The Reveal

I know you have all been waiting patiently for the bathroom update.  What could be more important right now?  In all seriousness, this bathroom being done is the most important thing for me right now.

It was actually finished two weeks ago but we had some shower leakage problems.  As they say, third time's a charm and we seem to have all the problems fixed (touch wood, fingers crossed, etc.). I now know more about plumbing and the logistics of building than I care to know. I'm sure it's all useful information but I'm hoping it gets filed away in the same place as 80s commercial jingles and cartoon themes.

We still have to paint and decorate.  In six months we will still need to paint and decorate.  At this point I don't care.  I can shower and bathe in my own home and it's pretty.  It's the nicest room in the house.

Without further ado, here are some quick and dirty before and after shots.

How'd'ya like them apples?!



Actually, I lied before.  It isn't the nicest room in the house.  The nursery is pretty good too.  Pete spent a week DIY-ing the panelling and we spent two days wallpapering. (Top tip: don't wallpaper.) Of course it won't be in proper use right away but it's still nice to know it's done and we have a place to store most of Pruin's things.

I think we're done with home renovation for awhile.

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.

Photo Friday

Just some treasures found during the demo of our bathroom this week.  We've managed to save the old fireplace alcove, but the red hearth will be hidden again.  The old newspaper found at the foot of the toilet is a remnant of old floor insulation techniques. 

Toilet Talk

I promise this is not about throwing up or pregnancy related.

At least not completely.

our home sweet home
(the white door in the middle)

When we settled on this house as 'The One.' We were considering its location, general upkeep, size, room placement, garden placement, proximity to transportation, room for improvement, etc.  It has new windows, a new roof, new boiler, damp-proofing: all big investments we didn't have to make.  Perfect.

However, it also has a kitchen and bathroom that haven't been touched since the 70s, a different off-white or tan carpet in each room, potentially dodgy electrics, and textured wallpaper, too-short blinds (visible in the above photo) and faux fireplace in the living room.

These things didn't bother us too much (with the exception of the dodgy wiring).  We get a chance to make it our own space.

As our schedule was a bit tight, we planned to move into the house as it stood and make plans after living in the space for awhile.

This sounds great in theory.  In practice, I was newly pregnant, sick as a dog and squatting in someone else's house.  Or so it felt to me.  It was our furniture but I was staring at, and living with, a stranger's questionable design choices.  The bathroom alone was enough to make me sick without the help of hormones.

avocado with a side of cork

I decided pretty quickly that the bathroom was going to the top of our list of projects.  This decision might have been slightly influenced by the abnormal amount of time I spent with dear Kermit here but there are other contributing factors to back up my prioritizing.


Let me take you on a short tour of this peculiarity.  Hang onto your hats.

Hello, my name is Cork. 

The 'Romantic Roman Ruins' tiling really classes up the joint.

The wood panelling pulls the room together. 

Before you say, "It's not soooo bad."  I would like to inform you that the box on the wall is the alleged 'power shower.'  It's gravity fed (read: campground shower trickle), choked with 30 years of limescale, and took us a month to figure out how to get the water to reach a barely acceptable temperature above freezing.

It was so painful, I took baths for the first month.  I would sit huddled in the water like a child, splashing water over my body in order to rinse and trying to see the humour of the situation instead of crying uncontrollably.  I contemplated getting one of those white 'granny' attachments for the bath taps to at least get some semblance of pressure and heat but I couldn't find one with a long enough hose.  I started bathing every other day in an attempt to avoid the pep talk I needed every morning to face the bathroom.

Pete bravely stuck it out.  Facing bracing showers at 5am with no complaint (although we did move a portable heater into the room in an attempt to produce an environment that would live up to the sauna-like interior.  It didn't work.), it was Pete who finally discovered how to finesse some warmth out of the water.

It still has no pressure and is situated in such a way as to necessitate a slight back bend in order to really use it properly.  I don't need to tell you that at almost 25 weeks pregnant, back bends are becoming increasingly more impossible.

