The great thing about New York is that, well, that it’s New York. Everything happens here. Everyone comes here. There is always something to see or do. So when I read that Jamie Oliver was making an appearance at the Union Square Barnes & Noble I couldn’t help but wish he were something to see and do.
But he is married. As am I, nearly. So I had to settle for simply seeing him.
I love Jamie Oliver. I just could squish him I love him so much. I love his accent, I love his messy cooking, I love his passion, I love how he says things like ‘bake until it looks delicious’ (this has unfortunately led me to eating half-baked strawberry meringues), I just love love love him.
My friend and I trudged early to the bookstore and settled ourselves neatly in the second row (well, technically third but the front row barely showed up, so we had a very clear view. Actually I did. My friend had the blue monster in front of her so her view was a bit obstructed – too much of Jamie’s cooking perhaps?) two hours ahead of time. I rifled through his new cookbook making odd noises as the recipes made my tummy growl, and perhaps drooling a bit on page 189 (a Pimm’s and Strawberry concoction). I debated actually buying the book, as online it was $23 and in the store it was $38 – hello highway robbery? I wondered if Jamie’s signature was really worth $15 in these tough times.
The closer to 7 it got, the more nervous and excited I got. I had planned on asking a question and this made me want to throw up. Gee whiz, I have met celebrities before (okay, maybe only one), why was this one making me a nutbar?
When they ushered Jamie in, there was an audible gasp (me), someone yelling ‘he’s so cute’ (me) and a general giggling among the women and gay men (me and many many others). He is soooooooo cute in real life! He wore jeans, his little converse slip-on trainer things, and a windbreaker-ish jacket (he is so cute!) just like he does on his shows. And then he talked. I could listen to that southern-Brit accent forever. He talked about how his new cookbook was inspired by growing his own veg and fruit, and working with local farmers to get meat and grain. Keep this in mind.
Question 1: Does he find inspiration in American cooking? Yes, he is learning and is doing a new 8-part show about cooking in America. He started in Louisiana and is going to Arizona, New York (to our house for Thanksgiving hopefully), Chicago, and other places that I forgot.
Question 2: Does he support community growing in America? Ummm, he didn’t know what she meant. Local farmers basically. HELLO? He clearly supports that you MORON; didn’t he just talk about that for his inspiration??
Question 3: Do you like Korean food? Once again, a wasted question from a nervous girl who took ten minutes to ask her freaking question. The man eats ANYTHING and likes pretty much everything, clearly he will like Korean. Grrrrrr
At this the question period ended because there were so many of us getting our books signed. Boo! I didn’t ask my question!
So I decide to go up with my non-purchased book, just so I can meet him and have him call me ‘darling’. Then I would dump the book on a shelf and buy it online.
As I waited in line, I was so nervous/excited my knees were shaking. With each step closer I got more and more like a teenager. I felt the same way I did when I was 14 and met Kurt Browning at Eaton’s after school.
I was the next in line standing near to the security guard and I couldn’t help but tug at his arm and whisper ‘isn’t he cute?’ The security guard didn’t even acknowledge me. At least back home that would get a smile. Here they just think I am crazy. Oh wait . . .
Anyhoo, by the time I got to Jamie I was a nervous wreck. At first all I could blurt was ‘HI’! He looked at me and waited for more. I told him about my travel show and asked him where I should eat in London. He gave me a list but when I went to write it down I discovered I forgot how to hold a pen! GAH! He actually was giving me quite the list so this assistant lady told me to leave. Then I asked him about the rumor that he is opening up a restaurant in Rainy City. He told me no. This made me sad.
In my excitement and elation, I rushed off the stage (without saying thank-you) and promptly left the bookstore with my friend, clutching my newly signed Jamie at Home.
It wasn’t until I was three long blocks away that I realized I had not paid for the signed cookbook. For one split second I was totally, completely intending on marching back to B & N to pay for it. Then I thought about the $15 difference and decided that I would give money to Jamie’s charity instead. B & N didn’t really need my money. So I got on the subway and went home to call my mum.
I am a Buddhist. I know this is going to bite me on the ass one day.
