Wonder

We had a baby lunch today which, despite how it sounds, is not a little wee snack nor is it a feast of infants. My former co-worker Carl and his wife Natalie brought in their new baby daughter in for a visit. The little one was a bit worn out and hungry by the time they arrived, having visited his current office first. I’m not going to bore you with tales of how irresistible her little concerned frowny face was, how it made you want to immediately drop everything and fix whatever it was that was worrying her. I’m not going to mention her eensy fingers or her tiny nibbleable toes. Nope, I’m barely going to talk about the baby at all..

Being around Carl and Natalie during this whole “baby growing” process has been both entertaining and enlightening. They are unabashedly honest about what is happening and how it makes them feel and they are articulate and free with sharing.

When Natalie was still pregnant, she would answer any question, without restriction, honestly and intelligently, but carefully. Most of her answers were filled with wonder at this miracle of biology, even those that were slightly scary. Many of the girls at work have never had children and the responses were interesting and prompted more questions, which Natalie answered with comfortable grace.

Carl noted today that since his little girl was born he feels a stronger attachment to all babies, even complete stranger’s children. He said that that his reactions to all infants were far more emotional than ever before. When asked what the most surprising thing about the birth was, what he wished he’d been prepared for, Carl answered that it was the impact that labour had on Natalie’s face. Her labour was relatively short; 5 hours with 2 hours of pushing, but complicated by the baby being somewhat sideways and spine on spine. By the time the little girl was born, Natalie had burst blood vessel in her eyes and all over her face. Her cheeks were swollen, her eyes bloody red and the rest of her face was brown like a bad bruise. Carl said that he knew labour would be hard on her, but he just wasn’t expecting the extent of the damage to her face.

Natalie, both as a mother-to-be and a mother, has a glowing calm about her. She didn’t seem worried or stressed about what was to come and she talked about the labour almost as if it happened to another person. This isn’t to say that she wasn’t tired or it wasn’t painful, just that getting worked up about it wasn’t going to help anything. This is a philosophy so alien to my way of thinking that I found it intriguing. It wasn’t that she was saying, “Don’t worry.” (People tell me not to worry all the time and that generally just makes me worry more because it usually means that either they’re hiding something or don’t really know what’s going on.) It was just that she was living it, despite the fact that this was her first time having an entire other miniature person helpless and dependent on her for everything. It was amazing to watch someone who is so settled in their own beliefs, so comfortable with their existence that they could live the example for the rest of us, even with the stress of a newborn child in their life.

The two of them have such an easy relationship, loving and comfortable, that it’s impossible not to admire how well matched they are. Both are relaxed, humorous, athletic, and caring people and you can see how well they match. They’ve been together for more that ten years and it’s plain to see why.

Carl and Natatlie, thank you for giving all of us examples of the way things can be. Thank you for your openness, your insights and for introducing us to the wonder of your beautiful baby girl.

New House

Alright, already! Enough pestering about the new house photos. Here you are! Are you happy now? (We certainly are. Whoo!)



Our new place (with Stanley standing guard).



Toward the door.



Side step.



Backyard.



Backyard (raspberry bushes!)



Backyard and patio doors from living room.



Front (side) door.



Dining area.



Kitchen.



Kitchen from above.



One side of living room.



The water wall.



Other side of living room (with bonus TV).



Going upstairs.



Master bedroom.



Inside the master bedroom (unfortunately the carpet color was unavoidable).



What's up in the back of the closet?



Perfect for a fort!



Little bedroom upstairs.



We do love the animals.





Tara and Steve's fancy new bathroom (they spent forever renovating it).



Isn't it fancy?



Nice new huuuuuge bathtub.





Downstairs.



The cave of DOOOOM!



Shower stall.



Little bedroom downstairs.



The office area.



More office.



Downstairs (again!)



Paul painted the basement.



He's excited about the paint (or high on paint fumes, I'm not sure which).



Of course our hockey gear is already moved in!

Home Sweet Home

Paul and I recently became homeowners. In the current market this may seem a little crazy, but it just seems to be the way we work. Nothing is ever easy or straightforward for us and we ended up buying at the market peak. Fortunately my friends Tara and Steve were building a new home and were trying to sell their house. Based on what was on the market for that price at that time (money pits) they gave us a deal. Based on what they paid less than four years ago, we gave them a deal (more than double). It was win:win. Initially I was hesitant about buying from friends; normally the easiest way to ruin a friendship is to get money involved. As time went on and we looked at more and more houses that were falling down or had "what to do when your sewer line is blocked" pamphlets or clearly had a pot farm in the garage, we came to realize that their home might be the home for us.

