After eight years of marriage… caught in the act!

Oh the shame. I know we all do it. It’s natural, oh so satisfying, and perfectly healthy. But I managed to go eight long years before my husband ever caught me in the act. I could have sworn I heard the door shut after him on his way to work. I was so sure I was alone…

Then the shower curtain tweaked open and there was his rosy cheeked face looking up at me all innocent and questioning, as if seeing me for the very first time…

“Were you…?” he asked, his smile gleeful as he peeled back the last layer of his wife’s nakedness. “Were you really singing in the shower?”

The fallibility of statistics when applied to housework and husbands

I came home to find that I had won our latest Mexican Standoff. The dishes were done (sweet joy!), but there was a small debris pile on the counter by the stove.

“Dude!” I called to hubby from the kitchen (after thanking the man for backing down first – of course). “You can’t have broken two cups doing the dishes once. That’s a statistical impossibility!”

“Not when you drop one cup on the other one. Oh, and we need new dish gloves too – one of the fingers ripped open.”

Sound logic, sure, but the man had no explanation for his forth casualty; discovered the next day, when I was only three inches away from slicing my lip open on its splintered glass rim.

Well, I suppose I now know why it’s always the bull in the china shop, and never the steer – statistically speaking…

Ok, so maybe I took ‘Casual Friday’ a bit too far…

In my mad rush this morning, I completely forgot to reset the alarm for dear hubby. I changed the time for him, even put the clock up on the mattress so he would hear it when it went off, but never flicked the switch to ‘on’. Thankfully, while I was bustling about, he regained just enough consciousness to catch the slip. But there was something else I forgot to do…

I raced out into the hallway to grab my winter jacket, complaining, “Man, it’s cold this morning,” to the still cozy, still comatose thing in the bedroom. It was cold… too cold. As I reached for my jacket, I looked down… I’d remembered my socks – impressive any day of the week – but had totally forgotten to put on pants!

Sigh… mornings.

(image source)

A sure sign it’s time to do the dishes…

“Can you get me a plate?” called hubby from the living room.

“Um… there are no plates,” I answered from the kitchen.

He didn’t skip a beat. “Or something plate-like then?”

With all due pomp and circumstance, I presented my man with a Tupperware lid.

In the years since the renegotiation of THE (infamous) DEAL – a politically charged, highly controversial, bit of newlywed legislation - we’ve held a long running Mexican Standoff over the dishes. And, much like the World War II era housewives who fashioned ball gowns out of mattress ticking, we weather each long siege (before the inevitable dish soap blitz) with resourcefulness and creativity. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but in our Calgary apartment, invention’s maternal grandparents go by the names ‘stubbornness’ and ‘procrastination’.

Top 10 ways to avoid becoming a golf widow

As another golf season draws to a close, and I welcome my man back from the front, I feel it is my duty to give other would-be-golf-widows some tips in order to avoid a lifetime of long lonely summers…

1. Buy snowpants. You will be wearing them on the golf course if you live in Canada (or get snowed in – like we did! – in Myrtle Beach).

2. Remember, nothing says true romance like lugging two sets of clubs around on public transportation – as long as it’s not on a first date!

3. Educate yourself on golf swing fundamentals, and take some lessons so you can learn to filter your man’s advice – because, like any flood, you can’t stop the deluge, only channel it away from your foundations.

4. Don’t count your score – at least not for the first 5 years of marriage, oops…I mean golf.

5. If you and your man play right handed, take the outdoor driving range mat to his right. A good Waggle can be a great asset!

6. To keep your man at home, build an indoor driving range (cut a hole in a cheap 2’/3’ entrance mat and insert a rubber tee). Note: chipped door frames and broken double-paned kitchen windows are a small price to pay (I would know).

7. When looking for your first home, always rent or buy based on ceiling height. And remember, full length mirrors aren’t just for ballet studios – they also make great swing practice aids.

8. Astroturf, available at any home improvement store, makes a great living room practice green – and its borders can be cut in elegant curves to match your décor (been there, done that).

9. Learn to love, or at least tolerate, or at least survive, watching The Champions Tour.

10. Familiarize yourself with the definition of MOI, and don’t be afraid to apply it when your man starts watching too much LPGA!

These ten tricks should help you stave off the dreaded golf widow syndrome. Remember, it doesn’t matter how low your score is; a cute outfit, some comfy golf shoes, and a patient husband are all it takes to make the game worth playing. Just make sure your husband reads <TOP FIVE – What NOT to do when golfing with a woman> first!

The dangers of chance encounters with venture capitalists in Vietnamese noodle houses

Business lunch?

Life can be so random. During a solo noodle lunch earlier this fall, I got caught engineering something odd, yet eminently practical, out of a bent wire condiment caddy and a Robert Ludlum paperback. My audience, an Über groomed businessman two tables over, was endlessly amused. I went on to tell him about a similar invention of mine involving corrugated plastic. His face went bright red with excitement at the ludicrously low material cost per unit. Plans were made, and I spent the next month perfecting and prototyping my design. Long story short, I found out the fellow’s company had filed for bankruptcy under some extremely shady circumstances – a mere two weeks after our meeting!

