Month one

Our little one is one month old today.  I have been a mother for a month.  It doesn't compute.

In the early days, in the middle of the night, when trying to comfort this little thing, while also trying not to cry out in pain from my own recovery and from exhaustion, I would think of him as someone else's.  Not a direct thought, but a delirious feeling that this couldn't be my life now. Forever.

Last night, Pruin slept in three hour intervals with no babbling.  We worked together, quietly and calmly, to each get back to sleep and I was very aware that this is my life.  Sometimes I am amazed at my ability to be calm and address his needs, even when that little face is wailing in my face.  Although, of course, there are times when I let him grumble to get just a few more minutes of half-sleep.

On Monday, we had a very large outing to the zoo.  Pete was working behind the scenes for the day (his Christmas gift from me).  I spent the day circling the animal enclosures trying to keep Charlie calm and happy.  No viewing of animal antics for me.  No viewing of my husband enjoying his gift.  I was barely able to find time to eat.  However, I did manage to flash a minor celebrity while breastfeeding near the meerkats.  So that's something.

I've always known I am a little selfish.  Maybe it's the only child thing.  Maybe I have just been spoiled and come to expect things my way.

That isn't happening much these days.  Without thinking I put Pruin first.  Every minute is a minute I am fully engaged.  There is not much thought for what will come later in the day.  I am constantly working through the list; feed, burp, change, cuddle.

There is nothing else.
Feed. Burp. Change. Cuddle.

There is no reward but silence.
Feed. Burp. Change. Cuddle.


I don't know if I do it, calmly, out of love or duty.
What I do know is it is like nothing I have felt before.


Feed. Burp. Change. Cuddle.

In the park.
In the cafe.
In IKEA showroom.
At the zoo.
On the couch.
In the night.
In the day.

Feed. Burp. Change. Cuddle.

There is nothing else.  For now.

I could

I could write about the process of having a bathroom redone and begging neighbours to use their toilet and shower while a fine layer of whatever horror is hiding in the bathroom floor sifts down to the kitchen surfaces below in a fine and steady pace.

Or I could write about how winter has somehow returned in full force and the accompanying winds are blowing over our house with a maddening wail that never stops.  Seriously, it’s like that chapter in Little House on the Prairie where she describes the constant howl of the wind driving women to kill themselves with the noise and the constant dust.

Or I could write about our prenatal class which is turning out to be a very expensive meet and greet and not much else.

Or I could write about being almost at the end of this first pregnancy and some lofty ‘what I learned’ moments that make me sound like I am calm and prepared.

Or I could write about pelvic pain and falling asleep drooling in my chair and discharge and excess hair growth and all the related glamour of pregnancy.

I could.

The thing about being pregnant, much like getting married, is that it is a private decision and process gone through very publicly.  Pregnancy much more so than weddings, but I think you see my point.

The thing about being a writer is that every moment and life experience is fodder for textual documentation and consumption.  Every life moment is an opportunity to connect with someone else that will read my take on the mundane and either find something relateable or not.  Again, private moments and feelings and reaction documented on a public stage.

I love writing bits for this space and while I have shared some bits that might be considered in the realm of ‘too much information,’ I haven’t shared much about either my wedding or my pregnancy.  Sure there are bits here and there and a few funny (hopefully) and cynical and maybe even honest observations but on the whole I have kept the core of these events to myself.

Maybe it’s because of the private/public nature of these events.  Being pregnant offers one up to the public eye more than any decision I have made thus far in life.  Writing about it in detail would open up yet another avenue.  I’m not really up for that.

Despite my complaints this pregnancy has been by the book, physically speaking.  No problems or concerns beyond the usual ‘charming’ niggles of growing a human.  Psychologically, on the other hand, it has been a bit of a battlefield. A private and often terrifying battlefield looming ahead.  There's no getting away from it.  You're going over the top with no guarantee of how it will all go down.


I could say my decision to move abroad with no plan or valid visa was a courageous leap of faith. Or driving into a blizzard with a motorhome to join the circus alone with no real plan beyond driving took courage and resolve.  Or eating the food in Morocco was a real test of bravery.

This trumps them all.

I could write about how I am finding the courage to face each day as I get closer and closer to the fateful day of the big push and becoming a mother.

I could.  I probably won't.


I will say, I could really go for a bath.

A Romantic Gesture

It’s half-way through February and I have finally gotten the hang of writing 13 instead of 12, so I thought the time was ripe for a ‘New year-new me’ post.  Maybe throw in a little Valentine's love.

Then I wrote this…


I didn't make any new year’s resolutions this year.  I figure with a new house and a baby on the way, this coming year is already going to be a long list of unmet expectations and goals so why pile on more self-inflicted guilt.

The older I get (because, you know, at 34 I’m aged and wise now) the less I find myself making sweeping proclamations or grand plans about who I am or will be.  I find life has a way of laughing at these kinds of gestures anyway.  What’s the saying?

“Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”

Little did I know when I made that high school art project emblazoned with this Beatles lyric that it would turn out to be the most poignant of life lessons for me time and time again.  I believe I have mentioned before how I have a tendency to become doggedly stubborn about a chosen glamorous, worthy of a rom-com script, life path and then become witheringly depressed when it doesn't pan out.* What I have slowly come to accept about my life is that the daily negotiations of everyday life, punctuated by occasional big decisions and leaps, actually created a very lovely life. Strangely, this realization is very close to the subject matter of my PhD. You know, one of those stubbornly-held-on-to rom-com plot points which now sits unread on maybe three bookshelves (mine and my parents’ included).