Bad Boys Bad Boys
The Engineer was off to a hockey game the other night, and I was quite happy to cozy in for the evening with the dogs, a steaming mug of tea and my latest pick from Netflix. I was just beginning to truly enjoy season four, disc three of The Office when I hear a strange noise outside: gunshots. At first I thought (or hoped) that it was a car backfiring, but when I heard the car backfire eight more times I was pretty convinced it was a gun.
Not one to panic, I merely continued to laugh at Steve Carell’s antics thinking that the gunshots had happened far away. I also suspected that my overactive imagination had merely made up the gunshots because I am in Brooklyn and that is what happens here.
Then I heard one round of sirens.
Text the Engineer.
Second round of sirens.
Call best friend.
Third round of sirens.
Call my parents.
At this point I am still pretty calm, thinking that the shooting was at least ten blocks over. So I start washing my dishes while talking to my best friend on the phone. We are sort of laughing about the ‘shooting’ when I hear the fourth round of sirens accompanied by the sound of a helicopter. I shut the tap off, stand up a bit straighter and tell my friend I will call her back. The boys are afraid of the helicopter and are running around the apartment jumping and barking, making me even more nervous.
I open the window in front of my desk and crawl out onto the fire escape to find that the helicopter is directly above my street, shining its’ light brightly on my block. The street is crawling with New York’s finest, both in uniform and in suits. My next-door neighbor is being questioned by one of the boys in blue. I call the Engineer and tell him that the eight to ten ‘backfires’ I heard, were, in fact, gunshots.
I decide this is the safest time to walk the boys, as my street is full of NYPD. Okay, that may not be the complete truth. I was nosey.
Outside we went, where to one end of my street there were cop cars and that yellow homicide tape that you see in cop shows and to the other, life as normal. My neighbor (in her leopard print flannel PJ’s) filled me in on the situation by holding up her hand in a gun gesture and shooting her index finger. I told her I thought it had been gunfire but really far away. Nope, she said, at the end of the street.
So we walked to that end of the street. All the while me telling the boys to poop so it looked like I was out for a real reason. I ran into a cop who was flashing his light under cars. He smiled and said everything was all right but had I heard anything? I told him I had and that the gunshots seemed to be in two different sections – as if the shooter and stopped and ran a bit further. He then asked what caliber of gun I thought it was, how high pitched each shot was and some other gun gibberish. Confused and slightly taken aback, I told him that they sounded like gunshots. He gave me a bemused smiled and asked me if I had ever heard gunshots before. I shook my head. He seemed to think this was sweet.
Another neighbor of mine came walking down the street and asked the cop what had happened. He told her and then informed her that the body ‘fell’ right at the end of my street. She too was in shock, and whispered ‘did he D-I-E?’ The cop shook his head and said that he only had a couple of bullet wounds (only a couple! Well, I suppose I heard 8-10 shots, clearly the shooter was lousy) but that they had ‘spent a lot of money on him’. To which, again confused, I asked ‘Why? Are bullets expensive?”
The cop and my neighbor slowly turned their attention to me and informed me (as if I was an idiot) that this phrase means there were drugs involved. Oh.
Here are some things that New York has taught me. One: I live near a gang. Two: They live in a thing called ‘The Projects’ (Wow, so Jenny from the block really does exist). And Three: There is such a thing as a ‘gunshot virgin’ to which I am no more.
Not one to panic, I merely continued to laugh at Steve Carell’s antics thinking that the gunshots had happened far away. I also suspected that my overactive imagination had merely made up the gunshots because I am in Brooklyn and that is what happens here.
Then I heard one round of sirens.
Text the Engineer.
Second round of sirens.
Call best friend.
Third round of sirens.
Call my parents.
At this point I am still pretty calm, thinking that the shooting was at least ten blocks over. So I start washing my dishes while talking to my best friend on the phone. We are sort of laughing about the ‘shooting’ when I hear the fourth round of sirens accompanied by the sound of a helicopter. I shut the tap off, stand up a bit straighter and tell my friend I will call her back. The boys are afraid of the helicopter and are running around the apartment jumping and barking, making me even more nervous.
I open the window in front of my desk and crawl out onto the fire escape to find that the helicopter is directly above my street, shining its’ light brightly on my block. The street is crawling with New York’s finest, both in uniform and in suits. My next-door neighbor is being questioned by one of the boys in blue. I call the Engineer and tell him that the eight to ten ‘backfires’ I heard, were, in fact, gunshots.
