Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (Update III)

My introduction to Crest Whitestrips was brutal. My gums burned. I was slurping and slucking all over the place. Talking was impossible… need I go on? It was intolerable. But then something strange happened. After two weeks of twice a day misery, the process became manageable – even routine. You know, I can’t help wondering what other intolerables I’ve allowed into my life… but maybe that’s a dangerous question. With nothing to overcome, how would we ever move forward?

Need to catch up on this Saving Cymbria blog serial?

For the first time on my walk home from work… the gate by the tracks was open

.
So I went through…

7.2 minutes later: There I am, inching along a narrow mud-slicked ledge, fenced suburbia to my right, a perilous 20′ icy-cliff drop on my left – with only a paved off-ramp to catch me! One slip and I’m rush-hour roadkill. Clinging to the sparest of twigs, I creep forward, only one thought in my mind…

“This is so cool!”

There’s something ridiculously wonderful about getting lost in your own city, especially on your most familiar route. When was the last time you allowed yourself to explore? It’s spring isn’t it? What better time to dive sneaker-first down a rabbit hole?

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

In this new era of Star Trek caliber cosmetics, a non-sticky lipgloss remains the ‘final frontier’

Every makeover needs a catalyst, some tiny drop of something to get the whole process going. See that rather clinical looking tube far left? Held up by that rather glossy looking Wesley Crusher? I needed something from outside my comfort zone to get my experiment started. But how, you ask, does this gloss differ from the other three juicy specimens that ‘have gone before’? This time I’m going for more opacity, more commitment, more sparkle – each a new risk. 

Why the fear? We all have that one feature that made middle-school hell, be it weight, bad glasses, acne, etc. Let me set the scene: late Grade 8, my best ‘friend’ calls to tell me a certain boy won’t consider dating me because “that girl’s teeth are too big.” I know, I know, I barely survived. We’re talking deep trauma here…sigh. Anyways, I’ve never been much for calling attention to the area with lipstick. But things have changed since then; I’ve changed. I went through braces and my face has grown. But the biggest switch – in a frightening-but-fairytale-true Oprah twist – has been the discovery that ‘big teeth make a bigger smile’. They’ve turned out to be one of my best features, if I do say so myself – and who’s going to stop me! That’s what’s so exciting about beauty’s current celebration of individuality; we don’t have to let anyone stop us, especially not grade 8 punks who’ve forgotten their Brothers Grimm… “all the better to eat you with my dear.” 

There is something sweetly surreal about the latest glosses. We’re promised a sheen so fantastic, so radiant, we risk blinding those unlucky enough to catch us at wrong angles to the sun. And yes, for that briefest moment – after application and before you realize you’d prefer not looking like parts of your face are melting off when you try to talk – the mirrored look is a delicious reality. But there’s another problem. It’s not rocket science; the principles of chemistry and physics will never allow for a true non-stick lipgloss. Any viscous goo, no matter how technologically advanced, will inevitably snare hair. This is basic science, yet still we yearn for the fantasy. So, dear readers, is it worth it? Let’s find out… 

CLICK HERE to catch up on this Saving Cymbria blog serial

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.

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

The Before...

We live in a blank canvas world. Social conventions, notions of class, and even the dictates of fashion are becoming increasingly flexible. Such freedom can leave one floundering when it comes to communicating (or even defining) one’s identity. Who are we without structure? What happens when a society disconnects from its own history and traditions? 

We are becoming a surface people, all sound bites and profile pics, status updates and 140 character tweets. I’ve rebelled against this new framework from the start (although, I suppose you did just catch me blogging~wink). I’ve tried my best to dive down under the surface chaos – a life lived in ripples is a raw deal if you ask me – and explore the cool, still world under the waves. But, as you can see from the pic above, it’s bloody well time to come up for some air! 

There is a boon to all this surface talk. For the first in history, we have the unique opportunity to have our projections believed. If the world is so intent on taking us at face value, why not play the game? But on our terms. I’m not talking about plastic surgery and piles of makeup, but more about establishing a personal style that projects our strengths and ambitions. It’s about Focus.  

I invite you to join me in a 2010 personal style makeover. To tell you the truth, I’m actually quite nervous about this project. Will I have have the guts to follow it through? What about maintenance? Can I do it inexpensively? And, of course, the question all women ask themselves before embarking such journeys… Will it really make a difference? 

Let’s find out!

