wifercize wednesday: absence makes the heart grow fungus*

* A moment of silence for The Barenaked Ladies of the 90s [...]

It's been four nights apart, but it feels like much longer.  For three years of marriage, Andrew and I have not been apart for longer than one night - partially circumstantial and partly by choice.  We're fortunate to both work in the same city at jobs that rarely require travel (or, at least, are flexible enough to allow us to travel together).

During this span of apartness I've thought a lot about couples I know who must spend weeks, even months, apart at a time.  My friend, Courtney, found out on a Tuesday that her husband, Gerritt, was being deployed on Wednesday afternoon for Libya.  For, potentially, six months.  Marriages like those, I think, have such an incredible structure of trust, support, encouragement and compassion that they deserve admiration equal to Notre Dame; each spouse adding a flourish of stained glass here, a supportive flying buttress there, resulting in a monument of love.

Our four nights have been spent restlessly: Andrew getting to sleep later than usual because his Skype conversations with me and me waking up multiple times in the night to adjust Andrew's temporary replacement.

Thanks to the magic of Skype, however, we have been able to talk to each other once (OK, three times) daily about everything from the trite details of our day to updates from the pastors meetings.
 

As you can see by the second photo, Andrew's enthusiasm for being documented waned as the conversations continued.  In fact, he informed me that if I didn't stop taking pictures (the tell-tale sound effect of which was audible to him) that he would cancel his video stream.  So I stopped.

Three sleeps left to go, which should be manageable enough.  Since I go everywhere with my MacBook clutched to me in case Andrew comes online and, this morning, called Sandra (our senior pastor) "Sandrew" by accident, I'm sure my travel companions will be happy when three sleeps have passed.

mama monday: mamacita!

Since last Tuesday I have been in México, first for five days in Cancún with Andrew (here) - which, by the way, was such a welcome romantic retreat for both of us that I'm having a hard time enjoying the luxurious hotel in which I now sit since a) Andrew's not here, b) it's not Cancún, and c) Andrew's not here - and now the next seven days will be in Cuernavaca with the rest of the pastoral team from our church.

Which would be marvelous, except that Andrew's not here.

Those of you who often spend time away from your significant other, for business or other, might be rolling your eyes at me but I DON'T CARE, YOU'RE A POO FACE.  And each of you had your first week away from each other so just think back to that time and try to lend me some sympathy, OK?

One of my favourite things to do while traveling is watch people - in airports, on the street, in hotels, in church, in the mall.  Some of the cutest scenes I've spotted have been Mexican mothers with their kids.  There is something so motherly about Latino women and they have no fear of disciplining, feeding, changing, or cuddling their children in public...and the children have no shame of their mothers.

I remember looking up the word "mamacita" a few months ago, because I often used it as an exclamation of incredulity but had no idea what it meant.  Here is what I discovered: 

Mamacita - slang

Meaning: As opposed to the diminutive “madrecita,” or “dear little mother” (an affectionate term for one’s mother), mamacita refers to a “babe” or a real sweet chick. It’s a very common come-on, or pick-up line. Examples: “Oye mamacita, que buena estás.” (“Hey, baby, you are so fine.”)

Which thrilled me since it looked to be the Spanish version of M.I.L.F.  ¡Go Spanish!  Brilliantly, Spanish has recognized the respect, adoration, and desire deserving of mothers.  Sure, they give birth, nurture, and raise their young but, unlike the stereotypical Western mother, a mamacita is all the sexier for having given birth, nurtured, and raised.  

It reminds me of a scrumptious post Melissa wrote back in November, entitled "Hot Mamas".  Go read it for yourself - it even stars my own hot mama!

I, for one, hope that motherhood won't diminish but will rather increase my overall confidence, body image, and sexiness.  There's nothing quite like watching a beautiful creation being used for a purpose it was created for.

mama monday: brood

I'm now receiving friendly reminders from people on Facebook:

So here's the thing.  Now that I work from home I have approximately 60 extra hours a week that I haven't had at my disposal since...infancy.  It's been wonderful to eat when I want, nap when I want (AND I WANT), read when I want, clean when I want, and write when I want.

Which is the problem.

I don't often feel like writing.

Or, rather, I feel like writing but I have all this time to make it GOOD.  And the more guilty I feel about not writing, the worse it is.  I had hoped all this free time would inspire me to write and write and WRITE my little fingers to nubs due to the overflow of passion and insight and optimism and revelation.

Instead, all this free time has inspired me to brood.

brood (verb)

1. think deeply about something that makes one unhappy : he brooded over his need to find a wife.
2. (of a bird) sit on (eggs) to hatch them.
   (of a fish, frog, or invertebrate) hold (developing eggs) within the body.
3. (of silence, a storm, etc.) hang or hover closely : a winter storm broods over the lake.