A corrugated cascade

This summer’s blog hiatus taught me many things about life (a subject I still know embarrassingly little about), the above fiasco being only one of countless adventures. In our over-documented lives, we have little opportunity to go off the radar and explore our deeper selves without an audience. What with Facebook and cellphones, blogs and Twitter, we risk sacrificing these precious spirit quests in favour of availability, so easily misconstrued as accountability. I come back to you rested, dear readers, and inspired. I have passed the 200 page mark on my most recent novel project, and am pursuing a patent on my corrugated design independently, on my own terms. But more importantly, these few undocumented months have awakened me to certain inexpressible truths about love and the need for honesty when it comes to honouring our deepest selves.

“Are you OK?” my husband asked, when I told him about the bankruptcy.

I sighed. “Yah. But it’s weird, I’m not half as upset as I thought I’d be.”

As he wrapped his strong bear arms around me, and I lost myself in the warmth of his hug, I knew why.

(soup pic source)

Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (Part Six)

Close your eyes… Go back to where you felt your most powerful, your most beautiful, your most YOU. Where are you? What are you wearing?

I go back to the darkest, most dangerous blue, the colour of my cottage lake writhing under the fury of a Quebec North wind. I am a woman most confident at the extremes, leaning head first into the blast, my toes curled into the freezing sand. Challenging the forces of nature, I channel their power through a ragged pair of Disney 101 Dalmatian pajama pants. Bits of frayed fabric blow out behind, joining the loose sleeves of a plaid Salvation Army shirt tied at my waist. My hair is my flag, and I fly it with an almost devilish pride. I throw out my arms and dare the wind to take me at my most.

Anne Bonny ~ What a dame! Pirate, feminist pioneer - such an inspiration! Although I may have to dial down the cleavage... maybe just a touch...

Need to catch up on this Saving Cymbria blog serial?

“I’ve been thinking about dressing more like a pirate.” I said, between bites of a TV supper on the couch with my husband.

Not the kind of statement you want to leave hanging. But hang it did, for a torturous 10+ seconds before the awkwardness shook itself loose. The awkwardness was all on my end, but that’s nothing new. You know you’ve got a good man (and don’t I know it!) when he can take these sorts of things in stride.

“Nothing extreme,” I continued, “just going for that sorta’ feeling.”

He nodded (a gesture of heavy meaning from the man), grunted “yah sure,” and went back to his munching. As I said, a good man. Housekeeping out of the way, I took the next logical step – COLLAGE…

I collage~you collage~we all collage! Go ahead and make your vision tangible with a personal style collage. All you need are a few fashion magazines and some scissors (oh, and glue). Snip outfits and individual pieces that connect you back to your power moment. Or, if you’re having trouble defining/refining your inspiration, simply collect images that tickle your amygdala, and wait to watch your style patterns reveal themselves in your collage. Stay tuned…

(image sources)

Not sure what to make of this…

What happens to a marriage after it ends? My parents fought to stay together for almost 20 years, before finally giving in to the inevitable – that two people coming from such opposite poles should never cohabit (except for the purposes of popping out two fab offspring). But what happens to that love – and by Golly there was no shortage of that - once the papers have been signed? 

I had my Mom on the line the other day, and I was laying on the advice pretty thick. All kinds of solutions and suggestions were streaming across the country – Calgary to Ottawa direct. When I hung up the phone, I was startled to see what I’d been doodling – or rather, who. Right there on the paper, staring up at me with scribbly eyes and flippant hair, was my father. I had unconsciously invited the man into our conversation… him or some archetypal god figure (kindly leave Freud out of this – thank you very much). It’s comforting, I suppose, to know that a marriage doesn’t just dissolve out into the universe… at least not without sneaking back from time to time to do a bit of haunting.

Spice up your marriage using THIS golf skill

It was the perfect swing, precise and powerful, a clean hit off my 6-iron’s sweet-spot. The exquisite ”PING” was followed by a more human, yet equally exultant, sound from close behind my mat. It was warm and gutteral, an expression of blissful satisfaction entirely inappropriate for the driving range. I turned to find my husband standing behind me, his mouth still hanging open.

“Do you need a tissue?” I asked with a giggle.

“Don’t stop!” chided dear hubby. “You’ll lose your rhythm!” 

So, like any good wife whose husband’s golf guidance is finally paying off, I pulled out my driver and savoured the ecstasies as said husband sailed clear over the moon. I can only imagine what would be coming out of Hank Haney’s mouth if Charles Barkley ever swung so pure. The Golf Channel would need a whole different rating!

Quick & Easy Chickpea Salad – Guaranteed to brighten any* Monday

Because pre-emptive-meal-prepping is your absolute favourite way to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon… because there’s nothing more relaxing than hacking away at veggies and scrubbing cutting boards while your hubby’s splayed out watching golf in the next room… because if you can’t cut a Monday with sarcasm, what do we have left?

Because nothing says sunshine like watered down apple juice...

