BOGO: a true story

I receive, on average, 30 emails a day from retailers that I have (voluntarily) signed up to receive information from.  It makes me feel like I can shop my inbox.  It drives my husband crazy.

Over the past few months (let's be honest, perhaps years?) I've noticed that Old Navy often has a sale on a particular brand of clothes.  Recently, I found it interesting that American Eagle sold the same brand.

Andrew and I were lying in bed the other night when I saw an Target ad featuring the same brand, and I decided to look it up online.

Then it hit me.

I turned to Andrew, my phone still in my hand, and asked, "Lover, do you know what BOGO means?"

"Buy one, get one."

And I clapped my hands over my face in shame.

fear and loathing on facebook

Maybe it's just the circles I run in, but I'm seeing a lot of opposition to the new sex education curriculum proposed in Ontario.

Like, a lot.  

Like, I miss the good old days of global warming and vaccine conspiracies plugging up my Facebook wall.

The problem with these protestations is not that people have differing opinions but that these opinions are not often their own.  This will not be a post on the intricacies of the curriculum itself but rather directed to those who don't take the time to read the curriculum itself in order to familiarize themselves with the intricacies.

There's a word for stealing other people's ideas in lieu of using original, creative arguments: plagiarism.

And is that what we want to pass on to our kids as an ideal way of living?  Do we want them to grow into adulthood thinking that a broken-telephone-system of hearsay and rumour and fear-mongering and assumptions and clouded understanding is the best way to make an opinion? 

Isn't the opposite of education, ignorance?

I become weary of the SIGN THIS PETITION and MEET ME AT THE PROTEST and WRITE YOUR MPP NOW invitations because when there really is a valid issue to sign a petition for, or protest, or write our MPP about, I feel as if our voice will be tuned out.  

There are too many legitimately appalling issues that we should be taking steps to reform.  Rational, engaging, tolerant and fair education curriculum isn't one of them.

If you're still hot under the collar, try these ideas:

1. Believe in yourself.  You are an intelligent person, and extremely qualified in the area of childrearing if you are, indeed, rearing a child.  So give those eyeballs a rub, connect them to that beautiful brain and read the curriculum.  Yes, it's lengthy.  But, let's face it, if you're hot under the collar you're most likely focusing on the sexy bits (frankly, you should read it for its incredible overall approach to fostering mental, physical and emotional health rather than just "command+F" phrases like "anal sex").  But, whatever.  Just read it.
2. If you would like a balanced view on the subject, instead of bouncing your ideas off of people who share the same ideas, take a teacher out for a coffee.  Actually, take a teacher out for a coffee anyway.  They work damn hard.  And, contrary to some opinions, are not hell-bent on perverting your child.  If you can't commit to coffee, at least give them a hug.
3. If you still want something to post on your Facebook wall, after all that self-education and coffee and hugging, try this brilliant article.
4. While you're on a curriculum high, try thinking of other areas than sex ed where your child could benefit from additional education at home.  Are the history lessons Western-centric?  Are the literature selections male-centric?  Are the mathematic exercises devoid of real-life financial applications?
5. Feel free to write a member of the government, and try making it nice.  Encourage your city counsellor, your MP, and your MPP for all the hard work they put into making your life a little better.  It doesn't matter if you voted for them or believe in their politics.  For extra bonus points, send a quick email to Premier Kathleen Wynne thanking her for doing a job that you would never want to do.

But, if you can't do all six, just read the curriculum.  And use Facebook to post pictures of your adorable, creative, educated family.

“Fear is the path to the dark side.  Fear leads to anger.  Anger leads to hate.  Hate leads to suffering." - Yoda 

ugly truth

This morning, my husband sent me a link to an image of Uma Thurman's (recently?) renovated face.  It looks great.  But it doesn't look like Uma.  Uma's face, as Mia Wallace and Poison Ivy and Fantine and Emma Peel and Beatrix Kiddo, is gone.

The sadness I felt as I stared at this new Uma face and tried to find Uma in it was the same as when I stared at Renee Zellweger's face and tried to find Renee in it.  Like looking at one of those "magic eye" stereograms popular in grade school.

What scares me about plastic surgery is not its availability, popularity, aggressive marketing at the back of every fashion magazine, or even the horror stories of botched jobs.  What scares me is that Uma and Renee, talented, gorgeous, wealthy, acclaimed, beloved, and renown, somewhere along the way, thought they were ugly.

