The Someday Diaries

February 14th 2012: Pink smarties, Heart cookies and Elbow soup

2012-02-14T07:34:00.000-08:00

It's a curious thing, spending Valentine's Day alone. I know a lot of folks do it, and not always by choice, so I'm not complaining - just sayin'. D is away overnight, so it's just me and the kidlets here on Happy Heart Day.

D left me a giant bouquet of iris and delphinium before he left, telling me he got me blue flowers because that's the way he'd be feeling when he went to bed alone tonight. He's not usually that sentimental, so I smiled rather than rolled my eyes. And they are beautiful - sapphire and cobalt and lapis, with snow-white asters in the middle of the bouquet. I hate red roses, so these are perfect.

Last night, I baked six dozen teeny tiny cream-cheese heart cookies in between sips of a delightful coffee porter. The cookies are my mom's tradition - I have never found her exact receipe, but I make do with one I scrounged off the internet. This morning I iced the little morsels with pink icing flavoured with fresh lemon juice, although my mom always preferred mint. Jade iced a few of her own at breakfast to take to Grandma's, but mostly she occupied herself with wolfing down pink smarties and those nasty little sprinkles I abhore but she adores. Dylan smashed his cookie into a billion pieces, licked all the coating off his smarties and dribbled chocolate onto his shirt before making a valiant attempt to plunge face-first into the bowl of icing. Nothing says Happy V Day like kids covered in sticky yuck.

I wrestled the little monsters into their winter coats (boy, I missed D's strong arms!), found the hats and mitts and snowpants, got the cookies and valentine's gathered up. As I was forcing Jade's reluctant feet into her boots, I heard a clang and a smash that could only mean one thing: I ran to the cold room to find dear Dylan up to his elbows in the soup I'd made the night before. He had tomato and cabbage smeared across his arms, hands and lips and a blissful look on his face. Well, at least he likes it.

So that's my V-day so far. I'm blessed with healthy, active children, yummy food to eat, and a much-needed coffee with Bailey's waiting for me at my desk. That's all I really need, even though a warm bed with D in it would be preferable.

Happy V day to you, my bloggy friends!

Random happy memories from Christmas past...

2012-02-09T10:54:00.000-08:00

1. Watching my father drink unsuspectingly from my "Office Tramp" coffee mug on Christmas morning.

2. The moment Jade chanelled the spirit of my Nana when she reacted to the mountain of presents under the tree:
(shakes head) "It's too much."

3. Paging Dr. Jade. My sister always gives the coolest gifts!

4. Dad: "I'm just going to put the turkey outside to keep it cool."
Me: "Um, I'm not sure that's a good idea. We have a lot of critters out there."
Dad: "Oh, it'll be fine."
- 1 hour later -
Dad: (hollering from outside) "Here, GIT YOU $%^&* STUPID BUGGERS! GIT AWAY!"
Me: "What's going on?"
Dad: "A #@%^& cat's been eating the turkey!! Look, it ate right through the bag!"
Me: (thinking for a moment) "Well, we won't tell anyone else, and you and me won't eat from that side."
Dad: "Good idea."

5. Sharing a special bonding moment with my dad: stuffing that disgusting wild turkey with bare hands. GAH!

Poetry 101

2012-02-02T12:47:00.001-08:00

I used to write a lot of poetry when I was younger. Bad poetry. Mysanthropic poetry. Maudlin poetry. Regardless of the quality, writing poetry was a healthy way to express my teenage angst, and a harmless enough past-time. Until I decided to show my beloved poetry to an English professor of mine, who told me it was "juevenile" and that I shouldn't waste my time attempting to submit it to any contests or publishers.

Jerk.

Silly, impressionable girl that I was, I stuffed my poor poems back in my satchel and slouched back to my apartment, where I hid them in a drawer and didn't write any more poetry for a very long time. Actually, I didn't write poetry again, at all, until my late thirties, if you can believe it. Yes, I was that shattered by a thoughtless piece of criticism.

But I've grown up since then, and although I still feel my eyes narrow whenever I picture that arrogant professor, I pat my old, hurt self on the back and write poems whenever I feel like it. I don't care if they ever see the light of day. Haiku are fun; so are sonnets, although they take considerable brain power and I don't usually have much of that left over after a day of work and evenings filed with building block towers and teddy bear tea parties. Still, it's therapeutic, and pleasing, to find just the right words to express something you've just thought of, or seen out the window, or day-dreamed about when you were supposed to be listening in on that conference call.

My mother loved poetry; so did my Nana. In fact, we read several poems at Nana's funeral because we knew she'd have liked that. I found lots and lots of poems she'd copied out in longhand after she died, tucked away in cookbooks and drawers and photo frames. I found it interesting that she had written this one out, because my Mother had this poem hanging on our den wall when I was growing up; Mom and Nana didn't always get along, but apparently they had the same taste in poets. Hmmm.

I like Rudyard because he has a stiff upper lip, and the kind of wisdom I wish I'd had when I reached out a shaky hand to collect my poor abused poems from that wank of a Professor. So here's a little dose of Brit wisdom for you...hope it helps!

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

Finding the silver (toilet paper) lining...

2012-01-30T08:32:00.000-08:00

Yowzer, that was one vicious (and viscous!) flu bug. It took D down, and that man is never sick. I'm a wuss when it comes to being ill, but when he stays home from work, you know it's gotta be bad.

All that being off work & laying around moaning did give me a chance to reflect on some of the advantages of being sick, though. Cuz there are advantages to almost every situation, if one is willing to dig through the muck and find them.

1) Unlimited sleep.
Everyone knows that the cardinal rule when you've got the flu is to REST. But it's hard to slow down and take time out when the household screams to be looked after, your inbox is overflowing and your co-workers are on vacay. Luckily, the flu takes one look at your pasty complexion and says, "Oh, you're supposed to go to Yoga tonight? Nuh-uh. You wanna login to just one conference call? Think again. Feel like you should do up those dishes and scrub that mashed banana off the wall? Forget it kid. Now lay down and shut up." So you crawl up the stairs and fall into bed and sleep for 4 hours straight. And, cramps and nausea aside, it's heavenly.

2) MIL to the rescue
Those of you who read this blog regularly will know I extoll the many virtues of my saintly mother in law. She shines her brightest when D or I are ill; she swoops in with ginger ale and soup, whisks the kids over to her place and refuses to give them back unless we really beg. D and I are capable adults and good parents, but she is the master of all things maternal. Even though we sometimes feel guilty for letting her do so much for us, I know she thrives on it. Cuz who doesn't love to be needed? (Not to mention adored)

3) Unintentional Weight Loss
I've developed a really weird pot-belly over the winter. I'm not sure how I feel about it; I've always been thin, and having C-Dif made me too thin. So now I regard my pot-belly with equal parts confusion and admiration. My daughter likes to poke it, pat it and doze on it, proceeding to plunk her fluffy blonde head on my jiggly gut as though it were the softest of pillows. It wasn't until my neice asked me if I had a baby stowed away in there that I thought I should probably do something about it. But hey! The flu looked after Ms. PB for me. Thanks, flu. Now my daughter has to find somewhere else to rest that little head. I think my butt still has room...

Boo to the Flu

2012-01-26T11:12:00.000-08:00

We have been pretty fortunate this winter so far - the kids have only had a few mild sniffle attacks, and we've managed to steer clear of the bronchitis, tonsillitis and c-dif that plagued our lives from November-January last year.

But.

Dylan has croup, which I thought was a 19th century thing.

And now the dreaded "bum explosion" flu has arrived, and it's here with a vengeance. Dylan and I had it on the weekend, and now D and I have it full force. Jade seems to have escaped the worst of it, and only has a cough (I am touching wood vigorously right now!) so we shipped her off to Grandma's to be sequestered for the day.

So.

No blogs for me right now...or work...or food...or fun.

BLEAH!

Excercise - good for you, bad for your marriage

2012-01-18T13:52:00.001-08:00

I don't believe in making New Year's resolutions. I like the New Year as it is: fresh and clean, with no mistakes in it. Why stain the shine of 2012 with forced incentives and promises I know I'll never keep? That's right, people: I am a New Year's scrooge. Give me the champers and the parties; keep your lousy resolutions to yourself.

Exercise, writing, not screaming at the kids, being outdoors more - these are things I strive to do no matter if it's January 1st or November 2nd. I have learned, however, that one's goals, no matter how inviting to others, are best attempted oneself.

Take exercising. D and I decided to attempt a twice-weekly, 30 minute workout that I ripped out of a magazine. I thought it would be fun if we did it together afer the kids went to bed. You know, turn on the hockey game, take off a few layers, get sweaty. As a couple. Kind of a workout-slash-foreplay sort of evening.

This, dear reader, is the result:

8:30pm:
Me: Okay, are you ready to do this?
D: I'm too full from dinner.
Me: DWAIN! Get your arse in here and let's do this!
D: Okay. (Looks around) I think this is going to wreck the living room floor.
Me: We are not THAT fat. (surveys her husband's orange crocs) I think you should put on some running shoes. You're gonna hurt your knees.
D: I don't know where they are.
Me: Dude, seriously???
D: Okay, I'll go look. (Leaves for 10 minutes. Returns with an old pair from 1997 with no laces) I couldn't find my good ones.
Me: For *&%$#@ sake. Let's go let's GO LET'S GO! Do you want to do this or what?
D: I'm too fat. I don't wanna. (starts flopping around like a preschooler) Don't make me!
(I leap on him in a fit of rage. A wrestling match ensues. He squeals like a girl)
Me: Okay, just forget it. I'm doing this with or without you. (Commences workout squats) 1 - 2 - 3 -4
D: (starts doing jumping squats) 25, 26, 39, 100. Done!

I wanted to kill him. And today I want to kill myself, I'm so sore. And I've learned an important lesson: couples that lounge together, stay together!

In praise of...nearly pointless purchases

2012-01-13T05:16:00.000-08:00

My newest purchase, delivered yesterday, sits on my counter winking a beautiful grey-blue eye at me. Moments ago, it growled like a small, angry groundhog and scared my kids. Then it began its slow, delightful trickling, filling my kitchen with a fierce and heady aroma.

That's right: I bought a new coffee maker.

The last time I splurged on a nearly pointless, ridiculously expensive purchase was in 2005. I'd just gotten divorced and had a bank account to myself for the first time in ten years. My sister had taken me out for some retail therapy and we both saw the coat at the same time.

"Oh Kimmy...it's you!" she breathed. "Try it on."

It was a luxurious, turquoise Esprit hounds tooth, knee-length and beautifully fitted. I sidled up to it and surreptitiously checked the price tag. I think my eyes bulged like those cartoon dogs who see a really hot cartoon lady dog.

"Holy crap, it's $350!" I scream-whispered.

My sage sister shrugged. "Just try it on. You don't have to buy it or anything."

I tried it on.

The coat fit like the factory worker at Esprit had my measurements. The turquoise was shot with gold and dove grey thread. The buttons were leather. It had one of those belts at the back that I liken to the spoilers you see on sports cars: useless but sharp looking. I felt glamorous, rich, and happily single. I shelled out the money for that coat and I wore it for five years straight, until the robin's-egg-blue lining shredded and the buttons fell off. It's still hanging in an upstairs closet because neither D nor I can bear to get rid of it. "That coat does something to you," he told me the first time he saw me in it. And it did.

I'm not much of a shopper, online or otherwise. I don't like stuff, gadgets, etc. D rages at me because I don't buy nicer clothes, but honestly, I just can't be bothered. So it has been quite a while since I threw money at something I didn't truly need, just because something in me said, "GET IT."

Hence the Capresso coffee maker that's staring at me from across the kitchen. It has a built in grinder, a thermal carafe and a charcoal filter for my horrid water. I know it's spiritually damaging to love an object, and that spending as much as I did on a coffee maker is obscene, but you know what? I. Don't. Care.

My old coffee maker was on sale at Canadian Tire and I bought it because a friend of mine had one and it looked cool. But the damned thing LEAKED everywhere, all the time, seemingly seconds after the 1 year warranty expired. Plus it never brewed the coffee to the proper, paint-peeling strength that I preferred. In a caffeine-deprived fog, I went online, researched coffee makers and ordered the best of the best.

When my postie brought the giant box with my name on it yesterday morning, I nearly kissed him, I was so excited. And I still am. Hopefully Mr. Capresso will be as delightful a purchase as my old coat was. Because it will likely be another five years until my next nearly pointless purchase.

Oh yeah baby...I'm back!

2012-01-13T05:09:00.001-08:00

Oh true and faithful readers of this ol' blog, I'm back.

Finally.

I'm not back with a vengeance, or back to kick butt and take names or anything. But hey, fingers to keyboard and arse in chair are pretty impressive after having written barely a word apart from countless inane facebook status updates since the spring.

2011 was a tough friggin' year. Thanfully, it didn't kill me. It did, however, make my life miserable on a number of levels. It also made me appreciate my body, my health, my doctor, my kids, my husband, my extended family and - most surprisingly - my sanity. Which, I'm happy to report, is now intact and functioning at a near-normal 90% success rate.

So thanks to everyone who stuck by me, encouraged me and held my hand, both literally and through cyberspace, while I battled some nasty demons in body and soul.

I'm back. Yeeha!

In Praise of...Ruth

2011-05-15T14:30:00.000-07:00

I've been blessed with many true, lovely friends over my lifetime, and I thought that in line with my In Praise Of blog entries, I should honour different friends on their birthdays. After all, who doesn't like to hear a few nifty things about themselves, especially on their birthday?

To kick off this little series, I'm gonna pay tribute to my dear friend Ruth, on what is today, her 30-something-th birthday.

Ruth is one of my insurance jockey buddies. We met about seven years ago at work, via a mutual co-worker who roped us into painting his apartment while he watched and complimented our artistic skills. At least he fed us pizza. Anyway, I do remember being struck by Ruth's big smile and weird enthusiasm for painting trim. I found myself attracted to her boundless energy, her organizational skills (she got the painting party working together efficiently - well, except for the guy we were painting for!) and her interesting paradox. From the outside, Ruth seemed like a squeaky clean innocent, all smiles and sweetness. For example, when she showed up at work one Hallowe'en dressed as a cheerleader in our company colours, no one was surprised. It was just so....Ruth. But once I got to know her, I came to realize that inside that perky girl lurks the naughtiest, most perverted sense of humour I've ever had the pleasure of being exposed to. She can come out with the raunchiest thing and look so cute and sweet while telling it you can hardly believe she really said it.

During the early days of the painful separation from my first husband, Ruth was one of the friends I clung to. Life had turned upside down for me. I felt unhealthy, unattractive and unmotivated to do much of anything. It was Ruth who coaxed me to get a gym membership; it was Ruth who went there with me twice a week after work and cheered on my panting, gasping, perspiring self to try the treadmills and ellipticals while she jogged along effortlessly beside me, a sleek thoroughbred coaxing along the tired old mare. It was Ruth who welcomed me into her home to try vegetarian dishes and play complex board games with her husband. She took me to parties, dragged me out shopping for new clothes, and told me I looked hot, even when I knew the bags under my eyes were the size of suitcases.

Ruth also had a knack for artfully moving conversations along when I was in danger of miring myself down in the unproductive mud of post-marital angst. She told me dirty jokes and made creatively disdainful remarks about my ex when I needed to hear them. She was a balm that helped heal my damaged self-image.

Most importantly, it was Ruth that got me laughing those deep, almost painful belly laughs that help us release festering anger, bitterness and tension. We still howl about the time she pressed a certain part of her anatomy up against my shower stall at the gym, and the time she wiped out on the sidewalk while demonstrating krunk moves. Ruth is the sexiest klutz I know.

And when the time came, she was so supportive of my burgeoning relationship with D. She never once told me I was dating too soon, or doled out any of the other well-meaning advice I received from other pals. She supported my choices and didn't judge, and in my opinion, that's the mark of a true, mature friend. Ruth was a gorgeous and fully involved bridesmaid at our wedding, even though it was the same day as her wedding anniversary and she was fighting a wretched cold (something she didn't tell me until she left the party at 1am).

Ruthie is the queen of scrapbooking, the mistress of domestic bliss. She sews her own Hallowe'en costumes, makes her own birthday and Christmas cards, and bakes hundreds of exquisite Christmas cookies from scratch. She completed a nursing degree while pregnant and working full time, and graduated in the top of her class.

And yet she's not overbearing, as so many A-type personality people can be. She's natural and gracious. I love her air of quiet confidence, and her nonchalance about her beautiful creations. Ruth is alawys the first one to applaud my efforts, and she's one of my biggest supporters when it comes to writing.

One of the best things about Ruth is that she's the type of person I can talk to about anything. And I mean ANYTHING. No subject is too taboo, or too boring. I think we've had conversations about everything under the sun. How cool is that?

But perhaps the most telling thing about our friendship is the storm it weathered back in 2008. When we got pregnant at the same time, we high-fived our good timing. Our babies would be born a month apart, and we'd be off for a whole blessed year together. It was going to be great having a friend to share all the highs and lows of pregnancy with. And then D and I found out we had to lose Rose.

This type of situation could have wrecked a lesser friendship, or been handled badly by either party. But Ruth treated me with compassion, honesty and dignity. She never tried to hide aspects of her pregnancy, but she didn't celebrate it in my face, either. She never, ever complained to me about any of the common miseries of pregnancy, even when her feet swelled up and her back went out. Ruthie was a class act.

It was Ruth and her husband who took us out for supper the night before we had to go to the hospital to deliver Rose; we stayed overnight at their place. And it wasn't weird, or uncomfortable. In fact, it was calming. I felt safe at Ruth's place.

I'll never forget the day she graduated from nursing college. I went with her to the ceremony, but we went out for gelato first. Ruth was eight months pregnant, and wore a stunning, form-fitting black dress, which I called her "Fat Audrey (Hepburn)" outfit. As we sat across from each other at the gelato shop, the conversation meandered somehow to my daughter Rose. We hadn't really talked about it much; I said something about how she had long legs like her father, and Ruth smiled at me and said, "I bet she was beautiful." That's when I dissolved into tears, something I had tried hard not to do in front of Ruth, not wanting to cast any shadows on her own pregnancy. Ruthie got up, sat down beside me and held me. It was strange and sad and beautiful, being comforted about the loss of my child while pressed up against a pregnant belly.

Since our friendship survived that rough patch, it seems only fitting that D and I bunked down at Ruth's when I went into labour with Jade. After my labour was deemed "false," we went back to Ruth's, and celebrated her birthday with her. We stayed overnight, and as luck would have it, "real" labour started in Ruth's guest bed at 2:45am!

We've since enjoyed the ups and downs of parenthood together. Our husbands get along well; our kids will grow up knowing and loving each other. Even though we're two hours away from each other and don't work in the same office any more, we've managed to keep up with phone calls, emails and regular visits. She's committed to the friendship, as am I, so I think we're in it for the long haul.

So Happy birthday, my dear "Bruce." I love you and I hope life continues to give you gifts of happiness and contentment. I am a richer person for knowing you.

A little Russkie never hurt anyone...

2011-05-04T19:10:00.000-07:00

My recalcitrant, almost-two-year-old daughter was in "tune out Mummy" mode a few weeks ago when I was trying to get ready to go somewhere. After asking her to please come here three times, I suddenly blurted it out in Russian. My daughter stopped what she was doing. Her eyes got wide. I finally had her full attention, even though she had absolutely no clue what the heck I'd just said.

One thing about speaking Russian to a non-Russian speaker is that the words have a certain commanding tone to them. It doesn't really matter what you say; I could have told my daughter that kitties and dollies were pretty and it still would have sounded like I was saying something important. At any rate, I found a magical new way to get her attention.

So now I find myself dropping the odd Russian phrase or word out of the blue into my conversations with my daughter, endearments like "detka maya" (my child), whimsical stuff like "sheek pat petch" (said after you sneeze; literally it means 'fly under the stove!')and exclamations like "astarozha!" (BE CAREFUL!!). We count in Russian going up the stairs; we play with my old Matroshka (nesting) dolls often.

I feel fortunate to be able to teach Jade bits and pieces of another language. My mother was born in Belarus and spoke Russian to my sister and I at home; we lived next door to my Babushka for 20 years, and she never learned much English beyond "Medy Chreestmas!" and "vatermelon," so my sister and I grew up speaking Russian as a second language of sorts. I didn't realize until I started taking Russian courses in university that the Russian I spoke was badly stilted, outdated and comprised mostly of diminutives and baby talk. Apparently my Baba spoke to us using childlike terms our whole lives; I think I must have sounded like a Muscovite four year old with a speech impediment every time I opened my mouth to speak the language of my ancestors.

But who cares? The little bits and pieces I can impart to Jade and Dylan will be for fun, not for educational purposes. My sister and I have always enjoyed having a secret language to employ at opportune moments (e.g. clandestine exchanges about hot guys at the grocery check-out; exclamations of disgust over rude people in public places) so perhaps my kids can enjoy something similar. At the very least, I've found a way to make Miss Jade understand I mean business when I throw a little taste of the ol' Russkie yzik (language) her way.

Nosey Nosey....

2011-04-20T19:26:00.000-07:00

My daughter Jade does this really cute thing where she'll come up to you, rub your nose with hers and say, "Nosey nosey!" It's her form of a kiss and she's been doing it with my family since she was very little. But lately her nose has been more of an experimental playground than a cuddle tool.

Last week, on my way home from my dad's cabin, I hear Jade's little voice say, from the depths of the backseat, "Mumma, lookie lookie! Look at me!" I glance in the rear-view mirror, and the kid has a raisin (her drive home snack) jammed up one nostril.

"AHHH!" I screamed. "JADE, honey, no! NO! Get that raisin out of your nose right NOW!" She snorted it out with impressive force and said, "Kleeeeeenex pleeeeease."

We had a conversation about the evils of putting things up one's nose, and I thought I'd gotten the point across (you'll have to go to the hospital, I'll take your raisins away, blah blah blah). Until today. Today, at various times throughout the day, I had to get her to snort out dried cranberries, cereal, toast, vegetable chips and a piece of apple. GAH!!!!

Someone please reassure me that this stage does not last? In the meantime, I'm keeping the tweezers handy.

In praise of...the Thank You note

2011-04-16T16:43:00.000-07:00

One of my more vivid memories of childhood is of my sister and I hunkered down at the dining room table, necks stiff, legs dangling, surrounded by tape, glue, bits of paper and lists galore. We were on thank-you note duty, as enforced by my formidable mother.

Although we had a small immediate family, my mother had a lot of friends. These friends were not only plentiful, they were generous, kind and always brought us gifts when they came to visit. They never forgot a birthday, or arrived for supper empty-handed. And even the ones who didn't celebrate Christmas still came for Christmas dinner bearing gifts for my sister and I. And one thing my mother insisted on was that we write formal thank-you notes for every gift we received.

These were not store-bought notes with swirly THANK YOUs already stamped across the top, oh noooo. These, my friend, were hand made notes, little paper cards meticulously folded and decorated with collages of cut and paste pictures scrounged from the piles of dead greeting cards my mother hoarded for this exclusive purpose. I'm sure they were perfectly hideous, and perfectly entertaining for the folks who received them.

I think I must have written hundreds of little notes over the years. When Christmas or birthday months rolled around, I would look at my delightful pile of presents and gloat over them - then groan inwardly, thinking of the cramped hands and stiff back I'd have to endure in a few weeks. Initially, writing thank-you notes was kind of fun. The first five or so would be carefully folded and decorated, with much thought given to theme and colour. Then it was all downhill after that, each successive card looking sloppier and more haphazard than the last.

I still have very generous friends and family, and I still feel moved to write thank-you notes. It's a testament to my mother's lessons about gratitude and politeness, but I also feel it's kind of a lost art. I wrote over one hundred fifty notes after D and I got married (his job was to address and stamp them); I wrote around fifty after each baby was born. It humbled me to see how generous and kind people were to us after these events; I figured the least I could do was write them a wee note to say thanks and endure a few hours of stiff neck and fingers.

A few of my friends write some pretty mean thank-you notes themselves. My sister-in- law always writes beautiful, very personal notes inside her hand-made cards; my good friend creates the most elaborate works of card art to send her thanks. And one of my newer Kink friends got her two year old daughter to crayola the inside of the note they sent to say thanks for her birthday present. I thought that was pretty cool.

I'm a bit ashamed that I don't take the time to write notes for my birthday presents any more. Emails and phone calls are easier for this sleep-deprived mama right now. I do my best to send notes anytime the kids get a gift though, and I'm hoping that I can pass along this small act of gratitude to them when they're old enough. I like to think that one day I'll corral them into sitting at the dining room table (the same one I wrote mine at) and creating little cards of their own, while I (and my mother from up above) nod in approval.

Farewell, faithful drooler

2011-03-17T06:55:00.000-07:00

For those of you who haven't already heard, my big, sloppy, "I weigh 100lbs but still think I'm a lap-dog" bull mastiff died in December. Neko was riddled with doggie lymphoma, and I decided to send her "to the happy hunting grounds" three weeks after her diagnosis.

It's taken me a while to find the motivation to write this entry; anyone who has lost a pet will understand how tough it is to pay them proper tribute. I don't want to get maudlin over a dog, especially when there are terrible, horrifying things happening to human beings on the other side of the world right now. But she was a faithful, loving companion for over seven years, and I think she deserves some mention in my bloggy annals.

Neko belonged at first to my ex and me. I'd always wanted a dog that looked like a DOG - wee little canines afflicted with cute and/or fluffy need not apply, thank you very much. And after spending seven years with an irrepresible bull terrier, I wanted a dog with personality, but not TOO much personality.

We researched portuguese water dogs, ridgebacks, vizslas and weimeraners. Then we found a bull mastiff breeder in Mowhawk. She was such a nice person, and her dogs were friendly, well-behaved and healthy looking. When the breeder showed me into a pen that held 15 sleeping bull mastiff puppies, I knew I was in trouble. When they woke up and tumbled over en masse to climb all over me and shower me with puppy kisses, I was done for.

Neko was a singleton, the only puppy from her mother's first pregnancy. We lucked into getting her, as she had already been spoken for, but the people who'd been first in line backed out when they found out she was a tawny red instead of brindle. When we sat in the kitchen signing the paperwork that would make her ours, the breeder asked us what name we'd picked. I told her Neko, which was Japanese for cat (I was taking Japanese at the time), a little joke and also a nod to Neko Case, a
Canadian singer my ex and I admired. A minute later, the breeder's kitchen radio played a Neko Case song, which freaked us all out a little bit. Obviously, Neko was meant to be ours.

She was a rambunctious dog from the very beginning, chewing up her basket and anything else within teething range; as a puppy, she hated being held and lived only to wrestle with anyone who'd throw down from the time she woke up until the time she collapsed in a heap in her crate. As she grew into adulthood, she became more and more of a cuddle bunny, which was problematic since she ended up weighing only 20lbs less than I did. As a teenaged dog, Neko's favourite pasttime was leaning on people until they fell over, at which point she'd happily sit on them until they were rescued from her scary love.