That being said, there are some things on the year long To-Do list and most revolve around Pruin and need to be done in the next two months because I’m giving myself the second half of the year off. If at next Christmas Pete and I are still looking adoringly into one another’s eyes (or at the very least can still stand to look one another in the eye after seven months of baby and resident in-laws) and the house is still standing and the baby alive, I will count it a successful year.

It’s the simple things, really.

The biggest item on the To-Do list (which coincidentally illustrates the ‘life is what happens’ discussion above) is officially changing to my married name.


*GASP*  cue shock and horror


I’m over the whole ‘should-a-woman-change-her-name-after-marriage debate/anxiety.’ Do it, don’t do it.  It’s no skin off my back. Yes, it’s a bummer that it is assumed the woman will take this action and that it is her place to do it. Yes, I can see the argument that it is a ‘feminist’ issue. However, there are so many more pressing feminist issues which involve extreme bodily violence, injustice and death that I can’t jump on this particular ‘first-world feminist’ bandwagon.

I waited at least a year into our marriage to even take the first steps due to over-zealous relations crying out ‘Mrs. Hislast, Mrs.Hislast’ moments after the ceremony and every time I was in proximity thereafter.  I mean, I had only just earned ‘Dr. Mylast’ two weeks prior and it was already getting swept under the table.  I had a year of angst around how changing my name would be losing my identity. It was all very rom-com, internal-conflict, fake-drama worthy.

I briefly tried the professional vs. personal name game. That was a worthless experiment as I have no professional life, but no ‘official photo id’ proof of the personal name.

Picking up packages at the Post Office became a real bitch of an experience.

I won’t lie, those experiences, which involved an over abundance of paperwork and tears, went a long way to sealing the decision for me.  (Is it really necessary to drag the marriage certificate, a property tax bill and both our passports to the office for a package from my in-laws? This is not a matter of national, or even postal, security. JUST GIVE ME THE DAMN CROSS STITCH!)  The imminent arrival of Pruin took me the rest of the way.

We already hold two different passports with two different names. Our visa applications are slightly more complicated because we have different names. We already cross customs in different lines because we don’t share nationality or name.  I wasn't going to add another small body to that confusion. I also am not going to saddle my kid with a double-barreled last name (my own double-barrel is the root of most of the name angst) along with double passports. If we are going to continue this international life we are going to do it as a family.  In name as well as biology.

Most importantly, I now want to change my name. My time with Pete and our life together are the best things to happen in my life and are the reason all those little daily negotiations of everyday life add up to a very lovely life.


Why not commemorate that little bit of wonderful with a mountain of confusing paperwork, an embassy, numerous international phone calls spent on hold at £1.50/minute and a governmental office visit?




** there are too many of these 'woe is me' posts to highlight and, really, who wants to remember, or read, privileged whining?

with child

Hello my name is Ariel and I am with child.

This is not news to you.
 
It is news to me.

Until quite recently, Saturday evening in fact, I was well aware I was pregnant, but it really hadn’t clicked that I was already a mom.

This is an identity I had been avoiding for about as long as I had known I was pregnant.  I wasn’t feeling connected to this experience or this ‘thing’ I was gestating.  I was afraid of it.  Sometimes I resented it.  A lot of the time I wished I didn’t have to deal with it.

I hated talking about it.  I hated pretending to be excited.  I hated trying to think of things to tell people when they asked how I was feeling or how it was going.

I was annoyed by other mothers pushing their pregnant or new mom friends on me.  I was tired of hearing stories of difficult births or assertions of ‘you’ll see’ and being told to get annoyed by XYZ.  I was annoyed by the assumption that I had names and nursery colours and schooling plans all picked out.

Truth be told, it is a lot like planning a wedding.

Being pregnant was becoming my defining personality trait and I find that really annoying.  I’m Ariel.  I just happened to be knocked up as well.  I didn’t suddenly change personality or interests because we made the decision to ‘do it’ without prophylactics.


On December 19th, a very distinctive and very tiny fist reached out and punched me.

It wasn’t a lightening moment of sudden ‘mom-dom’ and it wasn’t the first hint of movement, but it did stick in my head.  A very clear feeling of a miniature fist reaching out.  Like that movie poster for ROOTS (without the chain) or any student activist group anywhere.

Power to the People.
Or in this case…to the Pruin.

Around Christmas I popped.   My body suddenly had a very distinct pregnant look.  Pruin began to respond to Pete’s voice and touch.  A very cheeky personality seemed to form.  Slowly, I began to change my eating habits and start exercising again.  The more my inability to get off the couch and tie my shoes increased, the more I began to believe that this pregnancy thing was real.

However, it was still just an idea that it might be real.  That in about four months there might be a screaming, wriggling thing in the mix.  It was all still very abstract.  The slight changes I made were made for selfish reasons connected to body image and a real annoyance with heartburn.

Friday the snow started to fall.  I was so excited and was out in it walking to my chores with more enthusiasm than I have felt for anything lately.  Pruin wriggled and punched and kicked all day long.  To the point that it became really annoying and I may have directed an ‘Ok. I get it. You can chill out now.’ toward the bump.

