I hope your Saturday and Sunday were lemon scented, and awash in sunshine.
Here are a few snaps from the boogie-fest that has been underway in our neck of the woods:
Dinner.
Spinach salad with fresh chèvre, blackberries, red onion, satsuma, and chopped walnuts. Vinaigrette.
Hail storm.
Hail the size of pennies. Thunder and lightening just off of our porch.
Cat.
Staring contest + pine mustache.
Super moon.
Normally in our household, “super moon” means something else.
Dog friends.
Rosie and Frank.
Adventure:
Stepping into the unknown. Or my courtyard. (One and the same.)
Cat, redux.
Dragon cat.
Weekends just seem to fly by! But seeing as though I seemed to have blinked somewhere in mid-February and here we are the start of May, this doesn’t seem to be an isolated phenomenon.
The next month is going to be absolute madness in terms of work and other commitments, but as soon as we get into the meat of June, Mr. M and I can look forward to some adventuring of our own.
We have some pretty nifty ideas for both July and August – it’s just a matter of finding the time to sit down and plan things out.
I am so, so excited.
What did you all get up to this weekend? Any travel plans on the table?
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.
She is giving you five.
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.)
Lovers in a dangerous time.
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.
A go-to pose.
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.)
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?
I was in the process of finishing up my master’s thesis, and as such, was spending upwards of thirteen hours a day sitting in front my computer (and I use the term sitting pretty liberally, because for much of the time, I just contorted myself into the most back breaking positions imaginable to human kind – so much so that it’s really quite amazing I didn’t rework the entire curvature of my spine) writing a path dependent analysis of British and Canadian immigration policies and immigrant integration schemes, post-1945.
Nymeria was pretty much the best study partner I could have asked for.
Overall, I loved writing on the subject matter, loved my research (carried out both here in Canada and over in the UK), and very much loved the finished product.
Of course the million dollar question is, would have I said all this to you then?
Maybe.
Probably not.
What most likely would have happened instead, was that sometime during our conversation on the matter I would have either burst into tears, or begged you to go out and buy me a 7/11 apple fritter.
(Had you said either yes, or no, I probably still would have cried. From either disappointment or happiness – believe you me, those fat, salty sobs would have flowed.)
Sitting here, writing this today, with so much perspective on this event, it is pretty darn easy to talk about how great the whole experience was.
Nymeria is also here to remind me not to get completely delusional. She would like me to remember that at the time I was completely knackered. PLUS: Animal Print.
However at the time, I was a miserable wreck; as previously noted, my life was rife with high-drama crying fits, poor nutritional choices, and completely cringe-worthy, totally horrifying fashion statements.
If I only had one word to describe my dress sense for the first four months of 2010, it would be BRUTAL.
Just brutal.
I am disclosing this today, because I want to provide a different perspective (or palate cleanser if you will) from last Friday’s post.
I feel compelled point out that there have been times in my life where I have, on a daily basis, fashioned outfits that would have propelled me to the top of any worst dressed list out there.
Sometimes when I look at old photos, particularly of the early years Mr. M and I spent together as a couple, I often repeat to him, “Thank you so much for staying with me despite all the times I looked absolutely deranged.”
He normally just smiles, and dismisses my claims.
(Although, to be real here folks, if you take a second at the photos, he may be thinking along the same lines. We are a match made in (crazily dressed) heaven.)
But getting back to Thesisgate, 2010.
By the end of my scholarly run, things had gotten pretty darn bad.
Indeed, my closet had pretty much devolved into the following two outfits:
The first?
My pajamas.
The words on this sweater "who gives a hoot?" eventually became a short-lived life motto of mine.
Each morning I would wake up, and immediately begin writing. No shower. No bath. I would type away until about one o’clock, at which point I would eat a banana completely slathered in peanut butter, drink a pot of tea, and then have a massive, massive sweat-and-panic attack. To combat my massively rising anxiety, I would throw myself into different feats of strength, which sometimes meant push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups, but other times meant episodes of Gossip Girl.
After these exercises (in self-loathing), my garb would be sufficiently grodtastic, so I would take everything off, wash them, dry them, wash myself, dry myself, and then put the whole thing on again.
At the height of my efficiency, I probably had about three different sleeping ensembles on the go, none of which (I promise you) had a best before date that outlasted my defense date.
Blargh.
Outfit number two was my “Going Out Outfit.”
Now, at the beginning of January, this setup was at least a “semi-normal” ranking, on a scale from plain jane to absolutely barmy.
It mostly consisted of a pair of thick, comfortable leggings, a cute (albeit short) summer dress (it pretty much covered my bum and that was it) and a rotating duo of cardigans.
