Vanessa Woznow

Curiouser and curiouser

Good morning friends!

This is my morning view. Also how do people take photos before eating their treats? It is almost impossible for me.

My cat (who is in stealth mode in the above picture) is currently tearing about our home (which sadly means she is also tearing up our carpet each time she reaches both the top and bottom of our stairs.)

If I wasn’t so madly in love with her, there would be repercussions.

When she gets into these scamp moods of hers we like to say that she’s “riding her little horse” because of the way she gallops about the house (and the way her gait sounds like that of a young steed racing around a track.)

We adopted Ms. Nymeria from the SPCA a little over four years ago.

I had been badgering M forever to let us get a cat.

Being a remarkably patient, and loving man, he withstood this constant bombardment quite well (and with much grace at that.)

Because seriously, anytime he inquired about gifts, I would immediately, without thinking, blurt out: “A CAT.”

Hey Ethel, he’d say. What do you want for Christmas this year?

A CAT, I’d respond.

Hey Ethel, what would you like for your birthday this year?

A CAH! I’d say, not bothering to swallow that bite of my sandwich before taking the time to respond.

Hey Ethel, what do we need to pick up at the grocery store tonight?

A CAT! I’d answer. And milk, bread and cheese. But mostly though, a cat.

(That joke was always a laugh and a half for me, but obnoxious as heck for him. Still, I couldn’t stop myself.)

Come February 2008, M ever so nonchalantly asked me to come over to his computer. He picked me up, sat me in his lap, and together we looking through the pictures of the kittens that were currently available for adoption over at our local SPCA shelter.

Now, I don’t know about you folks, but there is a very limited time frame in which I can stay on one of those websites and remain a functioning, coherent human being.

Just looking at all the little ones that need homes thrusts me into sensory overload, and I become overwhelmed between two very conflicting reactions.

These are: MUST SAVE ALL THE KITTIES – and – OH NO THERE ARE TOO MANY KITTIES TO SAVE I AM POWERLESS IN THIS FIGHT.

It’s like all of my life force swells to epic proportions but is simultaneously sucked out of me. Like I turn into a superhero just before being administered a Dementor’s kiss.

Luckily, it wasn’t before long that we saw Nymeria’s picture and we both fell head over heels in love.

At the time she wasn’t Nymeria. She was Faye, who – “didn’t play well with others.”

We knew immediately that she had a touch of both Rhoyne and direwolf inside her.

The next day we went to the shelter, and along with the help of two stellar friends of ours, adopted the little Miss into our arms, heart and home.

And she’s been there ever since. Snuggling, purring, meowing (she talks, like, all the darn time), furring up furniture, ripping up carpets, going absolutely bat shit crazy when she sees other cats, sleeping on my feet, and sailing 1,000 ships to Dorne (just like her namesake of course.)

IMG_0214 - Copy — The beauty cat. And M's hair pants.

I always joke that Nymeria is my daughter – and while there is a healthy dose of both tongue and cheek in this statement – she is a dear, dear part of my family.

She was with us during our engagement, our marriage, both of our post-grads; she forgave us for going to England without her (that one took a while, let me assure you).

She is with us when we wake up, and when we sleep.

And I love her. (Even if at the moment she is scoping out my lemon bar.)

So what about you dear readers? Who are the furry friends in your life?

Nymeria and I would love to know.

I can no other answer make, but thanks (and thanks!)

This morning I woke up and checked my e-mail.

Then I did this:

And then afterwards, I did this:

And then for the rest of the day, I felt like this:

CIMG8934 - Copy — Chillin. Illin. And cleaned the heck up!

Funnily enough, after work, what did I do?

I went to the gym gosh darn it!

I kind of felt like I owed it to them in a way.

It ended up being a fab, FAB workout too. I ran sprints and hills (alas – on the treadmill), squatted until my thighs were about to give out, and then did enough push-ups and pull-ups to never want to partake in another one until the end of time (or, as it more likely, for the next two or three days.)

Then I came home and got my cooking groove on with the ever lovely Mr. M.

We decided it was high time to make some homemade spaghetti sauce along with some sweet mini bowtie pasta.

We lined up our veggies and got to work:

There is something so calming about working in the kitchen with someone you love.

It also helps if you have similar taste in radio programmes. The CBC has been absolutely killing it with their 20 year anniversary coverage of the Seige of Sarajevo.

I’ve been brought to tears many, many times listening to their coverage. Seriously, their interviews are just outstanding in the extreme.

