wifercize wednesday: army wife

Story time.

Over Thanksgiving weekend I visited my paternal grandparents and uncle's family in Halifax, along with my parents, brothers, and Andrew. For the sake of brevity, the weekend was amazing; Halifax, beautiful; turkey, delicious; weather, fabulous; family, well.

On the way home, The Posse (dad, mom, bro #1, bro #2, and hubby) flew Porter and I flew WestJet. Kisses and hugs were exchanged as they boarded a few minutes before me, all of us joking that we'd see each other in Toronto in just over three hours. Or so we thought. My flight was canceled due to a plane malfunction, all 300 of us were put up in a nearby Quality Inn, and were scheduled to fly out on the next available flight - which was 7:30 a.m. on Tuesday morning.

Over the course of Monday night, both Andrew and I suffered from the discomfort of Empty Bed Syndrome. Throughout our (year and five month) marriage, we have slept apart only a few nights and each was an explanatory, premeditated necessity. Never have we been apart by accident or, as the case was, unexpectedly. The Syndrome fed off the nasty surprise. By the time I finally drifted off to sleep (an hour and a half past when I should have, due to tossing and turning) only to wake at 1:00 a.m., 2:00 a.m., 3:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m., 5:00 a.m., etc. in search of a body that wasn't there.

A body that wasn't lying, warm, beside me dreaming. A body that wasn't a reach away. Or even a stretch away. Or even a roll away. A body that wasn't available for me to "plug into"; a habit I have of tucking my hand under a part - an arm, a side, a shoulder - of Andrew just to know he's there. A body that has inspired some of my happiest, most comfortable contemplations.

I don't understand how 27 years of sleeping solo were undone by a few months of sleeping with Andrew, or how I have been conditioned to miss something that I lived without for the majority of my life. I don't understand and I don't care to.

A few of my friends and I saw The Time Traveler's Wife since we had all read the book by Audrey Niffenegger. The movie wasn't brilliant, but then, that was the required response of those who have read the book. As lackluster as we found it, however, all four of us were sobbing happily by the time the credits closed. There is something so raw and bitter about a married couple separated for any reason, for any length of time.

I have a friend who is the wife of a pilot who has been deployed to the Persian Gulf for six months. Six months. MONTHS. I'm reeling trying to even comprehend it. Half a year of Empty Bed Syndrome. I'm following her blog and will post a link here if and when she gives me permission (oh! she did!) but, until then, here is an excerpt that caught my breath:

If anyone out there has ever played the game "Settlers of Catan," then you'll understand this next illustration. In the game you have commodities such as wheat, sheep, and ore. You trade them to build settlements and cities. There is a card in the game called a Monopoly card. When you play this card, you are able to take all of one type of resource away from every player in the game. Then, you usually sell it back to them at a higher price. This is how I felt. The military was playing their monopoly card. They were taking my spouse, my community, my sense of home and were trying to sell me a cheaper version of the real thing at a higher price.

I suppose this post is to reflect on all the beds made empty by business, travel, war, illness, and death. It's not to glorify or vilify the Canadian Armed Forces, nor to wax poetic about the widows and the orphan so try not to get political or theological in your comments. I just had one of those moments that Rob Bell describes so eloquently in Drops Like Stars when I could feel a fraction of someone else's pain, thousands of miles and many more worlds away, because I experienced it in miniature.

Send a little love her way, will you? It will help keep her warm at night.

wifercize wednesday: the man cold

You girls with dads, brothers, or husbands under your roof will know the symptoms. Fever, headache, body aches and pains, sore throat, chills, sneezing, runny nose, coughing. Not unlike your regular cold but for one detail: a man is suffering with it.

I suppose we will never know for sure which is truly worse, the regular cold or The Man Cold, since our experiences are entirely subjective and our pain comparable only to previous experience. I had, at one point, thought that the pain of having a compacted sternum (due to a mild car accident) along with the constant sneezing that accompanies seasonal allergies was the worst I had ever endured. Then I contracted a kidney infection. And, so, I revalued my definition of pain and my tolerance for it.

But kidney infections are no match for The Man Cold, no! I can remember my own father, a strong, muscular, generally healthy man who worked as a carpenter, when afflicted by an occasional Man Cold, schlepping about the house in Man Slippers and terrycloth housecoat. How the mighty have fallen!