So it's not surprising as I sit around and "think deeply about something that makes me unhappy" that I would also be hatching, holding, and hovering over my writing without having much to show for it.  I guess it's the same as motherhood sometimes.  Lots of time spent brooding before you have a brood.

"Mother doesn't like me playing Beethoven.
She says I'm always peevish afterwards."
- Lucy Honeychurch

(A Room With A View, E.M. Forester)

foto friday: I'M ALIVE

Here's proof that I have not deserted you.  I'm apparently just perfecting my skill of writing drafts.

In fact, most if not all of the drafts that I've written recently have been typed, deleted, re-typed, deleted again, and onwards in a never-ending cycle of indecision.  If only soul searching didn't act as as a costive block for my writing.

And now I've likened my writing to a bowel movement, which would make my blog...a toilet?

In a tremendous effort to write SOMETHING down - yes, I've read the comments left for me on my Facebook wall:

I figured I'd a) stick to writing and not deleting (hence, the above toilet comment), and b) start with a Foto Friday to get back into the swing of things.  How intimidating could photo captions possibly be?  We shall see.

These two parties should never meet.

Since watching this video, it has become impossible for me not to comment on things like this.

Sunbathing, part 1.

I found this book in the bookshelf of the amazing Red Room on Spadina.  The key adjective is "happily".

He's a wee bit bigger than he was last October, but we still treat him like a lap dog.  Solomon's take on it?  A+, as usual.

Sunbathing, part 2.

Andrew and I volunteered at this year's Kids Fest and I checked an item off my Bucket List: to pet a tiger.  Yes, it was everything you thought it was.

Hipster Cat, a portrait.

A wonderful little cafe on Annette called The Good Neighbour.  G'head and check it out if you live/work/shop in the area.

Because Hipster Cat is too good for the couch.

Noah joined a west side gangsta crew early.

Someone does not understand personal space.

Andrew celebrated his 31st birthday on March 6th of this year, and we had friends over for a mammoth meal followed by...Nintendo Wii.  Andrew said he felt like he was 15 again.  But 15 drinking wine.

I can't decide which is the best aspect of this portrait.  The mullet?  The pug?  The leather jacket emblazoned with mountain, lake, and giant bald eagle?

mama monday: mormon blogs

My apologies for last week.  While Andrew and I completed a multi-ring circus week, you may have wondered what happened to my posting schedule.  I had time.  I did.  I just didn't have the inclination or inspiration.  Typical writer mumbo jumbo, but it's true.

Thank the Government of Ontario for Family Day.

So, where were we?  Mormonism?

Andrew sent me an insightful (and witty) article from Salon.com a few weeks ago entitled: Why I can't stop reading Mormon housewife blogs.  Since my hero in the wife/mom/comic/home decor/writer world is Heather Armstrong, aka: Dooce, who hails from the Church of Latter Day Saints - or LDS (she abdicated membership in her 20s although she still lives in Utah to be close to her family) - I figured I'd read into the popularization of Mormon mom blogs a little.

The author of the article, Emily Matchar, writes like a member of A.A. airing her dirty secret.  "I'm your standard-issue late-20-something childless overeducated atheist feminist," she reasons, "yet I'm completely obsessed with their blogs."

The explanation lies in a kind of backlash against the backlash against motherhood (some might consider it to be anti-feminist, but I think it's hypo-feminist: the right to choose and the respect of your choice).  Here's a quote:

It seems that a lot of popular culture wants to portray marriage and motherhood as demeaning, restrictive or simple, but in the LDS church, motherhood is a very important job, and it's treated with a lot of respect," says Natalie Holbrook, the New York-based author of the popular blog Nat the Fat Rat. "Most of my readers are non-LDS women in their late 20s and early 30s, college educated, many earning secondary degrees on the postgraduate level, and a comment I often get is, 'You are making me want kids, and I've never wanted kids!'

I'm sure feminism never meant to narrow women's freedom - well, widen it in one area for the sake of another - but that's exactly what it did.  Options were made available (educated women, women in the workplace, working moms) but, in our excitement, we may have thrown the baby-making out with the bathwater.

Why is stay-at-home mom preceded with or followed by a disclaimer, apology, or anecdote to cut the tension?

I, for one, am interested to see how feminism (in the true sense of the word) matures through this season. I'm eager to encourage the renewal of freedoms we once had: the freedom to be a wife and mother, the freedom to stay at home to raise children, the freedom to home-make.  I'm supportive of my brilliant and creative friends who are doing the same and using technology to help spread the word, like Melissa B., Ruth, Jess, and Melissa L.

And, in the meanwhile, I'll leave you with a few Mormon blogs to check out. because:

The basic messages expressed in these blogs -- family is wonderful, life is meant to be enjoyed, celebrate the small things -- are still lovely. And if they help women like me envision a life in which marriage and motherhood could potentially be something other than a miserable, soul-destroying trap, I say, "Right on."