Quick & Easy Chickpea Salad
2 cans chickpeas (rinsed)
1 can corn niblets (drained)
1 whole celery (roughly chopped)
1 handful parsley (roughly chopped)
1/2 red onion (finely chopped)
Lemon juice (generous squirt)
+Your fave Italian dressing
+1 head chopped iceberg lettuce

Toss everything together except Italian dressing and lettuce. To serve salad, line bowl with chopped lettuce (invaluable dressing drainage lesson gleaned from potted plants) and drizzle with Italian (or another favourite) dressing. Enjoy.

Ol’ golf watcher declined above deliciousness. “I don’t like chickpeas,” he reminded me, “except in hummus.”

“But hummus IS chickpeas,” I reminded him.

“Then why don’t you just make hummus?”

Thus, round and round we went…

*Discaimer: Some Mondays are beyond redemption. For these, one word… chocolate.

OK, so it was a bit of a rough morning…

When was the last time you had one of these mornings? You know, the kind where someone else sets the alarm for 5:30am when this is the one morning you don’t have to be up till 7:00am – the kind where that someone sleeps through 6 snooze alarms, then somehow expects to be cajoled gently into wakefulness by a sweetly saccharine wife.

Yes, t’was the kind of morning where you take the bus – rather than walking – to work because you know it would be cruel and inhumane to force anyone to spend 45 minutes trapped alone with such unabashed hostility, let alone your own self! T’was the kind where you make yourself even later by waiting in the lobby for the coast to clear, so you don’t have to share an elevator and risk an awful reaction to some poor hapless coworker’s “Good Morning.”

I thought I was doing quite a good job handling the situation in a mature and dignified manner. We all get into Grumps sometimes – no need to spread the toxicity. On the crowded bus, I kept my Klingon Death Stare fixed on a piece of black lint stuck to the fellow in front of me’s jacket, rather than on the twerp beside me – one of those lovely souls bereft of any concept of personal space. I didn’t avert my eyes from the (exactly 3.4mm diameter) fluff even when the bus lurched round a corner and I (lacking any extra footspace) had the uniquely excruciating experience of feeling my wrist bruising in real-time as one square inch of skin was crushed between my full weight and a metal pole.

I covered the few short blocks between the bus stop and my office with my brim pulled low down over my eyes. It was a public service, really, preventing my Medusa glare from laying waste to any number of unsuspecting commuters on the streets of downtown Calgary. But, on the last street corner, my conscientiousness backfired.

Out of nowhere, a trio of thin blue ribbons caught me around the neck. I was doing so well too, but when something tries to strangle you on the way to work (with or without warning!), some fine line of universal decency is crossed. I broke – my stride, my composure, at least one of the ribbons…

There I was, at 8am on a busy Calgary street corner, thrashing madly at three innocent helium balloons tethered to a “don’t you wish you lived here” folding sign. “AAAAAAARGH!” I let it all out. It was a brief, all too public, display of what it really means to be human. That, or just some crazy chick going psycho on modern marketing. I’m not proud of my little spectacle, and I can assure you there isn’t the least bit of satisfaction in railing on anything that’s essentially lighter than air, but I don’t regret it. Better three balloons than one alarm clock setter’s nose~wink.

Why he didn’t get that diamond encrusted Rolex for Valentines Day…

Scene: 6:50am, Calgary, in an apartment still reeking of hubby’s late night snack…

“Ok, so new rule.” I laid down the law. “Whoever cooks spicy Italian sausages on the George Forman [Grill] has to clean it right away.”

A snarky voice answered from the bedroom. “You’re not allowed to just go around arbitrarily making up rules.”

Then I, in one of those blithe philosophical musings visited upon those who find themselves half-in-and-half-out of winter jackets well before dawn, replied, “How does one make any rule, if not arbitrarily!”

“No, no,” my dear husband corrected me, coming round the corner, socks in hand and wearing a mischievous grin. “Only I’m allowed to make up rules arbitrarily.”

Humph…men.

Marriage Perk #64

I drifted off last night into an exceptionally obnoxious nightmare – a rabid stray cat was going all Hannibal Lector on my toes. Not exactly apocalyptic, but far from a walk in the park! Which, as an avowed dog person, I imagine would have gone a whole lot better. I beat at the crazed feline furball and screamed for “HELP! HELP! GEORGE!! HELP!!!”

Within seconds, I jerked awake with an awful tingle in my toes that took a full ten minutes to dissipate. My husband reassured me that “No”, there weren’t any small animals with row upon row of tiny razor sharp teeth in bed with us. I had to take his word for it.

“Did you hear me yelling for you?” I asked.

“No,” said George, “but I saw your breathing speed up and I figured you might be having a nightmare. So I woke you up.”

I went straight into Disney mode, couldn’t help it. I was a girl-child of the Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast era; who could blame me? I swooned.

“You rescued me!”