I caught a cold from goodness knows who, complete with a sore throat, headache, and stuffy nose. The same ailments spread to my darling husband just as I was recovering from them. Since I was the source of this disease in our house, I felt a funny sort of guilt (or was it empathy?) for his discomfort (P.S. Why is it that we, almost always, cite the culprit from whom we caught a cold or flu? As if to say, It's not my fault!) which was soon tempered with amusement.

When I came home from work yesterday, there lay my husband, my "strong, assertive, firstborn alpha male", wrapped up like a taco in a blanket on the couch, blinking at me from the hood of his grey, wool sweater. Taking care of Andrew is the few ways of loving him that is rare. I can hug him, kiss him, call him, email him, listen to him, pray for him, and laugh with him daily but he's capable enough to look after himself.

Unless he's sick. Then he is crippled with mumbled sentence fragments, a general loss of interest in anything ("Do you want tea?" "Yes." "Do you want green tea?" "No." "Wildberry?" "No." "Chamomile." "No." "Peppermint?" "No."), an inability to move, a keen sense of temperature drops or increases, an appetite for soup, but not too much soup, and a knit brow. Impervious to my affection in this state, I am free to fuss over, tend to, and cuddle with him.

Lumped together like two puppies on the couch, we watched episodes of Saturday Night Live last night. I tucked the blanket around his torso and his legs.

He groans. "You missed my feet. My feet are out. This is worse than before."

wifercize wednesday: volatile soup

Women, you're going to get a lot out of this: especially if you aren't familiar with why you operate the way you operate. Men, don't tune out: this information might one day save your life.

First: men and women are different. You might recall this image, forwarded internationally in LOL-postscripted emails:

Second: a quote I originally read on my husband's blog (before he was my husband...but after I wanted him to be), which I love:

But women are built like nuclear reactors. We're constantly marinating in a volatile soup of hormones that's poised and ready to form a new, living, breathing human in nine months flat. Think about having that kind of power under your hood. It's awesome, and it sucks.

I was speaking with a male coworker who was outlining some of the differences between his girlfriend and himself, namely spending habits, budgeting habits, decorative preferences, and desire for shiny things. He also mentioned that her cleaning habits were odd, and ran like clockwork. "Her apartment will be a disaster for almost an entire month and then, over two days, she'll go on a cleaning frenzy. Everything. The bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom. I figure I might as well have her over to my apartment during those two days..."

What he is unknowingly describing is a phenomenon that many men are only vaguely aware of and, sadly, women are only a little less vaguely aware of. I found this helpful chart on a website called The Venus Week (don't worry, it's not half as new age as you might think). Dr. Rebecca Booth, the author of the website and book by the same name, explains that women experience what she describes as "The Venus Week" which is, essentially, ovulation. Women look and feel great because their bodies are casually hinting HEY, IT'S TIME FOR ME TO MAKE A BABY. Happens every month.

The interesting part about the constantly rotating (I prefer "rotating" over "raging") hormones in our systems is that they casually hint other things. All the time. And we're, more or less, quite subservient to their demands. Such as HEY, IT'S TIME TO NEST WHICH MEANS THAT ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING IN YOUR IMMEDIATE SURROUNDING MUST BE TIDY AND CLEAN. Happens every month.

These pages (click on each hormone to learn more about them) were vastly helpful as I began to research the hormones that rotated (see?) through my system on a monthly basis. And guys, if you're still reading, keep the eye-rolling to a minimum. If you think the lady in your life is irrational now just wait until oxytocin hormone joins the "volatile soup" in the weeks leading up to birth. I'll leave you with this quote from The New York Times on the subject:

With hammers pounding and drills whining in the background, Ms. Kinsey, speaking by phone, said she is having her kitchen “completely gutted” to make way for new cabinetry, flooring, appliances and countertops. Next, she wants to repave the driveway, finish landscaping the yard and enlarge some windows to let in more light. “I got up at 4:30 in the morning the other day and looked at the windows and thought they were too small,” said Ms. Kinsey, 36, whose baby is due in May. “Is that nuts or what?”

friday foto: moving day

My Facebook tagline is "Mild-mannered receptionist by day..." which helps describe the half-office, half-ministry life I lead. My 9-to-5 helps me live my 5-to-9 (and weekends) since we all need to pay the automobills. One of my homes is the one I own with Husband, and the other is the one I spend 40 hours a week parked at: the front desk of an advertising agency (yes, yes, like Mad Men, but not in the 50s and with less smoking and drinking...well, less smoking anyway).

Over the two years that I've worked here, I've done everything from decorating it to making it a safe haven, and today I packed it up. We're moving all employees to our second floor suite which means bidding my workplace a fond adieu.