It helps that I trust Tara and Steve completely. I've known Steve since he was 12 and I was 13. We both used to arrive at school really early in the mornings in Junior High (which will shock those of you who have seem me in the morning). Our lockers happened to be across from each other, and we would sometimes chat while we waited. I found him to be nice, intelligent and funny, which are not exactly common qualities in a seventh grader. We had similar taste in books and exchanged suggestions. I apparenlty raised his social status significantly by dancing with him at a school dance (ooo! Steve is dancing with an eigth-grade girl), but all I really remember is he didn't step on my feet. Steve is one of my all-time favorite people. He is still nice, intelligent and funny, but his practical joking side is much more apparent now (be careful to fully examine anything he tells you before acting).

I've known Tara since she was 14, and I was 15, but we didn't become friends until two years later. In our Bio 30 class we bonded while mocking the birthing video we were forced to watch. We were lab partners for that half of the year, we shared a drama class and we were involved in several out of class Drama projects. Our last term in high school we shared the torture of Math 31 and we knew we were going on to University together, in the Bachelor of Science program. We planned our schedules so that we had many of the same classes, and we survived first year Calculus together, if barely.

Tara and Steve started dating in Grade 12 and got married 10 years later. I was on the ski trip where they started dating and I was a bridesmaid in their wedding. I took the first photo of them as a couple, which is still a favorite. When my first university boyfriend broke my heart, they didn't hesitate: they took me out, on their anniversary no less, and bought me drinks and dinner and made sure I wasn't wallowing. Steve even paid for me. These are true friends.

And now I've moved in to their home, which feels a bit weird. I haven't quite made the mental transition from "their home" to "our home". It's kind of like my furniture is just visiting. In my mind, when I'm driving home I'm really driving over to their place.

I'm not sure how long the transition will take or what will cause the change. Maybe the first time we have our friends over, or once the boxes are unpacked and everything has a place. Maybe when I stop having to fiddle with the light switches to find the right one, or when I start remembering that the fridge door doesn't stop but swings wide and crashes against its side. Maybe when I can park in the garage instead of on the driveway. Maybe one day soon it will feel like home.

Tobogganing is Dangerous

Something has gone terribly wrong with the Christmas season. I’m not just referring to the crass commercialization and over-consumption, while that is an issue, but something that has gone more deeply awry. I present to you the following as evidence, some of which you may have heard before, but not all, I promise you:

1) Costco started selling Christmas items in August this year. August! Four full months before Christmas.

2) The sheer excess of Christmas decorations which is displayed on lawns. I’m not a scrooge to begrudge every penny spent and I like a nice tasteful light display as much as the next person, but when your lawn is covered in obscenely over-priced decorations including, but not limited to an inflatable Homer Simpson dressed as Santa, a polar bear fabricated of woven fiber-optics, two hardened plastic elves, a 12-foot high stocking, a giant snow-globe, complete with swirling snow and a full set of wooden reindeer complete with sleigh there is just something wrong. (Besides, don’t you think the polar bear would eat the elves and the reindeer?) Don’t even get me started on the inflatable snowmen! What’s wrong with the ones made of snow and assembled with mittens? We have plenty of real snow and it’s free, just falling from the sky. What especially irks me is the people that follow up all that crass window dressing with a “Jesus is the Reason for the Season” sign. Really? Really, you bought all that for Jesus? You must really love him and also be extremely hard of hearing. How many food bank meals could that inflatable Homer have paid for? How many rooms at the inn for the homeless?

3) Jingle Cats. Enough said.

4) On the bakery counter at Save-on today, there was a Christmas-themed knickknack on display. Picture this, if you will: there is a toboggan. On the toboggan is Santa. Santa is lying facedown on the sled, with his head facing downhill, as if he were riding it down a snowy slope. Santa is turned towards you with a big grin plastered on his face. This all sounds very idyllic, doesn’t it? But wait, there is more. There is a snowman also riding the toboggan and the snowman, just like Santa, has his head turned toward you with a giant smile. Be forewarned, this is where it goes off the rails. The snowman is astride Santa. Santa’s pants are around his ankles. I will give you a moment to absorb this. Santa is on a toboggan and appears to be just thrilled about being sodomized by a snowman. Even if you enjoy things going in the out door, that’s just got to be far too chilly to be pleasant!

