foto friday: plate tectonics

Since this is the second day of my new life, and since the weather outside looks like this:

I decided to figure out how to mount cute French plates on my wall.  As one does.

Last night, Andrew and I went to IKEA, The Most Magical Place On Earth, to pay our bi-monthly respects.  While I was there I asked a sales representative if they carried plate hangers.

Me: "Do you carry plate hangers?"
She: [blank look]
Me: "Like dish hooks.  For mounting dishes on the wall?"
She: "Um.  I think you can use, like, any kind of hook."

I didn't bother wasting any more of my precious IKEA shopping time explaining to her that, no, you can not just use, like, any kind of hook.

Today I Googled "plate hangers" and none other than Martha Stewart was there to greet me with her light teal-themed and easy to read website.  So I thought, what the heck?  Let's try to make some plate hangers.

This is the space I envisioned the plates to be hanged - in our kitchen between the back door and a window.  It's not such a drab space but...

...after finding these at a local Kitchen Stuff Plus for $14.95:

I knew I wanted to use them as decorative wall hangings.  Andrew wanted to use them as plates for Camembert.  Where do these boys get their ideas?

Ingredients: hammer and small nails, pliers*, scissors (or wire-cutters if your wire is thicker), and wire.  I just used the wire that comes with a standard picture frame mounting kit.

Cut two pieces of wire approximately 3" longer** than the diameter of the plate:

Make a loop in the middle of one piece:

And make a "V" in the middle of the other piece:

Slide the "V" piece through the loop and let it hang.  Twist once or twice.***

I have a habit of skimming instructions including owner's manuals, warning labels and, evidently, Martha Stewart's womb-like website.  As you can see here, I distinctly ignored her advice to "position the wires on the plate so the top of the loop hits the edge of the plate's base" and instead put it smack in the middle.  No harm done but my plates lean a little further forward than I had expected - almost as if they're staring down at me from the wall.  Friendly-like.

Once the pieces are stretched tight across the back of the plate, bend the ends over the lip and make a little loop (cutting off any excess wire on the back).  These "claws" should be long enough to hold the weight of the plate but small enough that they don't take over the visual appeal.

Ta-da!  Cute French plates on the wall!

And, since I only used 2 of the available 4 plates, Andrew can still use a few to serve actual Camembert. Although I was pleased with the final outcome I still had to submit it to the critics.

Solomon gave it an A+.

Oberon gave it a D.  He was repulsed by it at first, then ran to hide under this chair where he acted disinterested long enough for me to take a picture.  He gave no comment.

* This whole project would have been 34% easier if I had (or could find our) needle-nosed pliers.  Instead, I used the honking pliers you see in the photo.  I would recommend needle-nosed.

** HEED MARTHA'S ADVICE!  I eyeballed my second hanger and cut one piece too short.  After approximately 20 minutes, and assorted expletives, I had to cut a new piece - this time, approximately 3" longer than the diameter of the plate.

*** I also muddled this: I twisted an average of 6-7 times to ensure maximum strength and prevention of my pretty plates slipping from their nails and smashing all over the kitchen floor while Solomon licks the shards and I scream at him and weep.  It made the loop a little bulky behind the plate but, otherwise, I'm satisfied.

wifercize wednesday: double time

The question remains: what will I do with my time after next Wednesday at 5:00 p.m.?  (Not that I'm counting the seven days, two hours, and thirty-eight minutes until then.)

As with most of my dramatic decisions, no matter how spontaneous they appear, I put a ridiculous amount of time, energy and contemplation into resigning from my job.  Keep in mind I have been a faithful soldier in the army of corporate administration for a decade.  I can answer phones, coordinate schedules, book appointments, edit correspondence, order supplies, photocopy files, file photocopies, and Brother P-Touch™ label like a champion.  Sometime simultaneously.

Once I'm off the grid, however, where will I find definition?  CBC radio recently reported on the influx of baby boomers hitting retirement age.  The first wave of them have celebrated their 65th birthday but many are loathe to leave their places of employment: for 20, 30, sometimes 40 years they have defined themselves through career.  Once they're out the door, they face the question that a job has answered for them for more than half their life - what do I do?

Practically, I've worked out that I'll be pastoring part-time with Catch the Fire (Andrew and I have been pastoring youth and young adults for seven and four years, respectively) while Andrew continues to teach high school at YDSB.  But that won't define me.

I hope that the tension between who I am and what I do will dissolve and blend in wonderfully nebulous titles: wife, mother, pastor, sister, writer, daughter, homemaker, friend.  I hope that I will live up to these titles in ways I previously have not.  I hope to diffuse the arguments such as:

"Nobody objects to a woman being a good writer or sculptor or geneticist if at the same time she manages to be a good wife, a good mother, good-looking, good-tempered, well-dressed, well-groomed, and unaggressive."  (Marya Mannes)

And I hope to do this by way of example.  I might be frustrated and challenged along the way, I may end up Brother P-Touch™ labeling everything in sight for an afternoon out of habit, I may find myself fearing my self-imposed retirement, but I also may discover that who I am and what I do are not mutually exclusive but mutually comprehensive.

mama monday: margin

I'm not sure where or when it became cool to answer "Tired" to the question "How are you?".  I don't know what I ever gained by quoting a 60 hour work week.  I've lost track of how many times I've used the word "busy" in the last five years or so, or have apologized for it.  Somewhere along the way, preoccupation became the new peacefulness.

Someone sent me Rick Warren's post on margin, called Build a Buffer Around Your Schedule.  In it, he ends by saying:

You don’t have to live on overload. You don’t have to live in survival mode. Begin today to build a buffer around your schedule. Then enjoy the benefits of margin -- and see what God does next!

Which sounded all well and good, but surely that was advice for really busy people.  The workaholics, glued to their PDAs, marching their power suits in and out of meetings, guzzling their caffeine, missing their kids' sports games and recitals...the bad guys who occasionally turn into good guys by the end of a movie through epiphany or catastrophe or comedy.  THEY needed margin.

It could have been trying for a family, it could have been my overall grumpiness and irritation, it could have been that, in a daze, I once took transit all the way home and was walking down my street when I received a text message from a friend cheerfully telling me that she had secured a table by the restaurant window for the dinner that I had forgot I was having with her that night (sorry, Amy!), but somewhere along the line I noticed: I had lost my margin.  And I wanted it back.

So I put in my two-week notice at work.

Join me in counting down the days!  To spend the time, download and listen to this excellent series on margin from Liquid Church.  I've only listened to the first three podcasts...because I've been busy.

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.