She survived two knee surgeries, a bout with mange, a weird growth on her head and several skunk attacks. She also survived my bad divorce and subsequent anxiety attacks. I'm thankful she was with me through all that crap - she was a great companion, and a grounding presence for me to come home to. And when D came into my life, she lucked out as much as I did: he took her on epic walks through the city and spent hours giving her the endless belly scratching sessions she so craved.

Our move to the country was probably the best thing to happen to her. I felt such a surge of joy whenever I saw her gallop along the beach, run blindly through the long grass in the meadow, or fjord the depths of the Pine river behind our property. Nekes spent long, lazy days stretched out in a variety of sunny spots, often taking refuge from the heat under the mock orange shrubs, where she'd finish off her nap with a back scratch from the low-hanging branches. The city dog transitioned to country dog without a backward glance.

I admit that since Jade came along, Neko didn't get the attention or exercise she used to. But she had slowed down considerably as well; whether that was due to age, having adapted to our new lifestyle or the cancer's inexorable advance, I'm not sure. She got growly and miserable at the end, and that's why I decided it was time to give her some peace. Owning a dog is a huge responsibility, the hardest part of which is knowing when it's time to let them go, and preventing unnecessary suffering.

The vets came to our place so Neko could pass out of this world in the comfort of her own home, on her own stinky bed. Watching her eyes glaze over, seeing her take her last breaths, knowing she wouldn't be there to rub up against me and cover me with hair anymore - it was pretty awful. Awful, and necessary.

So we have started a dog-less era here at Someday farm. D isn't in a hurry to add any more furry friends to our family, and I want some time to grieve Neko before I even think about another dog curling up in my heart again. It's the first time in 14 years that I haven't had a canine friend shuffle to the door to welcome me home; the first time in a long time D and I haven't had a constant companion tugging us along on our walks. But the most poignant stab came a few days after Neko's death, when Jade threw a handful of food on the floor, looked around, and asked "Where Keko?"

We miss her.

My hot Oscar date

2011-02-28T07:56:00.000-08:00

Another Oscar night has come and gone, but this year I actually had myself a hot date (see photo)!

Yeah, my little man doesn't like to go to bed too early, so he and I watched the gala event together for the first few hours. He seemed to take my gown and heels in stride, and was obligingly quiet during the important awards. He didn't make fun of me for dressing up, didn't tsk tsk me for drinking three glasses of champers and best of all, he didn't mooch any appetizers. Best. Date. Ever!

I know it's a little silly to get all dolled up just to watch a bunch of Hollywooders fawn all over each other, but I don't care. We all need a little silly in our lives now and then. And I am so thankful to be feeling healthy enough to WANT to put on a dress and have a drink that Oscar night this year was extra giddy, and extra special.

Cheers!

In sickness and in health...but mostly in sickness!

2011-02-06T16:29:00.000-08:00

Fighting this wretched c difficile bacteria hasn't been a pleasant experience to say the least. Some days - okay, most days! - I've been an absolute mess of anxiety, worry, guilt and fear. I honestly don't know what I would have done without my steadfast husband, my encouraging sisters and my amazing mother-in-law, who have all taken turns steadying me when I felt I was about to crash, nurturing me and loving me without fail. My friends - especially the newer ones I've made up here through my Mums' group - have been unfailingly supportive. They send me daily email check-ins and offer help every time. Thank God for family. Thank God for friends.

Having been very ill for over four weeks now has given me lots to think about. There isn't much else to do when you're fighting near-constant nausea, the shakes and lethargy and have been confined to bed for most of the day. Sometimes one's brain goes in some pretty dark places, but there are also moments of sanity-preserving clarity that I am deeply grateful for. Here are a few that come to mind:

1. Sometimes it's only when you are at your most vulnerable that you discover how much you are loved. When I'm feeling really sick, and I have absolutely nothing to offer, my husband still makes me feel beautiful and beloved. He and my sisters can still make me laugh. My mother-in-law is still thrilled to see me and the kids, even when I spend the entire day moping on her couch or dozing in her guest bed. It is an experience that both swells my heart and humbles me.

2. Be thankful for the things that are going right. My kids are healthy. My husband is healthy. My mother-in-law is recovering well from her recent surgery. I have a doctor who takes me seriously and listens to my concerns. I live in a country where medicine is readily available. My house is warm and snug; we have a fridge full of nutritious food, even though I can't eat it! The sun sparkles on the snow, even though I can't ski in it. My daughter's laughter is as wild as ever; my son greets me with a smile every morning, even though I haven't been able to spend as much time with them as I want to. My husband's arms are warm and safe at night, and he holds me tight when I am too weak to reach out for him myself.

3. Give yourself permission to be sick. This is the best advice a doctor has ever given me, but the hardest advice to actually follow. I have been overwhelmed with guilt - the house is a mess! I look terrible! My kids are going to get disconnected from me! My husband must be going crazy and wish he didn't marry such a weak woman! - but I am learning, very gradually, to try and let go of the guilt and just face the fact that I. Am. Very. Sick. Period. The hardest thing for me has been to accept the idea that I may need to lie in bed for another few weeks and rest, and to give myself permission to do so. I'm talking excrutiatingly hard! But really, what choice do I have?

4. Find your happy place. Like I said before, the mind can go to some pretty dark and disturbing places when your body is failing. I'm teaching myself to acknowledge the darkness, then steer my brain into some happier thoughts. A counsellor once taught me to create a vision of a "safe place" and use it to combat anxiety, so I use the original one I created all those years ago: it's a warm summer night. The sky is scattered with stars. I walk down a sandy beach path into a clearning beside the water; there's a small bonfire burning and a large log beside it where my Babushka sits, waiting for me to join her. I've also created several new ones - my husband and I gently sway in a hammock on a deserted beach in Hawaii; my husband and I hold hands on a porch, watching our adult children and small grandchildren play a game of soccer on the front lawn of Someday; I'm driving the mountain highway towards Banff, where I'll spend a week writing. They are strangely comforting and help keep me grounded when my mind wants to think terrible things.

5. Be brave. Not much else to say, really. (0:

The winter of my discontent

2011-01-15T18:51:00.000-08:00

Holy. Crap.

It's been over a month since my last bloggy post, and you wanna know why? Because I have been living in a house of plagues for the entire winter!

Not to bore you with a litany of our illnesses, but check this out: Jade had bronchitis, tonsillitis and a variety of colds. Dylan was (mis)diagnosed with urinary tract infection. D recently got whomped with a wicked bout of the flu (in 5 years, I've never seen my man toss his cookies before, so watching the usually healthy one in our family retch his guts out for 12 hours was an eye-opener). And yours truly had bronchitis, mastitis, a cold and finally a bacterial infection that's beaten me down to a shadow of my former self. I'm thinking of marketing it as the C difficile weight-loss programme.

As a family, we've been in and out of emerg, different hospitals for tests and the doctor's office more times than I can count since October. It's been horrendous. And yet...I know that though we've had rough luck, we haven't had to deal with anything life-threatening or incurable. So I am trying to count my snotty, pukey, nauseous blessings in between doses of anti-biotics, piles of crumpled tissues and empty gatorade bottles. In the shadow of things like Haiti, close friends who have recently lost loved ones and relatives who have been in wheelchairs for nearly a decade, our misery is negligible.

Here's to a stronger, healthier 2011. Wishing you blessings and good health, my bloggy friends.

The stinky things in life

2010-12-06T14:22:00.000-08:00

One of the things I love - and sometimes loathe - about my lovin' hubby is how opposite we are in many ways. A relationship of opposites can be disastrous, but ours works. When it comes to politics, money, childcare and the merits of Prince's music, we don't always agree. We do, however, share the same taste in jokes; otherwise I never would have married him. Sharing a sense of humour is deadly serious in my book.

The fact that D and I are ofen on the polar opposite sides of an issue is never more apparent than when I cook certain foods. For example, I can predict with some measure of accuracy what he will say when he walks in the door tonight: "Geez Kim, it smells strong in here. (sniffs the air suspiciously) It smells like....(wrinkles nose)...geez, it smells like onion. (a dramatic pause) I hate onion."

My response has already been rehearsed: "Yes, darling. I know. I've cut up ONE onion and ONE (a slight lie) clove of garlic to make the stew you will later rave about. Trust me."

I come from a Russian heritage where onion and garlic figure predominantly in every meal except for breakfast. My Babushka ate garlic every day of her life and she lived to be 96. Even my Dad, a non-russkie, eats raw garlic almost every day. But D hates onion. And garlic. And cilantro. And goat cheese. All those delicious, smelly things that make my culinary life complete.

So to perserve marital harmony, I don't make him eat raw onion very often, or raw garlic ever. I keep the cilantro separate when I make fajitas, and sprinkle heaps of goat cheese on my salad, but never on his. I do continue to cook with the other unmentionables, because it would be sacrilige to make a beef stew without onion or borscht without garlic. And there are very few meals he's ever made a negative comment about; I've lucked out in that department - the man eats everything I ever put in front of him!

So anyway, tonight is Easy Beefy Stewy night. It's redolent with aromas and your kitchen will stink to high heaven after you're done chopping up the smellier ingredients. But your tummy will thank you. Just like my husband will thank me after he's eaten his 3rd bowlful.

Easy Beefy Stewy
Ingredients
3 tbsp olive oil
1 lb stewing beef, cut into bite sized chunks
1/4 cup flour, seasoned with salt and pepper and paprika
1 medium onion, chopped
2 rib celery, chopped
2 carrots, sliced
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups broth
1 cup red wine
1 bay leaf

1. Toss beef with seasoned flour to coat.
2. Heat oil in a heavy pot and brown beef lightly.
3. Add onion and celery; cook 3 minutes.
4. Add sliced carrots, garlic, broth, wine and bay leaf.
5. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer covered for 1 hour, or until beef is tender. Serve over orzo.

In Praise Of....Naps

2010-11-13T06:58:00.000-08:00

Ah, the nap. One of my favourite mid-life discoveries. I was too energetic, antsy and - let's face it - caffeine fueled to appreciate the art of napping until I hit my 30's; now that I'm in my 41st year, I find that napping is one of those under appreciated pleasures I simply cannot live without.

To those of you who might say that napping's not an art, or that it's a luxury few can afford, I acknowledge that the pursuit of the perfect nap is not unlike the pursuit of the perfect cup of coffee: elusive and often disappointing, but oh so satisfying when you do find it.

To me, a really good nap has to be unplanned. It's not something you thumb into your BlackBerry calendar or block off on your day planner. A truly gratifying nap can only occur when you stumble upon a block of time in your day that you suddenly realize can in fact be sacrificed to the gods of slumber.

A nap should be at least 20 minutes long. But snore for longer than an hour and you'll wake up feeling more sloggy than refreshed. Snoozing should enhance your evening sleep, not supplant it. But the 20 minute thing is what makes napping so accessible. We can all find 20 minutes in our day. We just have to be willing to look for it, and sacrifice it on the altar of sleep.

I don't think you have to have kids to fully appreciate the restorative powers of a good nap, but it helps. After Jade came along, I quickly learned that crusty dishes, mountains of laundry, dust elephants and full email inboxes all paled in comparison to a snooze on the couch with her nestled snugly on my chest. I couldn't have survived the long nightly nursing sessions without those treasured daily naps. Baby Dylan's arrival has helped me rediscover the beauty of a good sleep, housework be damned! When I spy him snoring away with his arms thrown over his head in that utterly vulnerable, utterly content way only children have, I remember the inherent pleasure of a good nap and lay down beside him to partake of some zzzzs.

There's a good deal of guilt one has to overcome in order to perfect the art of napping. In this age of addictive social networking, high self-expectations and super-parenting, it's hard to stay offline, pursue a career, keep the house looking beautiful and dream up new ways to educationally entertain your kids. Naps? Ha! Those are for lonely, lazy people! Underachieving slackers! People who don't eat right or work out enough! Right?

Well, all I can tell you is that even on my most energetic days, naps have saved my sanity countless times and become a simple act of self-preservation. I come up with some of my most creative ideas as I'm drifting off to happy nappy land. I'm a better spouse and mother when I've taken that precious time out of my day to recharge. Trust me: napping is more than just an art we should all attempt to master. It's a life preserver in our hectic, scary-busy sea of life.

Welcome Autumn! No - wait - don't go yet - wait! WAIT UP!

2010-10-24T13:12:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if it’s a farmer thing, a country thing, or just one of his lovely little quirks, but around the first week of July, my husband looks out the window with a mournful sigh and says, “Well, Kimmy, summer’s almost over.”
We were zooming down a concession road the first time I heard my husband say this. It was a glorious sunny day; the wheat was yellow, the sky was blue, the trees were green. I looked at him suspiciously. “Are you nuts? Summer’s barely begun!”
Another big sigh from my man. “Look at that field over there.” I looked. The wheat rippled under the unseen hand of the wind. “When the wheat begins to turn gold, that’s how you know summer’s almost over.”

At the time, I thought my husband was pulling my city girl leg, so I rolled my eyes and ignored him. But after hearing this doleful mantra every July for the past five years, I’ve come to accept the fact that the seasons really do change a little differently up here in the country.

I looked out the window the other day and realized with some surprise that not only was it autumn, but that autumn was already making way for the bluster of winter. When the heck did that happen?

Our newest addition, six-week-old Dylan, has a penchant for 3am partying. This has taken a toll on my ability to notice the world around me, let alone what's going on in the next room. I haven't taken in my solar lamps, dug up my garden or planted my bulbs; in fact, there aren't any leaves left on most of the trees and I don't even recall seeing them fall off. I feel a bit disappointed, because watching the seasons change is one of my favourite parts of living in the country.
During the ten years that I lived there, autumn announced its arrival in Waterloo by turning the giant sugar maple in my backyard a ravishing shade of scarlet. City gardens, once resplendent with their displays of frilly annuals, started to wither, and elaborate leafy wreaths began appearing on doorsteps. Even if I’d missed all these signs, getting stuck behind big yellow school buses on my way home from work was a dead giveaway that the season was changing.

Of course, trees turn colour and school buses zip by in the country, too. But somehow, up here there seem to be even more poignant signals that autumn has arrived. The lake loses its serene turquoise hue and becomes a fitful sapphire blue. Robins gobble every last orange berry off my ash tree, leaving it stark naked. Poplar trees shiver and show the bright white backsides of their leaves when chilly breezes tickle them. Squirrels from over the hill risk suicide to scamper across the road and steal corn, black walnuts and chestnuts from our place. And ads for fall fairs and country bazaars start popping up in the newspapers and on grocery store bulletin boards.

The arrival of cooler weather is always a relief to me, no matter where I'm living. This year I’m even more thankful to finally notice autumn has descended upon the Bruce after the unbearably hot summer I suffered through, heavily pregnant and busy chasing an exuberant sixteen month old. And with the return of cooler weather, I've experienced a renewed urge to cook slow, hot meals: borscht, chicken chili, tuscan bean and bacon stew, carrot and potato soup. There's something so cosy about chopping vegetables and concocting something steamy while looking out the kitchen window on a stark fall landscape. And it's immensely satisfying to hear my husband, that lover of summer and barbecues and hot weather, say "Kimmy, you make the best soup I've ever tasted." (That's right people: even better than his mother's! There is no higher cooking compliment, in my book.)

My bulbs may not get planted this year, and my garden gnomes and lanterns will likely taste a hint of frost before I find the time to safely stow them away in the garage, but Jade and I managed to get our pumpkins and 'mums in place just in time for Hallowe'en. And we've got a few more weeks to breathe in the crisp, leaf-scented air on our walks before winter knocks on our door with a frosty hand.
Summer might be over more quickly in the country, but the advantage is that I feel as though autumn envelops me completely. At Someday, I’m surrounded by the season instead of simply observing it through my windows. Well, I’m sure I’ll feel that way again next year when life isn’t a happy blur of nursing and diapers.

Welcome James Dylan Edward Lowry!

2010-10-04T17:41:00.000-07:00

Well, I guess the poor wee man really was feeling squished and cramped in mum's belly, because my water broke at 12:30am on Sept 19th - a few days shy of my planned C-section on the 22nd. You can imagine the look on our faces. And then...the contractions began. EEEEK!

After a quick check up with my doc at Kincardine hospital, D raced us - and I mean RACED us - to Grand River Hospital in K-W (setting a brilliant new speed record from Kink-KW of 63 minutes - go D!). My labour had progressed significantly, but luckily we had a crafty nurse in our corner and got to go ahead with the C-section as planned.

The marvellous Dr. Anstett delivered our boy at 4:19am on Sept 19th. Dylan weighed 7lbs 2oz and was 20 inches long. He came out sporting furry little shoulders, long monkey toes, a black eye, bruises on his head, a cauliflower ear and a squashed nose. No wonder it felt like I had a kick-boxer inside me this past month. He's gonna be a fighter, folks!

Apart from his various beauty marks, a 12 hour session under "the lights" to combat jaundice, and being called the "no-name baby" by the nurses for 3 days, our Little Fellow was in excellent form by the time we packed up to go home on Wednesday.

It took us a while to pick a name...but we both kind of thought we were having another girl! We finally decided on James after D's father and brother, Dylan because it means "son of the wave" (we do live near the lake, after all), and Edward after my Dad and D's great-grandfather.

D has this week off which is wonderful, as my recovery from surgery has been a a bit trying, especially with crazy Jady Lady bouncing around. She seems to like her brother so far and has added yet another word to her ever-growing repertoire: "Bayyyyybeeee!"

Thanks to my bloggy friends for your support and kindness during my pregnancy and all your well wishes for Dylan. Now the tough part begins - sleepless nights and breastfeeding blues - along with the blissful moments of baby love, floppy cuddly afernoons and all the "firsts." Wee D smiled on his second day in the world, so I think he's destined to be a happy little fellow.

A day of simple pleasures

2010-09-18T18:37:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh, Saturday. Misty, rainy, lazy Saturday. And my last lazy Saturday for a while, methinks, considering baby Lowry version 2.0 is due on Wednesday. Yowzah!

So I took advantage of a day with no real schedule and did a whole lot of nothing. Jade slept in until 8am - usually she's a 7-7:30am kind of girl - so we had a leisurely breakfast while Daddy got a rare chance to snooze.

Then I left Jady with Daddy and headed off for a massage. I can't say enough about the rub-down arts; I recommend massage to anyone and everyone. Even if you don't think you have aches and pains or knots and tight spots, trust me: a good massage therapist will find 'em and fix 'em. I felt like a new woman after my session today.

After my rub-down, I meandered over to the farmer's market that pops up with ten or twelve stalls every saturday by the pavilion. It's nothing like the St. Jacob's market I used to frequent in my Waterloo days, a sprawling venture that's become more commercial every year. The Kink farmer's market is more like a little community that mushrooms up every week. It's a great place to buy locally grown veggies, not to mention baked goods and seasonal stuff. For example, today I loaded up on decorative gourds - 5 for a buck, way cheaper than the grocery store's offerings - late-season raspberries, green beans, perfect little red peppers and the most gorgeous, heavy, sweet Mennonite doughnuts...all while sipping an organic coffee from a real china cup. The Ark's stall encourages you to buy a cup of their delicious coffee and enjoy it while you shop, provided you return their cup before you leave.

I devoured my doughnut in the car, then headed back to Someday for lunch with D and Jade. (Yes, I saved a doughnut for D.) I made a simple pasta with the peppers and heirloom tomatoes I'd bought at market, along with some garlic-flavoured olive oil, onion, feta and olives. We ate it together and after lunch, D took turns feeding Jade and I the last of our Kawartha Dairies vanilla ice cream. No more until next summer!

D walked Jade up to Grandma's for the afternoon, which afforded me the chance to have a luxurious nap. I fell asleep listening to the rain trickle off the maple trees outside our bedroom window and woke up just in time to meet everyone at Grandma Lowry's for supper. On our way home, Jade and I drove down to the shore to revel in the peach-and-melon coloured sunset.

Really, a day of simple pleasures often beats a day of excitement. Especially when it contains Mennonite doughnuts!

Seasons change and so do I...

2010-09-06T12:02:00.000-07:00

What song is that lyric from? Darned if I can remember. But that's my MO lately - absent-minded as the proverbial professor. And let's not forget clumsy and awkward while we're searching for deprecating adjectives. Yes folks, these days, I'm a real treat!

As the summer draws to a close, so do my days as a pregnant woman. We've decided that this will be our last baby, so I'm trying hard to make the most of the time I have left as a swollen-bellied waddler. I'm savouring every bump n' grind going on inside my stomach, gazing affectionatly at my inflated reflection in the mirror when I brush my teeth and enjoying my cute maternity dresses while I can. I'm trying to stay positive, put my feet up whenever possible, think me some pretty pink and blue thoughts and above all, not freak out.

Which has been a challenge, because it seems as though the moment the summer threw off its sweltering cloak of heat and humidity to reveal a moody, cloud-curdled fall sky, my pregnancy also swung itself into a distinct change. Baby has crept downward in the last week or so, and baby's latest hobby is repeatedly head-butting my pelvic region like s/he's trying to batter his/her way out. My legs have begun cramping with such fierce intensity that massage and stretching don't even help any more. I could care less about ice cream and freezies; even Coke won't whet my appetite. To top it off, I'm prone to fits of weeping for absolutely no reason while Jade watches me with a look of puzzlement. Good grief!

I keep reminding myself I only have a few weeks to go and that most of what's ahead is beyond my control. I have to trust to the goodness of the universe, the medical profession, the care of my family and friends and to my husband's steadfast love that things will be okay, no matter what happens on (or before! GAH!) September 22nd. Fingers, toes and legs crossed...

Five Things - from a preggo point of view

2010-08-27T18:59:00.001-07:00

I know how darned lucky I am to be pregnant and relatively healthy, so far be it from me to moan and complain too much. There are so many folks who would kill to be in my situation, regardless of the sometimes unpleasant parts of pregnancy.

That being said, I feel compelled to say the following:

Five things I will deeply miss about being pregnant
1. The squirmy, kicky, hiccuppy feelings of new life swirling around in my belly.
2. How nice complete strangers are to me. Last week a guy helped me load my groceries into my car; this week two ladies stopped to tell me all about their pregnancies and how they had their kids really close together too.
3. Having boobs.(Seriously! A-cup girls will understand.)
4. The delicious, almost surreal quality sleep takes on...for the first 7 months, anyway. Sleep becomes as pleasurable and tangible as eating your favourite food.
5. Talking and singing to the little being inside me.

Five things I will be happy never to have to experience again
1. The bizarre "restless leg" syndrome that strikes every night around 3am. I feel strong urges to kick something - the bed, the covers, my husband - and I have to roll out of bed and do stretches to alleviate the weirdness.
2. Uterine cramps. Bloody hell, do they hurt! It's like baby has a little penknife and enjoys occasionally jabbing it into my abdomen. MD says I "have an educated uterus" and it's simply stretching and preparing for labour, no matter how many times I've told it we're having a C-section.
3. People who enjoy saying things like, "My God, you're huge!" or "Huh, you guys didn't wait long to get at 'er again."
4. Not being able to put cream or polish on my toes. Or pick up anything I drop. Or bend over to smell my roses.
5. The endless nightly marches to the bathroom. It's so unfair that pregnant women have the thirst of camels without the helpful storage humps.

But you know what? It's all good. Honest.

So yeah, we've got less than a month to go and no names yet. Gah! September 22nd is looming large and I am counting my blessings since I can't count my toes anymore. (0:

Sorry for the long absence from bloggy land folks. Hope all is well with y'all out in cyberspace.

Bittersweet

2010-07-28T07:37:00.001-07:00

Last week, D was doing chores and Jady was asleep. It was still and quiet in the house and I felt lonely. So I snuck upstairs, tiptoed over to Jade's crib and did something I never do: I eased her out, tucked her into my arms, crept over to my bed and cuddled with her for an hour.

She barely stirred - thankfully she's a sound sleeper! - and it was so good to feel her warmth, her heartbeat against my breast again. She's been weaned since May, and while I don't miss the middle-of-the-night feedings, I do miss the easy intimacy nursing afforded us.

Jade is a busy girl. The only time she's content to sit in my lap without wriggling around like a fish out of water is when she's tired (or asleep!). And then I'm in Mummy heaven. Her downy blonde head smells like honey; her chubby toes curl and uncurl when I stroke them with my finger. She still sucks two fingers and sometimes she looks up at me with an undescribable expression her sapphire eyes. And to think that ten years ago, I was convinced I didn't want children...

Lying in bed with Jade the other night, I was struck to my core with a strange blend of deep joy and profound grief. I couldn't help but think of how my other two lost little ones should be there with us, cuddled in my arms with as much right to be there as Jade. So I allowed myself the luxury of closing my eyes and imagining their presence - what their scent, their warmth, their own personalities might have been like. I think those few minutes of fantasy defined the term bittersweet for me; I'm learning that so much in motherhood is exactly that.

Sanford & Son at Someday

2010-07-21T18:01:00.000-07:00

When my older sis was here visiting at Christmas, I proudly showed her around the farm, as she'd only seen it through Facebook photos. She ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the house, the apple orchard, the proximity to both beach and river. She loved the hayloft and the old horse stalls in the barn. But when I took her to the shop, she started laughing.

"What?" I said, puzzled. "I know, it's a mess."

"It's not that," she said, still giggling. It was only when she started singing the theme song to Sandford & Son and doing her unique chicken-wing dance around the boat, motorbike, snow blower and tractor that I got it.

Sandford & Son, for those of you too young or too cultured to have ever seen it, was a show about a crusty old junk dealer who lived in a ramshackle, cluttered shop so full of "treasures" that people could hardly walk around without knocking something over. Ahem.

It seems that the more room one has, the more stuff one accumulates. After watching my sister's performance in our shop last winter, I've come to realize that the barns, garages and closets of Someday Farm are no exception. To put it bluntly, we have a lot of crap.

When I lived in the city, my house was often described by other people as "charming." When someone says this about your house, what they're really saying is that it's small and old. Charming houses have unlit, cramped closets, and cupboards too deep and too high to be used properly. Charming houses have teeny little vestibules with doll-sized spaces that laugh at your attempts to hang bulky winter gear or store your vacuum cleaner. Their garages are barely wide enough for one car, let alone bikes, sleds, lawn mowers, etc. And the backyard sheds are mostly decorative, seeing as how entering them means risking severe head injuries.

So on our first offical walk-through of Someday - before it was ours - I was delighted by the car garage, shop and two barns. I'd finally have room for my gardening implements, my skis and my BBQ! And I was over the moon about the 12 cupboards, pantry and various handy drawers in the kitchen. But the bedroom closets were horrific: a single door opened onto a long, dark hallway with a few shelves and no place to hang clothes! How did the poor previous owners LIVE?

A few discussions with our renovator gave me the closets of my dreams: double doors, excellent light, lots and lots of room to hang stuff. I was in closet heaven. We had oodles of space. In fact, we had so much space that we'd never use it all. Or so I thought.

