wifercize wednesday: crushes, part 1

After watching Easy A (three times in two weeks) and then Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (which is arguably the best movie ever filmed) I began to recall the angst of high school days, and high school crushes.  You know the kind: the relationships that launched, flourished, and terminated without ever materializing outside of your own contemplations.  The crushes you (still) refer to by their First and Last Names.

The tales only made tolerable through self-deprecating humour and, preferably, Emma Stone playing a quirkier, prettier, more triumphant version of your high school self.

All names used are real.  I apologize if you just now discovered that I am blogging about our fictitious romance over a decade after we went to school together through the magic and horror of Google.  But, then again, you're the one Googling yourself so we can share in the humiliation.

First came Hart Massie.  I didn't realize that his first name was effeminate or his last name derived from the famous Massie family.  I just thought he was cute.  We began "going together" (my mother's term) sometime at the end of grade eight, after our year-end trip to Québec City.  Halfway through summer holiday a friend asked me, "Hey, how's Hart?"  I had completely forgotten we were dating. I called him up and we both agreed that a forgettable relationship was one which didn't require continuation.

His best friend, Dave Foster, systematically dated each of the girls in our group of friends starting with me.  He asked me out by tucking a piece of paper into an the case of an empty permanent marker and passing it to me during class.  The note read: "Would you like to go out?" and two boxes accompanied the proposal, a YES and NO.  I checked YES.  We broke it off a week later.

Ingmar Mak was my first alterna-crush.  He was Asian, super smart, creative, hilarious and quick.  Too quick.  Once, during a class we shared, the teacher had not shown up (this detail, in retrospect, is peculiar - what teacher just doesn't show up for class?) and we were all busying ourselves by doodling on the chalkboard.  For reasons beyond comprehension, I took a piece of chalk and wrote "I ♥ INGMAR" in billboard-sized font.  BUT: I WROTE IT IN CODE.  It was a stealthy code used in many intimate high school correspondences between girls.  It was airtight.  Except that Ingmar knew the code.  And Ingmar was confident enough in his findings to summon my, and everyone else's, attention.  "Sarah, does that say I ♥ INGMAR?"  In my panic, I recanted.  "What?  No.  Did you think-?  Oh, no, not what I wrote.  You're probably thinking of the other code..."  I improvised a variation of the well-known code and wrote it up on the board for all to see.  I only discovered later that, according to my made up code, I had written "I ♥ INGQAV" which was not only a phonetic impossibility but also eerily resembled Ingmar's name.

Mack Fyfe, or Matthew Ian Fredrick Darian Fyfe, had the coolest name I had ever heard.  We were schoolmates and also performed together in musical performances at the community Beaches Arts Centre.  Our British director, Anne Butler, referred to us as "hooligans" and spent half of our precious rehearsal time telling us to pay attention.  He is one of a handful of people who can match my energy level.  In a performance of Good News!, a musical, Mack's character said of my character: "She's like a wool sweater.  Hot and drives you crazy!" and, in Jack the Ripper (again, another musical, if you can believe it) his character referred to my character as "Slaggy".  I thought it was endearing until I found out it was a British form of "skank".

Poor Tristan Ticmanis was keen to get my phone number for what seemed like the majority of grade 10. I finally acquiesced by giving him all the digits of my phone number except the last one.  I changed the last one.  That's how cunning I was.  It took him a few months and then he worked out that the phone number I gave him was not the same as the phone number all of our other friends had for me.  I pleaded insanity.

Stay tuned for Part 2 next week.  This is too good to give to you all in one dose.

mama monday: rent-a-baby

This morning Melissa, mother of Noah, called up and asked if I would like to babysit Noah for a period of two hours this afternoon.

WOULD I?

I managed something to the effect of, "Well, if it would help you out, by all means..." since I didn't want to creep her out with my enthusiasm.  I will chronicle my Adventures With Noah here on Mama Monday.

12:55 p.m.  
Oberon and I excitedly await Noah's arrival.

1:27 p.m.
Realize that I am still in my pyjamas and housecoat.  Change into normal people clothes and make myself presentable.

1:51 p.m.
With extra time on my hands, wash Solomon and Oberon.  Solomon shakes himself dry after he comes out from behind the shower curtain.  Twice.

Give Oberon a mohawk.

2:07 p.m.
BABY ACQUIRED!

Melissa gives me a quick rundown of the diaper bag's contents and goes off to volunteer at the Romero House.  Isn't she great?

2:17 p.m.
Notice how difficult it is to do everything with one hand whilst holding an infant.  Including, but not limited to:

• Open a Tupperware container.  
• Place contents of Tupperware container on a plate.  
• Place plate in the microwave.  
• Take plate, along with cutlery and glass of water, to the table to eat.

2:23 p.m.
Piece of broccoli misses my mouth and falls on my jeans.  I consider dabbing the spot with a napkin.  See that we are out of napkins.  Consider using toilet paper from the bathroom directly behind me.  Figure that will involve me getting up, with Noah, and attempting to rip toilet paper from the roll with one hand.  Leave broccoli stain on jeans.

While I'm eating lunch with Noah, Oberon takes his revenge for the mohawk and types this:

nhbnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn


2:35 p.m.