Unfortunately, before I really knew what was happening, I started adding soccer socks (on top of the leggings), big doc marten boots, chunky mens sweaters, and really outrageous scarves to the whole shebang.
I looked a bit like a cross between Daria, Blossom, and Claudia from the Babysitter’s Club.
The only thing missing was a giant hat with a bunch of fake flowers stuck to it. I mostly just wore old-school Canuck’s toques and a pink beret.
In my opinion, (and to the many, wide-eyed, confused individuals, who saw me wearing this in public places)- this is not a very good look.
For anyone.
(Or at least not anyone over the age of fourteen. In 1992.)
The day after I defended, Mr. M (ever the gentleman) very politely asked if I could never , ever, wear any one version of the getup ever again for the rest of my life.
I very respectfully (not to mention eagerly) agreed to do so.
I’ve also stopped eating 7/11 baked goods.
( But you can pry my penny candy from my cold dead hands.)
So there you have it my darlings. A (very bleak) fashion confession from yours truly.
Okay, so I have scoured my archives for a digital copy of my "going out outfit" and couldn't find one (good thinking on my part it would seem.) So please accept this as evidence of some of the silly things I do like take photos of my hairdo before going to work so I know what it looks like.
And I would like to make it very clear that when I do offer critiques on this here blog spot, they are never done with any malicious intent, or mean spiritedness. It is a way for me to deconstruct my relationship with the fashion industry, and how both my choices as a consumer, and my (evolving) taste aesthetic inform not only my perspective of the industry, but also of myself.
I spent a lovely afternoon with my sister in-law V on Sunday, and she remarked that she thinks there are lots of people out in the world who probably wish they could try on some of the more, well, unique outfits available for purchase at different stores, but never have the nerve or gall to follow through.
(To which I say (of course) is: GO FOR IT DUDES! It’s a TON of fun!
She also remarked that the salespeople probably spend quite a while speculating on who will even purchase the store’s crazier merchandise when its shows up at the store.
And just like them, I so desperately want to know who, if anyone, is out there is purchasing the strange apparel I’ve come across in downtown Vancouver.
And if I find out, I won’t have the heart to pass judgment.
After all, they’re probably just in the midst of finishing their PhD.
I understand that this photo is darn weird and sort of Jawa-esque, but this all has a purpose...
If today wasn’t enough to erase any remaining vestiges of the weekend from my mind, I don’t know what possibly could.
Stress was had, and I had all of it.
I would also probably argue that the dice (that were to determine this fate of mine) were loaded from the start – this fatigue did not stop and start with my workday, but much, much earlier.
You see, it began with a truly crap night sleep (especially when it definitely should have been an excellent, dead-to-the-world type repose what with how wonderfully busy, and chock-a-block full of whimsy and weirdness, the weekend turned out to be).
However, yesterday afternoon Mr. M and I made the sleep-altering choice to go see The Woman in Black.
Looking for a good five-word review of the movie?
DEAD VENGEFUL WOMEN ARE TERRIFYING.
Yeah, yeah, the film wasn’t the best that I’ve ever seen, and you can’t help but ask a million and one questions about X plot holes or Y character motivations – but gosh darn it – I spent the majority of the time either watching through my fingers or crammed into M’s elbow and, or armpit.
Question:
Why the flipping heck do old Victorian toys have to be so bloody scary? Who, in their right mind, would actually give their child a toy that looks positively possessed?
Repression must do terrible, terrible things…
Including, for one: scaring the ever living daylights out of me.
Ooof. Just walking around Metrotown after the end credits had rolled, I felt completely off kilter – as if the film had knocked something loose inside of me that I couldn’t quite put back into place.
There is something to be said about horror movies that explore psychological ills, or metaphysical (paranormal?) phenomenon, versus the old slasher, teen-virgin, never say “I’ll be right back BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW YOU WON’T!” trope.
Ghosts are simply scarier.
I think the most frightening movie I’ve ever seen is probably The Ring (or Ringu – it’s Japanese predecessor), with the Exorcist as a close second.
I was in grade eleven and two friends and I went to the Friday night midnight show; it was playing at the old Varsity movie theatre (a little freaky on its own, with or without the introduction of tormented, well-dwelling psychopathic spirits). I lived ten blocks down the street from the theatre and walking home at two thirty in the morning was probably one of the creepiest sojourns (or you know, ghost tour) I have ever taken, or hope to ever again undertake.
I actually do a pretty good "Ring-girl" impression. You should see me crawl out of a TV screen.