As we listened we chopped, woked, and boiled.

M was kind enough to capture much of the action.

We also decided to cook up some spicy shrimp for good measure.

For a final outcome of this:

As an end note, I would like to send a massive thank you to everyone who has dropped by this here blogspot, left a note, liked a post, or subscribed to updates, whether it be today, or the day I started up Rant and Roll.

Your support means more to me than you know.

So to all of you, a toast!

I couldn’t do it without you.

Let’s get physical, physical

I have a love-hate relationship with my gym:

Love: It’s cheap as hell. For twenty-three bucks a month I feel as though my range to complain is quite, shall we say, limited.

Hate: Because it’s cheap as hell it’s a bit of a crap box. There is zero air circulation and the exposed pipes drip like dripping things (to the point where you start to think that you’re sweating more than you actually are.) I already sweat like a glass blower’s arse and because there is zero air flow, whenever I lift weights in front of the mirror I bloody-well fog up the part of glass in front of which I’m standing.

That this makes me feel sexy as all get out is an understatement.

And is also a lie.

Love: On days where I feel like the athlete of the century it has everything I need, especially if the weather happens to be total crap (like, say, how it has been for the past seven months.) I can run, bike, lift weights, use stability balls, etc. all under one (incredibly) leaky roof.

Hate: On days where I feel like anything but the athlete of the century, my gym taunts me like a school yard foe. I have to walk by it on my way home from transit, so if I ever decide that it’s not in my best interest to workout (despite having schlepped all my gear with me to work that day) I can feel its mocking stare as I scuttle by its front doors without actually going inside.

Love: The sense of accomplishment, fatigue (but the good kind), strength, and general bad-assery I get after finishing a workout. There are not too many things that feel quite as good as a monster training session, and the gym is obviously a well equipped place to provide this feeling.

Hate: The utter dejection, fatigue (the bad kind – the kind you get after a brain melting day at work), and overwhelming urge to go home, put on your pajamas and EAT ALL THE NUTELLA you feel before you start your workout. At said gym.

Love: Days where I have the whole place to myself and no one talks to me, drops their weights, or grunts/shrieks like an obnoxious fool.

Hate: The exact opposite of everything I just said. And no Mr. Pathological Liar – I don’t give a flying flashdance about your double PhD and MMA supremacy!

So there you have it. It’s a complex relationship, but one that I am in for the long haul.

Or at least until I move to a city where the climate hangs around 22 degrees (Celsius) all year round.

Wanna come?

Baby when the lights go out

Hi friends!

Did you all celebrate earth hour this past Saturday?

We managed to do some major tea light damage over the course of the evening.

Seriously, we had many, many candles aflame throughout the living room, and those tiny bright lights brought quite the kind glow to our little home; all in all it was truly a lovely way of passing the night, all bundled up in blankets, and crouched over our crossword.

Though I would be lying if I said there weren’t a couple of close calls, what with just how many tea lights we had going at our peak burnage, and, well, you know, the innate flammable quality of newsprint.

Ahem.

Nymeria pays no mind! She is a ninja cat.

Factor in that we couldn’t really see all that well, (and had to hold the flames pretty close to the clue boxes to make sure we could actually read what they said) and it’s pretty darn commendable that we weren’t consumed by an inferno of our own making.

We even got the chance to do a little story telling.

Here’s a taster of something we’re up to (on our gosh-darn, no-good end):

The city feels old.

My glasses are scratched but even from way up here, I can barely make out the mason jar skyline. There is too much dirty glass, cut against the rusting sunset, which bleeds into the eastern coast’s rushing waves. I watch as they bury the dead – two thousand grayhairs – beneath a concrete blanket, their mouths hang open, as if they simply lie there, suspended in mid-breath. I think of how cold it must be beneath the streets. Their wedding rings will wash down the gutters, along with the soft silt that used to stick to the corners of their eyes, rubbed away with the early mornings they’ve now left behind. Tonight the wind blows in from the west, and I move from my balcony back into the apartment.

It’s Curfew.

Everything smells of mold and mothballs. I pick up the rough spun blanket, folded on the floor and wrap it around my body. The electric thrum coming from Maggi’s apartment makes my heart quiver – it feels sticky and unsatisfied, suspended inside me.

It too feels old.

The kettle jumps on the stove. I wanted to make tea, but all I have is chickaree root, so heavy on the tongue and stomach.