I fawned over my Prince Charming in the pale moon glow of our bedside alarm clock. His cartoonish lambchops (a furry, sadly temporary, joke) exaggerated his cheekbones, transforming him into the archetypal animated crush. My friends from kindergarten would be so jealous! While I, with my sleep creased face and post-traumatic-dream-flailings, was anything but Sleeping Beauty. Yet, my hero had still fought for me, and, in his own sweet way, had cut through the vine choked labyrinth of my subconscious to save me. Though thankfully for the happily ever after of his nose, he was smart enough not to have tried waking me with a kiss!

Remember Marriage Perk #63?

Allen Iverson and the quiet gratification of semantics

Official SavingCymbria Iverson Tribute ~We'll miss you!~

The husband and I got into a heated debate last night over Allen Iverson’s retirement. I argued that ’ego’ had to have been a factor in the gifted basketball player’s decision to leave the game. This accusation came across as cruel blasphemy to the diehard fan beside me on the couch.

“He doesn’t have an ego!” My husband was obstinate. “He’s just proud and uncompromising.”

Point. Set. Match.

Update: Way to go Philly for making this post entirely null and void

An immortal quote for a not so immortal moment

I found this gem of a quote in the back of The Calgary Sun:

“What you love – becomes your master.”

“Would you agree?” I asked my ever-so-wise husband.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at me, and kept smiling until I figured out why.

Got a man? Go ahead and take advantage of him!

It’s no wonder men have been feeling emasculated and underappreciated. Their value in our culture has been steadily depreciating ever since Rosie picked up her riveter. We women have come to judge our mates’ usefulness in terms of dishes washed or feet massaged, rather than recognizing, and celebrating, their uniquely masculine qualities. Go ahead, take advantage of a husband! We forget how useful they can be when we’re faced with a stubborn pickle jar, or a set of chilly sheets. Sometimes, a gal just needs something solid to lean on whilst she ties her shoes.

***

It was 6am on a Saturday morning when I threw four generations of feminism to the wind and finally called for help. “Geeeorge, can you come to the bathroom for a sec?”

I heard him groan, then sigh, then drag himself out of the cozy bed in the next room - where he’d generously been donating his time to the warming of sheets. The man knew better than to ask me, Why? I’m a writer; the occasional crisis, existential or otherwise, is part of my job description. He came around the corner, my knight in shining… um… um… Anyways, he was as prepared as any less-than-dressed, half asleep man can be when trudging to the rescue.

George is a fellow who takes things in stride. Finding his half-naked wife squatting over the bathroom sink with a broom braced against the far wall didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. I, on the other hand, was mortified. How, I ask, can one ever regain one’s position as an object of desire after having been caught in such a ridiculously undesirable position?

There we were, our own prehistoric human display in the heavily linoleumed museum of our apartment, me with my blue plastic (microfiber tipped) spear and him with his cro-magnon brow furrowing deeper by the second. He kept the disgruntled, glazed look as I explained that there was a GIANT spider under the head of the broom and that I was too scared to check if it was dead.

My brave husband humored me. He took over at the broom handle and waited till I’d scurried down the hall before lifting the head off the wall.

“Is it dead?” I called from the distant safety of the living room.

“I don’t know,” he answered slowly. ”There’s nothing there.”

He was right. There was no trace of the spider, no stray limbs, no tell tale smear. After a thorough examination, I turned to George and said those seven magical words: ”Let us never speak of this again.” He nodded, and we both went back to bed, into those lovely pre-warmed sheets.

Later in the day, I thought I saw the same spider creeping behind the toilet, but I left it alone. Sure, it’s great to take advantage of your man, even healthy for his masculine pride, but it’s my own pride I’m worried about. Ever try sucking in your gut while squatting on a counter wearing ratty granny panties? No? Can’t think why not? My kingdom for a loincloth! Now, let us never speak of this again.

Portrait of a marriage using the medium of Shepards Pie

Can you guess who is who? Hint: I'm got more curves

We share many things, my husband and I, but a taste for garlic is not one of them. This wasn’t always the case. In our beginnings, we spent countless romantic nights gazing into each other’s eyes over the greasy plastic tablecloths at Shawarma Palace. We planned our brilliant future together while taking turns dipping garlicy potatoes into a small shared bowl of creamy white, ridiculously potent, garlic dipping sauce. Then tragedy struck.

Life happens. People change. A strong marriage must allow for personal evolution, even encourage it. On one of those Shawarma Palace nights I made a mistake, I got carried away in the moment and went too far. I ate an entire bowl myself. The next morning I woke up gagging with the worst garlic hangover of all time. For the next three days all I could smell was garlic, no matter how many times I showered. All I could taste was garlic, no matter how many times I brushed my teeth, frantic and  foaming at the mouth like I’d come home with a bad case of rabies - it sure felt terminal! Even now, just the idea of eating the stuff makes me nauseous. Once you’ve spent three days as a human garlic clove (sorry Robert Pattinson) any notion of it acting as a flavour ‘enhancer’ is long, long gone.