I. Love. Packing. The only thing I love better than packing is UNpacking, which I believe is a throwback to all the moving I did as a child. I have lived in 12 places and attended 8 schools from pre-kindergarten to O.A.C. so, to me, change is thrilling and creative and refreshing. And packing means change.

I recently read this in Mark Driscoll's book "Confessions of a Reformission Rev." and it reminded me of how much and why I love change:

On that day I had only a few appointments, with lengthy breaks in between. I decided to walk down to the deli a few blocks away and get a Reuben sandwich on sourdough bread and some fresh air. On the way back, I walked barefoot and remember thinking that these simple pleasures had made the day one of the most relaxign and satisfying days I ever had. But by the time I walked back to the church, I realized that I was already getting bored. There was no dragon to slay, no hill to charge, no battle to fight, and no foe to conquer.

Next week: pictures of my new reception desk on the third floor!

hints on etiquette

Andrew and I post quotes on our fridge from movies we like. One of them, from Woody Allen's film Manhattan, is: "Really biting satire is always better than physical force."

I'm not the first to write about the recent high-profile outbursts in the news: Serena Williams, Joe Wilson, and now Kanye West. I won't bother explaining each incident since all three have been Trending Topics on Twitter which means there's enough fodder on the world-wide web to educate yourselves.

The fact that all three happened in the same week has become the catalyst in a slew of delicious satire directed at the current state of decorum: here, here, here, and here (the last of which was written by one of my favourite satirical columnists, Maureen Dowd, at the New York Times). George Will of the Washington Post quotes:

We've decided that it is therapeutic to express oneself no matter how coarse one's thoughts, and that whatever is therapeutic is good. I think we're seeing a kind of emotional exhibitionism whereby people say, 'I said something ghastly, but I said it honestly and sincerely.' And honesty, sincerity, and authenticity are self-legitimizing.

In our own, homegrown Globe & Mail this morning, Judith Timson wrote a great article about what she labels "entitlemenia". Like Timson, I agree that private poetic license the stage has been set for public outbursts. Intelligent, witty, and well-phrased (don't even GET me started on grammatical precision) comments are far outweighed by uncouth comments from Twitter to Facebook to YouTube to blogs. Andrew and I were just hypothesizing about how brave most of the commentators would be in person, without a computer and the internet between themselves and their victims. Bravado builds slowly until it ruptures on tennis courts, in congress, or on stage. In a heated moment on stage, it's difficult to curb a foul mouth that has been fed backstage.

Timson writes:

The Internet and the opportunity it provides for everyone and anyone to boldly disseminate their opinions might promote rudeness but it also nurtures democracy and connectedness in a way that Marshall McLuhan never dreamed of when he coined the phrase “global village.” We need to somehow make civility sexy again in this global village.

As I remind Andrew when he feels a bout of brutal honesty coming on: "Just because it's true doesn't mean it has to be said." And when I use profanity casually, to make a point or for jest, he counters with, "You're more intelligent than that."

I'm bringing civility sexy back.

friday foto: gee whiz!

This car is parked on a street next to the building I work in, and is a fabulous example of the characters that frequent Liberty Village. Nestled between downtown and Parkdale, you're just as liable to see a homeless crackhead as you are to spot a creative director of a major advertising firm. And they'll be wearing similar outfits, so sometimes it's hard to tell.

The car reminded me of a show Andrew and I are watching, called Mad Men.
[Disclaimer: I am not at liberty to recommend, support, or endorse this show. As a pastor.]
The show is set in the 50s which is fabulous and hilarious for various reasons. Upon reflection, I have come up with my a list entitled: "Reasons I Would, and Reasons I Would Not Like To Live in the 50s".

Reasons I Would:

1. 50s tailoring. Everything fits p-e-r-f-e-c-t-l-y.
2. Pillbox hats.
   
3. Men were debonair, and chivalry hadn't completely kicked it yet.
   
4. Everyone is referred to as Miss, Mister, Misses, Sir, or M'am.
   
5. The cars. See above.
6. The music.
7. Nuclear families.
8. Less genetically modified food.
   
9. Less profanity.
10. More green space.
    
11. A sense of hope and happiness after the war.
12. Less technology meant more time spent reading, conversing, and relating.
    

Reasons I Would Not:

1. Constant smoking.
2. Constant drinking.
3. Birth of hardcore consumerism.
4. Male chauvinism.
5. Narrow views on politics, the environment, society.
6. Bizarre medical practices.
7. "Isms" - racism, sexism, elitism, etc.
   