“I want some tea babe.” Tom turns to me and cracks his neck.

“Yeah. Me too.” I walk over and turn off the element.

“Money, money, money,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders clockwise, and then counter.

I walk over to his chair, unwrap myself from the blanket, and lay it over the length of his body. With it tucked up around his chin, he looks like the men in all my fathers’ photos from his days at the barbershop.

“I wonder what beards felt like,” I mutter. Tom doesn’t say anything, knowing that I’m talking to myself. “I’d like to think they felt like velvet – or a freshly brushed cat.”

I reach out and trace the outline of his cheekbone, so smooth it’s almost raw.

“Hey now, whatcha doing?” He looks up at me.

I stop.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve got this really sad look in your eyes. Like you’ll never know the taste of tea ever again.” He trails off.

“Shut up,” I say. “I don’t care about the tea.”

“Goodbye sweet pekoe! I hardly knew your sweet, sweet taste!” Tom reaches behind and tickles my ribs.

“Don’t be a jerk!” I swat at his bruised fingers but still, his hands are strong, and he takes hold of my waist and lifts me into his lap. I take his hands in mine, and instinctively peel back the hardened strip of skin atop his left hand. I probe at his panel, and its sickly tangerine glow, such a stark contrast to the coal of his skin.

“You need to get this checked out. It’s looking really infected.”

“Nah. It’s fine.” Tom again rolls his shoulders and rustles his arms further, tighter, around my body. “I told you already, there’s nothing to worry about.”

I lean forward. He tightens his grip. I can feel his abdominals contracting against the center of my back.

“What has it been?” I whisper. “Six months?”

Tom pushes me off of him. “I don’t want to deal with this right now.” He stands and walks away into the kitchen.

I follow him in and start to put away the dishes from drying rack. The compost steams to the left of my knee.

“The company’s the one that paid for it in the first place! Right?” I ask, knowing that I’m right. “It can’t be that big of a deal!”

I look at his back, turned to me and trace the outlines of his shoulder blades with my fingers, flexing against each of his movements.

“You’re a superintendent. They’ve got to understand this!”

Tom pulls away and begins to poke around the icebox, pretending to look for something. There is nothing but freeze dried fruit and some black bread.

I follow him. I know I should drop it, but my tongue keeps pushing words to the front of my mouth, that no matter how hard I try, they won’t stop falling out.

“It smells infected, it looks infected. Seriously, if you’re not going to do anything – ”

Tom turns around, brandishing a thick sack of frozen peas.

He presses the bag on top of his hand. I can hear the sizzle of the heat making contact with the cold plastic. He draws in a deep breath, his eyes bulging, teeth clenching.

“There. Happy?”

I come up behind him and slam the icebox shut. I grab the now almost completely defrosted peas from his hands and flail it about, dramatically. “Well that seems healthy, now doesn’t it? A kilo bag defrosted in what, five seconds? Astounding! I throw the plastic into the sink. “I don’t know about you, but I think a jobsite losing their head operator might not go over so well for the company! So yeah. I’m ecstatic!”

…

Once I give it a bit more work, and get a little braver, I’ll post a little more.

But in the mean time, here are some things that I bloody-well love:

Heritage walks around New West:

Good eats:

And pretty treats:

10 dollar cords! A yellow purse! SUNDRESS!

…

So that’s all she wrote kids.

Enjoy the start to your week, aannnnddd – DANCE! p.s. I’ve entered the twitterverse. Follow me @ethelthedean YAY!

Top tips to get you asked out by teenagers

I’m a twenty-seven year old gal who’s had more teenagers (or those freshly out of their teens) ask her out in the past six years years than, well, the entire time I spent as a teenager.

Now, in the sake of full disclosure, I was a pretty unfortunate looking person for a good chunk of my adolescent years – but even after I got hot as hell, I was still the one making the first move at the beginning of my relationships.

(This, I’m sure, is because people were so amazed by my overall transformation, that they were unsure as to whether or not I was the same person they used to know.)

I kid.

Kind of.

For serious, had I not had ovaries the size of basketballs, I would still be languishing in a sea of unrequited crushes, being tossed about by white-capped waves of sexual frustration.

I was a champ at asking people out (the two times I did it.)

Now, since I wrote earlier this week about how a twenty year old boy asked me out on skytrain last Saturday night, I’ve had quite a few friends ask me what exactly it is that I am doing to have this be a semi-regular occurrence in my life.