I decide this is the safest time to walk the boys, as my street is full of NYPD. Okay, that may not be the complete truth. I was nosey.
Outside we went, where to one end of my street there were cop cars and that yellow homicide tape that you see in cop shows and to the other, life as normal. My neighbor (in her leopard print flannel PJ’s) filled me in on the situation by holding up her hand in a gun gesture and shooting her index finger. I told her I thought it had been gunfire but really far away. Nope, she said, at the end of the street.
So we walked to that end of the street. All the while me telling the boys to poop so it looked like I was out for a real reason. I ran into a cop who was flashing his light under cars. He smiled and said everything was all right but had I heard anything? I told him I had and that the gunshots seemed to be in two different sections – as if the shooter and stopped and ran a bit further. He then asked what caliber of gun I thought it was, how high pitched each shot was and some other gun gibberish. Confused and slightly taken aback, I told him that they sounded like gunshots. He gave me a bemused smiled and asked me if I had ever heard gunshots before. I shook my head. He seemed to think this was sweet.
Another neighbor of mine came walking down the street and asked the cop what had happened. He told her and then informed her that the body ‘fell’ right at the end of my street. She too was in shock, and whispered ‘did he D-I-E?’ The cop shook his head and said that he only had a couple of bullet wounds (only a couple! Well, I suppose I heard 8-10 shots, clearly the shooter was lousy) but that they had ‘spent a lot of money on him’. To which, again confused, I asked ‘Why? Are bullets expensive?”
The cop and my neighbor slowly turned their attention to me and informed me (as if I was an idiot) that this phrase means there were drugs involved. Oh.
Here are some things that New York has taught me. One: I live near a gang. Two: They live in a thing called ‘The Projects’ (Wow, so Jenny from the block really does exist). And Three: There is such a thing as a ‘gunshot virgin’ to which I am no more.
The Thing About Old Friends
I'm just going to say it.
I am a very popular person. I have lots of friends.
There it's out there.
Well maybe you guessed it when I told you I have been a bridesmaid to eight people. I don't want to put on airs, it's just a simple fact: I have lots of friends. I have always had lots of friends. Probably because I am an only child.
I have new friends, old friends, smart friends, red-headed friends, Greek friends, Prairie friends, school friends, work friends, foreign friends, local friends, friends with dogs, friends with cats. The list goes on. So I know about friends. And there is one pocket of friends that I think is especially special: the old ones.
I mean the really old ones. Not as in, they are eighty like my Aquafit friends, but the friends who have been around for a couple of decades. I have two in the 20-year range (who I have both been a bridesmaid to) but I have only one friend that has been with me for a quarter of a century (yes, I realize this is close to the friends of 20 years friends, but I the difference between 4 and 9 is great, and she has been my friend since I was 4).
When I was a little girl on the farm, I had a pretty idyllic childhood (not that the city one was not, but the country does have its charm). Idyllic in that my school had skating days on the local pond, that we could go berry picking in the field next to us, and that my BFF lived on a massive farm with her seven siblings. To an only child on a smaller farm, her life seemed foreign and magical.
The days I would spend with her on her farm were AWESOME. We would play all day (and the day seemed to have a billion hours) in the playhouse, on the trampoline, in the house next door that belonged to her great-grandmother but was now empty, in the hay bales, and by the creek in the cow pasture. The days were filled with snap peas from her garden, chasing cows with the quad, and lying in the grass and watching the sky drift above us. Through the night we would giggle about boys at school and sneak cookies.
Then I moved away. But we still wrote every week and when I went home to my grandma's we would always have one magical day on the farm. By the time we hit our early-twenties, she got married and started a family while I moved to the Rainy City to become an actress. Our lives could not be more different. But thanks to the wonders of facebook, we now can keep closer tabs on each other and communication is a bit easier.
This is not the point of my now long story. The point is, that just last week, I drove down to her home and had a very lovely visit. She now is a mother to five, count them - FIVE, children. All of whom are minnie-hers, absolutely adorable, and totally well behaved. We sat in her backyard, under the tall oak trees, drinking iced lattes, talking about our childhood and what happened to all our friends, with her kids playing around us. She turned to me and said "I love this! We haven't seen each other in years and I don't feel awkward at all. It's just normal." And that's what it was. Just normal.