Saturday seven hours went by and I didn’t feel anything.  Not one hiccup, or squirm, or readjustment.  As hour eight came along Pete and I spent a feverish 20 minutes prodding the bump, talking to it, playing loud noises and sitting in uncomfortable positions trying to get a response.  Pete got out the Ukulele and strummed loudly for a good five minutes, something which always gets a response.

Nothing.  Nothing was happening.

Finally, in a last ditch effort, Pete got very close to the bump and gave Pruin a very stern talking to.

…and got kicked in the ear for his trouble.


Pete looked up and smiled with relief.  I started crying.


I think it was part relief and part realization.  This isn’t just anything I am gestating.  Despite my annoyances and resentments and name-calling, I care about this little thing even though it gives me nothing but grief.
 
Shit.

That’s parental love, isn’t it?


Hello my name is Ariel and I am with child.  

a travel metaphor...

I've been thinking about journeys lately.  Geographical and temporal and mental and physical.  I guess it’s only fitting, being a geographer and all.  Places and movement in and between places is my jam. 

However, despite my academic pre-occupation with movement between places, in my everyday life I get very hung up on destinations. 

“it’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.” 

Somehow, I got this mixed up.  My approach to life planning, thus far, is basically to settle into every destination.  I get nice and comfortable in my little squat and forget to go out and look around.  I seem to prefer to sit in the corner and complain about missing the colours and people I remember seeing on the way in, having conveniently forgotten there is a bus stop just down the alley.  Or worse yet, refuse to believe there is anything outside my tiny world.

This is becoming problematic. 

I’m not saying I want to live a life of aimless roaming.  That would be exhausting.  At the ripe old age of 33, I’m too old for that.  I like my comforts and routine.  But I’m also too young to be accepting that this is always how it will always be or that I am running out of time and have missed the boat, so to speak. 

Seven years ago, I was sure I would settle into a nice little college town in a nice little house, with some cats and a library and become that eccentric professor at the end of the hall.  I planned to travel, but I never really thought about buying the tickets or how I would manage it on my own. 

I had been working toward this particular version of life for a good while and it seemed like it would happen. 

Then, my university department denied me entry to their doctoral program.  A few months later, I failed my master’s degree defence.  My carefully crafted world was falling apart.  And I was dating a guy who couldn't care less. 

At the bottom of this well, at seemingly the worst possible time, I got on a plane to Africa.  I was going with a friend to make good on a declaration we had made four years prior during a sleep-deprived study session.  Note: memorizing fossils in the wee hours of the morning can drive you a little batty.

That journey forever changed my life.

The feeling of being in Africa, of travelling down those bumpy, red roads playing with random kids who just appear, walking through markets and witnessing the collapse of an economy, has all but disappeared.  Or at least the immediacy of it has faded. 

Sadly, something more than scenery and smells faded.  I can’t quite put my finger on it.  I got a hint of it in Morocco, but I think I was too sick to really focus. 

I think it is something akin to peeking behind a curtain, seeing the wizard for who he is.  A talented showman making the best of a difficult situation. 

Maybe that is a bit heavy. 

Two years ago, my world kind of fell apart again.  However, and here’s the part I’m struggling with, it was the pre-Africa part of my life which fell apart.  The half of my life directly linked to my African journey was fantastic.  It was the stuff of childhood dreams wished for, but never expected; an international romance turned marriage, living abroad and travelling the world. 

Africa changed my life, but I didn’t change my plan to fit that life. 

“the best laid plans of mice and men, oft times go astray”

You said it. 

What I want to get back to, if I ever really had it in the first place, is to have an itinerary but be willing to deviate if the possibility arises or an interesting road beckons.  I don’t want to wear blinders and I don’t want to flit from place to place. 

Is that possible?  

I mean in day to day life, not just travel-metaphors. 

Photos: Stone Town in Zanzibar, Kande in Malawi, somewhere in Mozambique?

Thresholds

This past weekend I dug out my flip flops.  They were still covered in Morocco.  That last night in country when we walked back from dinner at the vegan cafe (because we just couldn't handle anymore tagines) through the pouring rain.  Weaving our way through the medina's alleys and passages now familiar after three days of exploration.  Our legs and feet slowly caked in rain and red mud and whatever else ran through those streets where horses, donkeys, feral cats and motor scooters shuffle the teaming crowds of humanity, even at that late hour.  


Those last three days in Marrakesh transformed our experience of Morocco but also transformed our vision of ourselves.  We had returned to Africa with the same mindset in which we left six years prior, rough and ready and willing to experience some hardship in the pursuit of the travel experience.  Then came two weeks of driving in a stuffy hot car for hours on end every day, hot hotel rooms above pumping night clubs, waves of sickness, fear of water and the inability to wash.  When we arrived in Marrakesh at the end of our tour, all we wanted was a shower and a plane home.  I wasn't interested in exploring any more, I couldn't look at another carpet or leather bag or handcrafted shoe.  




That was when I knew something had changed.  I had no desire to ogle shoes and handbags.  Something was definitely wrong and it had nothing to do with the searing cramps in my abdomen.  




In the most 'backpacker' moment I have experienced thus far in my life, we loaded up, (front and back) and hiked through the crowded alleys of the medina to a quiet corner, deep in the rabbit warren.  The directions indicating turns at the 'corner carpet shop,' 'fountain,' 'mosque' completely useless as they apply to every corner within the Old City.  Behind the big wooden door in a dark underpass was a beautiful and calm space we willingly fell into, covered in grime and sweat, bowels churning.  