Although I (and my husband) are philosophically opposed to cosmetic surgery, and I doubt I'd ever have the budget available to have myself overhauled even if I was for it, I know that I'm not immune to the feeling of ugliness.  Just because Uma and Renee did something about it and I probably won't doesn't make me better and them worse.  We're similar in our struggles and similar in our feeling of ugliness.

If Uma and Renee thought their beautiful, beautiful faces were ugly, what hope to the rest of us have?

So here's a possible remedy.  I've broken it up into three parts.

1. If you know a woman, love a woman, sleep with a woman, are friends with a woman, or are related to a woman, tell them they're beautiful.  Be honest.  Be specific.  Be persistent.  Be poetic.  Be brave.  If you tell a woman "You're pretty" they may not believe you, but they'll find it hard to argue with "I love how restful and radiant you looked in the sunlight yesterday afternoon".
   
2. If you are a woman, believe it.  Don't look for opportunities to negate a compliment.  If your husband tells you he loves your face without makeup on try to imagine why he would, even if it seems impossible.  When your daughter tells you she loves you because you're squishy, accept that you are the zenith of womanly beauty to her.
   
3. Finally, shut your beautiful face about your ugliness.  There will always be "flaws".  They will multiply.  But unless you want to carve them out with a knife and suffer losing all sorts of character, personality, responsiveness, and cellular integrity in the process, it's time to embrace and shut up about them.  When you say you hate your legs a little part dies inside your friends who thought your legs superior to theirs.

Happy Valentine's Day, you pretty people.

1/wk, wk 1

It's 2015.

I like making goals.

This year, one of my goals is to do one house project per week.  52 house projects in total (some are two week long projects, so...you know, numbers have to be crunched, etc.).

I thought up this "one per week" (which goes by the street name "1/wk") idea since New Year's goals/resolutions can be daunting, and by daunting I mean tackled vehemently for the first three months of the year, then felt guilty about for the next three months, then utterly forgotten, then only vaguely remembered around Christmas.  CYCLE COMPLETE.  This way, if a week is missed because of illness or lack of energy or too much wine or something more noble, a new, fresh, exciting week is just around the corner and, with it, another chance to complete a goal.

If you're still reading, you:
a) used to read my blog and are wondering where I went,
b) also like making goals,
c) have a house, with projects that need doing,
d) are sitting at a desk in a cubicle around 3:00 p.m., a.k.a. "I'm So Bored I'll Click Every Link I Come Across" o'clock,
or e) all of the above.

Week 1: Hip Nautical Curtain Tie-Backs For Under $30*

Time required: 10 minutes

Materials required:

• rope (Michaels)
• galvanized cleat (Canadian Tire) (helps if is miss-priced)
• roll of twine (Dollarama)
• glue gun (Walmart)
• scissors, or very sharp teeth 

I'm providing my retail sources not because I believe in them as retailers, but because I wholeheartedly believe that home improvement and especially DIY projects should not only be affordable but cheap.  It's part of the fun. 

Technically, you also need a few screws, washers, and a screwdriver but I just raided my garage for these items and you can't raid my garage for these items as well.  You have to find your own.

Here's the final product, since the image is worth a thousand step-by-step...steps.  If you have questions, please feel free to ask in the comments.  Otherwise, it's pretty straight forward.  

This is how legit-non-fancy I am.  Under the aforementioned DIY project is our empty luggage waiting to be taken outside to the garage since we just unpacked from a staycation.  Outside the sliding door is a Little Free Library which my brother made me for Christmas.  Another 1/wk project - stay tuned.

*  My parents own a sailboat so, for me, this project is sentimental as well as practical.  Feel free to copy if sailing isn't your thing, or if you want it to be your thing, or you've been perusing any one of the 3,498,201 websites, blogs, and apps and notice that the nautical theme is So Hot Right Now.

by the numbers

If months spent trying to conceive were otherwise spent in education, I'd have my Masters. An MA of TTC.

Half of our six year marriage has been lived out under its influence.

Babe Ruth famously had a total lifetime strikeout record of 1,330  and an inspirational home run record of 714, a ratio of nearly 2:1. Would we still be as encouraged if his average was 32:1?

Or tens of millions to nil, our monthly average?

It's always lingering, sometimes peripherally, sometimes blatantly, like a housefly blessed with longevity.

I've felt as it has eroded my time, my patience, my plans, my determination, my hope, my confidence, my optimism, my faith, and, at times, the quality if not the quantity of our intimacy.

I've developed a second pattern of irritability and weepiness during my cycle, mid-way, around ovulation.

It's been the reason behind quitting one job, and the reason behind acquiring another.