The reason we have friends is so that they can help us become better people. They teach us lessons and show us ways of living that inspire us and help us live our own lives. It's a nice circle. As we sat there, smiling and laughing I felt refreshed and energized by the lesson (and lessons) she was teaching me.
#1 - Old friends, no matter how often you see them or talk to them, know you from the beginning and will help remind you of where you come from (so you can go back when you get lost)
#2 - Money isn't everything. Sometimes in Rainy City I get caught up with the car, the house, the clothes. But something must be said for maybe not having a ton of money, but enough to eat well and stay at home with a family that loves you. I don't think I have ever seen anyone as happy as my friend who just loves her life with her whole heart (and looks about 20 - maybe that's why?)
#3 - Do what you love. My friend has done some cool things - like work in a hospital with nuns in Africa helping deliver babies to women who had been genitally mutilated. But at a young age, she really knew that what she wanted more than anything was to be a mum. So she did. And she is happy happy happy.
I drove home with a sense of peace and a smile on my face.
That's the thing about old friends: they are always there when you need it most (even if you didn't know it).
Splish Splash Fitness
Due to the fact that my knee was knocked out in the early part of the summer (at a wedding of all places) I have not worked out for two and a half months. I need to get back in the swing of things but ever so slowly, therefore I thought perhaps the pool was the best place to go.
I convinced a bride friend of mine that Aquafit at her local gym was the way to go. In Cowtown, her gym is the biggest and best - full of young and old. I was hoping to debunk the myth that aquafitness is only for old people. I was wrong.
We were late in getting there so as we rushed in and Mrs. L scanned the pool area (the adult pool area) looking for our class, I happened to spot them first. We only had enough time for me to turn to her and say 'I am really really sorry'. Our class was in the training pool, as in training to be a duckling, duck, dolphin pool. And we were the youngest 'ducklings' by about 30 years.
The thing I love about older people is that they love us 'young-uns' and they all smiled as we jumped into the pool. And by jumped I mean splashed as it was three feet deep. They told us to go up front to the 'deep end' - maybe 3'10''? So here we were in our bikinis (I was on vacation so only had my ruffly deal that kept coming up around my nipples all class. Besides, we're in our twenties and childless - we don't have one pieces yet!), surrounded by a graceful woman with white hair in her seventies, an old punjab lady wearing a shower cap, a lady in a bright red bathing suit who wore her glasses the whole time, and two women who were, ummm, how do I say, rather buoyant.
Aquafit is suprisingly tough, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You are using the water as resistance which makes lunging and jumping back and forth quite difficult. So difficult that Mrs. L got a blister on her big toe from trying to keep hold of the pool bottom. Pretty sure she is the only woman in the universe of Aquafit to get an injury.
Unless you count water up your nose and a near drowning to be an injury. I took a pretty good head dive when I tried to jump over my noodle like a skip rope. I know that I am an uncoordinated gal but come on! I fell head first into the pool making all the other women snicker as I bobbed up like a drowned rat. Clearly I was too tall for the pool and my top heaviness made me topple over. That is what I will tell myself anyways. The Punjab lady kept having to show me what to do, including how to jump without risking one's life. Aquafit is where the seventy-year-olds have us beat - they know the drill.
I also enjoyed the seventy-year old men sitting in the hot tub across the pool taking in our performance. Watching the hot old birds get fit. It's like the bar for old people.
By the time we got out, I was pooped. I looked like I was pooped too. With mascara running down my face and my hair plastered to my head (they make women coming out of the pool hot on TV. It's a myth). All the old ladies asked if we would come again. Come again to be humiliated in the pool and get more blisters? Sign me up!
And bless their hearts, they thought we were going back to school after class. That's the best thing about Aquafit: even though you may have just turned 29, you will always be the youngest person in the class . . .
An apple a day . . . .
Wow, has this summer flown by or what? It's hard to believe and yet they told us this would happen: each year that we get older, the faster the time will fly by.
Kids are going back to school tomorrow. Not that I envy them having to take annoying classes like math and science or writing essays, but I always feel a bit nostalgic at this time of the year. I see the kids running to school with their new backpacks and their first day of school clothes and I get the pang.