However, lest you think it's all misery, the wall opposite the shower features an enormous mirror so you can watch yourself shiver and wriggle.  Comic relief built right in.


I show you this now because we are in the midst of collecting estimates on the remodel.  We have the design sorted and have the fixtures picked out and on hold.  With any luck, when it's done it will be the nicest room in the house.

And before you ask, we didn't contemplate DIY.  I'm pregnant and Pete works in an office with computers. My father-in-law is a builder but he's in New Zealand and the skill isn't genetically transferable.  My father builds theatrical sets but he's in Cleveland and we need this to hold for a bit longer than your average two week run.  So we are hiring people in to do the dirty work.  We are not ashamed.

While hiring someone in instead of doing it ourselves will provide less fodder for funny/ridiculous/incredulous anecdotes, it will hopefully save our sanity.  In a relatively short amount of time we will be at the end of our sanity ropes and up to our necks in diapers and despair so cutting down on the craziness can only be for the good.

It will also be really nice to take a proper shower on the rare occasion I find the time.

November

It’s the day after the US presidential election and I don’t feel like puking.*  

Seems as good a time as any to start things back up.

For the last two years November becomes the Thirty Days of Thanks in this space.  On the surface, this practice was in deference to my favourite holiday, Thanksgiving.  As I contemplated doing it again this year I realized that it is also a coping mechanism. 

The first year I was in a very, very dark place.  I had put on those post-wedding/post-PhD pounds and lost momentum in the job market.  But the real clue I was stumbling was finding myself on a week’s holiday to Paris, completely paid for by my husband’s work, hiding in a hotel room in the business district.  

I was in Paris! 

Not my favourite of cities but not my least favourite.  I had all day to myself and was one train stop away from the centre of this beautiful city (I mean I could see the Ferris Wheel in the Place de la Concorde from our hotel room) and I was hiding in the room watching BBC daytime programming (reality programming seeking out ‘cowboy builders’ and various ‘benefit cheats’).  The housekeeping staff felt so sorry for me they started delivering free macaroons to the room.  The situation is obvious in the posts I threw up in this space.  I was thankful for ‘stolen apples’ and ‘my headtorch.’  I was so far down my hole I couldn't see beyond my daily situation to find things to be thankful about.  

Shortly after that trip I joined Weight Watchers and started CBT therapy and by the time the next November rolled around I was feeling good.  

Really good.  

I was 30 pounds lighter and regularly running 6Ks.  We just returned from Morocco, a trip we dreamt about for years, and I started volunteering at a place I hoped would jump-start my working life.  I threw our first Halloween cocktail party and then headed back to Cleveland for a month.  

Last November I learned you can’t go home again.  It’s a cliché, but it’s true.  At least for me.  Going back to the US causes me all kinds of stress.  When I left the US six years ago I was flailing.  

I was going on my third year of flailing.  

To be honest, I was running away and trusting to another cliché (love conquers all) that everything would out.  The girl who left is not the woman that returns and Cleveland is slow to catch on.  Or maybe we both are playing catch-up.  I was counting the days until I got to go home, my home, the home I had built with my person.  Once again, November’s Days of Thanks became painful and difficult to write and turned into a kind of therapy.  


Which brings us to this year.  

Following the pattern, I find myself with a need to cope but for completely different reasons.  In September my world changed drastically (and I guess that’s where this long-winded post is going).  
In September we moved into our very own house.  A few months earlier we made a concrete decision for our future. Finally stepping away from some abstract, what-if, if-where, future shaped by the demands of our families.  This was for us.  Just us and everyone else would have to deal.  

Two weeks before we moved we found out we were pregnant.  












That’s what happened to us as well.  A double-take and a long HOLY SH*T-type pause.  


Shortly after the move, the year-long volunteering gig I hoped would jump-start my working life ended leaving me with a lot of ‘experience’ but still tragically underemployed.  