I leave you to draw your own conclusions from the above evidence, members of the jury, but I, for one, am convinced that something, somewhere, has gone horribly wrong with Christmas.

Bittersweet

NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) – an event where writers all around the world compose a minimum 50,000 word novel between 12:01 a.m. on November 1st and 11:59 pm on November 30th, just to prove that they can.

Wrimo – a participant in NaNoWriMo. The ‘Wrimo’ is often characterized by ink stains on their hands, frazzled expressions, wrist pain, chronic sleep deprivation and a tendency to stop suddenly in mid-conversation to jot notes on whatever is handy. In November, their distinctive call can be heard: “What’syourwordcount? What’syourwordcount?”

NaNoWriMo is over for another year and I’m deep in the throes of withdrawal. Each year I get a little more involved and each year it’s harder to let go when the month is over. For example, today I spent 8 hours in and out of chat, half an hour each on the forums, reviewing surveys, updating finances, planning for next year and writing this entry. I’m a junkie with a bad habit.

I’ve been participating in NaNo for five years now, and have been a Municipal Liaison for two. As a second year ML, I have started to take more initiative in the direction of our region. I came up with some new ideas for the year (I’m to blame for the NaNoPass) and I picked up some of the duties that SarahJanet had shouldered the previous year. Writing pep talks to send to the Wrimos for encouragement was definitely the most interesting new experience. I’m not sure if everyone enjoyed them as much as I did, but it was a pleasant surprise to go into chat and see that the topic was a quote from my first pep. It was also neat to have a new Wrimo quote my pep at me before he knew who I was.

In all, the experience of being an ML has been very fulfilling. I’m getting better at talking to strangers, which is never something that I’ve been comfortable with. I’ve spent more time in chat getting to know people, more time posting on the forums and making sure everything is okay. I managed to speak at length into a microphone to a crowd of 90 last night, and I hate both public speaking and microphones. (I think my only big error was saying that Denton traveled 320,000 km rather than 3,200 km. Oops, nerves. No, he did not travel from Mars.)

It’s unfortunate that the large group setting isn’t at all where I’m comfortable. I’d much rather meet and write with a small group of fun people who share similar goals than to travel with this enormous and unwieldy group assembled around me. To this end I organized a few “stealth write-ins” to just hang out and write with a few close friends. I found those events to be far more productive for me, both in terms of word count and the level of social interaction. I am in awe of the intelligence and creativity of everyone that I had the pleasure of sharing these clandestine meetings with.

The end of NaNo has a very “end of Summer Camp” kind of feel to it. By the end of the night you’re hugging people and promising to keep in touch but you know that you won’t see most of them until next year’s Kick Off party. And while that’s kind of sad, it’s also okay; it makes every November that much more magical, reuniting you after not having seen each other for a year and seeing what has changed.

While I am relieved to be free of the insane level of sleep deprivation, the pressure of writing at least 1667 words a day and the burden of constant social interaction, it leaves a hollow in my chest like I’ve lost something precious, which in some ways I have. There are people who won’t be back next year: they are moving away or they will have real life get in the way. Since NaNo is primarily an online community, there is no way of knowing who is missing and how to get in touch with them again, in most cases. Even the ones who come back will be changed by the intervening year; nothing will really be quite the same when we get back together next October.

November was also very much a time of personal development for me. I suspect that it’s going to take a lot of thinking and writing to process through all of what I’ve discovered about myself and the way I relate to the world, and even more time to fully understand all of the ways that the experiences of this month have changed me.

The end of NaNo is bittersweet, a welcome return to the normalcy of every day life while losing the thrill and excitement of this challenge, the joy and warmth of interaction, and the opportunity to actually use my vocabulary.

I’m so glad it’s over and I can’t wait for next year.

Quirky

Hello readers, or absence of readers, I think you’ve gotten to know me pretty well (although I’ve been bad about updating lately, I know) but here are a few slightly unusual things that you may not know about me. I didn’t realize that these things were unusual, but I’m coming to see that not everyone works quite the same way as me.