Ever the gentleman, my husband stayed married to a woman who now loathes his favourite flavour. He’s good that way. I wanted to thank him for all the culinary compromises he’s had to make since then, and what better way than with the fetid plant itself? I ‘whipped’ up the two shepards pies you see above, and tailored them to our specific tastes. Mine was loaded with veggies and sweet potato, while his was all about garlicy mashed Yukon Golds. But how much garlic powder to add? Ah yes, that was the question.

I will make any number of sacrifices for love: time, energy, even the occasional kidney; but testing garlic levels in mashed potatoes isn’t one of them. So instead, I took the logical approach and kept adding garlic until I could smell it. I have been informed by several garlicphiles since then, including my darling husband, that this is not how they do it at The Cordon Bleu.

Once again, tragedy struck.

Apparently I got carried away again, because I added enough garlic to make the thing wholly inedible. And there it sat, on the bottom shelf of our fridge, as a Tupperwared token of misguided, misflavoured love, until Yesterday. It was harder than I thought it would be to throw out, and smellier, but I think there’s a lesson here under all the spoiled ground beef and onion. When you really love someone, and you want to tell them in a language they’ll understand, sometimes you have to be brave enough to taste it for yourself first. I took up golf didn’t I~wink.

A tender moment… (with a hot pepper kick!)

I was settled snugly in the living room couch, with all I needed for a cozy TV supper ready on my lap. All that was missing was a dash of the spicy sauce my hubby had just discovered in the fridge door.

“Can I try some?” I called from the couch.

“It might be too spicy for you,” he warned.

“I’ll just take a bit then!”

He came around the corner on a mission, bottle in hand. Now, about my husband. This is a man who comes alive in the mountains,  a man at home in the wilderness, whose early glory days were spent living happily in a frigid backyard shed at Whistler. This is a man whose Viking legs and beard could send a whole legion of  Le Cirque waiters crying to their mammys.

This very same man bent carefully over my plate, with brows furrowed in quiet concentration, to deposit just the right amount of spicy sauce next to his wife’s mashed potatoes. I watched him with a secret smile as he rocked the bottle gently and kept his eye on the glass mouth, so he could pull back quickly when he had to. This is a man who can drive a golf ball well over 300 yards. And this is a man who can love so plainly… so plainly my nose started tingling well before the hot pepper kick ever touched my tongue.

All’s fair in love and… mornings (~wink)

The snooze alarm cut into my shower with a beeping so loud it set my teeth humming in my jawbone.

“MEEEEEEP…MEEEEEEP…MEE…”

I must have reset the clock by our bed on the as-if-waking-up-at-6am-isn’t-torture-enough setting rather than the kinder and oh-so-much gentler radio option. The teeth rattlin’ sound from the next room was so piercing I couldn’t concentrate – did I just double shampoo instead of condition?  I could feel the tiny hairs of my inner ears shivering as the high vibrato resonated behind my eyeballs.

Why wasn’t the hubby turning it off? It was right beside his pillow! I tried yelling at him from the shower, but there was no way he could hear me over the alarm. I finally had to take matters into my own hands, and ran towel-bound into the bedroom to turn it off. Finger to button – oh sweet relief!

I ‘politely’ inquired, with hands clamped on terry-towel hips, into the condition of dear hubby’s eardrums. “Dunno,” he said, claiming to have “not really” heard the Philip Glassian cacophony, “Just tuned it out, I guess.”

“What if the smoke alarm goes off?” I asked, suddenly concerned.

As he quieted my fears with tender reassurances about volume and urgency, a strange thought began to form in my mind. If this man can will himself to sleep through an amped up Moby concert gone wrong, what else can he “tune out”? What else has he “tuned out”?

Hmmmm… better make sure I’m all set to blast on “max” next time dear hubby triggers my alarm bells! I’m not taking any chances lol. After all, all’s fair in love and mornings ~wink. 

Help – I’ve married a goldfish!

Let me set the scene…
The hubby and I were chatting in the kitchen late last night. You know, just hangin’ round the ol’ fridge shootin’ the breeze. I turned away briefly (couldn’t have been for more than three seconds), to grab something out of my backpack on the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw George making a move for the fridge door.

When I looked back, I saw something no wife should ever witness. Sure, we all know it goes on, in your fridge, in your neighbour’s, but nobody talks about it. Yes, sometimes what we don’t know will only hurt us (microscopic pathogens aside) when it hits us right smack in the face.

To be fair, there was no split lip involved, but the impact of the horror I saw was just as strong. George had the Brita water pitcher in both hands and was doing his best to guzzle directly from the spout. I know, I know, he’s a guy, and I can deal with the occasional scruffy milk top or orange juice container… but a Brita? Doesn’t that bloody well defeat the whole purpose!! “Filtered” water anyone?

And the visual was just too awful. The man had somehow managed to get his lips wedged inside the spout and was sucking away like mad with a panicked look on his face. He’d been caught in the act, after all, and his eyes were bugged like a lidless goldfish. I could see his puckered mouth, bright fleshy pink, through the clear plastic – not a good look for any man, least of all for my Viking George. I’d stumbled onto a tragic Kafka-esque scene… Man wakes up as suffocating goldfish… makes mad dash for fridge… reaches with last strength ebbing…for …the…Brita?