In those last three days in Marrakesh, when we had access to working showers and quiet rooms and the freedom to roam as we pleased, we got comfortable with the fact that we had changed.  We weren't the twenty-somethings that ran away to Africa for adventure six years before.  We were thirty-somethings with obligations and responsibilities that had replaced 'exotic' adventure and we really were just too tired to try and replicate those magical weeks/months we experienced six years ago.  


This realisation, that I am no longer who I was, is a difficult double-edged sword for me to swallow.  One edge is 'thank goodness that time of insecurity and arrogance and ignorance is over' the other edge 'what fresh hell is this 'grown-up' thing of responsibility and obligation and constant effort?'


It's the constant effort that is catching me up lately.  There is no resting.  And while this is a lesson best directed at somewhat intangible goals, it is one that has come home in a very tangible way in the form of my physical body.


Three months ago I signed up for a half-marathon.  




I'll give you some time to let that sink in.  


A half-marathon. 


Me.  


At the time of signing up I had never run farther than 6K (about 3.75 miles).  A half-marathon is 21.1 K (13.1 miles).  I'm not sure what I was thinking.  


Three weekends ago I ran 10K.  


I got very cocky about it.  I tweeted and facebook-ed status-ed about High School gym stinking-that-in-its-pipe-and-smoking-it. 




I have yet to do it again.  After that I stopped running three times a week and have only gone for runs on the weekend and have yet to reach 10K again.  This is not how you train for a half-marathon.  


There is no real reason for this sudden apathy.  The weather hasn't been great, but it never is and I still managed to run three times a week throughout the entire winter.  The same thing with my weight loss/gain.  This past winter I reached my goal weight and then slid back into unhealthy eating patterns.  Coupled with less running, I have put back on about 10 pounds.


No.  There is something else going on with me.  For eight months I have been crossing a threshold without really being aware of the process.  It started with that realisation in Marrakesh.  I am moving toward a different version of me.  A grown-up version.  But every time I get close to embracing this next transition, I stop.  Almost afraid to continue through the door and leave the previous me behind.    


Two steps forward, one step back.  Reach a goal with 'grown up' responsibility and accountability, and then expect to reap the benefits without effort with 'childish' arrogance and entitlement. 


Intellectually, I know this is how life works and I think I am excited about the possibility of new-ish Ariel.  How horrible to stay the 'same' your whole life.  

But, damn.  It would have been nice to figured that out before we booked the 'rough and ready' Morocco tour.  Working showers and night club-free hotels would have made a world of difference. 




Photos: Tomb of Moulay Ismail/Meknes, flip flop full of Morocco/Sahara Desert

To thine own chocolate be true

I decided to finish the cake on a Demon Day.  Most people call it PMS or hormonal days. For me it's a Demon Day because when hormones, the housewife itch and my dramatic Sicilian tendencies mix, my husband hides in the lounge watching Formula 1 at unnecessarily loud levels.  If he has to cross my line of sight, he does it quietly like a mouse trying to get across the room with a sleeping cat (tail twitching) laying right in front of the mouse hole.  He's smart.  He's adapted.  It was the perfect day to make chocolate ganache from scratch. 




Let's back up.  The reason I decided to finish this particular cake on this particular day is because of our wedding.  On our wedding day I didn't get to eat my wedding cake.  I had the two ceremonial bites during the cake cutting portion of the evening (and also managed to drop one of those bites down my cleavage, a moment forever captured on the wedding video. Our vows didn't make it on film, but the classy cake cleavage was captured in full Technicolor with accompanying narration).  By the time I made it back to my table, the piece of cake waiting for me had been cleared.  


Last year for our first anniversary I made a small replica of our wedding cake.  I figured we had redone our wedding photos, redone our honeymoon, why not redo the cake fiasco.  I was also a little sad that, again, I would miss out on my wedding cake since the top tier was in a freezer in Cleveland and we were in London.  Dammit! I was going to have some cake!!! Last year it went relatively swimmingly, the frosting was a bit crumby, but it was brilliant. And so large and rich we had to cut it up into chunks to freeze.  We ate the last bit a few weeks ago.  


So as this anniversary approached, I prepared to do it again.  The actual baking went fine.  I make it a few days early as it only gets better with age.  It was the assembly that went tits up. In fact I woke up that day with sore tits, I should have known it wasn't the day to mess with chocolate and cream.  




I retrieved the fancy French chocolate I decided on for the ganache and got to work. Breaking it up with my mezzaluna knife, I was feeling very smug and assured in my ability to make this concoction from scratch and memory. The melting and gently folding begins and right away something is wrong.  The chocolate is melting in a gritty fashion.  Hmm, well, it is French, maybe it melts gritty and then emulsifies in to a beautiful smooth ribbon. 


No, it starts to release oil.  Oil!  What the F**k!!  All my domestic bliss and superiority begins to disappear and I start to feel the ugly cry bubbling up.  I take a few deep breaths trying to contain the completely irrational crying jag that is about to start.  It's just chocolate.  I sprinkle in a little powdered sugar thinking it is like whipping up double cream. Nope.  More oil is released.  Maybe a little raw cocoa powder.  Nope.  It begins to look more and more like something you would find in a diaper than in a beautiful chocolate stout cake.