Change Noah's diaper.  Noah starts fussing.  Shirt gets momentarily stuck on Noah's head while I'm changing him.  Noah voices his grave displeasure.

2:50 p.m.

Drive Solomon crazy by using "his" voice with Noah.  Terms that have previously been used solely for Solomon must now be shared.  Baby, Beebee, Coco, Bean, Cocobean.  Also: "Are you hungry?" which we taught Solomon and I just used on Noah.  Solomon looks hungry.  So does Noah.  Noah is noisier about it.

2:53 p.m.

Place bottle in cup of boiled water for five minutes.

2:58 p.m.
Remove bottle from cup of boiled water.

3:05 p.m.
Going...

...going...

...gone.

3:19 p.m.
Best:

Oberon still cleaning himself from offensive bath.

3:38 p.m.
Andrew comes home.  Noah wakes up.  Andrew graciously offers to take Noah to relieve my arm.  I have only been holding him for a half an hour.

3:51 p.m.
Melissa arrives and Noah is all smiles.  Baby successfully babysat!

foto friday: recap of the last month or so

Update on my first week of freedom: conveniently enough, Andrew is free during the mornings this week (it's exam season at school) so we've been enjoying sleeping in, having long breakfasts with tea, catching up on our readings, watching TV shows, and BOOKING A VACATION TO CANCUN.

We're going for March Break - our first vacation since our honeymoon!

After spending some time on my MacBook, I realized I had stockpiled quite a few pictures that I had meant to post on Foto Friday but hadn't found the time.  Now I have the time.  OH, DO I HAVE THE TIME.

I recently had lunch with a friend at 7 West and saw this scene unfold at the table near us.  A 20- or 30-year old taking his grandmother (presumably) out for lunch.  She was showing him Starbucks gift cards that she had received for Christmas.  "You see, the problem is," she explained, "I don't know how much it's worth.  Can I buy coffee beans with it?"

I love the little details at 7 West.  

Solomon has absolutely fallen in love with winter this year.  The only problem is, when the snow is deep, his tennis ball is difficult (slash, impossible) to retrieve.  This, for a retriever is unacceptable.  I think he's still pondering a few tennis balls that we lost last week.

One of his favourite things is for us to throw shovel-full loads of snow on his face.  I doubt if Oberon would find it as amusing.

Our annual young adult conference, Heavy Rain, was again a huge success which was miraculous since Andrew and I found ourselves in charge of more than we were used to and (as you know) our December left little time to breath, let alone plan a conference for 800-1,000 young adults.  Our team is amazing.

New Years Eve set worked out during dinner at Montana's.

Sim and Jess, conquering the world.  But having a quick beer at The Local first.

I don't know about you, but 78 of anything doesn't seem like the solution to stress.

From my days working at Yield, the famous Rubber Band Ball of Reception.  It took 2.5 years to make, was kidnapped at one point by a graphic designer (who left threatening random notes around the office for me to find...complete with bits of rubber band stapled to each one), and even came with me to my new job.  Since the rubber was beginning to deteriorate, I figured it was time to bid it adieu.  

Farewell, Rubber Band Ball of Reception.  You were a good friend.

And, along with it, a fond farewell to my last desk job.  See how tidy?

And hello to my new church office job.  See how untidy?  More on this later.  I'm pretty sure my next project will be funkifying this space up.  It needs an overhaul if it wants to be anything other than a uterus-coloured cubicle of an office hidden within Children's Ministry.  I have my work cut out for me.  

mama monday: kangaroo care

Last night we went to visit our friends, the Boergers, which included some serious snuggle time with their adorable 3 month old son, Noah.

Since the weather here in The Great White North has been akin to this:

And I haven't felt truly warm since mid-October, it was a treat to sit down on a couch with a sleeping newborn and steal some of his toasty-warmness.

It reminded me of an New York Times article Andrew sent me a few weeks back on something called "Kangaroo Care".  Kangaroo Care started as a solution to overcrowded and under-budgeted hospitals in Columbia.  Without the money to provide for enough incubators, doctors began bundling newborns, including premies, to their mothers' - skin on skin.  The drop in infancy mortality was so significant that medical communities in more "developed" nations began to take note.

"The babies stay warm, their own temperature regulated by the sympathetic biological responses that occur when mother and infant are in close physical contact. The mother’s breasts, in fact, heat up or cool down depending on what the baby needs. [...] Feeling the mother’s breathing and heartbeat helps the babies to stabilize their own heart and respiratory rates. They sleep more. They can breastfeed at will, and the constant contact encourages the mother to produce more milk."

Although most of our medical approach to pregnancy and childbirth, including incubation, is for the safety and well-being of mother and child I wonder if we miss the forest for the trees.  Having just spent the last nine months (or eight, or seven...or, in some cases, five) gestating in their mom's womb, which is nine months longer than they've spent in any other environment, wouldn't being close to her be the most natural transition?

It makes me think of how fearfully and wonderfully made we are and how much creativity goes into the birth of a new person.  And how those people grow up and become scientists, doctors, researchers and New York Times bloggers who can tell us incredible facts about childbirth.

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.