Ya, so I married a goldfish. Well, at least that sounds better than “ya, so I married a guy who sticks his mouth all over the water filter.” Hmmm, t’is better to savour the irony? Or build on the surrealism? That is the question. Or maybe, just maybe, I should stop thinking like a writer and just tell the man to use a glass!

How have I let it come to this?

Where did it go so wrong? I’m a 21st century independent woman who fights fiercely for equality at every opportunity. So how could I have been so blind to the grand injustice happening under my nose on a bi-weekly basis?

My husband stood admiring (I’d like to think the man was in awe) our freshly scrubbed (by moi), gleaming white bathroom. ”Did we get a new toilet paper holder [spring]bar?” He asked, pointing to the naked black plastic rod in its mod-chrome setting.

“No,” I said, confused, “it’s the same one it’s always been.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, we both came to the same horrifying realization. I was the one brave enough, or foolish enough, to put it into words.

“You’ve never seen it before, have you?” I asked, wide eyed as the truth hit me. He shook his head. ”So you’ve never replaced the roll the whole time we’ve been living here?” It was more statement than question. “That’s almost two years!”

He smiled sheepishly. “I guess not.” Then he flashed that ever-so-darling grin that I’m sure got him out of all kinds of trouble as a kid, and as much as I hate to say it, still works just as well today…sigh.

Click Here to read about how toilet paper can solve the global oil crisis – no really!

Because love is beautiful, magical, and because…

Because love is...

...everything.

Who are these just-married lovebirds? Visit this post’s “comments” to find out…

How to get married with plenty of figurative, but no literal, electricity

Five years ago today, I was dressing for my wedding by candlelight. Our planned elopement to Niagara Falls coincided with the largest blackout in North American history. I had designed my hand sewn wedding dress (my sewing machine had been on the fritz too) with our train trip in mind. It was a knee length strapless sheath made of white eyelet, with a little stretch for comfort and a thin pink ribbon tied in a delicate bow at the waist. We’d matched George’s tie to the ribbon and, before he gobbed jam on it halfway through the trip lol, we were the perfect pastel couple.

We were married late that night, after having to reschedule from a payphone deep underground in the madhouse of a Toronto train station. The Eastern seaboard had come to a halt, but we would not be dissuaded. People got married before electricity, didn’t they? Our Reverend took us out to pick up pizza after the ceremony (we both teared up as we clasped hands and promised forever) and then to watch the fireworks over the blacked-out falls. I remember the wind catching my veil and blowing it around us as we looked out over the dark water. The fireworks blazed on, despite the disaster. We’ve never cared that we missed seeing a wonder of the world that night, because we’ve spent the last five years building our own : )

Marriage: Just remember this one little secret…

“Marriage isn’t a court of law. It is a court of precedent.”- Kristi DeWolf

The most illuminating piece of marital advice I’ve ever heard comes from my genius-in-training unmarried 18 year old coworker. And to think, some people out there still listen to Dr. Phil. Get with the times people! Want wisdom? Look for a girl with face piercings and an ‘unprecedented’ ‘tude.

Strengthen your marriage with THIS principle of Marketing Management

Who knew walking down the aisle at Home Depot to buy a fridge could give you better footing on your trip down another aisle…

I came across a key marketing concept during some “light” summer reading: A Preface to Marketing Management, by J. Paul Peter & James H. Donnelly Jr. Selling is top priority in marketing, but how do you make sure the product isn’t returned after sale? The investigation of Postpurchase Dissonance is a hot topic in the field.

Doubts and second thoughts occur when there is a cognitive discord within the buyer’s attitudes and beliefs. Dissonance is most likely when the purchase decision is of psychological or financial importance, and/or the buyer has forgone a number of alternatives with comparable features. Hmmm, that doesn’t set marriage up with favorable odds, does it? I happen to have lucked out with a husband whose “features” are beyond “compare”, but the next section just might be helpful for those of you without a G.W. of your own (which had better be everyone reading this!).

 The textbook gives four helpful ways to prevent and/or reduce Postpurchase Dissonance:

1. By seeking information that supports the wisdom of the decision. (ooo you two have compatible astrological signs, that must clinch it!)

2. By perceiving information in a way to support the decision. (Your husband just went to Vegas without you because he said he didn’t want you getting a nasty burn in the desert sun…and you believe him)

3. By changing attitudes to a less favorable view of the forgone alternatives. (Just remember ravishing Antonio’s foot odour and Joey’s sinister collection of toy clowns)

4. By avoiding the importance of the negative aspects of the decision by enhancing the positive elements. (“He’s not poor; he’s a brilliant musician” – Note: don’t use that argument with your parents, who probably haven’t finished paying off that wedding of yours ; )

The book also suggests Postpurchase Dissonance can be reduced by admitting a mistake has been made. But really, would you want to wake up to a mistake every morning? Didn’t thing so. So if you didn’t hit the G.W. jackpot, just keep this little list in mind. And let’s just hope you have better luck picking your next major appliance *wink*

You’ll never really know your husband

I could draw you map of my husband’s back. It would take hours, but it would be perfect. I’d chart every rise of muscle and bone, every dip in between. Each freckle and follicle would be accounted for. A baby pink pencil crayon would show you the soft blush of his skin after a massage, and you’d learn his magic: that he smells like the warm, delicate layer of sand dust left on your body after a day at the beach.