Prior to all this change I was blocked.  I had the words, but I couldn't get them out on a page. I write best when ‘improving’ the truth of my day to day circumstances and I had become a bit of a bore. So the universe served up the perfect writing prompt: 


new mortgage, knocked up and unemployed.


Is this my life or a sitcom premise? 

This is all to say that the Days of Thanks will most likely take a backseat to new house/preggo anecdotes.  

I hope you’ll stick around.




*see what I did there? 

In the Meantime III

So...

September happened.  I assume September happened because the calendar now says October and I am sitting in my new house, but that might be my only proof. 

The few scattered memories of the past weeks aren't much help. 


Sleeping on a mattress on the floor of our Fingal Street flat and crying about leaving a space that felt more like home than any space before.  I remember returning to the empty flat a few days later to clean and walking into an empty bedroom that smelled like our bedroom and crying.  

My skin can still feel the raging wind on the beach, described as a light breeze, whipping away any relaxation I hoped to gain sitting in the sun on a spit of land called Greece but serviced by Turkish cell service.

The anxiety and disappointment of a long-awaited interview, bookended by a very sad (figuratively and literally) shower.

Virtual friends becoming real friends. 

Tomatoes!!!

I am plagued by a constant feeling of being lost.  I lose things in the house constantly, I don't know the foibles of the house yet, I haven't hit on a routine in the house just yet, I don't know my neighbourhood yet.  We moved less than a mile from the flat but in a city where amenities are set up by walking radius we have all new services to find. 



And now it's October.  Back to School.  It will always feel like the beginning for me instead of the natural winding down.  Although that feeling is there as well.  How can it be helped when the sunlight is slowly disappearing and soon it will be dark at 3pm.  The long winter rain cloud arrived and is making itself at home.  Thankfully the new house is actually insulated and I can almost forget about the damp upholstery of the Fingal flat. 

As I look out the office window at the primary school across the street, I find myself missing my Fingal neighbours.  I didn't know them really but I was very familiar with their daily habits and goings on and I find myself wondering about the lesbian couple across the street, has the brother moved out yet? The gay couple next to them, is he still opening the blinds wearing nothing but tight briefs or has he switched to boxers? The crazy, loud, obnoxious family next door, what stage is the teenage daughter going through now?  The foul-mouths behind the garden, have they trained that dog or broken the tire swing yet?  

I'll never know now.  It's like your favourite show being cancelled after the cliff-hanger.  But unlike the TV show, life is continuing on Fingal Street.  Our sitcom moved location and there will inevitably be a whole new round of mishaps as we get comfortable.  I should state that the majority of mishaps we deal with are entirely my fault.  I'm a menace.  The most recent...almost gassing us because I don't know how to use the grill on our new cooker.  Oops.

We may be attempting a DIY/circus-rig fix of the sad shower which I can almost guarantee will be laughable.

   

It's going to be fun, people.  Stay tuned.  

What I've been doing other than writing here...

Now that all the paperwork is FINALLY done, I can tell you that we bought a house.  

Crazy grown-up shit, right?!  We can't really believe it either, except when we look at our bank account.  Then it becomes real as a punch in the face.  And that is what it felt like sometimes as well.  Ugh.  

Because we like to cram big events together into the most inopportune times*, we decided to buy a house in an Olympic borough, during preparations for the Olympics.  Needless to say, it took a bit longer than expected as no-one in the city was at their desk or if they were they were too busy watching the action to file some paperwork for little 'ole us.  

But it's done now and in a few weeks we will be settling into our third home together, but this time it is well and truly ours.  No crazy landlords refusing to fix burst pipes.  Now we will have sole responsibility for said burst pipes.  FABULOUS!!

But seriously, we are excited to have a space of our own to do with as we wish (with council approval, of course).  There are a few choice decor items that I know you are dying to see, for instance the bathroom wallpapered in imitation cork with beautiful, truly vintage, avocado bath, sink and toilet.  But that will have to wait for a bit.  