As slow as a rising tide, my magical roomy closets began to fill up: my sister stored a few of her outfits while she went to Russia; comforters and blankets began to accumulate; and then came the mountains of baby clothes. One day I suffered a severe case of deja vu as I attempted to stuff a box into an overflowing closet. It was my house in Waterloo all over again. I'd been blaming the size of my old house for my space issues, but really, it was ME and my squirrel-like accumulation issues.

My husband is no different; his shop is piled high with a jumble of tools, errant farm equipment, defunct snowmobiles and lawn tractors. Our garage is packed full of strollers, wagons and other baby mobility equipment, offset by paint cans, snow shoes, and apple tree bug spray. It's a wild mix.

But I don't consider all our accumulations junk, no matter how many times my sister sings the Sandford & Son song to me. I don't think we've entered "hoarder" territory (yet); everything we have, we use (except for the snowmobile). When I look around at all the stuff, I swell up with a feeling of thankfulness. We have space, and we have stuff. How lucky are we?

Cheers to Mrs. S in Scotland - Aye, this post's for you!

2010-06-27T18:06:00.001-07:00

I have a lovely bloggy friend named Mrs. S, aka Mrs. Successful. She lives in Scotland and we've been fans of each others' blogs for about a year. Mrs. S. has enlightened me on various things Scottish, including gardening in Scottish climes, Robbie Burns' poetry and "oysters" (a hideous looking ice-cream concoction). I've never been to her part of the world, so I get a kick out of reading about her life.

Ironically, I live near a town with a distinctly Scottish flavour to it. Kincardine has not one but two Scottish festivals, a Scottish shop which sells everything from bona-fide haggis to clan-accurate kilts, not to mention the weekly summer Saturday night parade where everyone turns up to march behind the town's kilt-clad bagpipe-playing band.

The first Scottish Festival took place last weekend, and it had everything: highland dance competitions, "heavy" events like caber tosses, beer gardens, authentic Scottish food booths and lots of funky vendors. AND an extra parade! I am a total sucker for parades and fireworks, and there were plenty of both with Canada Day and the festival overlapping.

Jady lady attended her very first pipe-band parade. I used to go to them when I was a kid, so I got kinda sentimental and sniffly when I heard the drone of the bagpipes coming down the street. At first, I worried that the screeching and moaning and the very loud drumming would send Jady into a fit of fear - to my thinking, bagpipes are a bit of an acquired taste - but she was riveted and literally on the edge of her stroller the whole time.

We celebrated her first Scottish parade with her very first ice cream cone, so all in all, it was a memorable, happy evening...even though we don't have a single Scottish gene in our pool, I was glad to be able to share a childhood pleasure with my own bonnie wee bairn. Now, if I can just find a kilt small enough for her next parade...

Cheers to you Mrs. S, and as they say at the Scottish Festival, "We're not away to stay away, we'll always come back and see you!"

Another meaty mishap in the kitchens of Someday

2010-06-27T17:41:00.000-07:00

I've been bored stiff with my own cooking lately, which really isn't like me. Usually I enjoy poring over my recipe books or checking out foodie blogs for new ideas; for the past two weeks, though, I seem to have lapsed into a cooking-related funk. I have absolutely no interest in shopping, planning or preparing food. In fact, I haven't even been able to take much pleasure in eating, despite the fact that I'm always ravenous. It's a drag!

Meat has always been an uphill culinary battle for me, especially lately with my complete apathy for all things edible. Last week, I half-heartedly asked my local Sobey's butcher dude for flank steak, which a magazine article had touted as "economical and delicious," as long as it was given a good long marinade bath prior to cooking. He looked confused (he was about 17), and told me there should be some in the beef section. I found something labeled "flank marinating steak," and without really giving it the once over, popped it in my cart.

Tonight I decided to try cooking it. Imagine my confusion when I pulled the thing out of the package, ready to give it a nice soak in some garlic infused oil and vinegar, and found it had been butterflied! What the what am I supposed to do with this skanky looking thing? I thought. As I tend to do in most times of kitchen turmoil, I turned to the internet for help.

"Stuffed flank steak - easy gourmet your family will love!" gushed one website. "Impress your guests with rolled stuffed flank steak," promised another. I shrugged. It was either flank steak or a can of tomato soup with toast, so I gave it a try. I sauted spinach, onion and garlic, fished out some feta and attempted to stuff my steak.

The unrolling went okay (shudder), but rolling it back up with the tasty stuffing intact proved to be another story. I snuck another look at the recipe, which said:
"Place kitchen twine around the steak lengthwise, then at 1/2-inch intervals." Kitchen twine? I had decorative ribbon, garden nylon, twist ties and some baler twine, none of which seemed like the right choice. I was on the point of feeding the whole mess to the dog when I remembered the contents of my cocktail drawer: toothpicks! The elegant flank steak recipe was saved. Sort of.

It smelled okay. It cut nicely into pretty rounds and looked quite fashionable on the plate, nestled up to the roasted potatoes and tomato bocconcini salad. But when D tasted it, he did the nose-scrunch I've come to interpret as something being rotten in the state of Someday.

"Well, what do you think?" I asked.
D chewed meditatively for a moment, then furrowed his brow. "Is there some kind of weird spice or herb or something in this?"
"No," I said, "just spinach and onions. And salt & pepper."
He took another bite and did the nose scrunch again. "Then why does it taste like Scope?"

Dear reader, when using toothpicks to secure your next classy rolled flank steak meal, I highly recommend using the non-minty variety.

*sigh*

Now where's that damned can opener?

My cheatin' heart...and pen

2010-06-15T11:45:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday, I did something kind of naughty. And I plan to do it again tonight.

I cheated.

On my hot husband? Heavens, no. On my recommended pre-natal diet? Um, I would actually have to be following said diet in order to cheat on it. No, I committed my naughty act against two slightly more mundane things: my old city coffee shop, and my new country one.

My long-suffering novel has been dormant for almost a year now; the last time I dusted it off was at the KPL Storytelling festival last year, where I read a revised version of my first chapter. Since then - nada.

Motivation to write is - not surprisingly - harder to come by these days, not to mention the dwindling trickle of once-plentiful ideas that kept my characters and plot ticking away. I'm trying not to be too hard on myself; family needs to come first sometimes. But things are gonna get really busy in the fall with baby numero duo, so I made up my mind to try and get at least two more chapters written this summer. And in order to do that, I needed a writing space...outside of Someday.

I'm not sure why I can't seem to write at home. I have a decent-sized office with a great chair and a reasonable desk. But I prefer to do my writing outside the walls of my house. Back in Waterloo, I used to write faithfully for several hours a week at the Second Cup coffee shop; there was something so comforting about the aroma of that place. I'd feel all the day's tension melt away at the first sniff of freshly ground coffee. I always ordered the same thing (a mocchacino to start, with a mint tea for later), the chairs fit my kinks, and there always seemed to be a table waiting just for me, with an electrical outlet within my laptop's reach. It was my weekly ritual, and I loved it.

After moving to the Kink, I searched for a suitable replacement. There weren't many options, and certainly no Second Cups to satisfy my mocchacino cravings. The independently owned Books n' Beans had a quirky, welcoming atmosphere and decent lattes, but they weren't open beyond 6pm, and I'm an evening kind of writer. Still, I liked the fact that it was a small-town operation, and not some crazy Starbucks catastrophe.

When a Coffee Culture chain opened up a block away from Books n' Beans, I disdainfully turned up my nose after trying one latte, which - HORRORS! - came out of a push-button box thing instead of a proper espresso machine. Yes, Second Cup is a commercially owned chain too, but at least all their drinks are hand-brewed!

But as I tried to find other options, I realized that unless I wanted to write in a noisy bar with peanut shells on the floor, or in the hermetic, beverage-less silence of the library, I was going to have to suck it up and give Coffee Culture a try. And so last Tuesday, after Tai Chi, that's just what I did. And I was pleasantly surprised.

CC was clean, quiet and comfortable. I had a wide array of seats to choose from; deep, squishy armchairs by the fire, straight-backed chairs at little tables, or soft, cushioned booths. They had a rather nice menu, and as I'm always starving after Tai Chi, the toasted bagel and cream cheese hit the spot. (My one complaint with Second Cup was that their food always - frankly - sucked.) Even the latte wasn't as bad as I'd remembered it, although it still made me shudder to see the guy press the "Latte" button on his machine. Service was friendly and prompt, too. All in all, CC was a location very conducive to writing. I managed to get a few pages scribbled after spending an hour sorting through old chapters and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.

So I'm going back tonight. Wish me luck. And don't tell the guys at Second Cup!

Just whistle while I work...

2010-06-08T06:56:00.000-07:00

Whew, it's been a couple of weeks since I've been on here. But I have excellent excuses: Jade's official birthday party was the last weekend in May, and I started work on the following Monday. Zoinks!

Since I only have to work for 5 weeks - from home! - to fulfill my EI requirements for the second maternity leave, I have nothing to complain about. At all. Really. Except...

a) I keep dozing off in front of the computer.
b) My little make-shift home office ranges in temperature from wilting, suffocating heat to icy, foot-numbing cold. And the windows don't open.
c) I get twinges of wistfulness when I hear Jade and her Auntie shrieking with laughter on the other side of the wall.

After being away from work for over a year, I thought I'd have trouble adjusting. But apart from the occasional computer-induced doziness, it feels as though I'd never left. Email, databases, toggling, internet sites, documentation strategies, meeting invites - nothing feels the least bit foreign. It's as though someone flicked my "insurance industry" switch back on and I'm plugged into the matrix again. My fingers tap across the keyboard like they could do it all on their own. Which is a good thing, because parts of my brain seem to have dissolved during the course of my maternity leave. We'll see what kind of quality of work I leave behind after 5 weeks.

At the very least, my co-workers seem glad to have me back and I'm happy for a little social interaction, albeit through email and our messaging system. We're having a big Italian lunch in the 'Loo next week so it should be a nice, goofy reunion where I can catch up on the office gossip and get hugs all around. I'm so very lucky to have excellent people to work with. Even if it's just for a month!

Jade's party was a blast. I concocted a chocolate banana bundt cake that was a hit with the adults, although my girl wasn't keen on it (D's horrified comment as I pulled it out of the oven: "Is that all there is???" But it was so rich and heavy we only needed slivers, so there was plenty to go around). Jade had been busy stuffing herself with raspberries and cheese all afternoon, so I wasn't offended when she had a tiny taste of cake and then majestically raised a hand to signal, "No more, thank you very much."

Doesn't she look darling in her birthday dress? D's cousin's personal care worker made it by hand when Jade was born and she grew into it just in time for her party.

We are making her a time capsule to open on her 10th (or 16th) birthday. All the guests contributed a small item; something to represent either themselves, or the year 2010. It should be good fun opening it up when the time comes, although I have to admit that it's KILLING me to not know what everything is! I'm one of those people who loves surprises, but secretly wants to know what's under the tree at Christmas. And yeah, I often read the last page of a book first.

One week of work down; four to go. Wish us luck!

The mean mummy

2010-05-15T09:23:00.001-07:00

I am caught between a grin and a cringe as I type this: Jade turned 1 on May 16th. ONE!!! My baby girl is a year old. *sniff sniff* And all this time I thought the expression "time flies" was a tired old cliche. Turns out it's shockingly true.

My doctor warned me not to give her any egg whites before she'd had her last set of shots, which are scheduled for May 20th, in order to avoid an allergic reaction. Which meant that for Jade's birthday treat, I had to come up with an eggless cake recipe that didn't taste like sawdust and wouldn't draw the scorn of my brother-in-law.

I didn't realize what a challenge it would be to have an anti-refined sugar/food philosophy when raising baby Jade. I mean, there is freaking refined sugar in EVERYTHING, from a humble loaf of bread to so-called "healthy" baby food. I've always been one of those annoying, obsessive label-readers, but it comes in handy when you're trying not to stuff your kid full of sugar and crap before her first birthday.

It's not that I'm anti-sugar. Believe me, I lurrrrve a good chockie cake, a fizzy glass of coke, velvety ice cream or as many cookies as I can cram down my gullet. I'm just anti-sugar for wee kiddies with developing palates. I figure she's got a whole lifetime to eat crap, so why not feed her the good stuff before she a) knows the difference and b) gets vocally proficient enough to complain?

A few of my in-laws routinely accuse me (semi-jokingly) of being a "mean mommy" when we're over there for meals. My hubby's neice is a year older than Jady and eats whatever she wants on holidays and special occasions, which is mainly cake, ice cream and chocolate. Which is completely fine...for her. I'm not into the whole "your parenting skills are wrong and mine are right" judging extravaganza. But it doesn't mean my girl needs to eat Jell-O at six months, ice cream at eight months or cheap Easter chocolate before she's a year old.

So I quietly feed her broccoli, meat, tofu, salmon, Greek yogurt, beans, avocado and the like while my in-laws and various friends tsk tsk and say, "Pooooor Jade." Sometimes it gets tiring, but I've learned to trust my instincts and go with what feels right for us, mean mummy comments be damned. She's a pretty good little eater, and that's all the incentive I need to keep feeding her healthy stuff with minimal sugary snacks.

I hunted up a vegan mango cupcake recipe for Jady's first birthday treat, since mango is her all-time favourite fruit, and I whipped up a pretty tasty buttercream icing to go on top so no one who tasted them would gag. I think they turned out pretty well, although they were heavy little suckers on account of no egg. I figured I could throw them at anyone who made one "mean mummy" comment too many!

They looked like this:

And she seemed to enjoy them, which is all that really counts. Happy birthday, Jady Lady! May you live a long and healthy life and enjoy all the good things...sugary or not.

Does this baby make me look fat?

2010-05-15T09:10:00.000-07:00

Well, does it? (0;

The rumours are true: Baby Lowry, version 2.0, is due to arrive on September 22nd 2010! Place your bets now - we're not finding out the flavour (boy/girl) ahead of time.

And yes, I've heard it all: I'm crazy, I'm brave, I'm gonna be soooo busy, I'm nuts, say goodbye to sleep for another year... Believe me, I'm aware of the drawbacks. But I have one in diapers, so why not two? We've got all the baby gear already. We have a big ol' house. I qualify for a second mat leave. We're not getting any younger. And we have open hearts waiting to welcome another wee one into our lives. So I say...bring him/her on!

I've also heard that babies born close together develop an excellent sibling bond, so I'm hoping Jady Lady and her new brother or sister are good pals for life. My biggest worry? Finding another name as cool as Jade's for the new sprog. Suggestions are welcome!

A rite of spring...that doesn't involve manure!

2010-05-10T17:12:00.001-07:00

Okay. 'nuff said about all the nastiness of a country spring. Wanna know the truest sign of my favourite season? When the rhubarb patch is finally high enough to yank out enough stalks to make the first rhubarb cake of the year.

As I've mentioned before, I'm not a baker. But rhubarb cake is the one thing that I can make and it never goes wrong. EVER. And the bonus is that both D and his brother are mad for it! Whoo hoo!

I can't remember where I got my tiny printed recipe from, but Mom used to make a rhubarb cake that was very similar, only she called hers "lava cake" because when it was done, the top looked like crusted over lava, and the inside was always moist and hot. I bless the person who printed that recipe for me though - it's my no-fail dessert, and I make about two a month until the rhubarb goes to seed.

The trick is to have nice crisp rhubarb that's not woody or too old. The stalks have to be juicy too; none of that hollow grocery store crap! Find a neighbour with an overgrown patch or a Mennonite roadside stand and you'll have exactly what you need. All it takes is about 6 good stalks to make one cake. Even if you don't really care for rhubarb, this baby strikes the perfect balance of sweet and tart. And - oh bliss - eat it warm with some vanilla ice cream on the side, and you'll never go back to plain old coffe cake again.

D is sick with a cold, but he stoically mounted the lawn tractor tonight to finish off the lawn before the next deluge, so I thought the poor man deserved to come in to the rich, brown-sugary smell of his favourite cake. Not to mention the lovin' arms of his favourite wife.

Kimber's Rhubarb Cake
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 cup butter
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
1 cup milk
1 egg
2 1/2 cups sliced rhubarb (I sometimes use 3 cups)
1 tsp vanilla
sugar and cinnamon for sprinklin'

1. Preheat oven to 350. Grease and flour a 9x13 pan.
2. Mix flour, soda and salt together in a small bowl & set aside.
3. Cream butter and sugar together until fluffy. Add egg and milk and mix well.
4. Add flour mix gradually to butter mixture until blended.
5. Stir in vanilla and rhubarb.
6. Pour into pan. Sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon if desired.
7. Bake at 350 for 40 minutes. Cool in pan on rack (but make sure you try some when it's still a bit warm!)

Manure Blues: The sequel

2010-04-25T14:08:00.000-07:00

To add manurey insult to manurey injury, my dog discovered the freshly dumped doo-doo in the fields yesterday afternoon. Not only did she gallop and cavort through the steamy stuff, she decided that eating it would present a new culinary adventure.

When I let her into the house and bent down to dish out her supper, I almost gagged. She had bits of manure hanging from her snout and sported brown smears up beyond her bony ankles. GAH!!! Thank heavens she's not the type of dog that likes to give kisses.

I banished her to the mud room for the rest of the night, where she moaned at me through the closed door every twenty minutes. It was too cold to put her outside in the doghouse all night, and since her hips are so sore lately, I didn't have the heart to leave her in the mudroom either. So inside she came, stink and all.

My reward for allowing my disgusting pet to sleep inside? A desperate 3am wake-up call - Neko scratching at the door for dear life - that I didn't get downstairs in time to answer. Note to self: NEVER run downstairs to aid a barfing dog in your bare feet. GAH GAH GAH!!!!

Manure blues

2010-04-21T17:34:00.000-07:00

Ahhh, springtime. Finally. What could be more magical than springtime in the country? Violets and crocus peek their purple faces up to make sure the snow is all gone before relaxing into bloom. Forsythia and magnolia burst into yellow and pink magnificence to celebrate days that have grown longer and warmer. The finches have returned, and I can finally take the suet down before it starts to melt. Wrinkly green and ruby nubs coming up by the garage remind me that rhubarb cake-making time is just around the corner, much to D's excitement. Springtime is a luscious reminder of how good it is to be alive.

And nothing quite reminds you of how alive you are like robins chortling and bluejays arguing outside the bedroom window at 4:30am, or the return of marauding raccoons staking out the compost pile. Not to mention the fragrance of freshly spread manure wafting in through all the windows you left open before you went to town. Mmmm, country living in springtime: it's a whole new experience in aromas, and definitely not for the faint of nose.

Today, for example, I hauled Jade's exersaucer outside so she could soak up some April sunshine while I planted my frost-resistant pansies. I dressed her in a warm sweater, wrestled her hat on and sprinkled some cheerios on the saucer. Then I hunted up my gardening gloves and new trowel and hunkered down to do my first planting of the season. We were happy as two little clams, Jade and I.

And then we heard the rumbling.

We turned to see my brother-in-law tearing across the south field in the big tractor, hauling my father-in-law's newly acquired manure spreader behind him. The poop was still steaming.

Jade was delighted. She adores anything that makes a lot of noise and began waving enthusiastically at my brother-in-law. I just sighed. I calculated that I had approximately ten or fifteen minutes to get planting before the smell hit us and absorbed into our hair and clothes.

It's not that I'm averse to poop; I understand the necessity of well-rotted manure when growing crops and gardens. After two years of living here, my nose is finally growing accustomed to the sour, familiar fragrance that floats through the Bruce at this time of year. No, I'm not a wimpy city girl who can't handle a little doodie. It's just that I had a bad experience with it last year and haven't quite forgiven my brother-in-law yet.

"D'you want some sh*t for your garden, Kimmy?" C asked me last fall. He'd just climbed down from his tractor and ambled across the lawn to where I was pulling out the last vestiges of my tomato plants from the garden. I eyed him - and the giant load of crap he was hauling behind the tractor.

"Is it well-rotted?" I asked. "I don't want anything that's going to attract bugs or be too smelly."

"Oh, it's good sh*t," he assured me, knowing full well that I couldn't possibly tell the difference.

"Wellll....okay. But not too much!"

"Don't worry, I'll dump off enough for your garden. It'll be fine.."

I took my best school-marmish pose and shook a warning finger at him. "C, however much you think you should drop off, give me a quarter of that."

He shrugged and went back to his tractor. I went back to my garden, then went inside to make supper and forgot all about my scheduled poop delivery. Until I went outside the next morning and saw the GIANT PILE of crap C'd dumped on the edge - not even the middle - of my garden!!! What part of "not too much" did that boy not understand? ARGH!!!

It took my husband and I over two sweaty, back-breaking hours to dig the stuff into the garden, and even then it barely got mixed in. "Don't worry," C assured me, "it'll break down over the winter. It's good sh*t, I told you."

Yeah, right. This spring, my garden is still covered in a thick, un-broken-down layer of manure that is going to take an industrial sized rototiller to plough through. Conveniently, my brother-in-law is "too damned busy" to help. So I'll have to resort to cajoling my husband, or enlisting one of his cousins to somehow get the poopy garden under control with some serious machinery. But at least we'll be able to enjoy the birdies chirping, the apple trees blooming and that faint, beguiling scent of spring manure while we do it.

The Sunday Drive: Saugeen Bluffs Maple Syrup Festival

2010-04-14T17:30:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing I get antsy for around this time of year, it's fresh, dark, sticky, delicious maple syrup. Having grown up in a small town where one could see tapped trees on one's bus ride to school, and where annual visits to the sugar bush were a given, I can't help but have an instinct for sugaring-off time. Warm days, slightly frozen nights, and the blood in my veins starts flowing in a decidedly spring-like fashion right along with the sap.

I have a friend in BC who may actually rival me in the maple mania department. In a recent email, he confessed to loving all things maple: maple ice cream, maple cookies, maple candies, maple perogies. Okay, I'm making up the perogies, but I KNOW he'd eat them if they existed. If he lived closer, I'd have invited him along on our Sunday drive a few weekends ago to the "Maple Madness" festival (disappointingly renamed this year as "Old Thyme Maple Syrup Festival") that takes place near Paisley.

Taking Jade there was something I'd been looking forward to all winter. There are all sorts of displays, lots of folks dressed up in costumes from pioneer days, live music, and several opportunities to watch sap being collected, boiled and turned into precious, precious syrup. And hey - there's a petting zoo! At the very least, Jade enjoyed her encounters with live chickens, sheep, llamas and goats. It was probably a welcome change from Mummy acting them out at home.

It's a good opportunity to get some fresh air, take in the forest surroundings, and eat copious amounts of locally made sausage and hotcakes smothered in that year's first syrup crop. Oh, how I love eating outdoors...

Anyway, that was our latest Sunday drive. I came home pleasantly weary from all the walking and with a very satisfied tummy from all the pancakes. What more can you ask from a Sunday drive?

She's back, and she's....old.

2010-04-10T19:25:00.001-07:00

You'll have to excuse my recent bloggy absence. Between Easter visit with the rellies, turning the big four-oh and trying to find a fitting way to honour the second anniversary of Rose's birth, it's been a helluva couple of weeks.

I've been thinking that I'd like to set up an annual award of some kind at the local public school in Rose's memory. Something that an average kid can win, nothing hugely monetary, but something worth having. I just have no idea what it should be or how to go about doing it. The ideas flitting through my mind seem to revolve around giving the award to a child who demonstrates an environmental conscience, or a child who tries to make her or his school a better place. But that's kinda vague. Then I started thinking it would be an award only female students could apply for, but then would I be fostering an attitude of unfairness? Hmmm. If any of you out there in bloggerland have experience in this kind of thing, or even some suggestions, please post 'em here.

Turning 40 seemed like it should have been a bigger deal than it was. I think having my big day sandwiched between Easter and Rose's birthday made it flow by quite easily. Several of my friends' experiences with achieving their fourth decade have been less than pleasant. I've heard stories from other 40-somethings who obsessed about their birthday to the point of anxiety or depression.

I suppose it's one of those milestones where you're supposed to look back on your life and figure out if you're where you wanna be, if you've achieved what you've wanted to achieve, blah blah blah. Frankly, I think my best years are still ahead of me. I get to grow older with a delicious man who challenges and satisfies me; I'm living in a place I adore with a lake that isn't going anywhere; I'll watch a baby girl who makes me giggle every day grow into a beautiful woman. I'm relatively healthy, not struggling financially, and I have been blessed with family and friends who truly care about me. So what if I'm "half-way to dead," as one poignant birthday card stated? At least I'm having a good time getting there.

To me, 40's just another number. 20, 30, 40 - whoop-dee-do! Now, knowing my younger sister is going to turn 40 in a few years and that my older sister is going to turn 50...THAT kinda freaks me out.

In Memoriam

2010-04-03T17:21:00.000-07:00

Rose Marie Lowry
April 3rd 2008

Silently a flower blooms
In silence it falls away;
Yet here now, at this moment, at this place,
The world of the flower, the whole of the world is blooming.
This is the talk of the flower, the truth of the blossom:
The glory of eternal life is fully shining here.

- Zenkei Shibayama

For puck's sake...

2010-03-26T17:27:00.000-07:00

"Oh hey there, Mrs. Lowry. Can your husband play old-timers' this Friday night?"

I knew I was destined to become a hockey widow once we moved to Kincardine and I began getting frequent phone calls like that one. But why did the guys who called feel they hadeto ask me for permission? Had I somehow gained a reputation for being an anti-hockey shrew? Or were they worried that a former city girl wouldn’t understand the crucial importance of hockey in a country boy's life?

A few years ago, they might have been right. Oh, I'd spent my fair share of Saturday nights glazed over on the couch at my dad's while Hockey Night in Canada blared in the background, but somehow I'd never soaked up much awareness of the sport. Now that I'd moved to the Bruce, though, it was high time I learned.

The first hockey game I watched my husband play, I wore a stylish short jacket and high-heeled boots.

"You're gonna want to wear something warmer than that," he warned me. “Put your winter boots on.”

"This is warm enough," I said. "You're in an arena, right? Not outside?"

D shrugged and said, "At least wear a jacket that covers your butt." I dismissed his concern. How cold could an arena be? I put the novel I was reading in my purse along with some change for hot chocolate and gave him a winning smile. His biggest fan was ready.

An hour later, I sat alone and shivering in the stands, trying to turn the pages of my book with numb fingers. There was no hot chocolate machine. My butt was uncomfortably numb. Humph, I thought. So my husband was right. I would have been having a lot more fun with a parka and a thermos of hot toddies. Maybe even a sleeping bag. And where were all the other hockey wives? I made mental notes for next time.

Although I really had no idea what the rules were apart from the whole get-the-puck-in-the-net thing, I thought I was following the play fairly well in between chapters of my book. At one point when I looked up, my husband collided with a player from the other team, who skated off the ice holding his head. A bunch of players skated around the rink slowly, peering down at the ice. Huh, I thought. Poor guy must have lost a contact lens. The play resumed; I went back to my book.

When the resurfacer whirred out onto the ice, I clued in that the game was over. I charged into the warmth of the hallway outside the change rooms and pounced on my husband when he appeared. He was walking oddly, half dragging his hockey bag.

"That was fun! Phew, it smells in there. How come your face is all red? Did that guy ever find his contact lens?"