My husband is a man of gentle grace and stubborn passions. I could map his past for you too, and tell you his dreams for the future. You’d find out the name of the boy he protected from recess bullies in elementary school, and why he needs to order new ‘rifle’ shafts for his wedges.

This is my husband.

But what do I know? I’m just his wife ; )

He and I were being driven home recently by visiting relatives after a supper out on the other side of the city. I was doing my best trying to give directions from the back seat, but I am a chronic pedestrian and can only guide people “as the crow flies”. And since when do crows have to worry about one way streets and highway exits! 

My “darling” husband, an experienced driver, was no help at all. He was stupidly mute. I kept waiting for him to rescue me and chime in on cue with a “left” or a “take Deerfoot”, but he kept right on with his lazy daydreaming, watching the houses whiz by out the backseat window while I did my best to keep us in the same province! 

I felt my temperature rising. Instead of directions, my brain started obsessing on why he was being so frustrating. What did he think this was? Just another job to pawn off on good ol’ pick-up-the-slack-Cymbria? These weren’t dirty dishes, these were his relatives! Don’t get me wrong, I love chatting up my husband’s Aunts and Uncles, but I also like getting home in time for work the next day! Do you want to know the worst of it? His body language was all too clear in letting me know he was getting fed up with me too! Every time I missed calling out a turn, he grimaced in a most un-husbandly way.

When we finally made it home I was fuming. He shut the front door behind him, then gave me a wicked smile that shut me up before I could open my mouth. 

“I almost didn’t make it!” he gasped. ”I thought I was done for when we turned on 17th!”

My husband bolted straight for the bathroom.

Love. sigh. What do I know?
Apparently, not much lol

Applying the scientific method to marriage reveals a terrifying secret

Let’s look at this whole marriage thing logically. Go on, take a deep breath and dive in. It’s about time someone at least gave it a shot.

Purpose: To measure and define the ratio of one marriage partner’s “right” proposed solutions to those of the other partner

Hypothesis: “I am always right” (come on, do we even need to test this!)

Method:
Step 1) Take two people with varied life experience who (ideally) respect each others intelligence and problem solving skills equally

Step 2) Place said two people in an endless variety of real-time challenges and social puzzles

Step 3) Test pros and cons of partners proposed solutions to determinine “rightness”

Conclusion: The “logical” assumption is that each partner will propose the best solution for the couple in 50% of the cases. Therefore, the “right” ratio can be defined as 50:50.

Application:The horror! There must be a flaw in my calculations. My husband couldn’t possibly have that kind of an edge! But him being right half the time would be an easy price to pay for him admitting he’s wrong the other 50% lol

Marriage Perk #63

I’m showered, dressed, combed, and brushed. I tie my shoes and put on my jacket. My hand is on the doorknob. But wait. I’ve forgotten my watch on the nightstand.

I tip-toe into the bedroom, careful not to wake the big lump under the covers. As I wrap my watch round my wrist, I see that a slipped comforter has left a peachy pink cheek exposed and vulnerable. I dive in and kiss that special spot, just past the corner of your eye, where (in these last few years) the delicate skin has begun to crease. My lips find all the heat and softness and comfort they’ll need for the day in the half-second we connect.

I notice another “cheek” is exposed ; )

So I smack it.

Perfect way to start the day.

“Gripped” by golf

I knowingly, willingly, married a golf nut five years ago. I was so infatuated with this man that I happily agreed to watch endless hours of golf coverage on our weekends together. I was blissfully captivated by his joy and all his adorable reactions to the shots on TV; I barely even looked at the screen. And really, why would I? I mean, is there anything more boring to watch? (Note: The Masters are not included in that terrible generalization. That tournament is actually almost, dare I say it, thrilling : ) 

My infatuation with my new husband even led me out onto the golf course. I couldn’t bear to be separated from him for a long lonely 4 hours. I was determined not to become another bitter “golf widow”. I hacked around with his 5-wood, and puttered around with his putter. The emotional rollercoaster of the game came as a shock. How could this game, so seemingly effortless and dull on TV, make me want to gnaw off my grips and scream bloody murder? 

As my infatuation for my husband grew and matured, so did his love for golf (oh, and for me too of course : ) His handicap dropped. He read mountains of golf magazines, cover to cover. He became addicted to the golf channel. I watched it all, and listened, boy did I listen. Without knowing it, I too became literate in the language of the game: the techniques, equipment, players, rules, etc. It osmosed slowly from his brain to mine. Little did I know, it would one day pay off. 

That day was yesterday.

