of relaxation from 15, to 7, to 5, to 1.  Just chill.

Sometimes it's easier said than done.

foto friday: sperma!

Andrew's Italian grandfather, nonno, is part retired construction worker, part backyard farmer.  Every square inch of his 10 foot by 10 foot lot (if that) is completely divided into small plots of vegetation, spices, or fruit.  He grows pears, grapes, cherries, tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, basil, several varieties of lettuce (or, as they refer to it in Andrew's family: "salad"), and even figs (which are not native to Canada) - every winter he lays the fig trees down in a hole he dug in the earth and covers them to keep them alive...every spring he uncovers them and sets them back up.

Andrew visited them a few weeks ago and as nonno prattled on in Italian about his harvest, Andrew realized that he used the word sperma for "seed".  Nonno told a story of one day seeing the most beautiful tomatoes but, pity, they grew in the garden of his French neighbour (nonno is very precise regarding national heritage).  Nonno walked up to the Frenchman's door, introduced himself, and asked to have a tomato.  The Frenchman refused.  Nonno, undeterred, impressed upon the Frenchman how amazed he was by the tomatoes, how he himself grew vegetables, and how he wanted the seeds (sperma) in order to introduce them into his own crop.

"Ah!" said the Frenchman.  "In that case, take three."

That was 15 years ago and nonno still uses keeps and uses the best seeds of the Frenchman's tomatoes.

It makes me wonder what we miss out on in our society.  I love that an old Italian and an old Frenchman can bond over their love and knowledge of growing vegetables, though neither of them were farmers.

Now that the nonno-genes are beginning to flow through my own Italian husband, I can see why he takes such pride in our tiny vegetable garden.  Instead of regretting the end of the summer, I'm looking forward to the harvest!

Pears.

Figs.

Grapes.

Tomaotes...

...the size of my head.

wifercize wednesday: travel companion

I just realized that half the time I write "wiferCize" and the other half I write "wiferSize".  Jazzercize is spelled with a "c"...should this make a difference?  Jazzercize is also a mix of "jazz" and "exercise" which is spelled with an "s" instead of a "z".  

Wifercize it shall be.

On a recent trip to Raleigh, North Carolina to visit with our good friends (and sometime pastors), Duncan and Kate, I realized two things:

1. I love (I mean l-o-v-e) traveling with my husband.
2. Marriage is, at best, shared life experiences.

Neither conclusion is ground breaking but both would be considered revolutionary by my previous self.  I used to love (I mean l-o-v-e) traveling alone.  By.  My.  Self.  Traveling in packs or even with one other companion would irritate me to no end.  My inner monologue was that of George Clooney's character in Up In The Air:

Never get behind old people. Their bodies are littered with hidden metal and they never seem to appreciate how little time they have left. Bingo, Asians. They pack light, travel efficiently, and they have a thing for slip on shoes. Gotta love 'em.

Traveling with others wasn't practical or fun.  It slowed my routine, it disrupted my contemplation, it ruined my pace, it killed my buzz.

On one of my last solo flights I sat at the window and stared out of it as the plane took off.  For an instant I pictured a husband - faceless and nameless - sitting beside me, reading a newspaper, fiddling with a cell phone, or otherwise being husband-y.  In my mind I turned to give him a kiss.  Nothing glamorous.  Just a kiss.  For fun.  I later wrote a poem about that image: my fictitious travel companion, and I was hooked on the idea from that moment.

flight to korea
november 2004

just one kiss
can’t I kiss you just once?
your lips on mine
just once
just now
I thought of you
your lips on mine
I smiled at you
in my mind
just mind
that you don’t waste
your kisses
save them for my lips
kiss me enough
your lips on mine
to make up for
today

Five years later, Andrew sits beside me and reads the in-flight magazine, plays games on his iPhone, and often tolerates a kiss (or two, or eighteen) from me.  I still prefer the window seat and he likes to offer it to me.

Last night I heard a Jamie Cullum song, All At Sea, for the first time in ages.  The lyrics used to be my anthem during the peak of my solo-travel days:

I'm all at sea
Where no-one can bother me
I sleep by myself
I drink on my own
Don't speak to nobody
I gave away my phone
Like a warm drink it seeps into my soul
Please just leave me right here on my own
Later on you could spend some time with me
If you want to
All at sea

Hearing those dismal words again reminded me of a second song, Swallowed In The Sea by Coldplay; the one Andrew told me was his favourite when we first started dating.  It became a kind of response to my resolute "all at sea" lifestyle, and challenged my isolation:

The streets you're walking on a thousand houses long
Well, that's where I belong and you belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea
You belong with me, not swallowed in the sea
Yeah, you belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea

I guess we are all susceptible of falling into one of two sentiments: either that couple-hood is the enemy, or that it is the answer.  I was once a card-carrying member of the former group but, although I don't fully agree with the latter, I now know that marriage solves many more issues than it creates.

Life, although whimsical enough if experienced unaccompanied, is best shared.

mama monday: link-a-lot

Here are a few of my favourite sites related to all things mama.  My love of babies dressed as bookworms is only surpassed by my love of witty writing so I hope you'll enjoy the selection.  Not all sites are suitable for work, men who are squeamish, or those with no sense of humour.