It probably took me an hour to finally make it to my front door because I was moving so slowly (also, I was walking smack dab in the middle of the street, for fear that if I strayed too close to the property line hedge growth, invisible hands would grab at my flesh, tear at my hair, and suck out my soul – imprisoning me until the sky burned red, and the seas ran dry.)
Or something equally as brutal (you get my drift, I’m sure.)
Zero winks were caught that night. ZERO.
Any time where you can think to yourself, “It might be true” is just a recipe for disaster for not only myself, but for the man for whom I’ve pledged my troth.
M can drive himself (and therefore, by proxy ME) completely bonkers, working himself into a frenzy, mulling over the one million maybes he and I attach to this genre of storytelling (or reality? That’s the problem, we can’t ever just tell ourselves its fake, and magically make it go away.)
The Japanese version of The Grudge is called Ju-On (very scary, not to be trifled with – watch only with all your lights on, in the daylight with a minimum of one other person, whom you can be sure will not leave your sight for the next twenty-four hours. What’s that you say? You’re a fully functioning human being who isn’t affected at all by this silly stuff? Carry on then. You lucky bastard.) and this word has actually become a permanent fixture in M’s and my vocabulary.
Something a little creepy happening? Unexplained phenomena making you paranoid?
That’s some crazy ju-on shit right there.
It has a two-fold effect. 1.) It’s a very accurate way of assessing and describing the situation, and 2.) It brings some much needed levity to the occasion, making it much harder to find a need to jump under the covers of your bed for the long-term foreseeable future.
Or something like that.
Cats are really good at warning you about evils spirits. And snuggling. They're good at that too.
So as you can see, last night (or should I say early this morning) I wasn’t channelling Rip Van Winkle, but instead refusing to look in the bathroom mirror as I re-filled my water glass for fear that alongside my reflection would be a pissed off widow, ready to banshee shriek my eardrums into nothingness.
Ugh, even just typing those words makes my heart pump a little faster.
So, the million dollar question is: why, if these movies make me feel as though my lifespan has been drastically altered (for the worse), do I watch them?
Why indeed?
I’ve always liked horror movies. Even though they scare the ever living daylights out of me, I’ve never shied away from watching them.
I suppose I like the adrenaline rush. I like to ask myself what I would have done in those circumstances, in comparison to the characters on screen. I like cramming myself into Mr. M’s arms one second, and then jerking away (or jumping under a blanket) at the very next.
It’s in its own way a sort of feat of endurance. Similar to a day at work, when you are stressed and under the gun, and the need to perform is palatable – all your senses, your brainpower, your problem solving capabilities are working in overdrive – you feel alive, you feel accomplished, you feel drained, and exhausted when it’s over.
You may even feel a little out of sorts.
And all you need to put yourself together again is a good night’s sleep.
I honestly cannot believe how crazy this week has been. I thought because I had taken Monday off, the days would magically fly by, and what a far flung fantasy that turned out to be!
Waking up today I was feeling more Forrest Gump, (post-multiple cross country runs) than Flash Gordon:
This morning, as has been the case for the past few days, as soon as our alarm went off, Nymeria announced her arrival in the bedroom by jumping up on the bed, and slathering us with her kitty kisses (and not to mention some very enthusiastic whisker rubs/headbutts.)
Also, our little gal purrs like the mother of all trains. Believe you me – the dream of a few extra minutes of glorious shut eye is resoundingly destroyed what with this fur monster-cum-locomotive, luxuriating next to your ear.
One day I will expire from cuteness overload.
It’s a good thing I’m madly in love with her.
When I dream tonight, I’ll dream of this:
…
"BED AND BREAKFAST"
The lobby of our “bed and breakfast” looks as though a bomb had gone off only minutes prior to our arrival. Plaster crumbles off of the walls and coats the exposed concrete floor. Someone has been painting, but it seems that they have left halfway through the job. Perhaps to buy more cigarettes, judging from the healthy number of butts that litter the floor. They have also left their paint splattered socks and a coffee mug half full of coagulated brew. A stench of ammonia hangs in the air.
We climb the stairs of a building that was built over one hundred years ago, and is only now undergoing cosmetic upgrades. Our guides from the university tell us that all the structural work was completed after the implosion of the Soviet Union.
Due to the state of the place, I can’t help suspect that Nikolai and Gleb are not really here to help us to rooms, but instead to kill us and make off with our identification and luggage. The door we stop at looks like the entrance to a bank safe I have seen in every action movie I have ever watched.
Nikolai turns to us as says, “By the way, don’t really expect breakfast. Bed you can rely on, but I’m pretty sure that sign is lost in translation.”
Right, I nod.