I balance my chequebook.
Every month without fail, more often if I happen to go into my account more often. I also read through my Mastercard bill and confirm the cost of items purchased. Why wouldn’t I want to know if I was being ripped off or my card was being used without my knowledge or even for early detection of identity theft? This just seems like common sense to me.

I declare my bank interest on my taxes.
No one else I know does this. It’s interest earned, even if it is only two bucks a year. I know it doesn’t affect the overall totals, but it’s just being accurate.

I declare everything.
Yes, everything. I went to Cuba a few months ago (which was fantastic, by the way) and every night I carefully added to my list of items purchased and their individual costs. On the plane, when filling out my declaration, I carefully tallied them up, did the conversion from Cuban convertible pesos to Canadian dollars and filled in my total as my friends looked on incredulously. I also indicated that I was bringing in items containing dairy (chocolates) and wood products (a carving) and that my two bottles of Cuban rum were technically a larger volume than is allowed (1.4 L is allowed, two 750 mL bottles is 1.5L. Whoever made that rule is just dumb). This resulted in ridicule from my friends and having our carving inspected by Canadian customs (it was fine). Never mind the fact that I accidentally smuggled cheese back into the country (which I promptly ate upon realizing that I had). Mmm…cheese…

I read the fine print.
I can’t believe that not everyone does! Why would you sign something without knowing what you are agreeing to and where your information goes? This practice also led to me finding the following gem in the Quicken License Agreement: “You agree and certify that you are not a citizen or permanent resident of the following countries: Cuba, Iran, North Korea, Libya, Sudan or Syria.” Isn’t that odd? Is it in all software licensing agreements or just those where portions of the company are in the US?

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I guess the writing juices are finally flowing again as November and NaNoWriMo approaches. I was incredibly burned out last year after NaNo and Holidailies and finally feel like I'm recovering a bit. Hopefully this year will not lead to my annual blog name and location change, yet again.

August’s exciting news was that Paul was finally done school. This was extra exciting because we both thought he had 4 months left.

In that time, I’ve gotten used to Paul being home. Tonight he is out at a friend’s house and I have gone into the bedroom twice looking to cuddle up with him (he often goes to bed before me and I visit him sometimes when I get lonely). I was playing with my new Quicken Cash Flow earlier and I was just so excited about it (yes, I’m a dork) that I wanted to tell him how pleased I was with our decision to shell out 40 clams for it (are those two expressions related? I wonder…) and both times I suddenly realized with a sense of deflation that he was…not here.

This is like having a honeymoon a few years too late. Being able to just hang out together on the couch without him having a splitting headache or the computer on his lap, although more often it was just me in the apartment doing the housework after work while he was at school until 11 pm. Every so often I just want to yell out to the world “Look! I have a husband! He’s real and he lives with me! See, I told you so!” Not that I need a husband for my self-identity or whatever, I’m just proud of him and the fun and quirky relationship that we have built together.

It’s nice to come home after work (or more often, after my many medical appointments) to find him cooking dinner, or watching TV, or doing dishes, or playing a video game rather than to yell, “Honey, I’m home!” to an empty apartment (and our doped up neighbours).

Gee, aren't you all glad that you waited this long for an entry? Don't worry, I plan on doing Holidailies again this year.

Evil Truck

This truck parks down the street from our place all the time. It freaks me right out that someone not only believes these things but felt the need to post them on their vehicle for all the world to see. I am frankly terrified to see who drives this thing and hope to never meet them in a dark alley. They must be seriously unbalanced.


Is that not disturbing?

The Princess and The Muffin

I have dropped off the face of the planet lately due to my increasing insomnia (and the time consumed by creating a slideshow for my father's 60th birthday party). After picking up my Vitamin B Complex pills, sedatives and sleeping pills, I got asked a very strange question.

I had apparently, without realizing what I was getting into, walked into a heated argument between the girl at customer service and the girl at the till. Obviously very worked up about it, the girl at the till demanded, "Which is a more insulting nickname: Princess or Muffin?" Surprisingly, I had strong opinions on the matter. In fact, she could not have picked two nicknames about which I have stronger feelings than these two.

Princess is what the evil ex used to call me (which I hated and he never realized it). It's also what my mother calls me when she really wants to piss me off. It's basically the one thing that you can call me that will send me into a rage instantly. You'd be better off calling me Poo-for-brains (but don't, okay?), although calling me a liar will get a similar reaction. (The exception to this is calling me The Princess of Weird, which is acceptable because it is from "Dead Like Me" and is also true.)