My husband narrowed his eyes at me. "You mean did he find his TOOTH? The tooth that got knocked out when the puck came off my stick and hit him in the face?" He paused. I was horrified. "Oh right," my husband continued, "you were probably reading Shakespeare when that happened. I guess you missed the goal I scored and the hit from behind I received from Bobby Clarke’s buddy because he thought my stick knocked his tooth out." The car ride home was pretty quiet.

Things have changed since then. I don't bring books to hockey games anymore. In fact, I now know that wives and girlfriends only come to tournaments, not weekly games. And, good country girl that I am, I come wearing a layer of long-johns, a coat that has both a hood and enough material to cover my bottom, and a blanket to sit on. Like the dutiful puck bunny I’ve become, I’ve learned to spot my husband's orange-and-blue hockey socks the minute he’s on the ice and I yell like a crazy woman whenever he gets within 10 feet of the puck. I can even tell – most of the time – if he scores a goal.

A cheezee-tastrophe

2010-03-17T17:13:00.001-07:00

Of late, I've been trying to avoid eating crap with artificial flavouring and colouring and preservatives. It's my newest health kick. It's shocking to see all the stuff that has fake colour and flavour in it, and I figure what goes into me goes into Jade - for a few more months, at least - so I'm just trying to be a bit smarter and read labels a bit more closely.

One of the biggest culprits is the junk food I so adore. My favourite - Cheetos Crunchy (think cheesies with all the air sucked out of them)- is chock-full of fake stuff. I know what you're thinking: "Well, duh, Kimberlee. That colour of orange just doesn't exist in nature." Yeah, I know. But while I was pregnant, I kept telling myself they were okay to eat because they contained folic acid, so important for pregnant moms! But that doesn't cancel out the MSG, fake flavour and Yellow 6 dye they're saturated with.

I was half-heartedly looking for an alternative in the grocery store, when what to my wondering eyes appeared but a bag simply called "Hawkins Cheezies." It was smaller than my usual bag of crap, plus the label proudly proclaimed "No preservatives!" "Made with real cheese!" and "Made in Canada!"

Well, I wasted no time in grabbing that sucker and popping it in the grocery cart. I couldn't wait to get home, rip into it and savour what would likely be a turning point in my junk food scarfing experience.

Strangely enough, I forgot all about the magical bag of Hawkins Cheezies until this afternoon, when I was trolling the cupboards during Jade's nap time for something to nosh on. I poured myself a little bowl and went to my favourite relaxing place on the couch. I sniffed the bowl in sweet anticipation. They smelled....cheesy. Closing my eyes, I plucked one from its orange little nest and popped it in my mouth.

WORST. CHEESIE. EVER.

My heavens, they were bad. They tasted like styrofoam dipped in salt, rolled in chicken soup mix and then more salt, then spray-painted orange. UGH! Then...I ate another one. (Well, I had to make sure the first one wasn't a fluke) Okay, I ate about 7 of them, just to be sure. And the 8th one tasted just as horrific as the first one, so I poured them in the garbage and said, "That's what I get for trying to eat healthy junk food."

But that wasn't the end of it, ohhhh no.

About three hours later, my tummy started rumbling. Dangerously. Like a broken septic system about to spew. I dumped Jade in her playpen and ran for the bathroom - and here I'll spare you the gory orange details. The damned things made me violently ill!!! I am so going back to Cheetos Crunchees. They may be fake, they may be bad for me, but at least my body doesn't reject them.

Yeah, but you don't have to rub my face in it...

2010-03-10T13:27:00.000-08:00

My daughter is generally an enthusiastic eater. She especially enjoys smearing food all over her high chair, face, hair, elbows and occasionally, her feet. All the books say not to reprimand a messy eater; children should explore all aspects of eating in the early stages, and should even be encouraged to make a mess. Right.

This would be fine if Jade would only allow me to wash her face and hands off afterwards without screaming bloody murder. EVERY. TIME. I've tried doing it quickly; I've tried doing it extra-gently. I've tried making a silly song to go with the face-washing, making crazy faces, using a wacky voice - it all ends the same way: a shrieking, writhing baby who acts like I am stabbing her with pointy objects instead of sponging her off with a soft, warm cloth.

My husband doesn't usually get home in time to see the performance during the week. I was complaining about it to him on the weekend, showing him first-hand the Battle of the Face Cloth.

"I don't know what her problem is," I growled, as dodging, yelling baby Jade eluded me for the umpteenth time. "I have to put her in a headlock to get her face clean. Your mother says Jade never makes a fuss for her."

"I'll show you what the problem is," said my husband, and without further ado, grabbed me, grabbed the face cloth and started forcibly wiping my face off. "There, how d'YOU like it? Huh? Huh?"

After my squealing and Jade's giggling had subsided, I had to admit he had a point. Having someone wash your face is not fun, no matter what age you are. So now I just dab at Jady's avocado-smeared mug and if doesn't all come off, so be it. She seems to like it a lot better, too. Leave it to my ever-practical husband to show me the light.

Oscar and the grumbling tummy

2010-03-06T16:00:00.000-08:00

Some of you long-suffering readers might recall my effusive, gushing Oscar entry last year. Well guess what? It's that time of year again - huzzah! But I think that instead of boring you with my usual starry-eyed Oscar deluge, I'll focus on the food.

What, no moaning about how my Oscar dress is tighter than ever this year? Or the fact that I can't indulge in too much champers on account of nursing Jady? Nope, this year, I'm just gonna tell you about the food I plan to make and devour during the 3 hour Oscar shennanigans. Cause I'm hungry and I haven't written about food in ages!

I come from a long line of excellent cooks and entertainers. My mother threw elaborate parties, and relied on several mainstays when serving appetizers. My sister and I were schooled in the art of putting together the "hors d'ouvres" (as Mom always called them) for the parties, and to this day, I can still make many of her recipes from memory. They're not fancy, but they look good and they have a certain 1970's - 1980's kitsch factor that tickles me every time I make them. Plus, they rock the tastebuds, which is the most important thing.

I'll describe a few of them here, then list the recipes below if you're interested. And if you have any fancy-dancy appies to share, please do. I always prefer a meal of appetizers to a full course supper.

First on the list are the Cheese Dreams. This one is kind of a poor man's quiche, but there's never any left when I serve it. It's a bit annoying on account of the Pillsbury dough management technique, but once you get the hang of it, it's worth the sticky fingers and muttered epithets while unrolling the dough. For those of you outside North America who have no idea what Pillsbury dough is, I'm not sure I can suggest a substitute; Pillsbury dough is every lazy cook's companion. It's chock full of fat, salt and unmentionable ingredients, but does it ever taste good.

Next, I like to whip up Mom's famous Taco Dip.
Mom's prounciation of the word "taco" used to make my sister and I exchange eye rolls, but the dip is absolutely scrumptious. I have even been known to eat leftovers for breakfast...if there are any, that is. It's simple, and actually not that horrible for you if you use low-fat cream cheese. The flavours meld together into a fantastic blend and the texture is somewhere between creamy-crunchy depending on which veggies you use. I must stress that you use decent nacho chips for dipping though - use a cheap brand and they'll snap like matchsticks when you try to scoop up a decent helping. Blue corn chips seem to be the best pick in my experience.

I didn't make Mushroom Caps this year, because D doesn't like them and I don't want to gobble an entire platter myself, which is exactly what will occur. But my heavens, they are SO GOOD. I assume it's the bacon, or maybe the fresh parmesan...in any case, I have never once made these and had people not scarf them so quickly they burned their tongues, despite my warnings. Once, I brought a tray of uncooked mushies to a New Year's party. The power went out - and the guests snorked them all back raw!

Mom never served proscuitto
that I can recall, but it's a treat for me. The sweetness of the melon against the saltiness of the meat is divine. The trick is browbeating your deli-counter employee to slice it PAPER THIN. There is nothing gaggier than a too-thick piece of proscuitto, trust me, and the folks at Sobey's, bless their high-school hearts, just can't seem to grasp that until I've sent the slice back at least three times. Good thing I don't make this one very often - I might get banned from the grocery store.

So anyway, the recipes are below. I hope you'll try 'em - and even if you don't watch the Oscars, I hope you feel glamorous when you eat these patented Alisa Feick hors d'ouvres. Bon appetit!

Cheese Dreams
You'll need:
2 rolls of Pilsbury dough - crescents
4 eggs
splash of milk or cream
1/4 cup parsley, minced
1/4 cup green olives, sliced
1/2 cup onion, chopped
1/2 cup bell pepper, chopped
1/2 cup cheddar cheese, shredded
dash of your favourite hot sauce
pepper

1. Preheat oven to 375. Spread the dough out so that it covers a 9x13 baking sheet, preferably one with edges. It's a pain in the butt process, but try to make sure there are no gaps between the seams. You may have to get creative.
2. In a medium bowl, beat eggs and milk together until well blended.
3. Add all other ingredients except pepper. Stir until everything is well coated.
4. Spread the mixture out until all parts of the dough are covered. You may have to tilt the pan to get the eggy stuff to move around.
5. Grind some fresh pepper on it, and bake for 15-20 minutes, or until slightly browned. Cool for 10 minutes, cut into squares and serve warm or cold.

Taco Dip
What you'll need:
5 green onions, chopped
1 red bell pepper, finely chopped
1 orange or yellow bell pepper, finely chopped
1/2 seedless cucumber, finely chopped
3/4 cup salsa
1 block cream cheese, softened
1/2 cup sour cream
1 tsp chili pepper
1 tsp onion or garlic powder
pinch oregano
1/2 cup jack or cheddar cheese, grated

1. Blend cream cheese and sour cream together until smooth and no lumps. (If you have the energy, use electric beaters.) Add spices and mix well.
2. Spread the cheese mixture over a large platter to 3/4 inch thickness. Cover with the salsa.
3. Starting at the outside edge of the platter, spread the onion in a circle. Follow with a circle of red pepper, then orange/yellow pepper, then fill centre with cucumber.
4. Sprinkle with cheese. Chill 30 minutes; serve with good quality nacho chips.

Marvy Mushroom Caps
You'll need:
20 medium sized mushrooms, stems removed (reserve 8 stems & chop finely)
1/2 block cream cheese, softened
1/4 cup sweet onion, minced
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 cup parsley, minced
two (or more) dashes hot sauce
salt and pepper
5 strips bacon, cooked and crumbled (Do NOT chintz out and buy pre-cooked bacon. Just...don't.)
1/4 cup fresh parmesan, grated

1. Preheat oven to 400.
2. Mix all ingredients together (except mushroom caps!).
3. Stuff mushroom caps as full as you can.
4. Bake for 20 minutes or until juices start flowing out of the caps.
Note: let them cool slightly or you will burn your tongue!

Proscuitto & Melon
You'll need:
10 slices of proscuitto, paper thin
10 chunks of honeydew or canteloupe melon
10 fresh mint leaves
juice from 1/4 lemon or 1/2 lime

1. Toss melon with lemon or lime juice in a small bowl. Let sit 5 minutes.
2. Wrap each piece of melon with a slice of proscuitto.
3. Top with a mint leaf. Refrigerate until ready to serve.
Note: You can stab them with toothpicks, but I find the meat/melon/mint combo sticks together quite well without them.

Home sweet homely

2010-03-04T12:33:00.000-08:00

When one of the friendly young Mums at Early Years Playgroup took me aside and invited me to the smaller, private "Mom's group" that a few of them organized every Thursday, I was secretly quite chuffed. Yes! The other moms actually thought I was cool enough to make the cut to their own group!

I haven't made too many new friends up in the Kink (although I hang out frequently with several of D's female rellies), so I hoped that joining the Thursday Mom club would furnish me with a few opportunities to pally up to some nice women. D is forever moaning about how I don't have enough "girlfriends" up here. I think he was even more pleased than I was about joining the group.

Jade and I quite enjoy our Thursday afternoon visits to the various homes and getting to know the moms and their babies. I've become pals with the lovely woman who initially invited me and we've gone for coffee a few times. The other ladies are equally cordial and easy to talk to, so I'm quite pleased to be part of their little Thursday baby gang. We laugh, we commiserate, we exchange pooptastrophe stories and goofy husband gaffes. It's fun.

The only thing that worries me is this: I've offered to host in a few weeks, and deep down, I'm afraid the ladies are going to be horrified with my house.

Every home I've visited on Thursday afternoons has been huge, new and completely spic and span. Even the places with pets seem mysteriously hair and whisker free. It's enough to make my eyes bug out - these are new moms! Where do they find the time - let alone the energy - to clean?? Yow.

I've noticed that each home has beautiful tiled floors in the kitchen, and laminate or hardwood throughout the rest of the open-concept living spaces. Plus, each house features a cavernous finished rec room, complete with giant screen TVs and beautiful fireplaces, and a yawning expanse of floor for the babies to play on.

No one has puckered linoleum, or slanted floors; no one has torn screen doors where their dogs have repeatedly begged entrance. I haven't seen a single rusty toilet or unpainted garage. Everyone's lawns look like they've been professionally landscaped - no one is living in a sea of mud thanks to a recent septic mishap.

Normally, I could care less about material things or what other people think of the way I live, so I don't know why this is niggling at me so much. I guess most of these moms are ten to nearly twenty years my junior; likely none of them have much experience living in old houses the way I have. I grew up in a 100 year old house; my house in Waterloo was 70 years old, and Someday was built in 1917. And Someday isn't without its charms: the gorgeous wood trim throughout the house, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the mature trees and the two acres that are our very own. I adore the personality and quirks of a building that's been well-lived in - but I'm having my eyes opened to the fact that most people nowadays choose to live in brand new, sparkly houses that they had some hand in designing. And those houses look like a lot less work than mine is. I suppose an old house is always a work in progress, whereas a new house is a completed entity with no surprises.

Well, it's not a competition, after all, and I'm likely not giving these nice women enough credit. They're coming for a visit, not to judge. And in a way, I'm excited to host folks here - I've fallen out of practice in hostessing lately, and I want Jade to see what it's like to have people over at her house. I'm hoping she blossoms socially and inherits her Baba's penchant for entertaining. And none of her mother's fits of inadequacy.

In praise of...the winter walk

2010-02-22T18:29:00.000-08:00

'Twas a sunny, mild day in the Kink on Saturday, so hub and I got off our lazy bottoms and took Jady Lady for a sleigh ride in the woods. First, though, D had to teach her the fine art of downhill "lugeing": he popped her in the little sled Grandpa Ed gave her for Christmas and sent her for a spin down the gentle slope behind our house.

On her maiden run, baby Jade looked terrified: her lips were pulled tight in horror and her eyes bugged out, even though she wasn't going any faster than I could walk. But by her third voyage, she was giggling like a crazy girl. I'm sure she would have clapped her hands had she not been jammed into her baby bear snowsuit and unable to move.

Once D and his daughter had exhausted the thrill of the hill, we changed sleds (using Grandma Shirley's giant, heavy duty sled, complete with cover and wind-shield) and went off through the cedars on the snowmobile trail. The sky was that cerulean colour of blue it only gets on a clear winter day; the sun was melting into the lake. I could smell the tang of cedar branches as we brushed past them and the snow crunched delightfully beneath our feet. Jade was babbling happily to herself; D and I didn't need to talk, and just exchanged occasional smiles.

We stopped to visit D's cousin, and by the time we left, it was nightfall. Stars glowed in the sky; the moon's crescent was verging on a half wedge. I picked out Antares, the red star, and even discerned the double star in the handle of the big dipper, something that rarely happens with my less-than-sharp vision.

A winter walk is one of those things that makes you feel glad you're alive, and taking a winter walk at night just enhances the experience.

In praise of: Valentine's day

2010-02-15T17:22:00.000-08:00

Last year I wrote a rather heated entry in defense of good ol' V-Day. But I don't feel the need to go all vitriolic on you V-day haters this year. I've mellowed. Okay, I'm just really tired, but still, I don't feel the urge to get on my V-day bandwagon again. I think it's because I've heard so many nice, simple stories from friends and family about how they've spent their 2010 Valentine's Day that my heart is satisfied. Some couples went to the pancake breakfast in Ripley (and so did we), some went skating at the outdoor rink at McGregor Point, some hung out and watched sappy movies. To me, it's all good.

D spent the weekend doing chores so his brother C could play in a hockey tourney (that was not the heartwarming part) and spend the weekend with his girlfriend (that was the heartwarming part). It meant late suppers for both of us and less help with Jady lady in the evenings, but I figured it was for a good cause. We still managed to spend time together in front of the fire, enjoy a really kick-arse lasagne and our traditional dessert of chocolate-covered strawberries. AND D bought me the most gorgeous bouqet of tulips, which are even now making the house feel like spring.

Instead of cards, this year we exchanged our favourite memories of each other, which was kinda fun. Jade and I made D a card; she mostly smeared the purple and pink hearts I drew and tried unsuccessfully to taste each marker, but the card turned out to be pretty cute. Jade received cards from her cousin and both sets of grandparents so I still got my mailbox thrills vicariously. Plus it was fun to dress her up in red and pink; D even got Jade her very own flower.

All in all, I just like Valentine's day and the cool stuff it represents. Here's hoping yours was rosy, fun and full of warm fuzzies.

Defeated by a pork chop

2010-02-15T15:00:00.001-08:00

As long as I'm not exhausted, I adore cooking. But I'm the first to admit that my meat preparation skills aren't the greatest. Give me some veggies, tofu or noodles and I can whip you up a meal you'd go down on your knees to thank me for, but when it comes to the meaty stuff, well, it's sometimes better if we just let the dog eat it.

For example, last night I met my Waterloo with two humble pork chops. I was tired after a busy week of chasing Jady Lady, super-crawling baby, but I started off feeling fairly optimistic: the receipe was simple, had lots of good ratings online and called for only 5 ingredients. The evening ended with me forcibly swearing that I would never again buy pork chops, no matter how economical they were.

It doesn't seem to matter how I prepare the darned things - they always taste like cardboard. I've marinated, roasted, grilled and fried them. I've covered them in sauces and gravies. Once I even attempted to crockpot them but we all know my feelings about the cursed crockpot.

Same with roast beef. My Nana could cook a roast beef so tender and juicy you only needed a fork to eat it with; my Mom made awesome pot roasts. Me? I cook them so rare that only bears enjoy them, or else cook the hell out of them so they taste like boiled leather. My yorkshire puddings are always tasty, but that's a small consolation when you've promised your man a roast beef dinner and end up feeding him fried eggy dough instead.

Chicken seems to be the one meat I can cook without constantly wrecking it, although it's mainly because I throw it on the BBQ or poach it. And the irony? I really, really loathe chicken.

So if anyone out there has a no-fail scheme for cooking pork chops so they're not as dry as a popcorn fart, please - I beg you - tell me your secret! Otherwise my husband will be eating tofu for the rest of the month.

Minus 22????

2010-02-06T16:08:00.000-08:00

Usually I can take just about anything winter throws at me: snowstorms that cancel all travel, from trips to the city to the weekly grocery shopping; high winds that pummel Someday farm and threaten to rip the screen door off its hinges; mountains of white stuff that jam the garage doors shut and make walking to get the mail akin to an Arctic adventure. I've always loved winter. But this year, the nose-numbing cold's been getting to me.

Take today, for instance. -15 with a wind chill of -22. I know it's not as bad as Winterpeg or one of those other Godforsaken provinces where a -20 day is the norm, even without a breeze. But for some reason, the cold this week has seeped into my almost-forty-year-old bones and stayed there. I don't even want to go onto the back porch to let the dog outside, because it means walking into the icy room and spending five minutes shoving poor Nekes out the door with my foot while the wind mercilessly blasts us both. Even putting on my boots on sends a pang of cold up my leg and directly into my spine, in no small part because the snow hasn't even had a chance to melt off them from the last time I wore them outside.

The cold never used to bother me; I dressed in layers, invested in good long-johns, a decent hat, excellent mitts and sucked it up. I'd sneer at the wimps who would rush into the grocery store or the bank, rubbing their chapped fingers together and exclaiming how AWFUL the cold was. I'd note with disdain that half the people who complained about the cold didn't wear hats, gloves or scarves; well, duh.

But now I'm becoming one of those whingy souls who can't s-s-s-top sh-sh-shivering. What is up with that? Do I need to add another layer of fat to my body? Drink more alcohol to stay warm? Invest in fleece underwear? Cause I can definitely take those measures. I'm just not convinced they're gonna keep the chills away. Brrrr.

In praise of: making your own baby food

2010-01-13T22:34:00.000-08:00

You're probably thinking that this is a pretty weird "In praise of" topic, huh? The truth is, I've become addicted to making Jade's baby food. Seriously, hardly a day goes by that I don't have my nose buried in the baby food cookbook (The Baby's Table), the Magic Bullet a-whirring or the steamer steaming. Cooking for me and D has always been rewarding and fun, but cooking for baby Jade is fulfilling on a whole different level. (Okay, except for the part where she spits out a recipe or does her whole fake-gag act. But that's only happened with parsnips and plums.)

Not only is it rewarding to see your tiny offspring gobble down meals of your own making, you have complete control over what goes into her food. It's a bit horrifying to read some of the ingredients on baby cereals, snacks and other pre-packaged baby foods. Check this one out: RICE FLOUR, DRY SKIM MILK, PALM OLEIN, POTATO MALTODEXTRIN, CANOLA OIL, COCONUT OIL, PREBIOTICS (OLIGOFRUCTOSE, INULIN), SUNFLOWER OIL, MINERAL AND VITAMINS (FERROUS FUMARATE, NICOTINAMIDE, THIAMINE MONONITRATE, RIBOFLAVIN), BIFIDOBACTERIUM LACTIS CULTURES. I'm sorry, but what the what are Palm Olein and Potato Maltodextrin and Coconut Oil doing in my 8 month old's food? Ugh.

I'm thankful that Jady Lady is a good little eater, and likes everything except the aforementioned P words. It's so much fun to see what foods she favours (avocado, tofu, broccoli, melon) and which she eats with less gusto (peach, egg yolk, papaya). I'm loving all the funky recipes in her baby cookbook, especially now that we've moved beyond the steam&puree-the-crap-out-of-veg&fruits stage. My latest favourite recipe? Baby Ratatouille. It's delicious, nutritious and best of all, Jady, Mummy and Daddy all enjoy it. So, dear reader, in praise of making my own baby food, I will share my version of the recipe with you. Even if you don't have a wee one to feed, this stuff is veggie gold for adults too. And you don't even have to wear a bib.

Baby Ratatouille
1 cup broccoli florets
2 small zucchini, chopped
1 can tomatoes with juice
1 red pepper, peeled and chopped
1 potato, cubed (peeling is optional)
1/2 onion, chopped (optional)
1 clove garlic, minced (optional)
1 cup no-salt vegetable broth or water
1 cup cheddar cheese, grated
handful fresh basil (optional)

Chuck it all in a pot and bring to a boil; simmer covered 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove the lid and simmer another 10 minutes uncovered. It should look like a thick stew when it's done. Serve hot over egg noodles or orzo, sprinkled with copious amounts of cheese and basil. Soooo good on a cold winter day.

The Sunday Afternoon Drive: MacGregor Point

2010-01-13T22:00:00.000-08:00

If you grew up in Ontario, chances are you spent time at an arena learning to skate. You probably even tried out the nearest outdoor rink, usually a flooded and frozen basketball court in a nearby park. If you were really super lucky, your parents built you your VERY OWN rink in your VERY OWN backyard. I was one of those fortunate kids who had a persuasive mother and an obliging father and therefore, her very own outdoor rink.

All sorts of related rinky memories came rushing back to me this past weekend when D and I took Jady Lady skating at MacGregor Point national park. Before you freak out, let me clarify: my child is not a sporting genius and did not strap on pint-sized skates at 8 months old. D did the skating and pulled her around in her fancy new sled while all the other children watched in envy.

The park is huge and offers lots of funky winter activites, like winter hiking, skiing and snowshoe trails. Best of all, there's a fabulous outdoor 400m long "skating circle" nestled in the midst of the woods. I've been dying to go ever since I heard about it last year and D, in his husbandly wisdom, suggested the outing over supper on friday night. Sometimes that guy says exactly the right thing.

Skating on an outdoor rink requires a certain knack for navigating bumpy surfaces, stray branches and errant clumps of snow. Outdoor rinks usually aren't groomed, and this one was no exception. It was a jigsaw of cauliflower-esque lumps, gouges from enthusiastic skaters and deceivingly smooth patches. Seeing as how I'm learning to skate in brother-in-law C's old hockey skates - completely different from the figure skates I grew up using - I resembled a drunken ballerina. Wee children were passing me. Squirrels ran faster than I skated. D, on the other hand, was the epitome of effortless grace. I love watching him skate; years of hockey have given him speed, power and balance, things I covet even more than I covet his naturally curly hair.

Jady seems to enjoy the outdoors. At least she doesn't scream or whinge. Occasionally she smiles up at us from the comfort of her sled, but usually she just stares in wide, blue-eyed wonder at the snow, the trees, the clear winter sky, mummy's goofy helmet and daddy's long legs. I'm glad she doesn't hate winter and can tolerate the cold. I forsee many more afternoons outside with baby Jade, and I can't wait to strap teeny tiny little skates on her in a few years and glide (okay, flail) around together on our very own outdoor rink at Someday farm.

sigh

2010-01-11T11:34:00.001-08:00

Is there anything more disheartening than taking down the Christmas tree? Probably, but at the moment, I can't think of anything.

I know I'm probably weird for keeping the tree up this long. I just love it so much that I hate to get rid of it. My sis Tanzi and I were just talking about the time when we were living together the Christmas after my mom died. We kept our REAL LIVE scotch pine tree up until Valentine's day, much to the horror of our friends. Now there's a stench I've never been able to recreate.

There's so much about the ritual of the whole Christmas tree tradition that's dear to me. You know, picking out a tree, dragging it home, cursing and grumbling as you and your husband attempt to get it to stand up straight in the tree holder from hell without losing an eye, lugging boxfuls of decorations up from the basement, placing them here and there - just so - while sipping some Alize or Bailey's...I could go on, but I'm probably nauseating those of you who a) have artificial trees and b) take them down on boxing day. To you, I say only this: "Humph!"

Good bye, lovely tree. Despite our tinsel war and the rash you gave me when I hung the ornaments on you, I'll miss your prickly, twinkly presence in the living room.

*sigh*

Comfort for a sniffling soul

2010-01-06T13:33:00.000-08:00

That's what my Nana wrote above her recipe for chicken soup in one of her recipe "scribblers;" I often think of it when I'm suffering from a wretched cold like I am right now. Ugh. What a way to ring in the new year. (By the way, HAPPY NEW YEAR my bloggy friends!)

I haven't figured out how to get rid of a cold quickly, but I have come up with a roster of remedies that trick me into feeling better. Half the battle with a cold is to do everything in your power to stop yourself from feeling completely miserable. Because I find that when I'm sick and miserable, I make everyone around me miserable. I am a terrible, terrible patient.