F**K!!


At this point I start to think about how everything I attempt recently has failed and this is just one more thing to add to the list. This isn't really true, I have actually been having a run of good fortune, but what is a meltdown without letting those irrational hormones take the wheel?! With that ride comes some tears.  Why not? At this point I have lost all sense of reason. 


 F**k it!!


I pour out some of the oil in our kitchen sink,  praying it won't make that particular fixture any worse and let the chocolate slide (slide, like a big oily sh*t) into the glass measuring cup and then into the fridge thinking maybe it will cool and solidify into something usable, but at this point, pretty sure it is just going to be a cold lump of sh*t.  


I retreat to the bathroom to try and get a hold of myself before I lose it and start throwing stuff around the kitchen.  Pete is still sequestered in the lounge with one ear pricked for the pounding footsteps of his wife on the stairs so he can jump to and be the supporting husband.  He's already attempted the half hug, 'there, there' move which only makes me more frustrated because it is just pointing out that I have become completely irrational when I really just want to ignore that fact.  


Back to the fridge.  The chocolate sh*t has released more oil which is now cooling in a halo of yellow fat.  F**K!!!  


After throwing some utensils around in the sink I decide to head out to the offie and see if they have anything to offer to fix this situation.  I am routinely surprised by their offerings so I am moderately sure they will have something.  


Not today.  Today is not the day.  They have cake mix, but no frosting.  They have everything you might need to concoct an elaborate Indian feast, or just a meal with every known legume, but these Turkish brothers have nothing in the way of cocoa solids or even Betty Crocker frosting.  They have the fancy paste food colouring and three different kinds of yeast, but no baking chocolate. 


They do have Nutella.  I grab a small jar, the Sunday paper and at the last minute some chocolate bars from the candy rack.  


I hand over the change and walk outside.  The sky opens up and I walk the 500 yards back to the flat in pouring rain, dropping everything at least once.  I slam our front door with an expletive and the sun bursts forth.  


Back down to the kitchen I root around in the baking cabinet and find a small bag of baking chocolate that is probably past its 'best by' date, but what the hell, and break that up with the cheap chocolate bars I bought on impulse.  I'm going to give it one more go before I resort to the Nutella.  That's when I discover I have a huge glob of oily chocolate on the collar of my sweater and the inside of the apron.  Another glob on my neck.  


That's it.  Just pile it all on.  


At some point I have the fleeting thought, again, that this is just indicative of the past year, but, again, actually it isn't. There is a limit to the melodramatic. (Progress!) And again, I remind myself that while this past year hasn't been the best of my life, it hasn't been one f**k up after another either, even if it feels like it in this moment.  


I check the chocolate sh*t in the fridge one last time in a desperate hope.  It has released even more oil.  Where is it all coming from?  What kind of chocolate is this?  


With all patience and sense leaving me, I throw the cheap chocolate and the old chocolate into the pot with a bit of double cream and dare it to burn.  Just give me an excuse to really lose it.  As I move it gently around the pot (because even in my distress, I somehow have the patience to treat the chocolate with care) it becomes a beautiful smooth ganache.


That puts me in my place.  Who did I think I was, showing off with fancy French baking chocolate? 


I spoon the beautiful brown silk on the first layer, slice off the top of the second layer and suddenly all is right with the world (or so it seems after devouring the largish piece I sliced off).  I still have the buttercream to throw on and if last year is any clue, it won't be pretty, but it's out of a tub so at least I don't have to worry about it separating or going runny.  I don't have enough for a pure white coating but I have a new palette knife so at least it will be evenly spread.  And really, half the reason I am doing this is to have an excuse to use the palette knife. 




Three hours from the start and the cake is done and sitting under a tent of cling film.  I read the morning paper, Pete escaped the worst of the meltdown and the sun is shining.  




Perspective.  
A few years ago I wouldn't be able to tell you the difference between chocolate ganache and chocolate frosting.  I had a better chance of correctly identifying an obscure wrench than a palette or mezzaluna knife, let alone know how to use either.  


Lately I have been in a rut.  In writing, in life, in cooking.  Flying on auto and too distracted to do the work and remember what it was I really enjoyed about cooking, loving, writing.  


The cake was fabulous. 
From beginning to end.  

Day Out

In an effort to take advantage of our fair city, Pete and I attempt weekly walks. Usually we don't get much further than our sweet little ROYAL BOROUGH. I mean, with the Park and the Queen's Deer and the Royal Observatory and the Old Royal Naval College. 

The Market and one of the best little microbreweries around, why leave?

But occasionally we do head north of the river. Mostly this takes us to our second favourite place in town.

The Natural History Museum.    Love it.    Best Building in Town.    Dinosaurs!!!


Last time we headed out, we stayed on our side of the river and attempted a little culture.

Sidebar: I consider myself to be an average appreciator of the arts. I'm no historian and I have fairly vanilla tastes, but I can appreciate the far-out stuff. I was a modern dancer once upon a time and participated in some fairly out-there pieces (The object is the subject of the object...) and I have recently emerged from years of reading non-representational (codename for BS) and post-anything and everything theory. I can get into deep meaning but I also have a fairly good BS radar.

We decided to go to the TATE.

And I call BULLSHIT!!!