Meanwhile, while we *patiently* waited for paperwork, etc. we poured all our energy into nurturing another baby. 

GOTCHA!!!  Meet our little babies.  Tomas and Tommy.  We love them.  

We picked these guys up as seedlings.  During one of our walks through the 'new' neighborhood, we noticed someone had put out some tomato seedlings that needed new homes.  we scooped up two and they lived in the shower for two weeks before moving to their new home.  We have urged bees to visit and actively removed snails and slugs.  They are flourishing with our attention and we think they make a great addition to the family.  

I've also been sewing like a madwoman.  Last week I spent two days creating havoc in the living room as I burned through the t-shirt quilt.  An eight-hour run followed by a twelve-hour run have left me with almost complete quilt top and bottom.  You can read about the process over at Squaring Up.  

So that's me.  Not as exciting as you hoped, I know, but not everyday can be spent in the medina or recording petulant baking and laundry woes.  

What have you been up to these last few weeks?  

*see completing my PhD, international wedding and job change in June of 2010.

Approaching customs...have passport ready

Seven years ago I landed in Heathrow airport, just another tourist.  I was returning to the US from a few weeks camping and travelling through east Africa.  A few weeks which had forever changed my life.  The night before I had said a very tearful good-bye to my holiday fling who, five years later, would become my husband.  


At that point I was not aware of the massive shift which had occurred in my timeline.  I was, however, very aware of not being sure how to get to our hostel.  The city was still in chaos following a transit bombing a few days prior. 

I remember being aware of a low level panic coupled with a determination to continue with life as usual.  I remember being aware of very strong body odour on the tube and bus and realising, with horror, that it was coming from me.  I remember a moment of silence settling over the entire city one morning.  


For three days, my dear friend and a new friend, roamed the streets of London.  We walked past Buckingham, Big Ben, the Eye and along the south bank (Southbank).  We browsed the book tables under the pedestrian bridge at Embankment and joined a tour through the Globe Theatre.  We wandered through Kensington Gardens and got repeatedly lost in winding streets with no signs. We rummaged through thrift shops in Notting Hill and marvelled at all the vegetarian options unheard of in the US and Australia.  


And when it was time to leave, time to return to my previous life of four jobs and no health insurance, we hailed a cab and asked to be taken to the nearest working station for the 'blue line.'  Not realising there are two blue lines (and what we wanted was the Piccadilly Line), we navigated a surprise mid-journey change with bulging backpacks.  




In little over a year, I would be landing in Heathrow again. The African holiday romance proved to be 'the real deal' and an interview with a university waiting for me. 




It's six years later and it looks like we are here to stay.  At least for the foreseeable future.  
This is exciting and a bit sad simultaneously.  We are attempting to move through that expat transition of 'when do we go home?' (a question made all the more difficult by having two homes and families to consider) to 'this is our home.'  This decision feels a little bit like an adventure.  Like an adventure on par with running away to Africa in that this one little decision, to call this place home, has the potential to change our timeline in a million ways we could never have imagined, even just a few years ago.  This is grown-up adventure. 


Having made the decision (or to be honest, giving in to the lure of Greenwich and earning GBP) to take up a more permanent residence here in London, means we also made the decision to endure A LOT of rain and non-existent summers.  We both grew up thinking summer was hot and sticky and sunny (albeit at completely opposite times of the year).  It's a bit heart-wrenching to think our children could grow up thinking our memory of summer a complete fabrication.  


And then there are the deeply-held and loved holiday traditions which either don't fit with our adopted country's weather patterns (Christmas Barbecue and New Year's baking on the beach), are slow to catch on (costume parties and Trick-or-Treating on Halloween) or are completely non-existent (Fireworks and parades on the Fourth of July, Turkey and football (American-style) on Thanksgiving).  And of course, the new-to-me holidays and accompanying traditions of Guy Fawkes, Boxing Day (which bare a resemblance to the Fourth and Black Friday) and random Royal events.