First, get as much rest as possible. I know, I know - that's what everyone says. But hardly anyone does it! No, most of us slug ourselves off to work or school anyway, where we moan and snuffle and infect 3/4 of the people we come into contact with. Stay home, for pete's sake, get into bed and stay there for a few hours. Enlist the help of friends or family or whoever you can cajole into looking after your kids/pets/plants so you can catch at least one or two hours of rest. I think colds are our bodies ways of telling us, "Dude, slow the freak down." So listen to your body, get under a blanket and get prone, pronto. Better yet, go to bed a few hours early. I dare ya.

I've already expounded on the joys of taking a bath in an earlier blog, so I won't blather on about it again here. It does wonders for your sinuses though, and loosens up all the guck in your chest too. Add a drop or two of eucalyptus oil and suddenly you'll remember what it's like to breathe through your nose again.

My Dad's remedy for neutralizing all things germy that come within 10 feet of him is pretty good too: slice a raw clove of garlic very thinly. Place it on a cracker with a piece of cheese or better yet, a chunk of venison salami. Eat. Watch all your loved ones flee to the next room. But seriously, garlic and onion do seem to help me feel better when I have a cold. And it doesn't have to be as drastic as dear old Dad's pungent remedy; think fresh salsa with raw onion and garlic (I like Garden Fresh from the deli), or hummus or baba ganouj. You won't be able to smell yourself anyway.

The best thing about having a cold is that it gives me an excuse to drink hard liquor, which I rarely ever do. My version of a hot toddy is the ultimate sickie sleep aid. As a bonus, it also numbs the throat and soothes any of that nasty coughing business. Take a cup of boiling hot water and add a generous glop of honey. Then add the juice of half a lemon. Then add two slices of fresh ginger. Crown this glorious concoction with an ounce of cognac or sherry. (Yes, I know it's supposed to be whiskey or scotch but I'm trying to cure, not kill myself.)

Finally, buy some Vicks Vapo Rub. Find someone you really like, and get them to slather it all over your chest and back. It's surprisingly soothing and stimulating at the same time. (0:

Stay well everyone.

10 things my dog and I have in common

2009-12-30T15:57:00.000-08:00

1) We rarely complain about our sore knees, but we never turn down an opportunity to have them massaged.

2) We are hopelessly in love with D.

3) Shedding is a skill we excel at.

4) Hot summer weather makes us grumpy. Cool autumn weather improves our mood considerably. Cold winter weather makes us deliriously happy. Snow causes us to act drunk with joy.

5) We are avid nature nuts. Splashing around in the river, crunching leaves and twigs on the trails, squelching mud between our toes in the fields: it's all good.

6) There's nothing we'd rather do than spend a solid hour kissing Jade.

7) We find few things more satisfying than a good, long walk along the beach at sunset.

8) We approach food with gusto.

9) We are both highly skilled at the fine art of napping.

10) Loyalty is our prime directive.

Merry merry!

2009-12-23T19:54:00.001-08:00

One sister arrived from Australia last week, and the other arrived from the 'Cow a few days ago...so I've been a happy, busy little camper and blogville hasn't been on the tour as of late. Don't worry though - I'll be back moaning to you in bloggy form come January when they've both abandoned me again. (sigh)

Sissy and I decorated our tree on Sunday. We are woefully behind in all things Christmas-decorating related and D only cut down our tree on Saturday afternoon. It's amazing how different Christmas preparations become when you have a Jady Lady in your life! Last year, I had the decorations up, cookies baked, jam made, presents purchased and wrapped all well before the 25th. This year...well, I'm just thankful we have a tree at all!

This year, I used violet and green bulbs (yes, it's a not very subtle homage to Jade Violet), along with the antique Russian glass ornaments my sister in law got me last year. I thought it looked pretty. Kind of minimalist. Then I proceeded to wreck the entire effect by tinselating the darn thing. Sissy said the tree looked "naked" without tinsel. I never use the stuff, but found a mound of it in a bin and did what I thought was a bang-up tinselly job. D came in, took one look and informed me it looked as though a boy in a hurry had done the tinsel job. He kindly removed the offending gobs of shiny stuff and patiently showed me the proper way to hang it - one bloody strand at a time!? No wonder I never use the stuff.

So, here it is, the eve before Christmas eve. I've finished my wrapping, written my "to do" list for tomorrow, the fire is pleasantly warm and I'm dog-tired. Jady is going to waken up any second now for a feed, so I think I'll eat a few chocolate Turtles and head to bed. With any luck, D will join me and we'll have a good night's sleep before the festivities begin. Merry Christmas to all my friends in Bloggerland - have a wonderful holiday and try to be nicer than naughty.

Sleepless at Someday...again

2009-12-10T18:56:00.001-08:00

Things I like to do when I can't sleep:
1) Write letters to people in my head. Most of the time, they are witty, harmless epistles to my favourite pen pals E and K, but sometimes they're poisonous, vitriolic notes dripping with hate and bitterness. Mostly to companies where I've received sub-par customer service.

2) Think of all the things I wish I'd said to my ex when he left me. Sometimes I play out the scenarios in my head. They usually come across as campy soap-opera type scenes where I am full of righteous anger and say cutting things while he just stands there, mute and helpless. Not especially productive or healing, but it's reallllly fun. Especially when I simply have to roll over to see the absolute best man in the world sleeping beside me.

3) Drive. I know, I know, it's the STUPIDEST thing to do when one is tired, cranky, worried, etc. I've actually given up the practice ever since I was pulled over by a cop in Point Clark for driving around late at night without my headlights on. Oopsie. I was tired and upset and incoherent. Luckily, he figured out I wasn't drunk and was very kind. But he insisted on following me back to my brother-in-law's place (where we were living at the time) because I couldn't find where D had put the ownership. Ah yes, there's nothing like having your brother-in-law wake up to find a cop in his front foyer.

4) Go down to the kitchen and eat whatever I can get my hands on. Olives. Cheesies. Ice cream out of the carton. My husband's lunch. Food tastes oh-so-delicious when it's eaten sneakily and stealthily in the middle of the night. (Even better than eating it in the bathtub!)

5) Count my blessings. I like to think about the first time I danced with D, in the hallway at the U of W during our first ever salsa lesson. Or the way Jade fit perfectly on my chest every night we slept at the hospital after she was born. The way my friend R snorts when she laughs and the crazy sense of humour both my sisters have. How beautiful the sun looks against my bedroom wall on an autumn morning. How lucky I am to have a big, comfy bed to sleep in.

In praise of...the bath

2009-12-03T17:57:00.001-08:00

I keep forgetting to contribute to my "In praise of" blog series. It was supposed to be a monthly homage to the good stuff in life, but I think I missed November entirely. Oopsie. It certainly isn't because I don't have enough good stuff in my life, either. Nope, life is rife with the good stuff; just not rife with writing/blogging time it seems.

Anyway, today I will wax poetic about THE BATH. Last week D and I stayed at the London Armories hotel, and there was a glorious, deep, marble tub in our room that we promptly made use of. I'd almost forgotten how amazing it is to float shoulder-deep in hot water for an hour. We've been having some water issues at Someday, so I've avoided the bath because I don't want my skin to turn a brilliant rusty orange the way our toilets have from the iron in the water. But spending some time in the bath has inspired me to sing its praises...

- A bath is the ultimate mood enhancer. Anxious about the presentation you have to give tomorrow? Upset about a romance gone sour? Screaming baby making your hair fall out? The bath is the answer, my friend. As soon as you start running the water, your shoulders will release themselves from their hiding place beside your ears. Drop your clothing on the floor and you'll feel your breath start to deepen. Sink into the luxurious warmth of a full tub and all the nastiness of life seems to disappear, if only for an hour or two. Add a few candles and a glass of wine, and you've got yourself a few hours of pure, simple bliss. Ahhhhh....

- Food tastes better in the bath. Eat in the bath, you say? Oh yes. And somehow, eating and drinking in the bathtub makes everything taste better. Red wine becomes silkier, popcorn is crispier, apple slices are tangier, chocolate is...um...chocolate-y-er. I think it's because eating in the tub is a bit taboo, kind of like eating in bed. And we all know that doing something slightly naughty is just plain fun. Don't believe me? Try floating a plastic bowl of buttered popcorn beside you in the tub next time you climb in and see if you don't agree. The only downside is fishing out the mushy bits that don't make it to your mouth.

- You get to be naked. There just aren't enough acceptable times and places a person can be naked and feel completely relaxed; the bath is an exception. Not only are you supposed to be naked, it would be weird if you weren't. So look down, appreciate your wonderful naked self - wrinkles, hairy bits, freckles and saggies and all! Our bodies are pretty cool things and treating them to a nice, warm bath is a good way to show yourself you care.

- Your voice becomes magically enhanced. Singing in the bath is even better than singing in the shower, because your voice carries up from the depths of the tub and bounces off the water. I can easily become Beyonce when I'm in the tub. Or at least one of those nerdy kids from Glee.

- You can be alone. Perfectly, wonderfully alone. You can close the door. You can even lock it if you have such a luxury. Baths are times for solitude and reflection. Unless, of course, you have a big ol' tub with room for a friend. But that's a whole different blog entry.

Recipes for the vegetarian lurking in all of us....

2009-11-25T17:52:00.000-08:00

Well, everyone except my Dad, that is. I'm pretty sure Mr. Feick, Hunter At Large, doesn't have a vegetarian bone in his 73 year old body.

It's been a while since I've posted a recipe or two on this blog, and a combo of having had a recent visit from my best vegetarian pal R and a read through Phil Bean's latest blog entry have reminded me that it's time.

I think I've mentioned that I'm a lapsed vegetarian; if it wasn't for the fact that a) bacon is so darned delicious, and b) I married a former dairy farmer, I think I could have progressed far into the lands of meatless bliss. But I haven't, and I likely won't. Yet I do love veggie recipes, and I've taken to subjecting my husband to one or two meatless meals a week. It goes something like this:

D: "Hey, this looks good. What is it?"
Me: "Oh, just some (mushroom) Spaghetti sauce/(bulgar) chili/ (black bean & yam) burritos/ (ricotta & spinach) casserole." (I omit all words in brackets and smile brightly.)
D: "Mmmm." (Takes a forkful, nearly gets it into his mouth. Stops. Inspects it as though he is an entomologist discovering a new bug.) "Heyyyyyy, waitaminute...where's the meat??!"

D is not a picky soul, bless his meat-loving heart, and he always eats what I cook with little complaint, despite a few jabs about Greenpeacers. I've even won him over to the dark side (e.g. where he says, in a shocked tone, "Wow Kim, this is really good stuff. I mean, I could eat a lot of this.") with a couple of recipes, which I'll now share with you. The only thing I ask in return is that you share a couple with me!

Chicky Salad
1 can chick peas, rinsed & drained
1 large tomato, chopped (or two big handfuls of grape tomatoes, halved)
1/4 cup minced sweet or red onion
1 cup fresh bocconcini mozzarella balls (I use the big ones and tear them up, but you can use mini ones and leave 'em whole)
a handful of fresh basil, torn
three good glugs of olive oil
juice from 1/2 lemon
salt & pepper

Mix it all together & let stand at room temp for 1/2 hour before serving. If you're going to refrigerate, add the tomatoes at the last minute. Refreshing, nutritious and easy.

Avocado and Egg Salad Toasties
1 large ripe avocado, peeled & chopped
4 hard boiled eggs, chopped
3 tbsp good mayonnaise
2 green onions, chopped (or chives, or regular onion)
1 tomato, chopped
squeeze of fresh lemon juice
salt and pepper
4 slices of your favourite bread

Mush the avocado, egg and mayo together. Season with salt and pepper. Add all other ingredients and mix well. Slather on toasted bread. Mmmmm...rich and delicious.

High five, Dr. Ferber!

2009-11-24T18:41:00.000-08:00

Finally: Mummy - 1, Jady - 0!

Well, I guess it's more of a win-win situation. Ye olde Ferber method worked LIKE A CHARM. Baby Jade cried violently for the first night only, and has slept like an angel ever since. Clever baby. Clever Mummy. Clever Dr. Ferber.

Nighty night!

Help me, Dr. Ferber...you're my only hope

2009-11-18T14:09:00.000-08:00

Call me cruel, call me unfeeling, call me a bad bad mummy. We are Ferberizing this kid, and the process starts PRONTO.

I used to brag that I had the best little baby in the world, because up until a month ago, Jade usually went to bed around 9pm, got up once at 3am and then slept until 8am. "What a good baby!" people would exclaim when I proudly told them she only got up once. Yes, she was my good, smart, perfect child. Until she turned 5 months old, that is, and began to display a penchant for partying in the wee hours.

I don't mind getting up once a night to feed and change her, but 3 and 4 times gets to be a little much. I become Zombie Mummy, Jade becomes Miss Crankypants, and together we don't win any congeniality contests. Ferberization began to sound pretty good.

Ferberizing, for those of you not up to date on your kiddie psychobabble, is a method of sleep training where you let your baby cry in small increments, while reassuring her that you are still there, you still love her and it's okay for her to GO TO SLEEP. The trick is that you don't crack and pick her up. That's what she wants you to do. That's what she knows YOU want to do. So you have to fight every instinct in your body that is commanding you to go and seize your screaming child in your arms. Instead, you have to fight nature and let her "cry it out," as they say in Ferber parlance.

Several of my friends have used this method with great success. Several others, proponents of attachment parenting, think I am sick and cruel. My step-mom, who is a nurse, applauds Ferber, but I have a feeling that my mother-in-law is in the second camp, although - to her credit - she rarely offers advice. But you can tell a lot from the tone of a MIL's "Oh?" in response to your declaration that you plan to let her beloved granddaughter cry herself to sleep.

Our first attempt at the whole Ferber thing occurred last night. Jady Lady sleeps in a crib in our room (Daddy's idea) which makes the whole process even trickier. D is a big softie and I was hoping he'd sleep in the Blue room so as not to disturb my resolve, but he stayed put and admirably held fast to the rules. I fed Jade at 10:30, then again at 2:30, but when the fussing began at 4:45am, I said a silent prayer to Dr. Ferber and let her cry for the recommended 3 minutes before going over to give her a comforting pat. I went back to bed. The crying turned to screams of rage. D and I clung to each other; neither of us needed to say a word, but we were both thinking, "LET GO OF ME! I MUST GO AND PICK UP MY BABY! MY BABY NEEDS ME! LET GO OF ME!!!" We tightened our grip on each other.

At the 5 minute mark, I went and talked to Jade again. The screams turned to shrieks so loud my eardrums reverberated. Same thing at the 9 minute mark, and the 12 minute mark. But at the 15 minute mark, her shrieks subsided into angry hiccuping sobs, punctuated by the familiar "squish squish" sound of Jade sucking the heck out of her favourite two fingers (think Maggie Simpson's soother sound, but wetter). She was still ticked off, but had figured out that screaming wasn't going to help. And she slept through until 7am. Whoo hoo! Best of all, when I asked her this morning if she still liked Mummy, she gave me her signature gummy grin and squealed. Phew.

Tonight is Return to Ferber Mountain; let's hope it goes smoothly. If we crack now, baby Jade will know she rules the roost and that won't do us any favours now...or in 16 years!

Worst. Haircut. Ever.

2009-11-14T08:46:00.001-08:00

I don't consider myself an especially vain person, but c'mon - everyone has something about themselves that they just don't dig. I bet even Aishwarya Rai (purportedly the most beautiful woman in the world) wakes up some mornings and says, "Ugh, look at my perfect eyes. They are just too perfect."

For me, it's my hair. I can count on one hand the number of times I've been satisfied with the cut, style and/or colour. It's baby-fine. It's naturally mouse-coloured. It's limp. To combat these shortcomings, my signature style is two pigtails, which is cute and all, but probably not the best look for someone approaching the big four-oh.

Add the hormonally induced baldness, and I've got myself one annoying hairdo. So I did what any woman does when faced with the ego-slashing horror of bad hair: I made an appointment to get it cut.

My beloved stylist - the only guy who can make me like my hair for at least 24 hours - is in Waterloo. Waterloo may as well be 1000km away these days. Which caused me to act rather rashly, book an appointment with a stylist in the Kink that I didn't know - the first stylist available - and go without any clear idea of what I wanted her to do. Dumb, dumb and dumber.

When she asked the question that all stylists ask ("So what are we doing today?"), I shrugged, explained my issues and said those five fatal words: "Just do whatever you think." I should have known I was doomed when she chirped, "Oh, you're going to be a great client. I love how you don't care what I do with your hair!"

In all fairness, she was very sweet, and did hunt through a magazine for some ideas. She stopped at a photo of someone named Mandy Moore, who had a cute, scruffy little cut that looked easy to work with. Sure, I said. Go for it.

Half an hour later, I looked up from my gossip rag to see that I had been transmogrified from a sort of cute, kinda hip, still youngish pig-tail mum to a 1980's, no-nonsense Wal-mart mop-head Mom. With a capital M. Holy. Crap.

"What do you think?" asked perky stylist. I nodded and manufactured a smile that hurt my face. I told her it was very....nice. Inside, I was screaming "AUGH! AUGH! AUUGHHHHH!" (Which is Dunstan for HOLY CRAP HOLY CRAP MY HUSBAND WILL NEVER KISS ME AGAIN!!)

All of this is my own fault. I do not blame Miss Perky Stylist. I was desperate, I acted desperately and now I have to live with the desperate consequences: Worst Haircut Ever. Thankfully, said haircut will grow out eventually. Unless I snap and shave the rest of it off with D's beard trimmer.

And no, you can't see a picture of it!

Dunstan Dunce

2009-11-11T15:14:00.000-08:00

My loving sister from Oz sent us a DVD when I was pregnant. It's called "Dunstan Baby Language," and promised to reveal the secrets of baby talk. I thought the idea was sweet; D snorted and rolled his eyes. Then we kind of forgot about it and at one point it became a coaster for Tanzi's beer during her summer visit. My sister from Oz kept asking me whether I'd watched the DVD and I would hem and haw and say, "Ooohhh, not yet, but next week for sure!"

Then came the business of giving birth and recuperating and learning to breastfeed and no sleep, and needless to say, Ms. Dunstan was completely forgotten. Until the screaming began, about the fourth week after Jady lady's arrival.

I was slumped on the couch, bleary-eyed, watching my gorgeous daughter turn purple with unexplained rage. She wasn't colicky, and she really didn't scream that much. But when she did - man, oh man, that kid could really holler. For a long time. Her screams made both me and D want to run and hide, which was not a helpful reaction.

It was then that I remembered the promises of the lovely, raven-haired Ms. Priscilla Dunstan of Australia. I lunged for the coffee table, shuffled through the stacks of assorted crap and fished out the magical DVD.

"Your baby speaks Dunstan," it said on the back. "Your baby is talking to you. Now you can understand." Tucking Jade under one arm, I peeled off the cellophane and popped the disc into the DVD player. "You will feel less stress as your baby becomes happier. You will feel like a successful parent," the insert promised. Eight years of research, remarkable story of an Aussie woman, universal language of babies, blah blah blah. I turned up the volume. My husband would likely laugh at me, and my brother-in-law would make that "you're crazy" hand motion when I told him, but I would do it. I would learn the whole freaking Dunstan lexicon if it would only stop the insanity.

As luck would have it, the lesson (and DVD) was short: Dunstan-ese only consisted of 5 words. Yeah. What are these groundbreaking words, you ask? NEH, HEH, EH, EAIRH, and of course OWH. Meaning hungry, uncomfortable, gassy, really gassy and tired. And ALL babies say these words. Yep, all of them, regardless of race, language, background etc. At least, that's what Missus Dunstan says.

Now, call me nutty, but I really did begin to hear Jade say "NEH" (which I came to interpret as HUNGRY RIGHT NOW MUMMY) and "EH" (which means OW OW OW THE GAS! I AM A WINDY BABY!) and this was extremely helpful, as I no longer tried to shove a boob in her mouth when she said "Eh" or put her to sleep when she said "Neh." As for the rest...well, perhaps I wasn't listening closely enough. I don't think I ever heard her say anything else on the DVD.

It's a neat idea, very nicely packaged, and Ms. Dunstan is mighty attractive. The thing that burns me about the whole Dunstan thing though, is that they don't tell you about the million other words babies say. Such as "WAAAAAHHHHH!", which I personally think has to be the most universal of all baby words. Or what about "AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE?" Or even "ARRRGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHHHH!" (Oh wait, that's what I say after a Jady screamfest.)

Anyways, I'm glad there wasn't an exam for Dunstanese, because I surely would have failed. I've taken the handy chart off my fridge, because I got tired of trying to explain and defend it, and frankly, Jady Lady and I are starting to come to vague understandings based on facial expressions. We'll figure each other out eventually, DVD or no DVD.

Now if they'd just make one on the universal language of husbands, I'd be set.

The White Poppy

2009-11-05T08:03:00.000-08:00

So what are your thoughts on this: instead of wearing a red poppy, I'm toying with the idea of wearing a white one.

I thought it was a rather new-fangled idea, but apparently the white poppy has been around for quite awhile. Since 1933, according to the 'net; a women's guild in England started wearing them to symbolize their committment to peace. I like that.

I don't typically wear poppies of any colour for Remembrance Day. It just isn't my thing; I never wore an AIDS ribbon, or a Breast Cancer ribbon, or those little angels you sometimes see. I deeply appreciate the sacrifices made by so many not that long ago; heck, Grandpa Feick was a doctor in WWII. I just don't feel I need to wear a poppy to prove it. I don't usually care to attract attention to myself, but there's a wee little bit of the shit disturber in me (pardon my language) that likes the idea of wearing something that might invite conversation.

By wearing a white poppy, I'd run the risk of offending someone, somewhere. Which is not something I'm eager to do. But I am a fan of people talking about things, even in the grocery store line. I'm a fan of making conscious decisions instead of simply sticking a red poppy on my coat because that's what you're supposed to do this time of year. I don't want to disrespect those who "SUPPORT OUR TROOPS," anyone with family in the military or anyone who has lost someone to war; I just like the idea of wearing my peacenik proclivities on my sleeve, so to speak, and being willing to talk to anyone who asks me about it.

Thoughts?

Anti TVite

2009-10-28T08:21:00.000-07:00

Don't hate me for what I'm about to reveal: we have a TV, and it's a dandy one, but....we don't have cable. Or satellite. Or even two fuzzy channels from bunny eared antennae. Nope, ever since we moved to Someday, our TV has been used as a dust collecting DVD viewer only.

When we moved in, we decided not to get TV for the summer; we didn't miss it, and so here we are, over a year later and still decidedly TV-less. I think that we're an anomaly in this day and age of media saturation; I only have one other set of friends who don't watch TV. And my husband and I aren't even super smug granolas. I facebook, we both email and my husband needs to be surgically removed from his blackberry. But when it comes to TV, it boils down to this: 1) we're kinda cheap (we can't get cable here and satellite is over $75 a month!), and 2) we try hard to find better things to do than melt into the couch for hours on end in front of the squawk box.

There are a million and one things that need doing when you live in an old house on a rural property. Lawn mowing alone takes over 3 hours a week in the summer, and don't get me started on snow shovelling in the winter. There are gardens to tend, dogs to walk, leaves to rake, garages to paint and mutant dust bunnies to chase. Add a baby to the mix and who the heck has time for TV anyway?

I will admit that I miss shows like Dancing with the Stars and House, and before Jady came along, I'd sneak down to my brother-in-law's to watch them. But I can catch shows like Glee online, and when D and I really do have a few hours to chill, we rent a DVD and enjoy every minute of it. I like that we have to make a conscious decision to make the time to watch something, instead of just having the TV on endlessly in the background.

All this being said, I think our TV-less state has finally started to wear on my husband's nerves. He missed one hockey season last year, and I think he's getting sick of my dad calling on Saturday nights to mock us for not being able to watch the game.

My dad, by the way, has a gargantuan big-screen TV and every sattelite channel imaginable. When he comes to visit us, he's lost, because he's forced to (gasp) talk and listen to music. He was here last week and he walked into the living room, stared at our black, dusty TV and shook his head forlornly. "Geez, you kids," was all he said.

I know that when I lived in the city, I used to have the TV on quite a bit, sometimes just as background noise, not because I was actually watching anything. I suppose TV kind of becomes a habit. For example, I recently went away for a weekend with a couple of friends; we had a lovely hotel room with a beautiful view and a fireplace, but the first thing my one friend did was walk over and switch on the TV. Having been TV-less for awhile, I found the noise jarring and unwelcome. But to her, it was the natural thing to do.

At this point, I've told D he can go ahead and get sattelite if that's what he really wants. I do feel bad that he's missing out on hockey, cause he loves it and I think watching a few games a week is pretty harmless. But I honestly think he just wants to get some channels so we seem more "normal." I think he's tired of explaining to friends and relatives who stare at our blank screen in puzzlement why we don't "have TV."

So we'll see...by this time next month, I could be a converted TV queen instead of an anti-TVite.

In praise of...my new car!

2009-10-07T14:22:00.000-07:00

I tend to be pretty set in my opinions (see my blog entry about my need to always be right), but strangely, since marrying D, I've come to change quite a few of them. He takes great pleasure in teasing me about all these changes of heart, too.

For example, I vehemently opposed all-inclusive vacations, declaring them "boring" and "prissy." Then D took me to Mexico for a week, and as I sighed with bliss on the beach with a frozen drink in my hand, he asked me how I liked all-inclusives. If I remember correctly, I stuck my tongue out at him and went back to sunbathing.

I also used to bemoan the noise and stink of snowmobiles. My dad and I always grumbled about them as they blared up and and down the road in front of his cabin, and I made the mistake of complaining to D about the wretched things one winter. "They really disturb the peace," I muttered. "So loud and stupid." So he stuffed me into a snowmobile suit and put me on the back of his loud, stupid machine. We were on it less than an hour before I was begging him to please let me drive.

So it goes that I used to violently oppose owning any vehicle larger than a 4 door sedan. Definitely NOT an SUV. Oh no, I'd never own one of those. SUVs were for right-wing eco-haters who got their jollies frittering away our precious fossil fuels. When D strong-armed me into test-driving a Toyota RAV-4, I was secretly relieved that I didn't enjoy it. Same with the Honda CR-V. But then I made the mistake of letting my Dad talk me into trying a Subaru Forester when he and I were in Owen Sound one day. I don't hang out with my Dad very much, so I did it to humour him. D gets a kick out of quoting what I said when I came home: "Oh, that car was sah-WEET!"

Nope, I didn't end up with the "sah-weet" Subaru in my driveway. But I do now have a Nissan Rogue. Which is kind of like a baby SUV. Sure, it's full of phthalates and it guzzles slightly more gas than the Kia did, but I...and it hurts me a little to say this...I love it. That's right. I LOVE MY NEW CAR. Me, the one who hasn't actually ever owned a brand new car. So to further my "In praise of" series, here are a few reasons why I love it.

1) It starts. It stops. The Kia didn't do either very reliably. 'Nuff said.