This site, called "Mila's Daydreams" was featured in the Globe and Mail last week.  It stars the daughter (Mila) of a mom (Adele) from Helsinki.  It's reached Antoine-Dodson-esque fame in a short amount of time since it's the cutest thing since Anne Geddes.  And 87% less saccharine.

I'm so proud to say I know these people.  Melissa, due on Thansgiving, and her husband, Jonathan, have been updating her Tumblr site, "Melissa Börger", with week-by-week countdown photos of the pregnancy.  Best.

"Pacing the Panic Room" was the original (and rudimentary, in my opinion) inspiration for Melissa's site.  Photographer Ryan took weekly pictures of his wife, Cole, leading up to the birth of their daughter, Tessa.  American Apparel heard of the project and began to send Cole maternity samples to wear in the shots!  The rest is blogging history.  For a completely adorable video of the whole process, click here.

A writer and friend of mine from university, Angela, started her blog, "The Half-Assed Housewife" a few years ago and is still not receiving the global accolades that her writing deserves.  Wife, mother (biological and of the fostering variety), knitter, vegetarian cook, and one of the funniest people I know.  The image below is from a notorious post you can read here.

New parents (as in, just found out they were pregnant a few weeks ago) Nik and Thea are friends of mine from university.  Their blog, "The Craptastics", is occasionally updated by Nik who still writes prose that can make me laugh out loud.  His poetry sucks though.

The original blogger-turned-celebrity, "Dooce", stands alone as my favourite blog of all time.  I once read through several months (years?) of her archives in one sitting.  Author (of blog and books) Heather likes to talk about wifehood, motherhood, living in Utah, her dogs, poop and boobs.  And that wasn't in order of prominence.

foto friday: table of contents, part 2

Here is this week's mixed pictorial narrative:

The TTC subway system shut down between Keele and Jane stations last week.  This crowd of people was. not. moving.  At one point, someone from miles behind me shrieked, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST START MOVING.  WE'RE GOING TO DIE HERE."  We just giggled.

 

 The Elmwood Spa, where Andrew and I retreat to when the knots in our backs require scolding.

 

This streetcar driver brought his son to work one day.  He allowed him to open and close the doors, ring the bell, and sound the horn.  Knowing the TTC, the child was probably unionized.

 

 What could be more awesome?

Enjoyed lunch with my friend Amy at Queen Mother Cafe on Queen West.  Their patio is accessible only by traveling first through the restaurant, down a flight of stairs, through a long hallway, past the bathrooms, and back up a flight of stairs - but the outcome is worth it.

 

Andrew sorting out his teaching materials on our dining room table.  He becomes Mr. Gazaneo to two special ed classes and a careers class on September 7th!

 

Yes, we do own the most photogenic cat on the planet.  How kind of you to inquire.

 

Life imitates art outside of Café Balluchon.  Yes, that last one is a koala.  

 

I, however, do not ♥ vampires.  Andrew have laughed through watched a few of the movies from the Twilight series and cannot fathom how such an inflated budget could have been spent on a cast who can't act.

 

wifersize wednesday: a civilization of two

One night, as Andrew and I were getting ready to leave a crowded pub, I squeezed behind a friend's chair to get out and Andrew followed behind.  I was already laughing that we were thin enough to navigate the tiny space, as Andrew asked our friend to pull in a little farther...

"We're skinny minis."

I thought it, and he said it.  Or did I say it?  The shock on Andrew's face let me know that we said it simultaneously, in the same breath, and with the same intonation.  It was as if I opened my mouth and his voice came out.

We joke about our "bluetooth" ability, a kind of marital telepathy, but this was bizarre.  Not only do we never use the expression "skinny mini" (who does?  grannies?) but the surprise of using it at the exact same moment freaked us out.  Thank goodness a table of friends witnessed the phenomenon.

Since that night, and subsequent retellings, the Skinny Mini Episode has joined the barrage of Gazaneoisms, turned up on Facebook, and is now used as a handy reference tool.  A replacement for the expression formerly known as, "Jinx!  You owe me a beer Coke."

This kind of stuff fascinates me.  I loved this quote from an article from The Boston Globe written by Joan Wickersham:

"I guess that most longtime couples have their own lexicon — phrases that have come out of some shared experience and entered the private language of the marriage...  There’s a clichéd idea that what makes people stay in love is things like candlelight and flowers and sexy glances across crowded rooms. All that is lovely, and it helps. But so does our nerdy private language. The language of marriage is personal. It doesn’t translate, and it’s not transferable. Nobody reading this column is going to start mentioning serrated knives or waiting rooms. You have your own phrasebook, developed naturally, over time...  And for me, it’s a way of remembering that first glimpse of marriage as a team, a civilization of two; and remembering how lucky I still feel that he and I share a language, and a life."

This post is, in part, a companion to last week's "editor-in-chief", since there are so many more personal idioms we allow than have been blacklisted.  We can share the stories, explain the intricacies, and lend it out like a Seinfeld episode, but I know that only Andrew shares my "nerdy private language".