Maybe I have lost my artistic edge. We were definitely the most un-cool people in attendance, no skinny jeans, chunky (mostly unnecessary) glasses, asymmetrical haircuts in unnatural colours, weather inappropriate jackets and shoes. Kudos to them. Maybe I am just turning into an old fuddy-duddy but most of the art I saw that day was trash and crap. Literally. Piles of dirty laundry, used machine parts, and the cherry on the cake, dried crap on wires.

Our favourite: a video of blowing trash. No moving soundtrack or monologue. Just what appeared to be an iPhone video left on while walking to work. The bag in American Beauty was Gone with the Wind in comparison.

The best part of the day: Pete's commentary. In response to the video, 'Why not do something really meaningful and pick up the trash.' While looking at sheep shit on wires, 'If this is art, my parents are sitting on a gold mine.'

OK. Maybe you had to be there and witness the dry delivery and eyebrow raise.  I was laughing pretty hard.

But the best comment was a little girl trailing behind her dad, 'This isn't nearly as fun as I thought it would be.'  AMEN.

Near the end, I spotted a Monet.  It wasn't his best.  One of the 'practice' water lilies if you ask me, but I dragged Pete back. 






But, like I said, it wasn't his best and the little girl had summed up the experience pretty well. 


I make fun of the cool kids, but that's only because I'm jealous. I enjoyed their art more than the ticketed displays. It wasn't all crap. The sheep shit guy also had a visually interesting red display. I didn't get it, but I liked looking at it.

These inverted stairs were very cool and I enjoyed the visual of these wooden planks.

So how about you all? Are you one of the cool kids? Do you enjoy Modern Art?

What lies beneath...

…the TV is an interesting story of two individuals slowing merging their lives.

This weekend I continued the De-clutter campaign with the TV consul.  I am sad to report I didn’t remove much of the contents.  In fact, I just rearranged it a bit.  Missing the point a bit.  But it is easier to bear looking at, so I am counting it a success. 

I discovered we have a store of five random USB cords, some without mates.  I also found two Ethernet cords, some scart leads and random plug adapters.  These were all neatly coiled and stashed away, just-in-case.

Hmmm

Then there were the VHS, DVDs and CDs.  The VHS are off to the donating/recycling bin.  The CDs and DVDs were not so easy to dislodge.  The DVDs aren’t going anywhere.  I have a weakness for movies, good and bad.  The CDs we don’t use, but we are not sold on having a completely digital collection.  Pete works with computers all day and he, along with most computer-saavy persons, do not trust the things as far as they can be thrown.  I feel this way about our photos.  I love going through my family’s collection of photos and would love to have the same ability when I am older.  There is something about the tangibility of photographs that just can’t be translated when viewing images on a screen.  Despite this I yet to print out our favourites due to space.  It’s a vicious circle isn’t it?

So, the CDs and DVDs are staying.  I had hoped to stack them a bit more efficiently, but our IKEA furniture failed us.  For the first time.  Usually IKEA is on the ball with these types of things, ensuring their pieces can multi-task, but here they have failed.  The DVDs only fit lying down.  Bugger.

More interestingly, while I placed each CD and DVD back into the consul, I noticed something.  Our individual ownership over particular items is obvious.  Also obvious are the particular items that are most definitely jointly-owned.  These items seem to be increasing in number and use while the historic items get softer and softer in their literal dust jackets. 

Not so long ago this particular observation would have sparked a bit of a downward spiral.  I would have been scared I was losing myself in my relationship.  Worried I was quickly becoming one of those Smug Marrieds.  Everything becoming ‘we’ instead of ‘me.’ 

I have.  I am.  I have no shame. 

Anymore.

Despite my frequent lamentations here, my life is fabulous.  That’s not bragging.  I love my life, our life. 

I love it because I am part of a ‘we.’ 

Don’t get me wrong, I love my CDs.  They stir something in me.  Memories I treasure of earlier versions of me. 

I love our CDs more.  Let’s face it, they are just better.  But they are also a sign of growth. 

Thank goodness I am not the same person I was 10 years ago.  Thank goodness I can change and grow. 

I previously felt fear and despair over change and growth.  I still do, occasionally. 

However, more frequently, I am curious and perhaps a little bit excited about the person I am continually becoming. 

What lies beneath…

That’s all a little bit too heavy for an hour of de-cluttering, but every item in the house has a mental aspect.  In order to materially de-clutter I have to mentally de-clutter as well.

It starts with Turkey

Three years ago, Pete and I called our families and friends from a hotel in Istanbul to tell them the moment they had been expecting the past 3 years finally happened.  We were engaged. 

It seems a long time ago and at the same time, not so long ago.  We had spent the previous summer apart.  Our second bout of long-distance relationship-ing.  For those of you that still are long-distancing or have ever long-distanced.  My heart goes out to you.  It is tortuous. 

My lovey returned home Sunday afternoon and we are immediately back to what feels like long-distance again.  It feels like ages since I have been home and taking care of business.  We left for Morocco on October 8^th.  When we returned 18 days later, I had two very busy, non-usual, weeks before leaving for The States for a month.  When I return home on December 6^th it will be almost two months since I have had a regular schedule for housewifing and writing and working. 

On my first run after the gluttonous event that was Thanksgiving  week(end) I was thinking about how much I missed my usual running route but also about how much I missed my life. 