2) It's like the last bowl of porridge in the Three Bears' house: not too big, not too small. It's not scary like a Hummer, or obnoxious like a Lexus SUV, but it's no hurridly built piece of crap either. The Rogue is shiny, spacious, and pleasant-looking without being all "Hey! I'm a brand new SUV! Lookit me, you lousy 1985 hatchback! Yeah, I'm talkin' to you!" No, the Rogue is all about Polite Modest Luxury. And that's just fine with me.

3) It's one heck of a smooth ride. The Kia would hit 90km/h and start to shudder like a bowl of Jell-O; the Rogue hits 110 before I even realize we're in an 80 zone. (Don't worry, I'm working on my lead foot.)

4) Stuff fits in it. Car seat, stroller, overnight bag, coffee mugs, oversized purse, shoes, beach chairs, beach umbrella, diaper bag, groceries, bags of dog food...oh, I could go on. I have no idea what its capacity for "stuff" is, but I plan to find out.

5) No dog hair. Yep, the Rogue is a no-Neko zone, as decreed by my husband. Secretly I am not at all sorry about this, although I put up a weak protest just for appearance's sake. But it is so nice not to sip coffee with dog hair floating in it, or drop an apple and have it come off the floor looking like a hedgehog.

6) My husband calls it my "truck." Or my "vehicle." Cuz it has 4 wheel drive. I've never owned a car that didn't automatically spin doughnuts in the snow before. Or one that warrants being called a truck or vehicle. That makes me feel like a big girl.

RIP Kia...long live the Rogue!

Grief sneaks up

2009-10-07T14:08:00.001-07:00

An acquaintance of mine who recently lost a baby posted a very poignant sentence on Facebook a few weeks ago: "When will this ball of hurt go away?" If I were to post a reply, it would be this: "It doesn't."

It's weird. You'd think that having a healthy new baby in my arms every day would be the perfect antidote to losing our dear, wee other babes. But while my love for Jade is a balm that helps the old wounds heal, I have come to realize the hurt may not ever entirely disappear. And that's okay.

We lost our first babe two years ago in September, so that explains why I've spent a heck of a lot of time rocking Jade and sniffling lately. It's so bizarre though, how grief sneaks up and attacks when you least expect it. I can feel perfectly mellow, at peace with the world, enjoying a great day; then I'll happen to glance at a picture of my mother, or wander into the Blue Room (which was going to be Rose's nursery), or look under the old chestnut tree where I spent a lot of time sitting wishing I had a baby. And then it's all over for about half an hour: hello grief, goodbye mellow afternoon.

The good thing is that after I embrace my sadness a little, it melts away, leaving me no worse off than before. I could blame it on these pesky hormones but instead I tell myself that it's healthy and normal. I don't wish it away, no matter how intense the hurt gets. I think it's important to keep feeling, keep remembering and to keep acknowledging my grief. If it stays tucked away all the time, it's sure to come raging out in some wacko manifestation. So I'll continue to sit in the rocking chair with Jady on my shoulder and weather these little storms and take care of these little balls of hurt.

Hunting and Gathering

2009-10-03T12:00:00.000-07:00

Here's something you probably didn't know about me: I think I was a squirrel in a past life. At least, that's what I would have been if I believed in past lives.

As soon as the leaves start changing colour, I'm seized with the urge to collect things: shiny brown chestnuts, acorns with their cute little caps, bristly pine cones, feathers from under the bird feeder. I'm not sure why. I think it disturbs my husband when he starts to notice little piles of things building up on flat surfaces around the house. He puts up with my obsessive stone-collecting habit, but I think the acorns are going to drive him over the marital edge.

Gotta go. I think I just saw a bluejay lose a feather!

The Sunday Drive...continued

2009-10-02T17:35:00.000-07:00

You know, I started the whole Sunday Drive series of blog entries back in the spring and then pretty much abandoned it. So I will delve back a month or so ago and tell you about our latest Sunday drive.

We didn't go far (Goderich) and we didn't do a whole lot, but that's what makes a Sunday Drive so pleasant. There's no schedule, no rush and no worries.

Goderich is touted as "Canada's prettiest town" (at least, that's what it says on the sign, and according to Queen Elizabeth). It is quite picturesque, with its rugged old Gaol, beautiful view of the lake, winding streets and overflowing flower baskets. There is a square in the centre of town that's interesting to walk around, although driving can be another matter if you're behind someone who's lost, or are yourself dizzy from contemplating which of the many exits will take you to the beach already. (Fun fact: D tells me that the plans for Guelph and Goderich were mixed up and Guelph was actually supposed to have had a square in the centre of town. According to Wiki, that isn't actually true, but it's still funny to think about.)There is the best bakery ever and a few nice cafes, plus a little movie theatre that serves kick-ass popcorn. It's great.

We ran a few manly errands (TSC and Crappy Tire, of course) and then D surprised me by fulfilling a long-standing wish of mine: to drive down to the harbour and eat at the fish place. Every time we drive by the sign that says "Best fish on Ontario's West Coast," I sigh and hint heavily about how I'd like to go there for supper someday. Well, this particular Sunday was someday.

It takes a lot to coax D out for supper, but for some reason Sunday drives seem to bring out that rare "take my wife out to eat" urge in him. So we drove down the steep, winding road to the harbour in search of our elusive fish. I kept my eyes open for what I thought would be a biggish restaurant. Instead, we drove up to what was basically a tiny little trailer with a nautical air about it. Yup, that was the place! Inside, it was tinier than I'd expected, but tidy and neat. Each table had fresh flowers on it and everything was decorated with fishy or harbour-y stuff. We squeezed ourselves and Jade into a table at the back, next to a lady wearing a Royal Canadian Legion uniform and her husband. I could have reached across and plucked a french fry off Mrs. Legion's plate, the tables were that close together.

Luckily, it was the kind of place where everyone either knew each other, or decided to get to know each other while they ate. We chatted and traded baby stories with Mr and Mrs. Legion. The waitresses were friendly and pleasant.They even took turns holding Jade so I could eat! Now that's my kinda place.

After supper, we headed down to the harbour boardwalk. It's a very long trail of nicely constructed, raised boardwalk that goes on forever along the shore. Jade fell asleep in no time thanks to the bumpity bumping of stroller on boards and D and I chatted about nothing in particular while a strong wind off the lake buffeted us and mussed our hair. I always enjoy my walks with him; we never seem to run out of things to say. We read all the historical signs, took turns pointing out crazy people swimming in the roaring waves, nodded to other folks out for evening strolls.

On our way back, D spied two ships coming into the harbour. They were tall ships, something I'd only seen once before in Montreal. We made it to the harbour just in time to see them sail right up and dock. I guess it was part of some tall ship adventure tour because there were a bunch of teenagers scurring around on board, tying ropes and untying ropes when some guy yelled at them to do so. If I didn't get seasick just looking at a boat rocking around on the water, I'd say it looks like a cool thing to do. Just not for me.

To end our Sunday drive, I convinced D to stop for ice cream at the roadside stand just outside of town. $11.00 later, we were happily scarfing down sundaes in the car while Jade watched. A perfect end to another happy day.

Laundry Therapy

2009-09-22T20:52:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe I lived as long as I did in the city without a proper clothesline. When I first moved in to my little house in Waterloo, I quickly got my then father-in-law to remove the scarecrowish clothes-hanging thingy that was rusting to death in the backyard. It was so ugly I didn't even stop to consider that it might be useful. Instead, I went to Crappy Tire and purchased a retractable clothesline, smugly attaching it to my deck that very evening. I would be helping the environment, saving money and electricity and generally looking very granola with my fancy new clothesline.

Sure.

I realized after the first time I tried it that I'd made a terrible mistake. The line was 20 feet long, which only provides enough room to hang a few sheets and maybe one sock; I owned a king-sized bed and a heck of a lot of socks. I had to climb up on the one rickty stool I owned to attach the line to the maple tree in the back yard every time I wanted to hang laundry, which meant enduring the amused looks of my neighbours. (They used their clothesline to exercise their cat and dried their clothes in a dryer) My line also had to be forcibly retracted once I was done, kind of like winding up a really long, tiresome yoyo.

Worse, the darned thing would never stay taut. It'd inevitably droop into the flowerbeds or a pile of doggie doo. Once I even came out to find my dog asleep in the middle of my white sheets as they dragged across the lawn.

Imagine my absolutel delight when we moved to Someday and I saw my new best friend: 60 feet of glorious double line, complete with a concrete landing from which to survey my domain while I hang my clothes out. It even came with those metal pulley things to keep the lines tight when you hang really heavy towels on them. Hallelujia!

I adore the smell of sheets that have been hung outside to dry, so I can't get enough of this clothesline stuff. Clothes just seem cleaner to me after they've been soaked in an afternoon's sunshine. Plus, you leave 'em out overnight during a heavy dew and voila! Hello extra whiteness and brightness, all thanks to Mama Nature. And yeah, I found that out through sheer laziness one night when I was too into my book to go take the clothes off the line.

A baby on board means more laundry than I'd ever envisioned, especially since we use cloth diapers. But I love the poetry of Jade's wee clothes waving at me from the line; the pinks and blues and yellows become a rainbow of pastel colours that make it worth all the trouble and time of hanging them up.

And instead of listening to the dry humping sounds of my 15 year old dryer, I hear the cedar waxwings peeping in the apple trees and crickets sing in the alfalfa. I get to feel the wind muss my hair, the sun glow on my face, and cool, damp sheets against hot arms and shoulders on those scorcher summer days. Instead of gazing at damp cement basement walls, I watch monarch butterflies flutter crazily across the lawn. It's lovely.

Sure, tossing stuff from the washer to the dryer is less time consuming. Yeah, you have to wrestle with heavy sheets, learn the art of the clothespin, search for dropped socks in the thorny roses. And since Someday is always windy, my brother in law, the UPS guy, and a visiting neighbour have all rescued clothing that's tried to escape. Sometimes it ends up in the cornfield, or on the hood of my car. Once my brother in law brought me a stray t-shirt, then pointed to a pair of my dainty underthings lying in the middle of the lawn. "You dropped something. I ain't touching it." But I think hanging laundry builds character in a way that spending too much time with a big white dryer in the depths of the basement never can.

Now the question is, what will I do when the snow flies???

Aurora Boring-alis

2009-09-15T14:19:00.001-07:00

Since moving to the country, I spend an inordinate amount of time craning my neck upward to look at the night skies. It makes my head spin sometimes to contemplate the stars, planets and even satellites scattered up in the heavens. I've even come to recognize a few; rusty coloured Sirius, bright Vega, Orion's tidy belt. In Waterloo, they were mere specks that blended together; at Someday, they're brilliant gems strewn across a black velvet sky.

We've had two weeks of clear, warm weather with cool nights - perfect for stargazing, and usually perfect for seeing the Northern Lights. Searching for Aurora Borealis is kind of a tradition with me; ever since I was a young kid coming to the cottage, it didn't feel like summer until I'd spotted the Northern Lights at least once. I remember lying on the cool sand with my cousins while the waves lapped at our feet, staring up as those mysterious lights wove their ghostly threads across the darkness.

And so I've peered up at the Someday sky, night after night, all summer long. All I've achieved is a severe crick in the neck and a bad case of impatience. If you'd been standing beside Jade and I last night, on the driveway, near the cornfield, you'd have heard the following:

"Ah haaa...look up there Jady. Do you see that? That's the Northern Lights! Yup! Look at it! Isn't it beautiful? It looks like a gauzy white curtain, doesn't it? Mmm hmm. Mummy loves the Northern Lights. Oh. Waitaminute. Hmmm...maybe those are just clouds. Are those just clouds? Dammit, they are. For pete's sake." (Calls to husband who is wearily heading into the house) "D, are those clouds or the Northern Lights?" (mumbled response from husband) "Crap! Are you sure? I could have sworn they were...oh, never mind. C'mon Jady. Let's go in. *sigh*"

Yeah, I know. Jade is way too little to even notice the Northern Lights, let alone stars. But I am bound and determined to see them this year, even if it means scouring the skies each and every night until it snows!

Boo

2009-09-11T15:49:00.001-07:00

Facebook has many ridiculous questionnaire-type apps (Who would be your celebrity boyfriend?! What colour is your Aura?! What alcoholic beverage are you?!) which, for reasons that I haven't thought about too closely, I seem to keep trying. I think they're mostly harmless little time wasters that you forget about moments after you publish your results (Ben Affleck! Aqua! Beer!)...but one did make an impression on me last week.

"Which ghost sleeps in your room?" popped up on my feed page. And I have a thing about ghosts, so I took it. And the result? Well, here it is, in all its grammatically grating glory:

this dog grew up on a farm in the 1800's but drowned in a lake. this dog doesnt only sleep at the end of your bed every night but he follows you everywhere you go and keeps you away from more danger than you realize. all of your lucky escapes from trouble are thanks to him.

Hmmm.

I did have a bull terrier named Henry who choked to death in a tragic apple incident about 12 years ago. He would have cheerfully chewed apart anyone who tried to harm me, so he'd make a pretty sweet ghost doggie. Except I don't believe in ghosts. Which is problematic, because I'm writing a novel about them. Yeah. Go figure.

I shouldn't say I don't believe in ghosts at all; the fact is that I'm kinda scared to believe in them. I don't want to meet one, not now, not ever. But I have felt, at different times throughout my life, that I wasn't alone in a place, even though technically I was the only person there. Especially in our old house in New Hamburg and here, at Someday. Both places are 100 years old and are bound to have some sort of history kicking around them.

But does that mean there are ghosts? Dunno. My friend R is convinced that our blue room must be haunted because her daughter acts weird whenever they sleep over there. It was supposed to be Rose's room, so who knows? Maybe Rose comes out to play with R's daughter. Gah! I just gave myself a shiver.

The thing I struggle with is not knowing whether ghosts are friendly or mean, good or evil, interested in humans or unobtrusive. If they exist, why are they here? How come they're not living it up in the afterlife? And what do they want from us? These are the questions I have been wrestling with for ages, and the elusive answers are holding up my novel's progress. I can't write about ghosts until I can figure out what exactly they want from my character. If you have any ideas, I'm all ears.

Or maybe I should just ask ghostie Fido tonight.

Get Yer Motor Runnin'...

2009-09-03T14:07:00.001-07:00

My brothers-in-law both have shiny, growly Harley Davidsons - Sportsters? Roadsters? Something with a "ster" in it - that they are very proud of. They deck themselves out in Harley helmets, jackets, chaps and belts and go thundering down the road looking quite cool. D has a 20 year old Honda 350. It's covered in dust, has two broken tail lights and was recently diagnosed with a bad case of mouse nest in its innards. When we ride it, we usually wear lumber jackets and work boots.

I think I detect more than a hint of wistfulness in D's eyes when C comes rumbling out of the shop on his way for a tour. D doesn't surf the 'net much, but when he does, it's to scroll through pages of used motorbikes every blessed time. I keep coaxing him to buy a new one, but he won't. I'm not really sure why, but I think it's because he never wants to spend money on himself. Surprise me with a ruby and diamond necklace for Christmas? No problem. Purchase a new grain mixer for his Dad's farm? No biggie. Buy himself a used motorbike to replace the one he's had since forever? Not gonna happen.

While it's tempting to want to buy one for him, I wouldn't know where to begin. My motorbike expertise begins with tooting around on the teeny tiny old '70 at his parents' farm, and ends with me balancing on the back of D's bike until my butt hurts. And C has vowed never to help me, for fear of incurring D's wrath. So what to do?

I've been for a ride on both my brothers' Harleys, and while they're a lot of fun, I still prefer D's beat up old bike. The Harleys are incredibly loud; your head aches after a half hour on the back of one. I don't like the way everyone stares at you when you roar through town either. The passenger seats aren't as comfy as the old squishy one on D's bike. Plus the brothers would never allow their bikes to go for a joyride down the dirty 6th concession, let alone a heart-pounding buzz through a freshly shorn field.

I have so many good memories associated with the Honda: the first time D took me for a spin, through fragrant meadows and down bumpy dirt roads, around his Grandpa's old farm and the Lowry Grain elevators; the time we dumped 'er executing a tight turn and smashed the only remaining tail light; the night he proposed at the Point Clark lighthouse with the ring hidden in the bike's secret compartment. Yeah, I love that old bike! Even if by some miracle I can convince him to get a new one some day, the dusty red Honda will always be my favourite.

Stuff I'm slightly embarrassed to admit I like

2009-09-01T00:49:00.000-07:00

Oh come on. Everyone has a list. You're just too chicken to blog about it.

1) Baby Duck/Molson Canadian
Cheap, sweet, fizzy wine drunk out of plastic cups on the beach at midnight tastes just like Veuve Cliquot. Trust me. And I'm the beery snobbiest of beer snobs, but a bottle of Canadian so cold your lips almost stick to it is the best way to quench your thirst on a muggy August day. Plus it has fuelled more two-steps and helped me wash down more salty midnight buffets at wedding receptions, stag n' does and reunions than I can count. How can you not love a beer that does that for $2.00 a cup?

2) Friends
I really can't say why this show makes me laugh so much. I mean, it's fairly predictable and not exactly high-brow humour. But there are a few episodes (the one where Phoebe pretends to seduce Chandler, the one where Jon Lovitz is a stoned restaurant owner, the one where Joey discovers that his tailor is a pervert) that make me howl every time I see them. I guess the show is kind of like a warm blanket of sorts; you know the characters, you know the dialogue and you know what's gonna happen because you've seen the episodes a million times. It's not as acerbic as Seinfeld was. It's kind of like eating a nice, warm, fresh squishy plain doughnut. Not great for you, but it won't kill you either.

3) Zoodles
There's something to be said for limp noodles in sweet tomato sauce with a sodium content that would fill three salt shakers. Plus, it comes out of a can! I don't think the recipe or packaging has changed since I was a kid, which is impressive. And this stuff saved my life after my C-section when no other food appealed to me. Now the real question: are Alphaghetti and Zoodles just cleverly disguised fraternal twins? I must do a blind taste test someday.

4) Journey/Abba/Simon & Garfunkel
Ahhh, listening to those soothing ballads punctuated by Steve Perry's freakish high notes on a long trip home from Waterloo. The tinny melodies of Bjorn, Benny and the girls as background music while I make supper. Singing along to the warbling, angsty harmonies of Sim n' Garf as I dust the living room. These tunes are all leftover loves from my teen years when I'd play the same albums over and over and over again. Not enduring classics to any ears but mine, probably. It's still fun to make up words to Abba songs though.

5) The X-Files
I think I've mentioned before how obsessed I am with this show, 7 years after it ended. At first, I had to content myself with reading the episode guide books, which are mostly awful. Then my good friends lent me the entire nine-season DVD collection, which was just mean, 'cause now all I want to do during every spare minute is watch Mulder and Scully play with their flashlights. Jade probably has so much alien conspiracy dialogue embedded in her little brain from all the times I've nursed her while watching X-Files; I've no doubt that someday, I'll be lamely trying to explain why she insists on drawing green men with big eyes during a parent-teacher interview.

In praise of...sisters

2009-08-28T04:22:00.000-07:00

I just realized I'd better get my August entry in for my "things I love" blog. No sense starting a new series if I don't keep 'er up! So here are things I love about...sisters.

I am the filling in a three sister sandwich. Tanzi is two years my junior and Sissy nine my senior. Tanzi is teaching English Lit in Moscow until next June and Sissy has been enjoying life down under in Australia for almost twenty years now. Despite gaps in age and distance, we're close and fondly refer to ourselves as "crazy sisters three." We even have our own theme song set to the tune of Dolly Parton's 'Islands in the Stream,' but it only exists in a rarely heard live version, usually fuelled by a lot of champagne.

On the rare occasions that all three of us are together, we talk and talk and talk. And drink. And then talk some more. And I'm not even gonna touch on the giggling fits that drinking and talking induce. The exciting part? There's a slight chance that we may get the opportunity to do just that this Christmas, and it will be the first time since D and I got married that we'll all be in the same country together.

Since meeting D, I've been exposed to the brother dynamic (he has two), but I have to say, it pales in comparison to the sister connection. For one thing, the brothers Lowry don't hug, or talk about stuff unless it's mechanical or cider-related. So I thought I'd jot down a few of the things I love about sisters, just for the record.

1) Sisters get you.
Whether it's your weird fear of feet, the way you blink really fast when you're lying, your penchant for toilet reading or your addiction to Asian knick-knacks, sisters get you. They get your jokes, your quirks, your habits in a way even a parent or a spouse can't quite appreciate. I've seen D and my Dad look bewildered over many of the things I do or say, whereas my sisters simply shrug. "Hey, that's just Kim," their expressions seem to say. "Accept that she's weird. Move on."

2) Sisters are your biggest fans.
Sisters have a knack for making you feel good about even the smallest of your accomplishments. My sisters cheer me on constantly, about things as innocuous as creating a new jam flavour to getting one of my articles published. We encourage each other, no matter how crazy the scheme or plan or idea may sound, and we are there to hurrah or comfort as the situation requires. When I publish my book, you can bet my sisters' names will be first on the dedication page.

3) Sisters are kinda like you, but not really.
Even though you share may similarities and certain traits that cement your status as sisters (in our case, a seal-bark of a laugh that has been compared to our Nana's, a bad habit of making funny faces in photos, and a love of lychee to name just a few), you're very different in other respects. And that's a good thing. It's like you're just similar enough to feel connected, but different enough to earn each other's respect.

4) Sisters let you borrow clothes.
'Nuff said. From what I can tell, the brothers Lowry only borrow tools.

So what else can I say? Amen to sisters, my friends. There's nothing quite like 'em.

Hausfrau apathy

2009-08-24T14:18:00.001-07:00

Today, I just couldn't take it. I couldn't take the dirty dishes, the dirty floor, the dirty laundry, the dirty dog. The mounds of thank-you notes waiting to be written. The garbage waiting to go to the curb. The clothes to be packed for tomorrow's excursion to Waterloo with Jade. Individually, any of these tasks would be quite manageable, welcome even. But collectively, it made me want to crawl back under the covers and hibernate until a fairy godmother appeared with a manservant in tow. Preferably a hunky one that looked like Hugh Jackman.
Normally I don't mind domesticity. I like cooking and laundry, and I enjoy writing little thank you notes to all the generous folks who have showered Jady with gifts. But there was just something about it all today that seemed overwhelming - almost suffocating. D is a great help around the house and usually does the dishes, most of which he did last night at 10pm, leaving just a token few "to soak". He even threw in a load of laundry before he left for work this morning. I can't really complain
about having too much to do; I just didn't wanna do any of it today.

So after surveying my arena of domestic chaos, I decided that Jade and I would be better off outside. And that's where we spent most of the day: picking beans, peas and cukes from the garden, plucking gem-like red currants off the bush to make jelly, playing with Black Betty the cat and Neko the dog. Jade got her first feel of grass on her toes (loved it),
her first look at apples on the tree up close (grabbed them) and her first view of a kitty cat (fascinated by it).
I even hung out her wet laundry to dry later in the afternoon since my mood had improved considerably.

Sometimes, you just need to flip the mess the bird and go do something fun. The mess will still be there; garden harvests, sunshiny days and wee babies won't.

Soggy Bottom Girl

2009-08-21T09:02:00.000-07:00

Every now and then, God peers down on Someday and says, "Hmm. Looks a little dry down there." He then proceeds to send a deluge of biblical proportions. This happened yesterday at the exact moment I was unbuckling Jady Lady from her carseat to take her into the house. Ahhh, nature.

I plugged her back in, flopped the top over her seat and ran for the back porch door. This is no easy feat when your hands are slippery with rainwater, you are blinded by said rainwater and the carseat weighs approximately three thousand pounds. At least that's what it feels like to stick-armed, outta shape me.

It took me all of 15 seconds to run from the car to the house, but by the time I pried the screen door open and heaved Jade inside, I was sopping wet. I'm talking wet to the skin, from dripping hair to waterlogged sneakers. Even my underwear was soaked. Bleah.

When I lifted the carseat cover to check on Jade, she was completely dry and stared up at me, perplexed. I guess she'd never seen Mummy look like a drowned rat before. As I leaned over, a drop of rainwater ran off my forehead, plopped onto her nose and dribbled down to her lip. She tasted it and grinned a big toothless smile.

It was at that moment that I felt the urge to take off my clothes and run outside in the pouring rain. There's just something about being in the country during a warm summer rain that causes one to entertain thoughts of running outside in one's altogethers. However, having a three month old baby waiting patiently for you to take her out of her carseat and feed her lunch puts a damper on these crazy tendencies. So instead, I stepped outside, fully clothed, and enjoyed a bit more of the rain before peeling off my wet things to put on dry clothes and return to my motherly duties.

I'm sure it will rain again this summer. Hopefully next time Jade will be fast asleep!

The inconstant gardener

2009-08-14T06:38:00.000-07:00

When we moved to Someday farm from Waterloo, I missed very little about my old house. It had its charms and I was fond of it, but I certainly didn't miss the cupboard doors that wouldn't shut, the bathroom plumbing that misbehaved at inopportune moments, or the mold growing stealthily in the basement. No, I didn't care so much about the house; what tugged at my heart after we'd settled in at Someday were all the wonderful green and yellow and purple and pink things I'd left behind outside.

I lived at 139 Moore for over 10 years, and in that time, I'd managed to amass an impressive (and motley) assortment of flowers, plants and shrubs. I had gardens everywhere I could dig them. They were crazy and unmanagable but I loved them all the more for their untidy beauty. I enjoyed tinkering with my naturalized boulevard and chatting with passersby; I shared ribbon grass and russian sage cuttings with complete strangers who complimented me on their abundance and traded plants with neighbours. Gardens are great conversation starters.

What my gardens lacked in respectability and neatness, they made up for in personality. My seven foot high raspberry patch pulled me into a prickly embrace every morning when I went to pick berries for breakfast. Clematis vines stretched happy purple faces up the sour cherry tree and along the south wall, growing as high as the eavestrough. Dozens of rose of sharon shrubs bloomed serenely along the east wall where they'd sown themselves from my neighbour's fertile plant. My grapevine produced sticky sweet and sour fruit every year that my husband, dog and feathered friends enjoyed with equal pleasure. Peach and green striped tulips were the pride of my spring, tomatoes and herbs the pride of my summer. I didn't care so much about leaving my first house as I did about leaving my first gardens.

Thankfully, Someday already had many beautiful plants, shrubs and trees for me to discover when we moved here. But there was one thing missing: a vegetable plot. Truth be told, I'd never had a big vegetable garden before. I'd grown berries, herbs and tomatoes successfully in the city, but little else of edible interest. One year I attempted to grow two rows of popcorn; I can still remember my neighbour, an accomplished gardener who grew tomatoes from seed and zucchinis the size of baseball bats, shaking his head at me as I flicked earwigs off the cobs and chased squirrels away in vain.

Shrugging off my past failures, I pictured myself gloating over a green space teeming with with spicy herbs, giant tomato plants, fuzzy cucumbers that twined wandering fingers around the soil, orderly rows of peas, beans and onions. I'd even grow sweet corn. I was now a country woman, and I wanted me a vegetable patch!