CLICK HERE to read more of this Saving Cymbria blog serial

A New Year

As a culture, we’re ‘cusping’… can you feel it? We’re the Romans, gorging ourselves senseless, ceding to every gluttonous urge and craving, filling… filling… filling only to purge so we can do it all over again. And, like our predecessors, we are insatiable, a society addicted to its distractions (case in point: Farmville). But we’re losing - our leadership, our structure, our hope.

A new year. A new hope? A new office tower went up two doors down from my workplace this year - an entire building, 18 stories, thousands of tons of metal, concrete, and carpeting. I feel its weight, its presence, as I scurry by on the sidewalk. What do I have to show for 2009? Anything so monumental? Anything so tangible?

Yes. I’ve spent much of this past decade filling out an intellectual framework - the product of a slow and ponderous personal evolution (come on… you remember your twenties!). I hadn’t realized how much structural work must be done before closing off one’s construction to the elements. Well, my foundation is set. My architecture is commited. What comes next? Why… the cosmetics of course! ~Stay tuned

Dear Fellow Writers: Has this ever happened to you?

I decided to sneak in a few more paragraphs of my current writing project while I was up at the front desk covering our receptionist’s lunch break today. Without intending to, I found myself slipping into THE ZONE. Even more unexpectedly, a full-on, entirely involuntary, facial meltdown hit me when I ran into the last few sentences of Chapter Four. The emotional drama of the scene was just too much – and this is someone who held out through almost the entire end-credits of Titanic. 

Tears weren’t just brimming, they were streaming down my cheeks. I blew my nose in tissue after tissue, to no avail. Even the briefest peek at the screen renewed the reaction, but I wasn’t about to back down – never when grammar’s at stake! Pretty soon my eyes were bloodshot and my face was unmistakably blotched and puffy. I was, inescapably, inexcusably, a girl crying at work.

The closest I’ve ever come to killing a man

I’d just taken off my glasses when I spotted a strange black, spindly looking speck on the middle of my bed. In one swift, automatic motion, like one of those robotic arms at GM checking a tail light, I squinted and leaned down for a closer look.

I remember that fateful day in grade six when I first discovered I needed glasses. My friend and I were running for the bus. “What number is it?” he hollered over his shoulder. I couldn’t tell him. I knew from the look he gave me after he’d turned to check for himself, that from that moment on the only 20/20s I’d be seeing would be quiz scores. Hey, we nerds have had to compensate somehow. It’s no coincidence grades and glasses go together. You wouldn’t believe how high my marks were the year I got braces!

As my nose came closer and closer to the comforter, I thought of how many times I’ve come face to face with that eternal question… dust? Or spider?  I must say though, despite all those jerk-back-and-scream moments, there’s a certain amount of empathy those of us with four eyes can’t help but feel for those poor souls cursed with eight. But, sometimes that’s not enough to protect them when the situation becomes a clear case of ’it’ or ‘me’.

I was over at a high school boyfriend’s house in grade eleven. Even though his parents were home (nothin’ to worry about Mom), it somehow fell to me to deal with the teeny arachnid lurking over their second floor landing. I vacuumed it up with the duster extension while my boyfriend cringed behind me. I decided to have a little fun with him (not that kind Mom).

“See,” I said, swinging the nozzle round to within inches of his face, “it’s right here!”

With a wild shriek, he flung himself backwards down the stairs.

Thankfully, the stairs were carpeted. Even more thankfully, he somehow caught hold of the railing – while upside down! - half a second before his head slammed into the ground. Still, to this day, it’s as close as I’ve ever come to killing a man.

The speck on my bed turned out to be a tiny mess of thread. I flicked it into the corner, where it now lies in wait to freak me out another day. Though luckily, now I have backup.

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?

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…

The tome in all its glory ~click through for a closer look~

Which would you choose? This tome was waiting for me in the middle of my desk one recent Monday morning. I’d already been offered the promotion, but the spiral bound beast of a book made it suddenly real. Robert Frost’s poem – along with my life – flashed before my eyes. Was I really going to become a geophysical technician?

Almost everyone I surveyed pushed for “Yes!” Huge pay increase, new skill-set, broader career options… how could I say no? Not to mention give up the unprecedented honour of being the first Printing Supervisor (aka Paper Roller) to ever be given the opportunity to start training up the geophysical food chain. Flattered? Yes. Tempted? Sure.