The Rockstar Diaries

The Langs

Say Yes To Hoboken

Nat the Fat Rat

foto friday: bachelors and hipster restaurants

Today, a sneak peak into two lovely design spaces: first the one-bedroom apartment of our good friend, Paul Kalvaitis (who, I'm sure, thought I was joking when I said I would feature his apartment on my blog), and second is a quirky restaurant on Ossington called Delux.

Paul is one of the coolest bachelors I have the pleasure of knowing.  He's an accountant (NO WAIT! DON'T CHECK OUT), an avid lover of football, a fabulous musician and is hilarious.  It came as no surprise that his apartment was well decorated but what we weren't prepared for was the extent to which his tastes matched his incredible personality: tasteful, classic and charming.  As you will know from previous posts, I always give my readers the option of stalking these eligible friends of mine.  You're welcome.

K, first of all, this was the spread. This picture is not altered.  Veal chops, mussels in white wine sauce, grilled peppers and onions, fresh tomatoes with bocconcini, and baguette.  The boy can cook.

EVEN MORE FOOD!  Next to GQ magazines and mini samurai swords.

Move over, John Mayer.

Every bachelor pad needs a dart board with vintage cigar boxes perched on top.

And killer vinyl collection in old suitcase.

Paul's turntable and dial turned to Q107.  Good boy.

Fish tank (he's nurturing!) and James Bond 007 collection (he's adventurous!).

Jazz posters and - no joke - Audrey Heburn.  Serious point scorage for this.

Next, shots from an adorably hipster restaurant in the so-hip-it-hurts neighbourhood near Ossington Avenue.  

You'll never miss it.  Unless you don't know that W.C. stands for watercloset and don't know that watercloset stands for bathroom.

Andrew, probably Tweeting.

Fresh donuts, made in-house.

wifercize wednesday: crushes, part 2

Welcome to Part 2 of my discomfiting chronicle of grade school and high school crushes.  Your comments are not only appreciated but necessary to the purging process.  Don't leave me hanging.

Now, where were we?  Grade 11?

My obligatory crush on a poster boy for the 90s (long, greasy hair, wore plaid shirts, rocked out to Green Day and Nirvana) came in the form of Blair Brandon.  On Valentine's Day our school organized several "O-Grams" that students could purchase and the money benefited...something.  No doubt our swim team.  Malvern had an amazing swim team.  I was not on it.  One option was a "Stalker-O-Gram" or "Picture-O-Gram" or something equivalent - it could be purchased anonymously, and required someone to take a picture of your crush on your behalf, delivering it to you a few days later since I went to high school in the 90s and WE STILL USED FILM.  When the photo of Blair Brandon, donning his signature backwards Boston Bruins baseball cap, arrived secretly during homeroom class I swore I would never throw it out.  That was until he slow danced with my best friend at our school's video dance party later that month to Seal's Kiss From a Rose.  Which not only broke my heart but also destroyed my image of his cool, 90s charade.  Seal is so mainstream.

I was Luke Lockyer's girlfriend a total of four times.  Each time, I broke up with him.  The first time, we remained an item for the duration of history class (with Mr. Nider), geography class (with Mr. Butts - no joke), the period of 12 hours following (spent at our respective houses, sleeping), and before morning announcements I had broken up with him.  Via a letter I gave to him via a mutual friend.  The details of other three times allude me, but they were similar in cowardice.  Via his pager (remember pagers?), via the phone, etc.  We wrote bad poetry to each other.  Not bad-indecent, just bad-clumsy.  He wrote one entitled "Confusion" (no doubt due to our on-again-off-again relationship status) and I responded, appropriately, with "Confusion: The Reply".  Suddenly Melissa Etheridge's lyrics meant so much when I heard them on _____, "I don't care what they think / I don't care what they say / what do they know about this love anyway?", and when I reheard them on mix cassettes from Luke.  He went out on a limb and began writing song lyrics of his own for me and made a mix cassette of those too: "I'm walking in the snow / Like Pierre Elliot Trudeau" touched me deeply although it's impossible to say why.  We may have continued our volatile relationship had it not been for my switch to private school for my OAC year.  That, and my brothers' discovery of Luke's musical debut on tape and consequent mockery.  Which continues to this day.

Philip Holman both frustrated and intrigued me.  His marks were first in almost all our classes (I believe I beat him in English), while I couldn't shake the #2 placement, and we often sat together in alphabetized seating arrangements, Holman and Hunter.  Although his intelligence drew me in, his constant teasing (and the stubborn fact that I was a sore loser) guaranteed that the crush never fully developed.  Jerk.

A friend of mine, Charis, asked when I was going to write about the boys who crushed on me.  A valid question, and one that is mighty temping (I still have old poems and hijinxs committed to memory), but my story is the only one I can tell properly and it delves into the touchy subject of exes which I have written about previously.  Besides, the only boy who crushed on me that matters is the one who I married.