foto friday: fa la la la la la la la la

Some yueltide photos to tide you over while I leave work early to finish my Christmas shopping...yes, the Christmas shopping I vowed to have completed by November 30th.

Less urination in the elevator, please.

If I could magically suck anyone's creative brain out of them and use it for my own, it would be Melissa's.  The following are some decorations she's implemented in their adorable, 2-bedroom apartment. 

 

The photo doesn't show it very well, but that's the fireplace station on cable TV.  With crackling sound effects.

 Our work Christmas party.  I've been pretty good at keeping the agency I work for vague (so as not to be dooced), and the tradition continues...

Our "Betty Draper" drank too much and had to nurse his mean hangover the next day.

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:

foto friday: first aid

Last week I attended a St. John's Ambulance first aid training course (S.J.A.F.A.T.C., for short).  Concerned as I was about having to potentially give a stranger mouth-to-mouth to pass the course, I ended up meeting some lovely middle-aged, power-suit-clad women who were all thrilled to be there: 

I did not have to practice mouth-to-mouth on any of them.

We were each given a hefty first aid manual to follow along from.  The diagrams kept me amused for most of the day - everything from how to deliver a baby (I spared you the image) to what to do with a severed human appendage:

Alas, mouth-to-mouth had to be practiced eventually and plastic dummies were handed out along with chest (similar to an air mattress foot pump) and makeshift lung (plastic bag).  I named him Esteban:

(In the above image you can also see the detailed notes I took purposelessly...our trainer gave us all the answers to the quiz and a little part of my A+ ideology died.)

Speaking of things that died, Esteban was not resuscitated despite multiple rounds of ventilations (2) and chest compressions (30).  Here, you see, he looks a little pale.

I did, however, pass (well, we all did - but I would have scored 100% if I was allowed the chance) and I'm now certified to save your life if you choke or have something lodged in your skin or are chemically burned or sever your hand or accidentally go into labour.

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)

foto friday: mannequins remind me of "today's special"

Sporadic postings over the past few weeks are due to a rather busy schedule, at work and otherwise.  As soon as I find a rhythm to this gong show I'll be posting again regularly.  In the meantime, may I distract you with pictures?

I'm genuinely beginning to wonder: are they teaching improper use of apostrophes in school now?  Infractions are more common than proper use.  Could someone who graduated grade school recently or with children let me know?

 Excellent marketing campaign: include a tiny QR code image on a poster for people to scan with their smartphones.  Place poster on the opposite side of subway tracks.

Another view Yonge Street from my office.  Even traffic can be beautiful.

One night last week Andrew worked late at his school for a long and boring meeting.  Amusing each other on our iPhones, I took this shot of Oberon and sent it to him.  "He looks skinny!" was my Italian husband's reply.  "Was he fed?"

LCBO's holiday advertisement clearly shows, beyond any doubt, that our dog is the preferred pet of young white couples in love.  

And we are a white couple in love.

There's something about this opera collar that makes me want to break into this Swavorski store front, bypass the jewelry, and steal the dress.

This mannequin shocked an appalled me, hiding around the corner of the Gap.  Boys will be boys.

Is it just me, or are the legs on these mannequins grossly unsubstantiated?

mama monday: guts

If you haven't acquainted yourself with the phenomenal site I Heart Guts take a moment or two to check out a few profiled organs.  I love any initiative that takes regular objects and animates them.  Like Marcel the Shell with Shoes On.



In keeping with the mama theme of Mondays, and the patience/hope required along the way to pregnancy, I've been thinking a fair bit about guts.  All those internal bits of us that (usually) feel nothing and (seemingly) do nothing.  They're just...inside.  Like the guts of a computer or a car.  Few understand how they operate and even fewer know how to fix them if something is amiss.

When I had a kidney infection, and because I had never before experienced the particular surprise associated with a kidney infection, I couldn't figure out what was wrong.  I'm not hungry...I guess I have a stomachache?...sort of a side cramp...but in my back...OK, now I need to assume the fetal position to keep the pain at bay...and now we're at the hospital and they're administering morphine and antibiotics and it's all over.  That was weird.

A scrap or cut or bruise is obvious, and the pain is acute.  Internally, things tend to work out on their own or send you muted, cryptic messages until a specialist is able to translate for you.  Guts are obscure, vague, enigmatic.

In African culture, I'm told, what we in the Western world refer to "heart" is not located in the chest but in the belly.  In Hebrew tradition (including translations of the Old Testament), heart and soul are intermixed with liver, stomach, and guts.  There was no separation for them: body, soul and spirit was one and the same. 

I know this to be true because when I'm sad I feel it in my stomach, and when I'm happy I feel it in my chest, and when I'm frightened I feel it shooting through my veins. 

Somewhere in my guts, I believe, God is sorting out the mystery of conception.  Somewhere in my guts, I believe, I harbour the hope that we'll meet the babies of our future.  Somewhere in my guts, I believe, I'll find the strength to bridge between the two seasons: waiting and welcoming.

---

"And the knowing in her guts

Something's still gonna grow

She ain't leaving 'till it does"

(Brooke Fraser, Crows & Locusts)

"By the God of your father, Who will help you,
and by the Almighty,
Who will bless you with blessings of the heavens above,
blessings lying in the deep beneath,
blessings of the breasts and of the womb."

(Genesis 49:25, Amplified)

wifercize wednesday: princess hair

I'd like to tell you of a time before wifedom.

When I was but a wee thing, my parents would read me Disney's Sleeping Beauty before bed.  The version, published by Disney Editions, included the original 1959 illustrations:

And, yes, I was a die-hard romantic at age 4 (although I really had a thing for Snow White's Prince Charming instead, because of the whole "Prince Buckethead" thing...anyone with me?)

(click to enlarge)

And, yes, I loved the mice and the fairy godmothers and the dragon-slaying and such, but what I was really fascinated by was Princess Aurora's hair:

The big honey-coloured locks, tapered down into a finely sculpted curl.  THIS was princess hair.  I had to have it.  Problem was: I had fine, pin-straight hair that defied all curl.

I became obsessed with princess hair for a 6-8 year period after that, sketching page after page of princesses with hair that I began to call "eight curls".  This was, simply, because I drew them using figure eights:

(I'm not making any of this up)

When I was eight years old I persuaded my mother to give me a perm* and gave her the strictest of instructions: "I want it to look like princess-eight-hair." 

* Error message: do not perm your hair if you only have a bob to start with and expect it to look like long, flowing Princess Aurora hair afterwards.  It will, instead, resemble Little Orphan Annie:

While I waited a few years for my clown curls to grow out, I resigned myself to the fact that I was born to have straight hair.  Not princess hair.  Not eight curls.  Just straight, straight hair.

. . .

UNTIL MY WEDDING DAY when Melissa attacked my mane for a few hours and unloaded half a bottle of hairspray on it and I came away looking as close to Princess Aurora as I ever had previously:

It was obviously perfect timing to celebrate the fact that I had found my Prince Buckethead Charming:

Most days, I use a curling iron to keep my princess-eight-hair looking princessy:

I have been officially approved by Adelaide Hardy, age two-and-a-half, who came to our church one Sunday and pointed to me throughout the service, whispering to her parents, "Princess!  Princess!"

Thanks, Addie.  xoxo