I didn’t have a coherent, non-self-deprecating answer at the ready, so over the past few days I’ve given this query some thought, and think I may come up with a probable (but perhaps totally erroneous) hypothesis.

However, in the spirit of science, I’m forging ahead.

Ladies and gentleman, (but really ladies, because, well, I am one of you) may I present:

Top tips to get you asked out by teenagers*.

*or those in their early twenties.

1.) Ride public transit. Ride public transit all the live long day. Not once or twice a week – we’re talking multiple times a day here (and weekends too). Teenagers, for the most part, don’t have a ton of money, so if they need to go anywhere, they take the bus, or the skytrain, or subway, or streetcar, or what have you.

I ride transit all the damn time, so it’s inevitable that I’ll find myself sitting next to someone whom I could have babysat ten years ago, had I not instead chosen the high school career of Safeway cashier. And because of this inevitability, it is in fact unavoidable that at some point one of them will strike up a conversation with me, and before I know it – BAM!

They want to take you me out to coffee (at bloody 7:45 in the morning.)

2.) Wear quite a bit of colourful clothing. I notice more and more just how varied in hue and tone my wardrobe is compared to most of the other people who work down town. When I exit the train every morning, and the station is flooded by a stream of black, grey and brown, I am the bright red life boat, carried along by the push and pull of the tide.

Switzerland 162 - Copy — 1 coat, 2 coat, red coat...

I don’t necessary think that it’s my clothing per say that’s getting me asked out, but since I’m not afraid to experiment with, and wear a ton of colour – in addition to taking different risks with my outfits (wearing traditional mens clothing, and mixing formal with casual pieces) – my style seems to attract a younger demographic.

Teenagers in general like to make comment on my choice in clothing and, or colour palette.

2011-12-17 13.09.30 — Animal print and stripes.

Then they want to take me out to coffee to talk more about my fashion sense.

3.) Read science fiction and/or fantasy books. My only caveat being – please, please for the love of pete, read good science fiction and/ or fantasy. None of this Sword of Truth/Sword of Shannara bullshazzle.

That will get you disqualified right out of the gate.

(However you’ll gain ten points if you read your sci-fi books on the bus.)

But to get back on topic: teenagers always want to talk me up about the books that I’m reading, but particularly if they are of these two genres. They want to talk to me about A Song of Ice and Fire (even back before it got all HBO-ed and coolified); they want to talk to me about Terry Pratchett; they want to talk to me about Richard Matheson. (Okay, so that last one’s more horror that anything else, but we’ll have to let that slide.)

IMG_4952 - Copy (2) — Even Mr. Penguin wants to talk about Game of Thrones.

They want to talk to me about books and then take me out to coffee to talk about books some more.

4.) Laugh to yourself. Whether you’re walking down the street, riding transit (seriously, RIDE IT!), sitting in a coffee shop, or waiting in line at the grocery store, be so completely lost in your own thoughts that you bust up your own gut like a busting thing.

London 013 - Copy — I love to laugh. ALL THE TIME.

Older people will think your completely bonkers (and rightfully so) but teenagers want to know what’s so funny.

And they’ll want to take you out for coffee.

5.) Quote the crap out of movies and TV shows. I was on transit once (did I mention that you should probably ride transit?), talking on my mobile, TO MY HUSBAND when I said, “that’s, just like, uh, your opinion…man” and the fella sitting to my right, spoke up literally, the second that I hung up, wanting to talk more about the Big Lebowski (aka re-enact the whole movie for the remainder of our ride.)

And then he wanted to go to a coffee shop, to re-enact our re-enactment – just in case we missed a part!

Yowzers.

He was pretty surprised when I declined, citing the fact that I was, you know, a married woman.

Which brings me to my last point:

6.) Wear a wedding ring. First, teenagers don’t look for wedding rings, so they are basically a moot point. Second, the longer I remain married, the more teenagers ask me out. And third, most of the teenagers who’ve asked me out haven’t cared when I told them that I am forever removed from the dating scene.

They all want to convince me of the reasons why I should no longer be married.

Over coffee, of course.

So there you have it ladies – six, very simple tips on how to increase the number of your youthful suitors.

But, let me finish off by saying this. Don’t wait around for someone else to make the first move. If you like somebody, go-go-gopher it.

It’s always better to know, and heck, if they like you back? Well, there’s no better feeling in the world.

Seriously, I’ll tell you more about it.

Tea anyone?