Being away from home and routine can sometimes feel like being in a kind of limbo.  I’m not talking about vacations, but more those necessary trips so common to us expats like family visits, visa visits, admin visits.  Those visits where you return to a place that should feel familiar, that is a part of you, but doesn’t really fit who you are anymore.  You hang between your past and current self.  You spend the days continually negotiating the space between these identities.  Or at least I do when there is nothing on TV and the cats are responding to my attempts to play with them. 

I find it next to impossible to get anything done during these trips.  This may be due to my own lack of self-motivation, but mostly I spend my time trying to come to some routine that works.  Routines are very important to me.  I find it very hard to function without one.  That’s not to say I can’t roll with it when I must, but on a day to day basis I like to know what I am doing when.  This doesn’t happen when I am away. 

Getting back to the Turkey.  It was appropriate for Pete to wait for Thanksgiving.  First, it’s one of my favourite holidays, right after Halloween, second, it is the time my family traditionally celebrates my birthday along with my Dad’s and Aunt’s.  I went into my thirties an engaged woman.  An identity I never expected or wanted until I met Pete.  Of course, I spent my actual birthday taking care of Pete and then eventually puking myself because we were foolish enough to drink the water in Istanbul, but let’s skip over that. 

I was thinking of all these things as I ran and I was thinking that I could never planned the life I am currently living.  As a young girl in Sheffield Lake I don’t know if I dared to think this kind of life was possible.  I know I had wistful dreams of being an explorer or a dancer or an actress, but I don’t think I ever really took those seriously.  Sheffield Lake is not a place that nurtures dreams. 

Today I am going back to Sheffield Lake to be a guest teacher in my old middle school.  I am teaching a class about Geography.  I know it is only a day, only one class, but maybe it will help a student dream of something bigger than Sheffield Lake and take that dream seriously.

Three years ago, I was in Turkey for Thanksgiving (which until that point had been just a joke on Everyone Loves Raymond) and was living a life that seemed impossible to a younger Ariel.  I was also embarking on a life that I hadn’t even gotten around to dreaming about as a younger Ariel.  Somehow, that moment I said ‘yes,’ and those few days in Istanbul, have come to mean so very much to me and who I am.

And here’s the thing, for as much as I like my daily routines, my larger life timeline and history happened almost entirely by chance or spur-of-the-moment decisions.  In the last year, as I slowly come out of a very dark time in which I thought I was a huge failure and life was one big screw-up after another, I have begun to realize that my obsession with planning everything is a bit of a an anchor.  When I just go with ‘it,’ ‘it’ seems to produce benefits, whereas when I attempt to plan my life, I end up in Limbo.  On the couch, trying to produce something and spinning my wheels. 

This Thanksgiving, and the end of The Days of Thanks, I am thankful for all the unexpected and unplanned moments and decisions in my life that have led me here.  Despite all my complaining, I am very happy.  Perhaps more happy than I have ever been. 

Turkey for all!!!!

I hope your Days of Thanks have been equally as illuminating and wonderful and send you into the holiday and end of year with a big smile and goodwill toward all.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a large pimple on my nose that needs attention.  It’s like my body knows I’m going to a middle school today and wanted to make sure I fit in, or at least knock me down a peg.

Housewife Scores!

It’s Friday!  Welcome to ‘The Chronicles of a Reluctant Housewife’ documenting my learning curve as a new, and unexpected, full-time homemaker.

Red wine & salt

While you wouldn’t know it from our current weather, last week was a bit chilly and I was feeling a bit snotty and the leaves were starting to turn so I decided to make my first cup of mulled wine.  I had a big mug and while I was sloppily taking the last gulp I dribbled.  A lot. 

‘SH*T!’

By the time Pete poked his head out of the living room to see what the fuss was about, I had ripped off my shirt and pulled the salt out of the cupboard.  Everyone has their own remedy for the red wine spill.  Mine is salt.  Lots and lots of salt and let it sit.  The next morning, the stain was almost invisible, in the wash and now you would never know. 

Sadie 1, Red Wine 0

Clean floor-who knew?

This past weekend I woke up with a pounding headache (see above).  In my addled state I decided it would be the perfect time to wash the kitchen floor.  On my hands and knees. 

Now our kitchen isn’t very big, at all, but it took me at least 45 minutes.  I stood up and, I sh*t you not, the floor actually sparkled.  The sunshine streaming through the window was reflected off the floor!!  I was so shocked by the difference, I think I mentioned how clean the floor is at least five times.  I still can’t believe it. 

Sadie 1, Floor 0

Salt in the eye

This is an easy one.  I was sprinkling salt flakes over a dish.  I might have been a bit too theatrical in my sprinkling form because somehow I got salt in my eye. 

SH*T!!

So much for my Top Chef flourish.

Sadie 0, Salt 1

Domino’s Dipping Sauce

We tend to get quite a collection of those green tubs of dipping sauce that come with Domino’s Pizza.  We stopped using the dip for the pizza awhile ago, but what do you do with it?  It just starts piling up?  It seems a shame to just pitch it.  In the last week, I used it to marinade chicken (which I then wrapped in streaky bacon and baked with tomatoes (YUM!!) and then a garnish on stuffed eggplant which I partially stuffed with breadcrumbs made from old croutons.  Am I crafty and resourceful, or what?  Don’t answer.  Let me live in my delusion for awhile. Still marking it as one for me.