8. Smoking during pregnancies.
9. Drinking during pregnancies.
10. Skirts worn to the mid-calf.
11. The swimming suits! On both sexes!
12. No caller ID.
    

wifercize wednesday: bedside manner

On Saturday of the long weekend, my three-and-a-half-day-stomach-cramp turned into a more sinister stabbing-and-pulsating-pain-that-wouldn't-go-away, so we drove to ER at St. Joe's while I rode in the passenger seat curled in the fetal position. From this position I was still able to see the Snowbirds practice their Labour Day routine in the skies over Toronto, which is why I included them in my post picture. The fetal position didn't really help, it just made me feel...like I was helping?

The real star of the show was Andrew. He didn't laugh at my bottled pee, he alerted nurses to my increasing pain while we sat in the waiting room, he held my hand and WATCHED them insert an IV into not one but two! veins (I later told him it felt like the newbie-nurse was inscribing her signature on the inside of my arm) before it worked properly, pretended that what I mumbled while on morphine was brilliant and response-worthy, went home to fetch my own pillow when we found out I would be staying overnight, amused me during the wait for an ultrasound the next morning, and brought Aventureland for us to watch on his laptop during the grueling, all-day wait for the doctor to read the ultrasound results.

Results: kidney infection.

Between the nurses, the doctors, and both moms I realize that this is a serious enough issue to be taken seriously. Seriously. But, for a moment, can I relay a few of the highlights?

Imagine the busy ER of an inner-city hospital, bustling at all hours to provide comfort and care for members of the community from every possible walk of life. Now imagine that you're behind a thin curtain on a gurney approximately 2.5 feet wide and impossibly short for even my 5'3" frame, with an IV injecting morphine, Gravol, antibiotics, and saline into your body via a needle that requires your arm to be not exactly straight but NOT BENT EITHER (lest the digital machine it is connected to alert the entire medical staff that you have BENT YOUR ARM), while a drunk homeless gentleman recently admitted to a bed across the hall is yelling to a team of nurses, "Y'know what? You and you should get MARRIED. Yeah, you two. Y'know why? 'Cause yer both a$$holes, thaz why. YER an a$$hole, and YER an a$$hole. You'd make a fabalous couple."

Oh, did I mention it's approximately 3:30 a.m.? Now try to sleep.

G'head. Sleep.

Instead of sleeping (or, rather, between hour-long snatches of sleep I collected throughout the night) I noticed the watermark on a ceiling tile gradually expand from half a tile to an entire tile over a 12 hour period (I brought this to a nurse's attention), became a pro at managing my own IV drip machine (including turning the incessant beeping off when the saline ran out), and kept my eye out for a "woman, age: 62, weight: approximately 150 pounds, shoulder-length grey hair, wearing blue blouse, blue jeans, and sneakers" that seemed to have a habit of wandering off from wherever she was expected to be and having a "code: yellow" announcement narrated (four times) over the hospital intercom system on her behalf.

When I heard Andrew shuffling in my curtained-off-room at 8:37 a.m. the next morning (did I mention what a star he was?) I woke up from my half-sleep and felt better despite the gurney, the IV, and the all-hour ER activity. We didn't do much over the next day, Sunday, other than travel from the ER to the ultrasound area and back to the ER, watch a movie, and kid around with a few visitors who came to see how I was (Andrew blew a surgical glove up like a fat hand for Amanda, our cousin, until it suddenly exploded and we shook in silent laughter while we overheard another visitor attempted to explain the sound to an elderly patient who was, apparently, half-deaf: "It's OK, it was just a balloon popping...A balloon popped...IT WAS A BALLOON...A BALLOOON!!!").

During one of the lulls we discussed how we couldn't remember exactly how we had included the "in sickness and in health" bit into our wedding vows, which we wrote ourselves, but we were sure we included something like it. It didn't matter at the time. I saw in his actions, heard in his words, and felt in his multiple little kisses that there was no where else he would have rather been than at the hospital with me, waiting all day for ultrasound results. And with him with me, it didn't seem like that long a wait.

So when he tells me to sit down and rest already, or remember to take my tea that helps heal my urinary tract, or tells me it's lights out while I'm checking my iPhone in bed, or forbids me to do even the slightest lifting because YOUR KIDNEY, WHAT ABOUT YOUR POOR KIDNEY? how could I not submit?