I loved the first day of school (yes, geek central here). I love love loved getting new school supplies that smelled of fresh rubber and wood. Flipping through new notebooks that were empty and waiting to be filled with a new year of knowledge. The new backpack that was still clean and had no banana residue at the bottom. And the new lunch box. Remember in the eighties when we had those plastic dealies with pictures of our favorite TV-show characters on the front? With the Muppet babies or Barbie? On the inside our sandwiches would neatly stack and the thermos was held by a strap in the top part of the lid? Those were the days. I loved picking out a new lunch box every year. Odd for me though, I was the kid who went home for lunch.
My mother used to get so angry at me for insisting on a new eraser when I still had half of one from the previous year. Pish. New year, new eraser.
If I was ten, tonight I would have filled my backpack (after laying out all my new supplies on the dining room table the previous week for inspection), picked my 'back to school' outfit and would be lying in bed for the anticipation of a new year, new teacher and getting to see all my friends everyday.
But I am not ten, I am twenty-eight (with only a week left!) and tomorrow I have to work, pay some bills and walk my dogs. No lemon scent of school floors (that only last that first week) or choosing seats next to my best friend. No text books being given out. No new kids to scope out. No new grade to show that I am getting older and therefore better (when did we start freaking out about getting older?).
I'm also envious of the university-aged kids. When I go back to my old campus now I feel like an impostor. I walk the familiar grounds of a school that was my home for four years, but it now belongs to new students. Like being an alien or the foreign student. Oh University, how I miss watching the leaves slowly turning, scarves blowing in the wind, and feet rushing from building to building between the ten minute gap.
For heaven sakes, I still go by the school calender and I have been out of school for over five years! Then again I was in school for nearly twenty years. No wonder there is such an adjustment when we graduate.
The Engineer goes back tomorrow too. I am not in the Big Apple, otherwise I would pack him a lunch (in those new fangled un-fun lunch boxes they sell now) and walk him to school - and then promptly go shopping in Soho. Is that what mothers do when their kids go to school? Run to the mall and get pedicures? Wait a minute, I think I like the sound of this new wave of school-dom. Your kids get to go and learn all the crap they will eventually forget, leaving you for a blissful, quiet six to eight hours of nothingness. I like it!
Ahh, who am I kidding? Sign me up for an apple and get me a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils. School is the best!
Happy learning kids!
A Place Called Home
With the Olympics over (what do I watch on TV now?), the Engineer off to grad school in the Big Apple, and all my friends back at work, the Rainy City felt a wee bit lonely.
I decided to bundle the boys into my Volkswagen and head for the hills (ie. the Rockies) and go home. Odd isn't it, that although spending 8 years in the Rainy City, I still call my parent's house home? The house they live in now isn't even near where I grew up! They just moved into Cowtown from a small farming community so this house is literally brand new to the family. And yet it is home.
That is nice, for my mum. But will my home ever be home? I suppose when I get married and have kids of my own, the home that I build for them will be home. Meh, it will be home for them. I think your parent's house will always be home.
Comforting thought, for some, anyways. Maybe the idea of spending more than one night under your mother's roof is too much. I know that for most, spending the night under your mother-in-law's roof is definitely too much.
I always revert to being a child when I am at home. It's ridiculous. At my own house, I make my bed, put my tea cups in the dishwasher, sweep my floors. Here? Nope. I also cook my dinner and clean up after it. Here? Nope. I let my dad bustle around in the kitchen last night and ate the mussels, then went back to the couch. I sleep in. I don't shower until noon. Lazy bones.
It's nice though, to always have a home to come back to. Even when you are in your sixties with kids of your own who are grown. Or maybe my mum just did a good job.
I am going to make a lasagna to show my appreciation. I wonder where the pan is . . . .
I can't watch! I can't watch!
The Olympics are definitely a new obsession. I haven't been this obsessed since 1992's Norway Olympics and I have never been into the summer ones.
Oh God, the stress the stress! I have stayed up three nights in a row (Beijing is a bazillion hours ahead of Rainy City) to catch my favorite, Adam Van Koerverden in the kayak. I could barely watch as he started to race and then hid behind a pillow as I saw him fall back. This is the guy expected to win the Gold and he came in 8th in the 1000m. Poor Adam.