Sadie 1,  Random Foodstuffs 0

‘Seasoning’

Last week during the cold snap, I made potato leek soup.  There are many ways to make this soup.  Our recipe calls for sealing the pot with parchment paper while the taters and leeks cook down.  You are also meant to stir frequently.  Now, Pete usually handles this recipe but I was rocking it out this night.  I pulled the parchment off to stir and apparently didn’t notice where I placed the paper.  I go to seal the pot again and find the paper in flames. 

SH*T! SH*T! SH*T!  

 Again, by the time Pete poked his head out of the living room, it was under control. 

Those black flecks in the soup?  Freshly Ground Pepper. 

(We don’t have a working pepper grinder)

Sadie 1, Soup 1

So, on the homemaker front.  Not too shabby.  Sadie streaks ahead with a score of 4 to 2. 

The profanity front…. Looks like Sadie looses to SH*T!  4 to 1.

You win some, you lose some. 

Conversation Space

How do you visualize a conversation? 

A swirl of colours or words.  A geometric pattern of lines and shapes.  A space to be occupied.

I never really thought about this before, but something a friend said a few months ago got me thinking about the space we take up in a conversation and what that might look like.  How does a conversation develop and thrive if viewed this way?  Do you occupy or observe a conversation.

Confession: I am a conversation occupier.  Like a benevolent dictator occupier.  I direct and redirect to my interests and purposes but everyone is still relatively happy despite a slight bitter tasting cocktail.  Or at least I was. 

It took me a while to see this in myself.  I only started really noticing it in my 30s.  There’s something about being in that third decade where everything about yourself and life starts to make sense.  You suddenly begin to ‘get it.’  All that advice handed out and ignored in your 20s is suddenly priceless and totally appropriate.  What is that saying? “Enjoy yourself, that’s what your 20s are for.  Your 30s are to learn the lessons; your 40s are to pay for the drinks.” 

I am enjoying my 30s.  I didn’t really have a breakdown when I turned 30.  I had a stomach parasite on my actual birthday, so I was exploding at both ends, but that wasn’t really a breakdown.  I had numerous thesis breakdowns during my 30^th year, but I don’t know how many of them were connected to turning 30.  32 has not been great.  I think it is my 30 breakdown delayed.  In their wedding toast my parents said something about me being a slow-starter.  I guess that applies here as well, it took a few years to have the 30 breakdown; questioning what I have done with my life so far, am I behind in life, what does the future look like, am I too old to play and wear stripey socks just for kicks? 

In order to try and get a hold of myself and make some sense of it all.  I created a Life List.  At first it was filled with things that I wanted to achieve in this life.  Literally, things.  Not experiences.  It didn’t have much joy.  It was about having a great wardrobe and a relaxing bathroom.  Not really ambitions or dreams.  It is still posted here, despite its joylessness.  Then I thought about what my life list would have looked like when I was a younger Ariel.  Before I became a ‘grown-up’ Sadie.   

When I was a kid, I wanted to be an explorer and writer, I wanted to be a showgirl on an elephant in the circus, I wanted to be a dancer.  As an older kid in high school, I wanted to work for National Geographic, I wanted to travel, I wanted to live in another country, I wanted to fall in love and have an impossibly romantic story. 

I have done every single one of these things.  What an eye-opener.  Without thinking too much about it, they are crossed off the list. With the exception of one: explorer and writer. 

This is a work in progress.  I think I have always been an explorer and writer.  When I was a kid I visualized myself dressed in khaki and discovering new places and people and telling the world.  Now when I look back, I think my decade long postgraduate career has been about training to be an explorer.  Learning the craft of ‘modern exploration’ if you will.  I’m not discovering new places and people, but I am definitely exploring and learning about life and the creation of places (my particular interest as a geographer) and writing about it along the way.  I have always been a writer.  I have always expressed myself on paper.  It may not be pretty or elegant, but I think through writing.  I don’t always know where my writing is going, but it always seems to come full circle and make some connection for me.  I seek out stories and love telling stories.  Of course, I tend to embellish a bit, but you would be surprised how little I actually have to improve the truth when it comes to my own antics.  I am a magnet for the ridiculous. Or at least I have an uncanny ability to recognize the ridiculous being the daughter of circus clowns. 

I think this explains my previous benevolent dictatorship approach to conversation.  I wanted to tell my stories.  I wanted to entertain.  Of course, as a postgraduate for a decade, I was living a very solitary life and part of my occupation was due to desperation for human contact and connection.  “You did that? I did that, too!! Here’s my version. I’m too excited to wait until you’re done. We’re the same, isn’t that awesome?!” 

In the last year, I have started to observe the conversation more.  The experience of being a researcher has taught me the art of observation.  And it is an art or at least a skill.  The space of a conversation is an art and I find the observation of it to be a fascinating experience.  I now see the colours and lines, the give and take of the space.  The observation of a conversation can be as telling as the words spoken. 

I will still participate in the swapping of stories.  Any good explorer worth their khaki participates in the place and events they observe, to some degree. 

 “Knowledge of such memories comes more readily to the observer-participant, who has danced the dance or joined the procession, than it does to the reader.”  -Joseph Roach

Is ‘explorer’ a viable career path?  Do people have business cards that say ‘Explorer?’ 

I read today that NASA is looking for astronauts.  If kids can still aspire to be an astronaut then I guess I can still aspire to be an explorer. 

My current subject:  the places and ways of the new breed of young, educated housewives.