My husband ploughed up the foot of the apple orchard with his uncle's tractor (and would have kept going if I'd let him) and hemmed in the space with weathered timber. He warned me that corn and watermelon probably wouldn't grow but I ignored him and planted lots of both, along with the other aforementioned veggies. How hard could it be?

As I've mentioned, I am not a tidy gardener. My watermelon vines overflowed onto the lawn, cucumbers kept climbing up the tomato cages and my peas clung to the nearest corn stalks. It looked a bit wild, but I didn't care. I planted everything myself and with the exception of the corn and watermelon, my crops were bountiful and beautiful.

This year, my garden is wilder and more overgrown than ever, thanks to the arrival of my baby daughter during prime planting time. I couldn’t dig up the garden, spread the manure or plant the seeds, so I enlisted my very tired hubby to do both. Carrying baby Jade in a sling one mid-June evening, dodging bats and mosquitoes, I called out instructions to my patient man on where to set the tomatoes, the herbs, the cucumbers and the onions. He even planted my beans and peas from seeds I’d saved last year. I felt a surge of relief a few weeks afterward when everything sprouted. And then, busy with baby, I proceeded to tend my garden in imagination only.

When my husband informed me we’d be getting our barn roof repaired by local Mennonites, an alarm went off in my head. Mennonites had impeccable gardens with neat, orderly rows and vegetables that behaved themselves. I could not let anyone, let alone a Mennonite farmer, see my garden in its current state of chaos. Baby Jade went in her buggy and I went to work on a warm August day. I pulled out pigweed by the fistfuls, hacked at stray dandelions and desperately tried to train my tomatoes into some semblance of order. I realized that I’d completely forgotten to cage three out of my six tomatoes, and there were two unidentifiable yet important looking plants that I couldn’t remember asking my husband to put in. Gah, I thought. I am a terrible, terrible gardener.

And then, in the midst of my sweaty gardening angst, I started to laugh. I looked at my dirty toes, my mud-caked nails, my dirt-smeared arms. I sniffed the aroma of bruised mint and pruned tomato vines. Jade was cooing in her buggy and the birds were singing. I'd forgotten what fun it was to dig in the dirt and I was having a great time. My garden didn’t have to look perfect. It didn't even have to yield much of anything. It was there for me to work in and learn from. And I have a feeling that it will be there again next year, waiting for me to dig in and learn some more.

Sister Misser

2009-08-12T02:27:00.000-07:00

Well, my sister Tanzi left yesterday for the long day's journey back to Moscow. Actually, she's stopping off in London first to take in an unlikely performance: Jude Law as Hamlet. If Hamlet had slept with his nanny, dated a skin and bones starlet and had a habit of impregnating women 10 years his junior, I might believe Jude in the role. At this point, I'm having a hard time picturing pretty boy as the brooding prince of Denmark.

But hey - to each their own. Hopefully it's not a total disaster. At the very least, Tanzi will have the whole crazy city of London to explore for a few days before she heads back to the less than passionate embrace of the 'Cow.

I shouldn't moan too much; we were lucky to have spent most of the summer together. I was so thankful she got a chance to meet her niece and hang with us. We did our annual Bayfield and Stratford pilgramages, drank countless cups o' coffee and played lots of Yahtzee (man, if Facebook ever creates a Yahtzee application, we are so screwed). We slept in, went to the beach, shopped a little, ate a lot of great food and drank a lot of great wine (let's never speak of my attempts at making mojitos again).

It's gonna be a slow and lonely August without her. I got used to waking up and hearing her patented greeting ("Meow!") from the guest bedroom. I relished the fact that I could take an extra-long shower and know that she'd be keeping Jady Lady entertained. I miss seeing her buddha statue on the guest bedroom night table. And I was tickled by how many people thought Jade was Tanzi's baby when we were out and about because she was usually snuggled in her Auntie's arms. In fact, I think the phrase I will remember most from this summer is Tanzi saying, "Can I hold her?" (Thanks Jaime for the beautiful photo!)

Whenever I miss Tanzi too much, I just have to look at all the lovely keepsakes she's given me over the years: my polished stone with golden Koi swimming on it; my "New Beginnings" picture; the rose and violet art she gave me this summer. When my sister cravings get to be too much, I'm able to take some comfort in the ultimate calmer-downer: lying in my king-sized bed under the hand-made quilts D's aunts made us, listening to my husband breathing on my right and my daughter breathing on my left, secure in the love of my little family. That's when I remember that the Tanzinator WILL return!

Well Tanzi, only a few more months until I start making subtle hints about you coming home for Chrissie...in the meantime, I'll innundate your inbox with stories and pictures of wee Jade so you don't miss a moment of her growth spurts, poopy explosions, bizarre noises and other wacky baby accomplishments.

Once more into the beach...

2009-08-01T23:59:00.000-07:00

At last, summer has stopped hiding like a naughty child and made an appearance. Huzzah! Sunshine! Warmth! Blue skies! Final-frickin'-ly.

It never quite feels like summer to me until I've baptized myself in the cool waters of lake Huron. And while I'm not really a beach person per se (e.g. I don't enjoy laying on the sand cooking exposed body parts to a vibrant hue of red), I do adore being near the water, especially on that magical weekend every year when the lake turns warm enough to swim in. Sometimes that weekend occurs in July, but most often it's August before anyone other than kids and a few reckless teens venture into the waves. To my delight, this past week of sunshine and humidity coaxed the lake into swimming-friendly temperatures.

I spent all afternoon Friday soaking up the sights and sounds of Bruce Beach with my sis, my good pal and her small daughter and my kissin' cousins from Indiana at my auntie's cottage. My sis and I have been going "up to the cottage" ever since we were kids. It holds a lot of nostalgia for me and has felt like a second home of sorts ever since the day we sold our family home after my mother's death.

My aunt and cousins aren't blood relatives; my auntie was one of my mother's closest friends, but she treats us like one of her own three girls. Coming from a very small family where my only cousins live either in Nova Scotia or Russia, it's wonderful to have a doting auntie so close by. And it's such an added bonus to live two concessions over from them now. We're neighbours all summer long.

While auntie cuddled Jade for the afternoon, we girls giggled, gossiped, swigged lime coolers and Coca Cola. We watched my friend's little daughter get acquainted with sand castles, rocks and waves for the first time, took dips in the water and discreet peeks at the handsome neighbour boy. I decided to pooh-pooh post-pregnancy body woes in favour of my favourite turquoise bikini. It's strangely freeing to wear something revealing despite the triple threat of cellulite, stretch marks and thunder thighs. And man, can I ever fill out that top now. Yay for dumplings!

On Saturday, my friend and I took our daughters down the 6th concession to the public beach. Our umbrella kept blowing away, but we managed to keep our babies shaded and happy. We built more sand castles, picnicked, took pictures of her daughter's sandy goatee, watched a guy wrestle his lemon-yellow boat into submission. I went swimming a few times, and suddenly I felt 10 years old again: watching the water foam up when I kick my feet, snorting nose and mouthfuls by accident, diving under just to listen to the weird watery silence. I even carried lady Jade with me into the water and dipped her teeny tiny toesies in the lake for the first time. It wasn't a screaming success (just a lot of screaming), but hey, my mother did it to me - I have the photos to prove it - so I am just carrying on a hallowed family tradition. As I took my last dip for the day while she snoozed on the shore, I kept thinking how great it's going to be next year when Jady Lady is old enough to frolic with me on the sand and in the surf.

I am a very blessed girl on so many levels. What a great weekend.

Scent of a (country) woman

2009-07-30T22:10:00.000-07:00

So I'm reading this book I bought at our local bookstore called Slow Death by Rubber Duck. It confirms a lot of my paranoia about everyday products and the nasty chemical stew they contain. Even before I cracked the cover, I'd already switched to unbleached flour, non-toxic, all-natural, plant-based soap, shampoo, laundry detergent and dish soap. Yep, I'm that granola. And I'm that freaked out about passing along the aforesaid vile chemical stew to milady Jade.

I've been walking the crunchy granola-type line for many years; I've flirted with vegetarianism, organic mania and unshaven legs (don't worry, I've since located my razor and my steak). But this new avoidance of all things chemical is more than just a phase. Why? Cuz it's too scary to ignore, especially when you are singlehandedly responsible for the nutrition of the world's smallest dictator. What goes into and onto me goes into and onto her, and it's a sobering thought. She doesn't deserve to be chemically enhanced at this tender age. I'll save that for when she's 16 and experimenting with make-up and tattoos.

Anyhoo, products with any type of artificial scent are apparently very toxic and very easy to pass on via my skin-to-skin contact with the wee one, not to mention my milk. And I'm one of those gals who loves to smell pretty. It's going to take some time to wean myself off my favourite perfume, but my new stance means I've given up several of my daily potions: my beloved Body Shop scented body butters - oh Satsuma, how I miss you! - my trusty Aveda hair gel and...um, well...my anti-perspirant. Yeah. So now I have scary hair AND I smell bad. Makes you want to run up here and visit, doesn't it?

Thinking I was doing myself (and Jady Lady) a favour by ridding the bathroom drawer of aluminum-laden Degree Ultra, I decided to do what all good granolas do: I invested in a very expensive all-natural deodorant from the health food store. And then I invested in ANOTHER type of very expensive deodorant. And then another. Because, faithful reader, THEY DON'T WORK. At least not on me. Or not unless I apply them every bloody hour. Or only go outside when the temperature is below 0 degrees. Ugh.

But I love my daughter more than I love smelling like "sporty baby powder" or "spring rain," so I will continue my search for a non-toxic deodorant that works. Until then, keep a polite distance, folks! There's an all-natural, slightly stinky country gal at large.

The mixed tape: a lost art

2009-07-23T16:24:00.001-07:00

Lazylad, both a fellow blogger and fellow insurance jockey, did something really nice for Jady Lady and I: he made us a mixed tape. Okay, it's a mixed CD, but still! When's the last time anyone gave you a mixed tape? It's a very cool gift.

When making it for oneself, a mixed tape affords you the luxury of capturing favourite tunes, thus avoiding less-than-great albums. But creating a mixed tape for someone - if it's done correctly - is an art. It's more complex than picking a few songs you dig and slapping them on a tape; the music has to have a flow, the songs have to connect and be meaningful to both you and the lucky recipient. You can build a mixed tape on a theme (most of Lazylad's choices had something to do with girls, in honour of baby Jade), or start off mellow and reach a crescendo, or just basically rock out. It's all in the hands of the mixed tape creator.

I remember making dozens of mixed tapes for my friends, boyfriends, cousins and pen pals back in the 80's. My mother had an amazing stereo with a dual tape deck, so the possibilities were endless. I think I even attempted a radio drama once to entertain my sister during her first year in Australia. It had something to do with an older woman seducing a grocery delivery boy while Frank Sinatra crooned "The Summer Wind" in the background. Hey, art doesn't always have to be good.

In fact, I still listen occasionally to three or four mixed tapes I found wedged in the old glove compartment of my Kia last year. They are real, live cassettes with actual tape in them (the Kia never had a CD player), and the only place I can play them is on my old, beat up boom box (the Kia's tape player is now defunct). It was like finding little time capsules:I mean, where else can I listen to Young MC sing "Bust a Move" or groove to "That Girl" with good ol' goofy Shaggy rasping away in the background while I make dinner?

Anyway, the last time I made a mixed tape was for D, for his birthday the first year we were dating, because he is extremely hard to buy for and I was pretty much broke at the time. (Not to mention I was getting realllly tired of listening to Kenny Chesney everytime we were in his car.) It was fun picking out songs that had meanings both obvious (Girlfriend by Matthew Sweet) and more subtle, introducing him to the type of music I liked and waiting to see what he thought.

Mixed tapes can be memory boxes, love letters, games or simply friendly gifts, like a musical handshake. They were the ultimate song shuffles before iPods reared their fancy heads. Next time you have an hour on your hand, make someone a mixed tape. It's a retro way to show them you care. And plus you'll look pretty cool.

Thing I love about...

2009-07-19T09:19:00.000-07:00

To commemmorate having achieved my 1000th comment (THANKS my bloggy friends! You rock!), I think I'll start a new series. Every month, I'm going to list some stuff I love. Don't get me wrong: I'm not becoming Pollyanna or Anne Shirley or (shudder) Oprah. Wenching, whinging and venting are highly necessary in many cases and will still occur on a regular basis in this blog. Consider these love-ins small antidotes to the grouchies.

Today, I present: Things I love about my house. You know, I really loved my old yellow brick house in Waterloo, but you could fit about 3 of them in our place here at Someday. There was hardly any closet space at 139 Moore and the neighbours were so close you could reach out the window and patty cake them if they did the same thing. Living here makes me feel like a woman instead of a girl, and that is a good thing. Why? Here are 5 reasons:

1) The heated floor in the bathroom

I was prepared to live with a run-down, beat up bathroom, avocado-green tiles and all, since we were spending so much on insulation and windows. And then the contractor showed me the mould behind the tiles. And under the floor. And behind the walls. And voila! A great reason to re-do the bathroom. Although I never pictured myself as someone who would have heated ceramic tile. That was what rich, retired, older folks had, not young-ish, working, poor-ish people. But now that we have heated floors, I'm afraid I can never have anything else in my bathroom again. Ever. It's so luxurious I want to lay on it naked after every shower. Oops - did I type that out loud?

2) The balcony
It's off our bedroom and it's the sweetest little white balcony I've ever seen. I feel like a less hormonal Juliet when I stand on it. It's fun to catch glimpses of the sunset or the lake through the tree line, and I could even see fireworks in Point Clarke on Canada Day if I leaned just the right way. D got trapped up there this winter while dismantling my balcony Christmas tree (don't ask). Last year I painted it while in my bikini; it was fun getting honks from passing cars (although likely they were all from D's cousins).

3) The fact that I can see a tree from each and every window
Blue spruce, mountain ash, maple, pine, lilac and crabapple. 'Nuff said.

4) Our ridiculously big bedroom
When I begged D to please knock out the wall between the balcony room and the master bedroom, he gave me that look I have come to know as the "Geez Kim, you're crazy" look. I grew up with a big, airy bedroom of my own. He grew up sharing a small room with two brothers. So in his mind, the enormous bedroom I had envisioned was impractical, over-the-top and slightly insane. To me, it was a necessity. But I wore him down with pleading and my favourite line, "I hardly ever ask you for anything...can't I just have this?" And you know what? He loves our big, balconied bedroom just as much as I do.

5) The bookshelves

On the east wall of our living room are two built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. This is a far cry from their previous makeshift cinder block and nasty Ikea homes. I adore my books; they're like old pals and I often re-read certain ones. They are good company, and it's very satisfying to finally give them a classy place to rest.

I could go on and on about the many lovable qualities of our home. Sure, sometimes we get frustrated with the fact that it's old, the water smells like bad egg salad and it will always need a bit of work to keep it from looking unkempt. But it's pretty much everything I've ever dreamed of. Add an awesome husband and a sweet baby girl to the mix and honestly, what's not to love?

Now I've seen everything.

2009-07-16T23:05:00.000-07:00

Living in the country really does have its advantages. For example, if I went to the Teeswater reunion this weekend, I could experience square dancing tractors. That's right...dancing tractors. Don't believe me? Well y'all, just click here!

Can I get a yee-ha?

Back by popular demand...

2009-07-13T19:31:00.001-07:00

Okay Mrs. S - you asked for it, so you're gettin' it. Fresh off the press: a baby Jade story! (Hey, I'm only breaking the no-baby-in-blog rules for Mrs. S. She's from Scotland. I can't turn down a long-distance request, can I?)

Grandma Lowry made Jady Lady an exquisite green dress a month ago after hearing me rant and rave about how I couldn't stand seeing her in one more pink outfit. Seriously - I open her drawer and behold! A sea of pink. People have been so generous with clothing and I know I shouldn't complain. It's just that...I've always liked pink, and now I'm veering into "I HATE PINK" territory, which is a shame. It's too lovely colour to loathe.

In desperation, I went to the only baby shop in Kincardine, a lovely boutique called Rolz and Sassy (after the owner's kids), and bought Jade a pair of cobalt blue pants and a jade green kimono style shirt. Seeing her in it made me sigh with relief. Until, that is, D arrived home, took one look at his daughter and said, "Kim, she looks like a boy in that outfit." *sigh*

So Grandma showed up one day with this adorable green dress. It's got little flowers embroidered on it, a lace collar that makes Jade look a bit like Queen Elizabeth and a dainty little white slip underneath. But the BEST part is the mennonite-style bonnet with white ribbons, which Jade attempts to eat every chance she gets.

We took her to church rigged up in her new outfit and of course received the requisite cooing, gooing and giggling from all Grandma's friends. It did my heart good to see Grandma showing off her little granddaughter in her pretty dress. Grandma had three boys, so having two granddaughters is setting things even for her.

Our church is small, closely knit congregation and kids are always welcome, even when they're screaming, running up the aisles or asking questions in very loud voices throughout the sermon. I'm happy to report that Miss Jady lady was a well-behaved little church mouse all through the service. The best part? We started singing the first hymn; Jade looked up at me, smiled a big gummy smile, and promptly fell asleep with the grin still pasted on her face. Guess all the singing D has done for her is paying off.

And contrary to the picture, she really, really likes her dress!

A cure for the summertime blues

2009-07-12T03:36:00.001-07:00

And no, it's not my husband doing his "beach walk" in a man-thong. Contrary to the song, I'm pretty sure I've discovered an antidote to bad attitudes caused by this lousy summer weather we've been having (e.g. hail and 6 degree temperatures in July?!?): Death by Chocolate.

The first summer D and I started dating, he took me on a motorbike ride to the Pine River Cheese factory for an ice cream cone. He was slowly discovering my obsession with ice cream - I ate either it or gelato almost every night in Waterloo - and promised me that Pine River ice cream would be "the best ice cream you've ever tasted." And it was.

It's not actually made by Pine River - it's from Kawartha Dairies, wayyy up north. But my heavens, it's good. The only ice cream I've ever had to rival it is from Cochrane, Alberta and that's just too darned far away.

This summer, my sister Tanzi and I discovered a new flavour: Death by Chocolate. You can order 1.5 litre tubs from the Cheese Factory - another discovery - and so far this summer, we've gone through one Black Cherry, two Vanillas and we're on our second DBC. And it's only July! But man, oh man, this ice cream is to die for. Their vanilla is creamy, fluffy and smooth and the Black Cherry seems to be a favourite with the guys, but my sister and I (and any other female visitor) prefer DBC. The website describes it as "Chocolate ice cream with bittersweet dark chocolate chunks and thick chocolate twister sauce" but I prefer to describe it simply as YUM.

Doesn't matter if it's cold, dark and damp outside; inside it's all sunshine and happiness as long as I have a bowl of DBC in front of me.

Hmmm. Is 7:17am too early for ice cream?

Three Degrees of Happy

2009-07-04T02:41:00.000-07:00

'Cuz after those first few scary weeks of being ill at home with baby, happy's where it's at right now. And although the Chinese only have a symbol for double happiness, I'm going with triple the feeling:

1) Jady Lady
Yeah, I know - I'm a sucker for this child! I'm violating all my former bloggy principles! Ahhh! But dear reader, she's started to smile. A lot. Big, goofy, toothless grins that make her eyes squinch shut in a blissed-out, almost drunken manner. She reminds me of the laughing Buddha I used to keep in my study back in Waterloo. And she's starting to make sounds other than cries of hungry rage: soft coos, pirate-like "argggghs" and "ayes" and even little squeals of glee when we make the right silly faces at her. She no longer has chicken legs - there are actually some delicious folds of chub around her thighs and wrists now - and she can wing her head around fairly well too. Despite the fact that she sometimes resembles "an old man sitting on a dock" (says D) or a tiny monk, she is awesome and beautiful and everything I've ever wanted. Insert sigh of contentment and gooey happiness here.

2) Breasty Dumplings
I know it's shallow and will set feminism back several hundred years, but my former A-cup self just has to say it: I love having cleavage. Sure, they're tender and sore and tend to leak at the slightest thought of anything Jade-related, but my new dumplings ROCK and I'm going to enjoy them while I can. So there.

3) Auntie Tanzi is home!
My Muscovite sister is home for the summer and she and baby Jade have taken to each other like Russians to a bottle of frozen Vodka. (And yeah, I can say that without an ounce of political correctness. Why? Because we're Russian.)

It warms the cockles of my usually unsentimental heart to see Jade nestled in her Auntie's arms, sucking on her necklace...or shoulder...or neck (seriously, that kid will suck anything). Auntie Tanzi gets more smiles from Jade than anyone, even Grandma, and that is a feat to be marvelled at. And she's not just a good babysitter: she's been flexing her housekeeping muscles and does dishes, sweeps the dog-hair tumbleweeds, hangs laundry out, feeds the kitties and cooks a mean grilled cheese. I didn't realize how much I needed some help around the place until she arrived. And it's sooooo nice to just have a friendly face to talk to over morning coffee, or an evening glass of wine, or an afternoon lunch. She got me out of the house for my first lunch date since Jade was born, and we're planning daytrips to Stratford and Bayfield. I adore those little towns, but they are the most enjoyable with Tanzi by my side.

I have a feeling this summer is going to go by at the speed of light. It will be August all too soon and then Tanzi heads back to the 'Cow for another year. What in the world will I do without her? Oh yeah...this blog was supposed to be about happy stuff, wasn't it? Guess I'll stop talking then. *sigh*

GAH!!!

2009-06-23T09:34:00.000-07:00

One thing I may not have mentioned yet in the pages of this blog is that I have a foot phobia. I'm not sure exactly when it began or what triggered it; I can only surmise that years of giving my Dad footrubs every birthday, Father's Day, Groundhog Day etc. somehow scarred me for life. Dad is a great guy, but decades of walking the bush, fording various rivers and pacing barefoot through skivy hockey locker rooms have given him feet only a hobbit would be proud of.

I have a particular aversion to what I like to call 'big yuckky man-feet,' but pretty much any bare foot will make me wince and/or recoil in horror. You can imagine how traumatic it is for me now that summer is here and everyone feels the need to bare their calluses, corns and talon-like toenails in sandals. *SHUDDER!*

Well, I came across this site today and I still feel a little nauseous. So of course I had to share. You're welcome.

The agony and the ecstasy...

2009-06-22T17:17:00.000-07:00

Okay, let me just state here for the record that I am about to shamelessly violate my limited-baby-blog rule in this entry. And just a warning to any fellows that might be reading this: I will be talking about my boobs. And probably not in a way you want to read about them. I will, however, spare you any photos.

I thought that labour and delivery would be the hardest part of Mummyhood. And yes, that part was pretty tough. It's not often one finds oneself down on all fours on a hospital floor, groaning like a stuck pig and crying your husband's name through gritted teeth. (My friend, who's a nurse, was horrified: "Oh Kim, tell me you didn't touch the floor in TRIAGE???") And I'm getting a handle on sleep deprivation, Jade's occasional screaming fits, and even the explosive diaper surprises that land on my hand/leg/shoulder. Know what's brought me to tears more than anything? BREASTFEEDING.

How is it that something that should be so instinctual is so freaking DIFFICULT? The boobs just aren't working. I mean, that's what the darned things are for, right? And babies are hungry mammals, right? So how come possums and kittens and all those other critters can figure it out so quickly when Jade and I are still struggling after 5 weeks to get it right?

D's aunt stopped in for a visit last week and I poured out my woes to her. The older generation doesn't have much advice to offer a mum who is wrestling with the agonies of nursing; they all did bottles with formula, on their doctors' orders. In fact, D's aunt told me that she tried breastfeeding one of her kids while in the hospital, only to be scolded by the doctor, who said, "What the hell are you doing? That's not what those are for!" Um...huh? Yikes.

Today's approach is completely the opposite. There are a lot of militant breastfeeders out there and God forbid you mention formula to them. If I see "breast is best" emblazoned on another hand-out or poster I'm going to tear it down and use it for diaper liners.

I had pastoral visions of breastfeeding my baby: we would be cuddled together in a comfy chair, watching the sun rise and bonding. Instead, I'm rolling around in my office chair at 4am, wrestling with a baby who growls with impatience as I try to figure out the correct latching technique so as not to injure my already screaming sore nipples. It's magical. Really.

Believe me, I've tried to get help. Five lactation consultants, horrid finger feedings, pumping (which is a whole new exercise in humiliation), Dr. Newman's website, prescription tit cream and many tears later, we are nowhere near expert level, but we are not giving up. Why? Because I just really want to breastfeed my baby. It's something I've always dreamed of doing, and while I have nothing against formula per se, I think breastfeeding is healthiest for Jade. I have enough milk and she seems to love it, so that's not the issue. I just can't have subjected my chest to 5 weeks of torment only to cave in and switch to bottles.

And so, I hereby swear by all the lanolin I have in my cupboard that we WILL succeed! Honestly, I don't think I've ever worked this hard at achieving anything in my life. I'm not sure if that's sad or uplifting!

Enter Sandman

2009-06-12T06:43:00.000-07:00

I swore to myself that this blog would not become a repository of baby-related rhapsodies once I gave birth. And I am going to stick to that promise. Right after I tell you that Jade has the biggest belly I've ever seen this morning. Geesh. That kid can eat. Apparently I AM a "high producer," as D says.

Anyhoo, in the interest of promoting reduced baby content on this blog, did I ever tell you about the time I attended a Metallica concert?

I was dating a guy who liked metal a lot at the time. He coaxed me into coming to the concert with a few of his friends, and a mutual friend of ours who was a rare breed: a female metalhead. I liked Metallica well enough, but I wouldn't say I was a huge fan. Sure, in the 80's, I had veered dangerously into metalhead territory with my growing penchant for bands like Motley Crue and Ratt, but I was saved by the punk and new wave music some friends introduced me to. It was like an intervention.

I thought Metallica did have considerable talent despite the screaming vocals and grinding guitars, so I bought a ticket and off we went to Copps Coliseum in Hamilton. When we got there, I realized I was dressed completely inappropriately: everyone - and I mean EVERYONE - was wearing black. Black shirts, black jackets, black jeans, black boots. I wore my favourite red shirt, embroidered jeans and running shoes. Oops.

The thing I remember most about that concert was the song "Enter Sandman." I'm still partial to the song because of the creepy lyrics and trance-inducing rhythm, but that night I was particularly excited about it as it was one of the few songs they played that I knew the words to. As I belted out the lyrics along with a coliseum full of other people, I decided it was time to try thrashing. My friends had been doing it to every song, and practically everyone else was doing it too, including the band.

Thrashing, for those of you who have never tried it, is the act of flinging your head (and preferably your long, dyed black hair) back and forth in time to heavy metal music. If you're good, you can lean to one side and get your whole torso going. If you're REALLY good, you can do this all while playing air guitar.

What I failed to realize was just how much neck muscle is actually required in order to thrash to more than one song. Encouraged by the thumbs up I received from my female metalhead friend, I thrashed enthusiastically for the rest of the concert. The next morning, I couldn't lift my head off my pillow. It felt like I had a pumpkin attached to my neck by a thread.