But…

There’s a reason why people say they “fell” into their jobs. Do I want a passive, accidental future? Do you? We live in an incredible era of choice. While it’s true that such freedom can be crippling – the studies have been done -  we may as well take advantage of our post-modern culture while we can. For the first time in human history, there is enough flexibility, in terms of our basic survival, for us to pursue our passions. There is a cost, of course. Once one takes an active roll in one’s future, there is that heavy, inescapable pressure of having to back up words with work – hard work. What to choose?

I said no.

What now? All I can do is keep listing to that little voice, the one that wants so badly. What’s yours whispering in your ear? Mine wants to write, to challenge, to design, to explore. I don’t know what happens from here, but I have faith in the future. And as long as I keep writing towards it, I’ll know I’m on the right road.

Note: Yes, that is Will Wheaton - aka Wesley Crusher from Star Trek TNG - straddling my office moisturizer. How does that intro go again? To boldly go where no one has gone before…  how apropos.

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.

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.

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…

Missing the most beautiful place on Earth

Sigh… Everyone has a spiritual homeland, and mine is hidden deep in the back woods of Quebec. I’m not able to go home this summer. And it hurts. I’ve been walking down unpaved alleyways with my eyes closed (probably not the safest thing to do), so I can pretend I’m crunching down the gravel road to my cottage. I’ve also been getting up close and personal with dewy pine trees so I can convince my nose I’m not so far away. To think, so much of the time I was there in body, my heart was pining for some boy. And this is what saves me. The best of those boys is now my husband, and my heart’s new home. I just wish I could enjoy them both together. What can I say? I’m greedy with my bliss. And I wouldn’t have it any other way ; )

The spider plant monologue revisited

Remember the pledge?

I made a commitment three months ago to our office spider plant. For the first time, I allowed myself to become emotionally involved with a plant and to take on primary responsiblity for its care. That’s a lot for a professed brown thumb to take on!

I’ve always been to plants what Lucrezia Borgia was to her relatives. Yes, that poisonous! They’ve always been a complete mystery to me, just like babies. I water them; they die (oops, not the babies!). I water them less; they die. I water them more; same ol’ same ol’. Can you believe I actually spent a summer working in Home Depot’s Garden Center? Don’t even ask! Pure irony. Putting on the orange apron every morning was terrifying. I was a fraud, a joke. My cash register was the stocks and, man oh man, did my customers ever let the fruit fly!

All the panic and anxiety of that summer came rushing back as I turned my cart into Walmart’s Garden Centre last week. But there was no turning back. I was on a mission of love. After finally establishing a working watering routine (months of trial and error), my adopted charge had gone and outgrown its pot! It was also time for one of its babies to start on solid food. They grow up so fast lol. I found Walmart’s potting soil, and everything else I’d heard I might need for the task, and got out of there as quick as possible.

I couldn’t believe how nervous I was when it came time for the actual operation. My heart was racing as I gently knocked the plant loose of its old green plastic pot. I turned the ball of roots over in my hands, and ever so carefully…

…I screamed and threw my precious spider plant across the desk.

No one ever told me roots can look just like gross white maggot worms! When the dirt settled, so to speak, I finished the job. The smell of the potting soil, and the feel of it under my nails was a delicious novelty. After patting down the soil and blowing the dirt off the leaves, I felt a fierce and entirely unexpected sense of accomplishment. I’d seen the same emotion on my Home Depot customers’ faces a hundred times, but I’d never understood it. So this is why people spend their weekends on their knees in the dirt?

Yes. And I discovered something else. I never knew how much life energy is held in a plant. With both my hands in the dirt, all my senses were drinking in pure chlorophyll scented “life”. I felt powerful, generous, and connected – a thrilling combination. My original goal had been only to keep my spider plant alive, and even that was asking myself to do the unprecedented. I want to do so much more for it now. I want it to grow and thrive and be as brilliantly green as it can possibly be, and I want to line up its babies in a rainbow of bright tiny pots along my kitchen widow sill at home.

I took a risk three months ago. It was touch and go for a long time, but my spider plant is alive and (as you can see below) multiplying. I’ve let a part of my identity go, the running joke is over. And I’m more than ready to move on. Goal met: I, Cymbria, can take care of a plant.

So go ahead… set a goal. Just don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty ; )

We've come a long way baby!

(photo source: Cymbria (ps.check the view!)

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

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.