Muffin (and more commonly Muffinpants or Muffin de Pants or Muffiny Muffin) is what Paul calls me, and has for years. It fills me with a little sunny glow every time I hear it. It started out from the sarcastic sympathetic, "Awww...muffin!" whenever one of us had an insignificant complaint. One of Paul's coworker's overheard us and thought it was funny. It took on a life of it's own after that. I have even warned my co-workers that if they feel the need to answer my phone, they might get called Muffinpants by my husband. (Strangely all of them have elected to not answer my phone, which is fine by me.) When greeting me, if Paul just yells "Muffin!", I will often just yell "Pants!" in reply.

When I informed the girl at the till that Princess was the most insulting of insulting nicknames, and that Muffin was the most fabulous of fabulous nicknames when used in the right tone, she was pretty darn put out. The customer service girl did a victory dance and I checked my bill to make sure that there were no financial consequences to siding against the person who was holding my mastercard hostage.

Flipping the bird

It seems as though my injured right hand has some suppressed rage, possibly about the injury. My physio put a machine on it, basically two sponges with wires tensor-bandaged to my wrist, that is supposed to reduce inflammation and pain. It gives me little tingly electric shocks in my hand but will also sometimes (often) cause my middle finger to cramp and extend. I cannot stop it, nor can I retract it once it's out. Basically, my hand is flipping the world the bird of it's own volition.

I just hope that it doesn't need psychotherapy after the physio therapy.

Roller coaster

Last week was a long series of violent ups and downs, not unlike a 168 hour roller coaster ride.

It started with a phone call to my mother on Friday night. My grandfather was supposed to be going for angioplasty and I wanted to see how it went. It turns out that he actually had an angiogram (small uphill). IThe results were not good. His right coronary artery is 100% blocked (sharp drop), his left coronary artery is 70% blocked with 80% blockage of the offshoots (gradual downhill). Basically, he needs bypass surgery right freaking now (small lift) and even if they decide that he is a good candidate he is probably going to refuse surgery (severe drop). My aunt asked him if he wanted to be buried or to make an ash of himself. He answered that he would make an ash of himself just like he always had (small lift driven by slightly hysterical laughter).

On Saturday I got my cast off (small up), found out my wrist wasn't fractured (bigger up), but started to realize the extent of soft tissue damage (gradual drop).

Tuesday night Paul and I (and his parents) went to see The Arrogant Worms (comedic songwriters extraordinaire). We had fabulous seats: Winspeare Centre, floor, centre, row 4 (gradual up) and I laughed until I cried (nearing a peak).

Wednesday brought Paul's long awaited appointment with the hematologist to find out about his blood clot. We went in quite hopeful that the results would be good, he would be able to go off the blood thinners and never have a clot again. The results were not good (sudden plunging drop of doom). His antiphospholipid antigen levels had risen again, putting him at high risk for further clotting so he would have to stay on blood thinners for another year. At a single stroke the possibility that all of this trouble was caused by a pesky virus was eliminated. Now we know it's something else, likely something serious, but we have no idea what. They have ordered further tests over the next year, mostly in the area of auto-immune diseases, but we won't know anything at all until next February, if at all (bottom of the screaming drop-of-doom pit-of-despair).

That evening I went to the BareNaked Ladies concert at Rexall Place. It was fantastic, as expected. This is about the sixth time that I have seen them in concert and they are consistently the best I have ever seen. They are all just such amazing musicians and entertainers. They're geeky and fun and the music is fantastic and it doesn't hurt that Ed is so dreamy (triple loop-de-loop of joy). I cheered until I was hoarse and didn't care that I had no voice left and froze my butt off walking back to the car (and luckily survived the car ride, Ashley is a scary driver).

The next morning I was still on cloud nine over the fabulousness of the concert but it was (unfortunately) a thursday which is meeting day at work. By the end of the meeting I was so angry I was shaking. I'm tired of backhanded insults and power trips, micro-managing and iron-handed control. Work politics make me ill (sudden jerking stop at the end of the ride). Before I knew it I was back to the usual grind (coast to loading area).

Ride over. Please come again. (No, thank you. I think I'll be too short to ride next week.)