As most of my readers will know, there is a lot of talk on wedding/marriage blogs about creating your own traditions.  When talking of a wedding, this seems a nice concession to each family of origin and the couple and makes for great wedding stories  of harmony and independence.  Looking forward into a life of forever new traditions, this idea seems exhausting.  We aren't just talking about melding two families here, we are also adding three/four cultural heritages and customs to the mix*.   


Most of the time it is relatively easy to just go about our usual business and traditions.  Occasionally we include some friends willing to go along with whatever traditions we have mashed together and it really isn't such a big deal.  


Except when it comes to holidays traditionally spent with family.  Then it is just us two and the gatherings that make the holiday so special are absent.  The people we wish to be gathered with spread across the globe.  


When I left Africa seven years ago, I knew I would keep travelling.  Something clicked within and I knew I would be forever compelled to seek out new places and observe the similarities and differences and general beauty (and sometimes ugliness) the world has to offer.  


What I didn't know was that one stamp in the passport, one graphic permission to enter, would mean a lifetime of shuffling back and forth between families in three corners of the map.**  

Can I find the new and exciting, the beauty and the darkness, in places so familiar, yet far-flung? 




Will the stress of trying to maintain family traditions and customs mean that we resign ourselves to becoming *gasp* British?  








NEVER!!! 


They may take our accents and summers but they'll never take our pumpkin pie and pavlova.










*For those of you new to the Graphy and slightly confused on how I got to 3/4 when speaking of two of us, here's a crash course in our background.  I'm a mid-western American (1).  Pete is from New Zealand (2) and of strong Croatian stock (3).  We live in London (4).  (I occasionally claim my 1/2 Sicilian blood, but really only when I am overly dramatic/emotional or have to choose a team to back in European sports tournaments.)


**Don't hate me. It's really not as glamourous as it sounds, all this travel.  Anyone who has experienced the 30 hour one-way trip between NZ and London, 24 of those in air, will testify.  It is painful and maddening.  Scream-into-your-airline-pillow maddening.  


Apologies for the random white highlighting.  I've obviously done something Blogger doesn't like.  I'm working on a solution. 

A Mighty Return

Yesterday, being the *good* housewife I am, I noticed Pete's 'dress-down' jeans were still in the laundry basket and quickly gathered up a load of laundry.  Before I started the wash I texted Pete to let him know the jeans were going in the dryer to be ready for tomorrow. 

No problem, he replied.  If they aren't ready, I'll just wear something else.

This is where I should have left it.  He had something else to wear, no need to rush things and get the dryer going.  Especially after this...

The noise actually stopped shortly after I sent this out.  I forgot about it and moved on.

The washer stopped, everything seemed normal, no need to think anything was wrong.  Although now I think about it, when I rearranged the clothes before the dry cycle they were a bit heavier and more wet than usual. 

Then, things started to go a bit wonky.

Disregard the time stamp at the top.

See, I went down to check on the dryer and there were suds.  Lots and lots of suds.  Needless to say, there are not suppose to be suds.

Pete couldn't handle anymore bad info, so I took to the interwebs. 



And then things got worse. 

I started pressing buttons with the hope of figuring out the Mystery of the Drying Suds. 

I turned it off.  Waited.  Turned it back on. 

Nothing.

So now I had a washer full of clothes and water and suds.  And because it is a front-loader, there is no way to get the clothes out until the water disappears.  Which it wasn't.



This is around the time I started to freak out a little. 

I know. It's just a washer, it's no big deal. It can all be fixed.

It's a testament to how stressed we both are that this turned into a drama.  A really big drama.

I cried.  I kicked the washer a few times in the hope that it might literally kick-start. 

Nothing.

I tried shaking it.  But it is a washer full of water and sodden clothes.  It wasn't budging. 

My twitter friends offered advice, from the usual, 'unplug it' to the more fanciful, 'sing to it and stroke it gently.' 

