wifercize wednesday: BANG

When Andrew and I go away for a week or weekend we have a friend, Matt, come to stay at our house and look after our pets.  Matt has performed this duty on many occasions, being a fan of both cats and dogs (rare) and a clean, responsible house guest (rarer still, for a bachelor). 

LADIES, MATT LOVES CATS AND DOGS AND BABIES AND IS SINGLE.  You can stalk him more efficiently on his blogs here: imattchell.tumblr.com and here: thebachelorguide.tumblr.com.

Matt quite often makes comments, via Twitter, about our house when we are away which we then read in airport gates or hotel rooms and chuckle, because they are usually about the substantial amount of pasta we keep in the pantry or the substantial number of quotes we have written on our fridge.  The last time Matt came to stay he made a quip regarding the substantial volume of hair products I collect in the upstairs bathroom.

Volume being the operative word.

Ever since I took a pair of child-safety scissors in first grade and cut off an inch-long lock of hair (they can't cut fingers but oh! how marvelously they cut hair!), which my mother found out about, and I may have denied, the details are fuzzy, but it was harder still to deny the hole I later snipped in the front of my private school pinafore, because they marvelously cut fabric too! I just had to know! and I was strictly informed to only use scissors on paper or crafts or other such constructive activities, ever since THEN I have been fascinated with the ability to change my hair.

As you will remember, my earliest memories of hair fantasy began with Princess Aurora's long, full curls.  I had straight, flat hair so it was difficult to achieve but I'm still trying.  Hence, shampoos and conditioners marching along every available ledge of our shower promising "volume", "extra volume", and "maximum volume". 

I suppose one could conduct a study in the number and type of toiletries a person collected and the corresponding lack of confidence in the area those products guarantee to cure.  Moisturizing products for the self-consciously dry.  Bronzing products for the self-consciously pale.  Smoothing products for the self-consciously rough.

For me, it's hair products.  Armies of hair products.

Last night, for date night, Andrew and I watched "High Fidelity" and it reminded me of another hair-related obsession I have struggled with, third only to volume and curls: bangs.  In honour of Rob Gordon (played brilliantly by John Cusack), I give you...

THE TOP 5 LIST OF MOVIES THAT INSPIRED ME TO CUT MY BANGS EXTREMELY SHORT:

#5:  It started innocently, with Julie Andrews in "The Sound of Music".

#4:  Then not-so-innocently, with Angelina Jolie in "Girl, Interrupted". 

#3:  Then Iben Hjejle's character in "High Fidelity".

#2:  And, always and forever, Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast at Tiffany's".

#1:  But the most influential, most desired, and most illusive cinematic bangs, for me, were Audrey Tautou's in "Amélie".

No matter how hard I tried, my baby-fine hair wouldn't conform to the forehead fringe I saw on the silver screen.  It probably didn't help that whenever my stubborn bangs would rebel, I simply cut them shorter. 

And all this ties into Wifercize Wednesday because Andrew knew me when I had crazy bangs and crushed on me anyhow.  That's when you know you have a winner, ladies.

mama monday: hibernation

Anyone else kicked in the crotchola by the Christmas holidays this year?  After/while surviving a two-week bout of laryngitis I hauled myself to seven holiday parties (down from nine; see: laryngitis), four family parties, a wedding in the States, and lead a three-day young adult conference whilst keeping house guests from England. 

I CAN DO ALL THE THINGS!

This type of lifestyle flies in the face of my end-of-summer mantra: dolce far niente.  Here it is, 2011, and I'm admitting that my last goal met its defeat in just under three months.  Instead of dolce far niente-ing I've been keeping a schedule that looks like this:

And feels something like this:



This four-minute TED talk from Arriana Huffington reminded me again to refocus: we need rest, not simply as a luxury but as a prescription, to accomplish our goals.  She quotes:

"The way to a more productive, more inspired, more joyful life is getting enough sleep.  And we women are going to lead the way in this new revolution, this new feminist issue.  We are literally going to sleep our way to the top."

Two friends of mine simplified my goal for me and I've been pulling their words around me like a woolen throw when I feel a draft of despondency in the baby making journey.

Melissa blogged:

"I now know the sweet enjoyment of the small things, the things we miss while going about life a hundred miles per minute.  I watch Noah as he takes in life around him, sucking it in through his wide eyes, trying to stay awake so he can soak in more.  He inspires me.  I don’t just go to the store now, I take a walk, I hear the leaves crinkle and the wind blow, I feel and taste the crisp air, I take pleasure in going to the store.  I don’t just sleep, I rest. I go to coffee with a friend, I really listen.  I enjoy and appreciate my husband on a whole new level, he is now a father. I don’t just eat I savour.  I buy my favourite dark chocolate, I deserve it.  I listen to Christmas music, even if it's too early.  I kiss my little boys cheeks and hands and feet till their red."

And Nicole emailed:

"Your kid is going to effect this world in a major way - BabyGaz can't be born at just any time, it's got to be the RIGHT time. Take heart, friend. You're doing great. You just keep on being immersed in love and let the magic happen. It'll all happen at the right time."