Also, he turns his face closer to mine. “Did you bring bathroom paper?”
I did, I say. One roll.
“Every restaurant you go to, get more,” he says.
…
One morning, during the second week of my trip, Aimee, a young teacher from California asks me if I would like to accompany her to the banya.
Vodka. Nuff said.
We don’t have a workshop to attend and because I have six new mosquito bites and can already smell the alcohol seeping out of my skin, I say yes. I haven’t exercised once since arriving in St. Petersburg and I figure if I can’t go for a run, I might as well sit in a sweltering sauna and sweat the booze out.
On the walk to the spa, I buy an apple blini.
The building is old, but neat looking with a carved wood banister and great frosted windows. At the front office we purchase our dried birch branches, cardboard sandals and scratchy luffa sponges. A young woman with heavy shadowed eyes tells us that level four is the woman’s area.
As we ascend the staircase, we pass numerous elderly men, sprawled out on small benches, with miniscule towels clumsily strewn across their genitals. Though most look as though they are asleep, we catch many of them eyeing us and we pass by.
Once we enter the woman’s only area, we are greeted by a petite lady, with bleached-blond hair, who sits behind a cluttered desk painting her nails. She asks us if we are excited for the sauna and when we tell her yes, she expresses delight over the fact that we have chosen her place for our first time. She hands us each a long, white sheet and a scratchy burlap hat.
Supposedly we are supposed to wear these once inside the sauna; it is a uniform that will protect us against the heat of the room.
(It doesn’t.)
Disregard whatever anyone has ever told you about Russian saunas. Russian saunas are HOT.
Hotter than hot.
It is a hot that screams, and bites and slaps and stings. It gets into your mouth, burns down your legs and punches you in the face. And it is unrelenting. It is so hot that you can’t just take off your clothes and walk right into one.
I often found myself going to my happy place (aka this picture)
You have to prepare.
This is done by travelling back and forth between the two smaller saunas, located in a different area of the spa. There is a “dry” sauna (supposedly cooler than the “real” sauna) and a “wet” sauna where you immerse yourself in a warm, slick fog that vaguely smells of freshly-picked lavender. The contrast between the arid and moist should raise your core temperature to certain degree – that way you won’t immediately expire upon making contact with the debilitating and searing broil that is the banya.
(It doesn’t.)
The sheet that I was given at the front (supposedly to wrap around my body) soaks completely within seconds of my entrance into the “dry” sauna. I give up and take it off.
I also notice that no one else is wearing the burlap hat I was given. I was told that it works well to keep the body’s core temperature low, but I just feel the Western fool sitting around in a scratchy Gilligan-inspired cap.
We soak our birch branches is a bucket of hot water so they don’t cut us when we start to flagellate each other. (Flagellate truly being the operative word.)
Finally, we feel as though we are ready to enter the real sauna. As soon as I walk in, I realize that no one is truly ever ready.
No one.
Okay, so this isn't the woman who beat me up, but they look very similar.
I am then accosted by a seventy-eight year old babushka (I know this because it was the only thing I could actually understand coming out of her mouth was her age) who announces that as it is her birthday, (or at least that is what I think she was saying) and that it is her responsibility to exfoliate my skin with not only my branches, but hers as well. She flings me down onto a wooden bench with the ease of a man fifty years her junior.
I cry out in pain because the wood is so hot it is literally burning my skin – my most sensitive parts feel as though they are about to pack it in and leave for a less harsh climate. For the next five minutes (though it seems like five years) I am thwacked from head to toe on both of sides of my body.
Finally, she stops. “Okay!” she barks. “Get up and you do your front!”
At first I don’t understand, but she soon rectifies my misunderstanding with a good hard swat across my chest.
Do your front! She admonishes me. Do it!
So I do. I do my front. I stand there, in the sweltering heat, self-flagellating with a dried birch branch.
My entire body feels as though it is one big blister.
Okay, enough, my drill instructor barks. Out, out! She shoos me out of the sauna and into a shower stall. This may be a little hot, another woman tells me, before they turn on the faucet. Out pours water fit for a teapot.
One minute, they tell me. I begin to picture how my death will be transcribed back in Canada. “Canadian women steamed in Russian bath. Death ruled non-suspicious due to stupid hat.”
Two days later, out at Peterhof, still looking for my sanity.
Just as I reach the point of no return, the water is turned off and I’m shleped across to the room to a whirlpool filled with ice cold water.
“Jump” I’m told.
I do.
As my feverish body makes contact with the frigid expanse of the pool something becomes crystal clear. I suddenly realize why Russian women live so long.
Rant and Roll 