My husband’s golf obsession took the ultimate step a month ago. Long story short, he now sells golf clubs for a living. He’s brilliant at it, and loves it. The man is living the dream. Ok, so the PGAwould technically be “the dream”, but he’s a whole lot closer than he’s ever been before. And what was my darling’s first order of business at his new job? Why, to set his wife up with a sweet sweet set of clubs, of course. (I’ll post a picture on an upcoming post for your drooling pleasure) 

I played my first round with my new clubs yesterday. And I tell ya’, it’s a whole new game. Suddenly, yardages came into play, and pin placement, and course management, and everything I’d learned about over the years. Most importantly, for the first time, I felt like I had a chance. Each hole was a new opportunity for success, instead of just another shot at grim humiliation. I was shaking from the thrill of it, and then two seconds later I was shaking from the frustration of it. Craziest thing about the round was that I was actually eager for more after the 18th. And believe me, that’s never happened before! 

My score was still too high to share with the internet world, but was 7 shots lower than my previous record. And taking into consideration some sketchy putting and painful mis-hits, it could have been a lot lower. It should have been lower! It will be lower next time! Mark my words!

Oh no.

Sigh.

I should have seen this coming.

This was his plan all along.

And I’ve fallen ”fore” it!

Oh ya, I’ve got it bad. I’m even making golf puns, groan.

 

Dinnerware Drama

I have huge, earth-shattering, news for all you blog readers out there. I know you’re all perched on the edges of your seats in anticipation… I bought a dinnerware set this afternoon! Mind you, we’re not talking Denby here, but all the pieces do match (it’s a rustic blue earthenware style). This all got started when I opened an anniversary card from my mother in law this morning and found a rather stern letter accompanying the check. Not to be bullied, I put it aside and thought long and hard about how to pass off a restaurant and mini-put bill as a lasting domestic investment (where the letter insisted the money should go, and who am I to argue with free money). The receipt could, potentially, still be around next year around this time (knowing my sometimes less than stellar tidying tactics). And plus, wouldn’t the memories last a lifetime? 

I dropped by the bank on my way to work and had to battle with my finger at the ATM to stop from putting the full amount towards the bottomless void of our credit card (don’t worry, we writers are notorious for hyperbole). “No, no, something tangible,” I scolded myself and yanked my finger away. 

Halfway between the bank and my good ol’ retail workplace, something red and velvety caught my eye. Two antique chairs were sitting out in front of a little shop I’d never noticed before. They lured me in. I’m a sucker for anything that red and oooo that velvety. The tiny store was filled to the brim with just about everything a person could never want, old videos, eighties fashions, used exercise equipment (gross). But way in a corner, half buried under bricka-brack, was something that was waiting (for who knows how long) just for me. 

I’d better give a little back story on this…

My mother has a rather dangerous china/dinnerware obsession – she even worked a year at Mackintosh & Watts to feed her addiction! She loves the forms, patterns, and histories in each piece, and would come home with random teacups when we were least expecting it. To break a piece of china brought near the same heartbreak as the time I accidentally squirted ketchup all over one of my fathers paintings (don’t ask). Perhaps as a form of rebellion, I developed an ”unbreakable” indifference to whatever was underneath my food. If it did the job, well, what more could a person ask for.

I didn’t realize how deep my own ”anti-obsession” had become until one fateful family supper gathering in Rideau Ferry. ”Forty-six dollars for a dinner plate!!!” I exclaimed, eyes wide, jaw nearly on the floor. Maybe I got a tad carried away, but anyways, the point was made. Poor tragic Cymbria; what kind of a wife balks at reasonably priced Denby? What if she has company over? Paper plates? (less dishes to do in any case). Well, in case you (and everyone else) haven’t noticed by now, I am not exactly a textbook wife (though I do sew a mean overcast stitch and I challenge anyone to beat my mushroom/beef casserole). I am wild woman grown in the deep woods of Quebec, a risk taker (I married my George didn’t I), and just as stubborn as that feisty Rideau Ferry boy. But all that said, isn’t it the biggest risk to leave one’s habits and prejudices, and give oneself over to a brand new outlook? That’s how we get saved. So why not take the same approach with something a little less magnificent and life changing. Perhaps, say, dinnerware?

One day, when I was very small, my mother brought home a neatly wrapped package and set it on the dinning room table. “Let me show you something,” she said. I watched as she pulled back the tissue paper and took out a beautiful shiny blue milk pitcher. It wasn’t like her usual delicate finds. The pottery was thick earthenware and the joints of the handle were strong. This wasn’t something I had to be afraid of. I could hold it and know that it wasn’t going to break in my hands. I loved that pitcher and its speckled blue glaze. I don’t know what happened to it. It’s probably buried somewhere deep in my mother’s collection, but that same sky colour has always caught my eye. 

In the corner of the dark little shop this afternoon, that same colour stopped me in my tracks. Maybe it wasn’t quite as bright a blue as I remembered, or quite so shiny, but my hands recognized the strength and weight of the pottery instantly. I bought the set on the spot; bowls, salad plates, dinner plates, and 6 matching mugs. It isn’t Denby, and I sure didn’t pay $46 for a plate (not even for the whole set!), but I’m going to love it all the same, probably even more.