I offered it chocolate.  Really good, 70% Dark Chocolate.  But the washer remained uncommunicative and cold. 

I mean I was willing to work with it here.  I would give it whatever it wanted.  Anti-limescale tablets.  Gentler, more expensive, washing powder.  Two days off a week.  Whatever it wanted. 

JUST F****ING GIVE ME SOME INDICATION!

Still nothing.

I started to get desperate and began collecting tools to disconnect the water hoses and poke around inside the washer.  I stopped myself just as I was unscrewing the first connection. 

This was probably not the best plan of action. My attempts at home repairs, more often than not, just make the problem worse. 

So I gave in and informed Pete of the situation.

You'll notice that after I gave in and admitted to Pete it was broken.  He didn't respond. 

30 minutes later he tells me he's on the way home.  But no mention of the washer drama.

This is where it all turned around.  I decided this was going to be a shit situation any way we sliced it.  So why not try and turn it into an adventure.  A story of our joint triumph over the washer. 

I threw some beer in the fridge and waited. 

We tackled the washer together and came out the other side. 

There was a lot of water.  A lot of sodden towels and buckets, tupperware and mugs of dirty water.  A fair amount of swearing (but not as much as I expected).

And a collar stiffener. 

That was the culprit.  Those little arrow looking tabs that go into shirt collars to keep them from curling.  That innocent little piece of white, pliable (yet indestructible) plastic.  How it got jammed into the water pump I will never know.  I vaguely remember a shirt loosing one months ago.  Like last year. 

That's how the story ended.  A collar stiffener jammed in the water pump. 

We put it all back together.  Had another beer.  And ordered pizza. 



Here's the surprise twist.  The rest of the night was really nice.  I mean, we didn't do anything terribly exciting.  We watched some TV and got ready for bed.  But we truely enjoyed each other's company. 

Our nights of late have been a bit sullen and quiet.  None of our usual silly banter or joking. Just sitting side by side quietly watching repeats on TV while eating a boring meal.  The joy of being at home together is squashed a bit by the realities of grown-up life lately and it's been getting us down. 

Our triumph over the washer was just what we needed to give us a little boost.  We fixed something.  We didn't have to wait on anything or anybody.  We fixed something that had gone wrong.

In some intangible way it reminded us that we are a solid team and we can totally do this grown-up thing.  







In the Meantime II

Hello dear readers,

You face-less and ever-diminishing group.  You're wonderful.  I really don't deserve you.

What can I say?

We've had a hard few months over here.  Lots of uncertainty, lots of loss, and lately, lots of mucous.

Lots and lots and lots of orangey, yellowey, greeney mucous.  Going on 18 days...

When months like this come around, and around, and around all you can do is circle the wagons and hunker down for the duration.  And that usually means cutting out some activities that just add extra stress.  Like blogging. Or laundry*. 

We are taking turns taking care of each other, physically and mentally.  As painful and annoying as these turns can be, they are also one of the best parts of being married, I think.  I mean right up there with watching the luggage while you pee and being contractually obligated to clean up your mountain of snotty tissues.  That 'in sickness and in health' clause is handy. 

But it's not all tough.  We have a better appreciation of each other as the mucous starts to diminish in color and frequency.  (all together now, aaawwww or eeeeewww)  And while there is still a lot of uncertainty, we are beginning to move forward despite the unknown. 

This is all very vague, but some things are best left off the interwebs.  We are at one of those moments in life where everything could suddenly change or it could stay exactly the same.  We are hoping for change, as we quietly dread it at the same time.  (And just for the record, and I hate that this is exactly where everyone goes when a married woman of a certain age talks about change but... all this talk has nothing to do with offspring.  Mom, I'm looking at you.)

With that being said, or not said as the case seems to be, we could use some good vibes.  So whichever way you lean, I humbly ask you to burn some sage, light some candles, say a little prayer or do a little dance and send some good energy our way. 

And with that, I leave you for another undisclosed amount of time. 