The worst thing about Olympics is watching dreams shatter. The camera followed him and you could see his dissapointment as he held his head in his hands. The worst part though, was that he had to be interviewed RIGHT AFTER THE RACE! GAH! He has won every single race to get to the final so he was supposed to win this one, all the reporters were ready. But instead of a celebration he looked like he was about to cry and apologized to us. APOLOGIZED! I just wanted to take that big, muscular body in my arms and tell him that he has nothing to apologize for. And possibly cop a feel of his biceps.
This is why I hate watching sports - you get invested, stress out and then hide behind a pillow. The Olympics are amazing when you see the win and the smile, they are horrific when you see the pain and anguish. No wonder the world is tuned in.
The pressure these people are under is incredible. To apologize for letting his country down? NO! And for heaven sakes, he's from Canada. Clearly we are still going to love him and all our athletes, we're nice. Unlike other nations that practically abuse their athletes from a young age. Not mentioning any names . . . . China
Wow, times have changed. In 1992, when Kurt Browning fell and lost his gold, my mum and I sent him a TELEGRAM. Telegram! All we have to do now is sign Adam's wall online to let him know how hot he is . . . whoops, I mean how good at sports he is.
Go for the Gold . . . and the speedo
I have suddenly become an Olympic addict. I love tuning in and seeing what new lengths the athletes are pushing themselves to each day - unfortunately when I tune it, the sport is often something I find terribly uninteresting, like softball.
I have always been a fan of swimming. Until this year that is. Some weirdo has deemed that full body suits are more ergonomically speedy. I say phooey to that. The whole point of watching swimming is to watch the speedos! Technically, I frown on speedos in society - unless they are worn strictly in competition. ie. The Olympics. They do not belong on a chubby Dutch man on a Thai beach accompanied with a bum bag. They do belong on the long, lean, muscular body of a swimmer. Mmmmm, Michael Phelps anyone? It's okay to talk like this, even the Engineer has a man-crush on the guy.
I have also discovered the kayak event. Not one to usually like watching that sort of thing, I couldn't help but notice the Canuck cutey, Adam van Koeverden. What's not to like? Men powerfully paddling, the sun glinting off their tanned, strong man arms. Drool.
Okay okay, I know the Olympics are more than eye candy. They are amazing feats in human determination and dreams being realized. Blah blah blah.
I was especially glued last night to the pole vaulting in which the Russian lady, Isenbayeva, broke her own world record. This woman is a rock. She ran with her big pole and not one bit of her shook! Even in slow motion as she arched over the pole, her abs, butt and thighs stayed firmly in place. Bitch.
And it was really exciting when she finally made it on her third try with only 10 seconds to go. I jumped out of the . . . . couch. And spilled my ice cream dish. Nothing makes you feel fatter than the non-shaking, toned Olympians.
I think that is what the Olympics are about (not the feeling fat bit): cheering for people who are pushing themselves further and further. Total inspiration. It doesn't matter what country you are from (even though my heart does swell when I hear our national anthem), what matters is watching dreams come true. Pure joy on the faces of those who work hard to get on that podium (or just to the games for crying out loud!). I cheer for those who don't even qualify past primaries - I mean heck, they're there right?
Today I discovered a new sport in which we won silver: the trampoline! Ummm, hello? Sign me up! I could totally be that person!
Who am I kidding? I would be so distracted by the swimmers that I would probably miss my own event . . . .
The Shower Curtain
The Engineer and I are moving in with each other on a semi-permanent basis. He has moved to the Big Apple and I have remained in the Rainy City. The plan is for me to go every other month, for a month; hence the 'semi-permanent' basis.
With moving in comes a whole new set of relationship discoveries: who does more laundry, how long does the other tolerate dirty dishes in the sink, who has better decorating taste, etc.
I actually have no idea how the Engineer decorates - as his own home here was shared and not really decorated in any particular style. I myself am only really discovering my decorating taste - but I know what I like and what I hate.
So came up our first 'semi-permanent-moving-in-together-decorating' fight. And it wasn't even a fight. It was more of a "I hate that, take it back and I'll pick one out" discussion over our shower curtain. The Engineer came home with a - oh god - world atlas printed shower curtain. Ugh.