I'm looking forward to 2011 because, for the first time in long time, my schedule looks like this:

And, this year, I hope to keep it that way.

wifercize wednesday: food poisoning

It all started with my winter boots.

I have a great pair of winter boots, Steve Maddens, that my mom bought me a few Christmases ago.  They have served me well, providing warm, protective foot shelter for two winters.  The only trouble with them (and Steve, the jerk) was their COMPLETE LACK OF TRACTION.  I'm not joking.  The bottom of these "winter boots" were as smooth as a baby's bum.  And, speaking of bums, I was tired of mine being bruised.

STEVE MADDEN, I DEFY THEE.

Instead of purchasing new winter boots I thought it wise and cost efficient to have mine re-soled instead.*  After consulting a few women at my office, I discovered the best and cheapest option was just outside Bay station in an underground concourse.  A little man with an indistinguishable name took my boots, traced his gnarled fingers along them like he was deciphering braille, quoted me a decent price, I talked him down**, and we shook hands.

Hungry, and nearing the end of my lunch hour, I stopped for a chicken shawarma in the food court.

CHICKEN SHAWARMA, I DEFY THEE. 

After work, Andrew and I drove to the east end to attend a traditional English Christmas party at my parents' house.  Mince pies and Devonshire cream and sherry, oh my!  The festive spirit wasn't hitting me in the same way as in previous years but what was hitting me was an undeniable urge to get some fresh air before I threw up.

And then I threw up.

And then we drove home.

And then I threw up.

And then we went to bed.

And then I woke up at 2:30 a.m. to throw up.

And at 4:30 a.m. to throw up.

And again at 6:30 a.m.  Not to throw up, mercifully, but instead to go through all the motions and muscle spasms of throwing up without a result.  Because nothing was left.  So I sat on the bath mat dragged over to the toilet, frozen and hunched over - the perfect tableau of a cat expelling a hairball.

It was like my body was a computer system searching for any perceivable trace of the offending shawarma and getting rid of it by any means available.  EJECT!  EJECT!  EJECT!

At 7:30 and at 8:30, respectively, I woke to my stomach rolling itself over carefully, inspecting, and ready to EJECT! anything else it might discover.  By then, my system was wiped clean.

I spent the day, zombie-like, lying on the couch and being nursed to health by Andrew who first made me ginger tea (like, ginger boiled in water) and then a simple homemade chicken broth with rice and carrots, which I was only able to stand around 4:00 p.m.  Any mention of food, any thought of it, even Andrew making himself normal, unpoisoned food in the kitchen, even watching actors eat in the movies we were watching, produced an elevator-drop-like reaction in my gut.

The very word "chicken shawarma", even now, comes with a visceral warning much like: "Don't even think about it.  I will turn this car around."

As we went to bed on Saturday night, my back in knots and my abs sore from throwing up, my face pallid, my hair in a half-attempted French braid to keep it out of the tea, the soup, the toilet, and the throw-up, I laid my head on the pillow and patted Andrew's cheek.

I told him I loved him and I meant it.  He told me he loved me and I knew it.

* Frugality does not always come naturally to me.  My Italian husband has been aiding me in this area.
** See?

mama monday: left vs. right

Having very little to do with Mama Monday and everything to do with what I feel like writing about today (spontaneous and unpredictable like a right-brainer!).  I found this quiz on my brother's Tumblr's account and since I love quizzes, and quizzes about me no less (a narcissistic right-brainer! groundbreaking!), I figured I'd find out what type of brain I have.

In high school, I loved biology as much as I hated chemistry.  I suppose 49% of a left-brain wasn't enough to keep me interested in the math required to study the latter.  Genetics fascinated me most: learning about dominant and recessive genes, how a red and a white flower will produce a pink flower, and how genes from previous generations work their way down the line. 

I have my father's blue eyes, I have my mother's snubbed nose, and I suppose the nearly balanced left- and right-brain (since Seth's was 48% left, 52% right and I have to assume Simeon, my other brother, would have similar results) is a mixture of them as well.

One would assume that the left-side came from my father, a carpenter, who has spent the last 30 years measuring twice and cutting once.  Likewise, my mother, who attended OCAD back when it didn't have a "D" - art only! - may have easily donated the right-brain portion.  As their daughter, however, I know that my storytelling skills come from dad and I keep lists upon lists just like mom. 

Whatever the DNA cocktail I consist of, I'm happy for it.  I love even more that I can pick out interests and propensities from stories of grandparents and great-grandparents, some of whom I have never met. 

And here I am, my genetic makeup tracing back for generations, married to Andrew, with his own trail of genetic signatures.  I daydream (daydreaming! how right-brained!) about what our kids will be like.  I wonder which dominant and recessive features will emerge, like a developing Polaroid.  Until modern science makes it possible for us to creepily design our offspring (Andrew's perfect teeth! my 20/20 vision! his musical skills! my freckles! his sensible attitude! my imagination!), I'm happy to let genetics work its magic. 

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.