Why am I telling you all this, dear reader? Well, this was just one of the many random memories that's drifted across my mind during a 4am feeding. It seems particularly significant because Jade's head bobs around like a drunken thrasher if not supported, and because the Sandman is someone I have come to appreciate during these first four weeks of mummyhood.

I can't say I've ever appreciated the wonder of sleep the way I have lately. I can actually pinpoint the moment before I fall asleep, something I've never noticed before in my life. It's like I'm tiptoeing up to the edge of a very deep chasm - think Grand Canyon or Hoover Dam or Niagara Falls - looking down for a moment, then blissfully plunging over the edge. No screaming, no splat; just a delightful floaty feeling and poof! I'm asleep. It's glorious.

At first I was afraid I'd be irritable and resentful at having my sleep interrupted by baby. As lovely and wanted as she is, I am a pretty big fan of my zzz's. Thankfully I have come to view the 2, 3, or 4 hour stretches I get to sleep as exciting opportunities to nap, rather than whinging about the fact that I can't get a good night's sleep anymore. Napping is always a good thing, right? Thankfully Jade shares my enthusiasm for naps too. Enter Sandman indeed.

Guess I did end up talking a bit about baby, didn't I?

Hullo from the 'hood...

2009-06-08T17:08:00.000-07:00

Mummyhood that is! Yes, the blessed event finally happened on May 16th at 2:04pm. May I present to you the lovely miss Jade Violet Alisa Lowry!

She weighed 6lbs 10.5 oz, 19 inches long but is now up to 7lbs 7oz and is verrrry long...thanks to daddy's genes. She is growing way too fast for Mummy's liking. *sigh* She makes snorty piggy noises when she's angry and honks like a Canada goose when she's content. I can't get enough of her toes and fingers and belly. As for the name, which probably seems huge for such a wee girl, here is the story behind it.

D and I had been volleying names back and forth for months. Our tastes are very different and so we had a hard time agreeing on anything for a girl. We had a very short list for boys (of course). After Jade was born, she was referred to as "sweet pea" for 4 days because we STILL couldn't decide on a name. I think the nurses were getting rather disgusted with us. And then, as I was lying in that wretched hospital bed, recovering from the C-section while Sweet Pea got light therapy for her jaundice, I started mulling over a conversation I'd had with my brother-in-law about a month previously.

C was filling up my errant Kia's tires with air in the shop on the farm. Suddenly he looked up at me and said, "Kimmy, I have the perfect name. Your troubles are over. Jade Lowry. Just add whatever your mother's name was in the middle." And he grinned in triumph. Hmm, I thought. Kinda strippery. Kinda catchy. I politely nodded but wasn't really won over at the time.

The more I thought about it in that hospital bed, and the more I came to know Sweet Pea's personality, the more I realized that she was not a Grace or a Madeleine or a Danielle or a Taylor. She was a Jade! And really, C has done so much for us over these past two years - the least we could do is let him name our child.

D liked the name Jadyn, which means "God has heard us" so it was a good compromise. Also, the stone Jade is said to have mystical, heart-healing properties; what better way to heal hearts so bruised after two losses than with sweet baby Jade's arrival. And as my sister Tanzi reminded me, I wrote several stories when I was younger that featured a main character named Jade.

As for Violet, it's my favourite flower, and I found them in bloom all over Someday farm's lawns the week Jade before was born. Alisa was my mother's name; she died in 1993. She was a strong, sophisticated, intelligent woman who had a gift for friendship. I can only hope that Jade will inherit these qualities from the Babushka she never got to meet.

So there's the scoop for now. Sorry to have kept you in suspense, bloggy friends! I hope to do more entries, but I'm telling ya, it's darned hard to type blog entries with one finger while nursing. (0: We are all well and healthy and very, very happy. Thanks for all your prayers and warm wishes. I'll be back soon...

Shameless Self Promotion...kinda

2009-05-11T10:53:00.001-07:00

So when's the last time you let someone read you a story? Or a poem? Or a really racy bit of fiction? And I'm not talking about listening to uTube rants or documentaries on the CBC.

For a lot of us, our last "read to me" moments occurred in childhood, which I think is a shame. There is a very interesting kind of intimacy that springs up between an adult reader and an adult listener when it's done in person. A friend of mine and her husband used to read to each other from a series of novels every night before bed, which I found charming, but apart from that, I don't know too many folks who read aloud to others or get to be on the receiving end of a reading.

Luckily for me, being part of a Writer's Collective has given me many opportunities to listen as authors read their works aloud, and to read my stuff to other folks. (And no, they weren't tied to their chairs.) The WC (which D sometimes refers to as "The Borg Collective" - although we're much more attractive and really don't want to assimilate anyone) is part of Kitchener Library's roster of programmes, and I think I've been with them for 6 or 7 years now. My group rocks - we get along extremely well, despite our wild melange of styles: Victorian historical romance, travel writing, Christian fiction, poetry and children's literature. All of us have been published in anthologies, or the Globe & Mail/National Post, in magazines, webzines, etc. We've won awards and accolades, and one of our members had her first book come out just last week. I'm not trying to toot our WC horn - frankly, I think a great deal of our success as writers has come from the support and helpful criticism of our membership in the WC.

This Wednesday, we're joining forces with the other groups in the collective for a night of readings. The Library has even been kind enough to gather our writing together and bind it up in Anthology. How cool is that?

I used to be pretty good at getting up in front of a crowd and delivering speeches and presentations on a variety of topics; that teaching degree + endless years of being a corporate trainer allowed me to get up in front of as many as 200 people without batting an eye. But I'm out of practice at the whole reading aloud thing these days, especially after working from home for two years. Consequently, I'm a wee bit nervous about Wednesday. Likely it won't be a big crowd, and after the first few breathless sentences I usually get my rhythm; but with Baby pushing on my diaphragm and my blooming belly too big to fit into anything remotely flattering, I'm skeptical about just how well I'm going to deliver...so to speak. I guess that as long as my water doesn't break up at the podium, I'll consider it a success.

If you're looking to be read to, c'mon down to the KPL at 6:30 on Wednesday. Sadly, I'm not reading any of my racier selections this time, but I'm sure you'll have a good time all the same. With all the variety of writing styles, there will be something for everyone.

Hormones: 1; Kimber: 0

2009-05-05T13:19:00.000-07:00

You know you're pregnant when you find yourself sitting alone in your kitchen at 4 in the morning, eating ice cream straight out of the carton and weeping. Not a pretty picture.

My sister refers to this state of being as "hormotional," and let me tell you, it's not pleasant. I did have a pretty good reason though; I heard that an old high school friend of mine gave birth to a stillborn baby last week.

Tragedies like these leave me swirling in a vile gumbo of emotions: heartsick for my old friend, reliving the awfulness of Rose's birth, terrified for Bumbo and just generally pissed off at the universe - hence the sleepless/ice cream/weeping combo.

My sisters have calmed me somewhat with their sagacity: I'm healthy and so is Bumbo, my friend's sad experience is not some cosmic sign that something bad is going to happen to me. D has also helped me by saying, simply, that he is there for me, no matter what happens. These are all things that I know and try to reassure myself with, but it still helps to hear them spoken out loud.

I wrote my friend a letter today (and went through half a box of Kleenex) to try and tell her how sorry I am; if there is one thing I'm grateful for after having had Rose, it's the increase in compassion I now have for others who may be going through something similar. Pregnancies, children - I'll never take either for granted again.

As mad as I am at God right now, I cling to the hope that someday these things will make sense to me. There's gotta be a reason. And until I figure it out, there's always Haagen-Daaz.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

Spring has Sprung...

2009-04-29T19:32:00.000-07:00

There were four sure-fire ways to confirm that spring had arrived when I lived in Waterloo: the gradual disappearance of the giant mountain of snow (also known as Mount Hussey - thanks Muffy!) in the SunLife Financial parking lot; discovering the many “treasures” my dog deposited on my lawn throughout the winter; the reopening of the local Dairy Queen; and the appearance of shorts-clad university students on their front lawns, along with living room couches, boom boxes and coolers.

The harbingers of spring are a bit different, but no less welcome here in the Bruce. Watching saucy robins bob around the lawns and trees is always a happy sign of warmer weather in both the city and the country, but up here you get the added bonus of sighting vultures, kingbirds, herons, kingfishers and goldfinches. It's a birdy-nerdy's paradise.

Nature walks are also more of a treat in the country at this time of year. I’m fascinated by the carpet of bluebells that has appeared in my in-laws’ south pasture - the only other place I've seen that is in Ireland. Down in the private lanes of Tout’s grove (D says the snootier cottagers live there), shy periwinkle flowers and their waxy green leaves peep out at me from under piles of leaves. My brother-in-law’s backyard in Blair’s Grove is a serene ocean of white, blanketed with thousands of trilliums.

I'm a girl who likes to follow her nose. In another life, I think I could have been a perfume maker or tester; I absolutely love smelling nice things. Down by the lake right now, there's a gorgeous aroma of poplar in the air that could be bottled and sold as an anti-depressant. I love walking under those sinewy old trees as their fuzzy catkins drop down on my head like scented confetti.

Back at Someday, the Pine river has woken up; we can hear it rushing over the rocks on these still, spring nights. D and I have had several shore-side discussions about whether the groups of fish that wriggle languidly around in the shallows are edible, but we haven’t tried to find out yet. For now, we’re content to hike through the woods to the edges of the riverbank and spy on their afternoon spawning parties. They swim together near the shore, so thick you could practically walk on them. I think they're trout but D is convinced they're "suckers," whatever that is.

I used to enjoy springtime walks around my established gardens in Waterloo to note the earliest flowers: violets, sweet woodruff, crocuses. I’m still somewhat wistful for my old garden stomping grounds, but there's a certain charm to exploring Someday to see what’s coming up in all the unfamiliar soil. Did any of the bulbs I planted last fall escape the squirrel feasts? And what the heck are those droopy, freckled flowers that appeared seemingly overnight in the kitchen garden?

A blanket of snowdrops surprised me around the southwest corner of the house in April, rosy pink nubs of rhubarb have poked their heads out (I still can’t believe I’m the proud owner of four patches), and some kind soul planted lots of sweet woodruff and dozens of columbines everywhere, which makes me feel more at home. Last week I was delighted to discover wild violets springing up all over the lawn. When the sun warms them and they release their delicate fragrance, it’s like breathing in a benediction. They are my favourite flowers next to freesia.

Of course, to offset the delicious scents, there’s also the occasional whiff of manure that wafts over to Someday on the spring breezes. It took me several days before I realized I didn’t need to keep checking the bottoms of my shoes; “fresh air” is the norm up here now that the farmers are "back on the land," as they say. The unmistakable tang of run-over skunk is back, too, and if that isn’t a sure sign of spring, I don’t know what is.

But the funny thing is that where I used to wrinkle my nose at the smell of diesel fumes from the buses that roared up and down Moore Ave in Waterloo, or the sporadic smell of the dump that drifted down when the wind was west, the springtime country aromas don’t bother me. They are all a part of living in the Bruce, and are quickly becoming as homey and familiar as all the other harbingers of spring at Someday.

Man, oh man...I love spring.

Desecration!

2009-04-29T17:50:00.000-07:00

Neko and I went for an innocent tromp through the meadow to the river last night. I thought I smelled something a bit putrid as we made our way through the rusty gate towards the river bank; how I heartily wish I had never found out what was causing the stink.

Stupid me decided to investigate the source of the smell before Neko did, and guess what I found? Yep, some nasty critter had dug up my poor beloved kitty Comfort, who had been resting comfortably in the peaceful grave D dug for her a few weeks ago. And said critter didn't just dig her up, oh no; said critter also had a little "al fresco" dining experience.

Apart from being ticked off that my formerly sweet kitty is now strewn all over the place instead of remaining a happy memory safely tucked under the soil, I'm mainly just grossed out. How am I going to continue my nightly walks to the river, knowing that THE REMAINS are there waiting for me? It's like a car wreck - I can't NOT look when I go by. And don't get me started on the smell.

When I relayed the gruesome tale to D later that night, he looked blank for a moment, then said, "Well, there were a lot of tree roots. I couldn't bury her very deeply."

Another lesson learned in country living: when your brother-in-law offers to incinerate your dearly departed kitty in a very cheap cremation ceremony (referred to up here as "the burn pile"), say yes.

Boo to Braxton Hicks

2009-04-22T07:20:00.000-07:00

All the baby books warn you about "false" labour, namely something called Braxton-Hicks contractions. Bah, I thought. I won't have fake labour. I'll know when it's the real thing. I'm no dummy!

Turns out fake contractions aren't anything to scoff at at 2:30 in the morning when you're starting to wonder if you should wake up your snoring husband, stuff your assembled hospital gear into the suitcase and hightail it for Waterloo.

Before diving into full mommy-alert mode, I crept downstairs and pored over the baby books and our Baby Class hand outs. Neko was happy to see me, even though it was the middle of the night, and kept me company as I tried to decide whether a call to the hospital was warranted. Apart from back and abdomen discomfort, I didn't have any of the other symptoms of labour so I made an executive decision and decided to wait it out. But not before D woke to discover me missing from bed and came thundering downstairs to demand if I was all right. Poor man.

Thankfully, the pains subsided and I'm fine this morning. But it was good practice for the REAL THING...whenever that should happen. Kind of like a dress rehearsal (except I wasn't wearing much). I'm perfectly happy for baby to come, but if I had a choice, I'd like to wait a wee bit longer before making the frantic dash to the hospital...at least until after my two weeks of vacation are over!

I'm baaaa-aaaack...

2009-04-16T12:32:00.000-07:00

My apologies for the prolonged April absence. No, Baby Lowry did not make an early appearance. Mama Lowry is just feeling kinda lazy, kinda un-bloggy and kinda meh. I do miss all you folks in bloggerland though.

Also, I'm having trouble taking deep breaths as Bumbo pushes upwards on my diaphragm, so sitting at the laptop for extended periods hasn't been high on my list after work hours. On the plus side, it does mean I have the uncontrollable urge to fling off my bra (aka the torture device) at some point every day, which D finds faintly disturbing. Yesterday he found it hanging from the pantry door. Whoo hoo!

Anyways, apart from bra-flinging, here's a quick Someday Diary update:
1) Epic April Snowstorm
10 cms, 60km/h winds, freaking horrible driving conditions. In the 2nd week of April. #$%^&*@!? Yeah, that's what I said.

2) Epic visit from Moscovite sister!
My loving, beautiful and wonderous little sister Tanzi shocked the crap out of me by calling me a day after my birthday to announce that she'd be waiting for me to pick her up in Waterloo (ONTARIO! CANADA!) the following Monday. She's been teaching at a fancy school in Russia, and I haven't seen her since August. She won't be able to be here for the birth of Bumbo so she planned a whirlwind week's visit to Canada just to see my belly. Is that sisterly love or what? Apparently D, my Dad and my other sister were all in on the scheme. How they managed to keep it a secret, I'll never know. So I got to spend two great days with her all to myself and even had Easter dinner together. How cool is that? SPACEBO, Tanzi. You rock.

3) RIP Comfort
Yep, poor Comfort the barn kitty finally succumbed to her various infirmities and is now resting peacefully in the east meadow. Whatever infection she had was resistant to penecillin (which D faithfully injected her with) and morphed into a raging open wound that was truly awful to behold. The vet took one look and pronounced her incurable. Poor puss.

I learned just how squeamish I really am when she tottered like a little kitty zombie up to the house every day for her bowl of eggs and milk (she stopped eating her cat food) and wanted to get on my lap. I was able to gingerly pat her on the back, but I couldn't even bring myself to look at her head. Even the vet's assistant confessed that SHE was grossed out, so I didn't feel so guilty. Gah. How the hell am I going to change diapers??? Or look at an umbilical cord stump???

Let me also note here for the record how impressed I was with D. He's never been much of a cat person, but he faithfully carried Comfort back to the barn each night (it's quite a distance from the house), made sure she got her shots and actually encouraged me to reconsider euthanizing her ("She might perk up with the warmer weather!" Apparently warmer weather + open wound = maggots, according to the vet's assistant, so I'm glad I didn't listen to that idea). D even dug Comfort a little tiny grave. I'd never seen that side of him with a barn cat before. It did my hormotional heart good. I will miss her quite a bit.

4) Not too bad a birthday
I turned 39 on April 2nd and it wasn't too bad a day, considering that the anniversary of Rose's birth and death was the very next day. D's aunties took me out for lunch, I had a pedicure, a massage and a big steak dinner with C and D in the evening. To cap it off, my MIL made me a giant, ooey, gooey chocolate cake before she left on holidays, which C delivered with great aplomb when he came over for supper. She also wrapped up an extra-long shoehorn since I can no longer bend down to put my shoes on. God bless that woman! D also took me out to a posh restaurant with C and his girlfriend later that weekend. It was divine...

5) Easter eggstravaganza
Most people would think that eating a venison roast for Easter dinner is somehow wrong, but I loved it. When you're at Dad's cabin, it just works. I made a nifty apple pudding for dessert which was a hit with everyone (except Dad, who declared it "too doughy." "Dad...it's a pudding. It's supposed to be doughy.") And don't get me started on all the chocolate we scarfed down before supper even started. Or the chicken wings and potato chips we ate for lunch beforehand. Or the fact that the pretty pink blouse I'd chosen to wear for Easter made me look like an enormous Easter egg...

So that's the update folks. I will try not to be so anti-blog in the coming weeks.

HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY!

2009-04-01T07:44:00.000-07:00

Working from home really sucks on days like today. I should be at the office, pranking the crap out of my co-workers. Instead I'm sitting here with dozens of dastardly schemes running through my head and no one to use them on.

I so want to prank my brother-in-law today (it's become a tradition) but I don't have the heart to go into fake labour or tell him my cat is rabid. His folks are away on holiday so he's tackling chores for the next 10 days pretty much on his own and will likely be in no mood for jokes. *sigh*

Last year I had him convinced that his basement had flooded (he had just spent hours in the middle of the night cleaning up his neighbours' basement after their sub-pump died), and the year before that I had him on his way to help me rescue Neko from a skunk. Somehow...I don't think he'll fall for anything this year.

So tell me - what pranks have YOU successfully pulled on good ol' April 1?

Spilled Milk?

2009-03-31T07:30:00.000-07:00

I was thrilled when the Globe & Mail published the tongue-in-cheek essay I wrote about my experiences milking cows. (The very first draft was crafted here in my blog, for those of you to whom it sounds familiar)

The Facts & Arguments column is widely read across the country, so I was nothing less than tickled to know that my humble little article would appear there (illustrated, no less) for all to see. I thought it would be a nifty little feather in my writer's cap and something to clip out and show my Dad on Easter weekend.

What I didn't count on was the 30 reader comments it generated in the online version. Apparently I ticked off quite a few animal lovers and what my friend Bryan calls "the politically correct crowd." There were several positive comments too, and of course both my sisters jumped in to defend me, but I was taken aback by the mini-lectures I received on animal cruelty. But I love cows! I've never hurt one in my life! I just don't think they're the sharpest knives in the drawer. It was all in fun, people! Sheesh.

As another friend pointed out, "Thank goodness for free speech - otherwise we'd never know who the crazies are." Guess if I'm gonna be a writer, I will need to start developing a thicker skin and remember that not everyone is going to enjoy my stuff.

The article is here if you want to judge for yourself whether my misguided sense of humour about cows was truly offensive. And hey...at least people read it!

All quiet on the Bloggern front?

2009-03-26T10:58:00.000-07:00

Can't say that I've felt much like blogging lately. I could chalk it up to the weather - it seems like someone hit the almighty pause button and we're stuck somewhere between winter and spring - or possibly the fact that the anniversary of Rose's birth/death is creeping up. Not to mention the relentless approach of my 39th birthday (eek!).

I had such a hankering to travel in Feb/March, and that didn't work out. I really wanted to go for a vacation somewhere before Bumbo's arrival. I half-planned a visit to Ottawa on the train for Winterfest; I've been dying to see the National Gallery, eat a few beaver tails and watch people skate along the canal. But those plans got kiboshed due to health issues which, thankfully, have resolved themselves...but still...now I find I'm longing for a sunny beach somewhere, anywhere, and a pool, with D relaxing beside me, and a big juicy, fruity drink in my paws. Perhaps I just need a change of scenery. Or perhaps I just need to shaddap and count my blessings.

And build myself a big-ass fruity drink!

Empanadas and a black bean/mango salsa are on the menu tonight, so that will go a long way to cheering me up. Thank heavens for simple pleasures.

What the what?

2009-03-19T13:06:00.000-07:00

Okay.

Yesterday I spent a happy half hour in the sun. I looked for the first shy violets on the lawn, counted robins and admired the pretty pink nubs of rhubarb that were starting to poke their heads out of the dead leaves. I even raked some of the accumulated autumn detrius off the daffodils so they could breathe a bit better. It smelled like spring. It felt like spring. I was convinced it WAS spring.

This morning I awoke to another sunny, albeit chillier, day and looked forward to my afternoon walk with Neko. I thought I might rake some muck off the tulips. Maybe I'd even do some more Tai Chi in the sunny corner of the south field.

Then I looked out my window at 1pm to find Someday farm engulfed in a complete snow squall. That's right - snowflakes swirling, north wind gusting, God laughing. There are actually a few millimetres of accumulation on the ground, for Pete's sake! Not to mention the Weather Network won't even admit we have any snow. Although they do tell me it "feels like -13." Yeesh.

I love snow but I have to admit, my thoughts have turned towards spring these past few days and I'd resigned myself to seeing the last of the white stuff. And hey, isn't March supposed to go out like a lamb, since it lambasted us like a lion the first week?

Humph.

Lucky Irish Stew

2009-03-17T09:07:00.001-07:00

Happy St. Pat's to ye!

I toured the entire southern coast of Ireland when I was 23; my English friend Wendy and I drove her powder blue VW bug over on the ferry. We started in Dublin, went southwest all the way to Galway and then drove straight back to Dublin again. (Interesting fact: the pizza in Dublin was better than the pizza I had in Florence, Italy)

Ireland was a country that had fascinated me ever since I did a paper on James Connolly and the Easter uprising in high school, and it seemed fitting to get away and clear my head after my mother died. She loved to travel and knew I had been planning the trip before she'd gotten really sick; I remember she encouraged me to go "no matter what." So I did, and Ireland was everything I wanted it to be: friendly, green and beautiful, with ruined castles around every hairpin corner and live music in every pub.

My favourite places were Doolin (where I learned to smoke Marlborough Lights and flirt with backpackers). Little more than a crossroads with three pubs, it's famous for its ability to attract musicians and they play until the wee hours every night. I also loved Dingle, which took my breath away with its coastal scenery.

Another thing I remember was seeing little Catholic shrines along the road at various intervals - statues of Mary smothered in flowers seemed to nod at us as Wendy drove her beloved beetle at top speed around the winding roads. (Insert a sigh here as I recall these pleasant times...)

Okay! Enough of McMemory Lane. Whether you've got Irish blood in your veins (I don't) or just like to celebrate St. Patrick's day with green beer, here's a yummy Irish stew recipe to honour the day. Green food colouring not included.

Lucky Guinness Stew
Ingredients:
- package stewing beef
- 3/4 cup flour, spiced with salt, pepper and whatever dry spices you prefer
- 2 tbsp olive oil
- 1 medium onion, diced
- 2 ribs celery, sliced
- 2 carrots, sliced
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 2 cups beef or veggie broth
- 1 cup Guinness or other dark beer (Toast your health and drink the rest!)
- 1 bay leaf

1) Toss beef with spiced flour to coat.
2) In a heavy saucepan over medium heat, lightly brown the beef in the olive oil.
3) Add the onion & celery; cook 3 minutes.
4) Add the carrots, garlic, broth, beer and bay leaf. Bring to a boil.
5) Reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 1 hour or until beef is tender.

You can serve this over broad egg noodles but I like to soak it up with a heel of crusty dark bread. You may be wondering why there are no potatoes in this so-called Irish stew: it's because I really don't like potatoes! (I told you, I'm not Irish)

A really great day

2009-03-13T09:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was just a great day. In fact, I'd say that it was the best day I've had in awhile. And it was made up of simple things that made me happy.

Like the 6 robins I saw on someone's lawn while travelling down the 16th sideroad. Or the sunny walk I took with Neko at noon. Or the fact that the Globe and Mail wants to publish a piece I wrote in their Facts & Arguments page. Not to mention the clean bill of health I received from my OBGYN at my appointment yesterday (it made the 1.5 hour wait worthwhile!). And finally, a lovely sushi dinner out with D capped an already stellar day.

I'm counting my blessings and lolling around in a state of thankfulness today. (0:

A new taste!

2009-03-11T13:04:00.000-07:00

Shopping for groceries in the Kink is often a frustrating and expensive experience. I'm not exactly sure why, but groceries seem to cost at least a third more here than anywhere else. Plus the selection of produce isn't always thrilling.

I'm a big believer in shopping local, but our grocery bills are getting ridiculous. It's easy to supplement our diets with locally grown produce in the spring and summer, but in the winter we're at the mercy of the local stores. When I decided to make 20 pints of salsa last weekend, I knew a trip to Food Basics (a nearby bargain grocery store) was in order if I didn't want to bankrupt myself buying ingredients.

So off to Goderich - a 40 minute drive in a snow squall! - I went with D, who was acting as my "bag boy" since I'm not supposed to carry heavy stuff these days. As a general rule, I adore grocery shopping. I enjoy planning the weekly menu, dreamily browsing the aisles and finding my favourites on sale. Shopping with D can put a damper on my leisurely style of grocery trolling though; he prefers the seek and destroy method and likes to buy stuff in bulk (e.g. a case of tuna, a flat of oranges, boxes of cereal that would feed a small country, etc.). I knew I had about 30-40 minutes of leisurely shopping before he started to get twitchy, so I was focused. Canned tomatoes - ON SALE! - check. Jalapenos - check. Green peppers - check.

I was turning to put a few sweet onions in the cart when I saw it. A weird looking round thing wrapped in what looked like fishing net was perched on top of the canned tomatoes in my cart. It was bigger than a grapefruit and smaller than a watermelon; I had no idea how it got there or what the heck it was. Then I saw D walking away from the cart as fast as he could go. I sighed.

On the rare occasions we shop together, D likes to tuck things into our cart that I wouldn't normally buy. This time, it was a pomelo, a fruit from China that neither of us had ever heard of before. I rolled my eyes, especially at the price ($5!) but hey, he was nice enough to drag all my bags and boxes to the car for me, so I let the pomelo stay.

We tried it that night and we both loved it! It's kind of like a grapefruit, but not as bitter nor as juicy. It has a puzzlingly dry texture for a citrus fruit, with the advantage that it doesn't drip down your chin or get your hands sticky. We left it cracked open in the fridge for several days, and it still retained its freshness. The only thing that was a bit unsettling was the startling resemblance it bore to a Georgia O'Keefe flower or Judy Chicago's Dinner Party art when you split it open. Hmm.

Well, anyways, it goes to show me that D is sometimes the adventurous one in this relationship. I think we're going to try to insert some more exotic fruit into our shopping routines; now if we can just talk the Kink store owners into ordering some...