I am sure no man would understand this, especially not my Engineer, but three girlfriends who have heard this story have groaned audibly when they hear the words 'world atlas shower curtain'. I think the problem is this: shower curtains with world atlases, dancing pigs, and flamingos all belong in the home of a student. Yes, the Engineer is a student but a grad student. Shower curtains are meant to be calming and make a bathroom a sanctuary of peace - not a study item.
Bless his heart though, I love him for making himself at home, I just have to help him a bit. So apparently he didn't like me flat out telling him I hated it. Apparently this whole compromise thing means we have to agree on things. I wish he would just compromise that I have better taste. Alas, that will not work as he is as stubborn as I. He said that he both have to like something. Well, I didn't like the Atlas - so it went back.
Instead, I found a shower curtain on CLEARANCE from Pottery Barn (see? at least I am going for clearance). I liked the pattern, somewhat busy but nice, and let the Engineer pick the colour. He chose blue. I would have gone with grey but whatever - I compromised, he compromised. That's how a relationship works right?
I am going to try my best to be less anal, but he has to give me the space to create a nice home. Just because we are only there for two years does not mean we have to live in a hovel - especially when I work from it. A home is your safe place, your heart, your comfort zone. It has to be pretty!
Sheesh, if that was the fuss over the shower curtain, I fear the day we pick the dishes . . . .
My Friend, the Cow
As a bridesmaid, I have seen many girlfriends walk down the aisle, look into the one they loves' eyes, and vow to stay together for better or for worse.
But what comes after the marriage? You got it: the baby carriage.
Three of my gal pals who I have played bridesmaid to, are now mothers of little girls. My oldest friend is among them.
We have been friends since the tender age of 8, but really solidifying our friendship at 11 when I spent a week at her cottage. We bonded over our shared love of Anne of Green Gables and Paul Christie (or was it Brent Hobday?)
Nearly two decades later I stood up for her on her wedding day and then became 'auntie' to her adorable little girl. I went to visit them last month in Toronto and discovered things that one can only discover when someone who is your sister, or like a sister as I am an only child, has had a baby.
Knowing someone for as long as I have known her, makes it a bit easier to say things like "what happened to your nipples?" or "they had to put stitches where?"
Not that I stared at my friends' boobs, they just happened to be right there, practically in my face. Baby M was not latching on that day and I simply looked over when Ali said "come on M, get it". Get what? I think I recoiled somewhat as I discovered that the 'thing' baby M was supposed to get was the 'thing' formerly know as Ali's nipple. It had been replaced by some alien formation that resembled a large swollen cookie. At my shock, Ali nodded and said that yes, this is what happens to ones nipples when one breast feeds. Oh.
I was then informed of the stitches that comes when one gives birth. Excuse me? Readers, I am not that dumb, I know there is some tearing. But when I hear the phrase 'stitched up like a turkey' I can only run to my nearest doctor and request a lifetime supply of birth control. STITCHED UP LIKE A TURKEY? GAH! This isn't even Ali's phrase! It's her doctor who said it! Shouldn't he have a better bedside manner? No woman should ever hear those words.
Later in the evening, Ali's hubby was helping me on my computer. I was paying close attention to his words when I became distracted by an odd sucking noise. I looked up, and there was Ali on the couch, an odd contraption at her breast and her holding a remote in her hand. She looked at me and said flatly, "I'm a cow". I nearly fell off my chair. She pumps her milk so that dad has some bonding time with baby M - which is sweet. But I had never seen a pump in action before, well I have, but only on an actual cow. The resemblance was uncanny. I was in hysterics.
Having a baby takes all the modesty out of you. Never before in our two decade friendship would Ali (a) show me her breast (b) talk about her nether regions as if they were some country in Europe or (c) discuss the consistency of poop but here she was doing all three.
I stood back and watched her: feeding her baby who has her eyes and saw something way beyond the cow pump and alien nipples. My best friend is a mom. The way she looks at her baby makes me feel like she joined a club to which I am not a member. I love my mum and I love my boyfriend and I love my dogs. But I don't love anything the way Ali loves that baby.
So even in the embarrassment and discomfort that childbearing brings, it has also brought something else to my friend that is magical and lovely, and mysterious to me because I don't know what it is . . . yet.
Welcome to the world baby M!
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