But then I look at Hugo, my Hugo, and wonder simultaneously how I could ever think of quitting, and wonder how I could ever complain when friends of mine don't have even one, and wonder if he will know what it's like to have a sibling who shares his DNA, and wonder if that even should matter, and wonder why it still does.

Because if pregnancy to us is like winning the lottery, what is the statistical likelihood that we will win it twice?

nana

On March 13, 2014 my Nana, Valerie Joan Hunter, shuffled off this mortal coil and since I so infrequently remember to blog my husby recommended that I post the eulogy I gave at her funeral.

*          *          *

I, along with my two brothers and my sister-in-law, drove here to Halifax from Toronto to celebrate Nana’s life and we couldn’t be happier that we did.

That’s what she was to us: Nana.  But looking at all your faces and flipping through the albums at last night’s viewing, I realize I didn’t know her like you know her.

I didn’t know her as a work colleague, or an Eagle Point Drive neighbour, or a church friend, as many of you had the pleasure of knowing her.

I didn’t know her as a travel companion, or fancy-dress-party-goer, or best friend for decades.

I didn’t know her as an aunt, or a Big Sister, or a mom or a wife.

I didn’t even know her as Grandma, which was her East Coast alias.

I won’t even know her as my 2-year old son will one day know her: as Great Nana, from the stories we will tell him, and from the watercolour painting hung up in his room.

But I knew her as Nana.

Nana and Grandad’s visits to Toronto were always the happiest, fullest, most joyous memories for me.  It helped that they visited at Christmas and traveled with one suitcase exclusively dedicated to presents.  Nana was, to me, was and always will be a series of memories: pearl nail polish, putting her face on, a great laugh, “getting ogernized”, teaching me shorthand, and they way she said “Oh, Tony…”

It’s impossible to remember Nana - no matter how you knew her - without tenderness and admiration.  I think that’s because she filled every relationship, every conversation, every room with gentleness and light.

She always had something to say - an anecdote, a story, something optimistic, something helpful.
She always had something to give - like the Werther’s Originals she kept in her purse for the car drive to and from the airport.
She left something behind - when I saw the tiny hairs left on the car seat from her fur coat and remember her, or the music boxes she and Grandad gave me that played “It’s a Small World After All” which helped me when I missed them.

So that’s how I’d like to remember Nana.  By being more like her.  With always something optimistic to say, always something ready to give, and always with something to leave behind.

Crayola

Hugo hands me a new Crayola, green.  The tip is dulled by small teeth marks and its wrapping is damp.  His lips reflect displeasure and his tongue explores the end of the crayon still his mouth.

"Out," my palm waits under his chin.  "Yucky, Hugo.  Spit it out."  Hugo deposits a trail of saliva and green waxy shards in my hand and turns to leave the room.  "Hugo?"  His body forms a half-turn, his eyes search my face.  "No more eating crayons, OK?  Yuck."

"Oh, okay, mammy."

I keep Hugo's name-brand crayons in a hinged tin - the same crayon tin from my childhood.  Outside, the tin is patterned with a vintaged, royal blue floral motif and the inside, a matte silver, is the backdrop to a multitude of sticky rainbow markings.  As a little girl, once I discovered that the ends of crayons left small dots of colour just by being in the tin, I figured I could make a few embellishments of my own.

When I open the tight-fitting, hinged lid the scent is comprised of these new crayons of my son's, barely out of their pristine cardboard boxes, freshly minted and still sharply tipped (unless recently masticated) mixed somehow with the ghostly smell of my crayons from the 80s.  The fragrance of my own collection, now long gone, has been embalmed and is a deeper, mustier one.  Their generic, quatrefoil designed paper wrappings were stained and peeled by my hands, their ends blunted by "filling in" large areas of newsprint colouring pages, many of them halved, or thirded, into smaller, unwrapped pieces that would slip through my grip by the heat of my fingers.

The summer of The Incident began with that tin.  I was colouring in the backyard of my parents' first home, a butter yellow, vinyl-sided semi in Newmarket, one afternoon.  My favourite crayon had always been a silver-coloured one: it was the first to loose its paper casing, since I wanted to more closely admire the sheen of metallic specks which sparkled when I held it up to the light.  The hinged lid of my tin provided a perch for crayons to rest between uses, and there sat the naked, silver crayon, awaiting duty. Sadly, the sun's rays claimed it that hot, summer afternoon and the next time I looked up from my artistic endeavour all that was left was a shimmering dollop of putty.

All instantly available at the opening of a tin box, such is the power of scent.  I wonder if, when he opens the tin for himself in years from now, Hugo will feel the soft fragments of green, non-toxic wax, stuck between his teeth.