Cheers and much love,

Ariel  




*However there is still time for baking and after two over-heated hand mixers and one crying-jag over my inability to determine 'stiff peaks,' I made that monster Pavlova and it was SWEET! I mean literally, so sweet it hurt your teeth.  Sadly, no photographic evidence, but trust me, it was awesome. In both size and taste.

You wanna be starting something...

I skipped Mission: Declutter this weekend. We were busy being sociable and responsible. We barely got in a few dedicated hours of couch time, let alone make time for clearing out another cubby hole of stuff.

However, the mission recommenced on Wednesday. The temperature reached pre-spring levels and the few rays of sunshine inspired me to open all the windows in the house and get down to a little cleaning and de-cluttering.

I skipped the bedroom. I know it is up next, but I just can't bear the thought of going through all those clothes again. Plus my allergies are acting up and the dust in there is reaching dangerous levels. Best to leave it for another day. (I can just hear my mom flipping through the family dictionary in search of the P-R-O-C-R-A-S section.)

I did, however, dig out the vacuum cleaner and and attack the floors of the flat. This required first dealing with the huge, overflowing IKEA bag living on top of the vacuum. This bag is the result of the last closet clear-out. To make a long, tedious story short, the big bag is now divided into four smaller bags, each labelled with its destination and currently living in the front hall so they can't be ignored for more than a few days.

I must admit I have ulterior motives for the clear-out. Yes, it is needed and yes, it goes a bit of the way toward dealing with my desire for complete overhaul every few years, but I was also hoping I would unearth some inspiration.

I have long believed that objects can tell stories and that some objects are better receptacles of memory than any scrapbook or shoebox or text or even brain cells. We make a point of filling our little home with things from our travels and adventures with the hope of someday having the opportunity to tell the stories of each little item.

Fast-forward, present day. We have loads of items we cannot part with because they have a memory. They have a story. A lot of these items are pieces of clothing. They remind us (me)of a past identity or experience. I have a particular halter-top I have not worn since 2005 but cannot give away because I was wearing it when I met Pete. I have a pair of cargo-pants I never wear but cannot give away because I bought them when I was with the circus. I have a corduroy skirt I haven't worn in years I cannot give away because someone told me I looked professor-chic once.

What do I do with these items? Suck it up and send them on their way? Write their stories here and hope they maintain? No. So much of their power is in the tactile.

I have decided I will re-purpose these items. I will make quilts and pillows and whatever else. Maybe I will get really ambitious and reupholster something. I will hold the story of each piece in my mind as I give it a new life and a new purpose in my life.

Of course this means they will continue to hang around the house and I will add to our already superfluous collection of blankets and pillows. I do love a good duvet and pillow. (Seriously, Pete has a series of photos of me curled under the duvet.)

But the story is no good without an audience to share in its telling. Who's with me? I have a vision of sitting around with good friends and good wine and scraps of clothes, telling stories, creating stories. Swearing up a storm and ripping seams.

Of course this isn't likely to happen in real life, but it could happen virtually. So I ask again, who's with me? Can we create a virtual sewing circle? A stitch 'n' bitch? Heavy on the bitching, light on the stitching until we get a bit better. Can we reclaim a bit of the power and joy of the domestic? (she cries, brandishing the cooking shears in one hand, because they are the best scissors in the house and a pair of ratty jeans in the other, in a kind of domestic, barbaric yawp)

Meh?

Well, I will be here. Attempting straight seams and cursing my high school guidance counsellor.

Space Matters

A big part of the Mission: Declutter is about making room for Pete.  This is a bit ridiculous of a statement as we moved in here together and everything we own outside of our clothes are joint purchases, but my items seem to be taking over the house.  As an only child (and a woman with a penchant for bags and shoes) I have a tendency to take over any space I inhabit.  The worst cases currently are the coat rack and the closet. 

I have at least four coats for each season.  I think Pete has four coats in total. 

I have over half the closet filled with clothes I never get to wear.  You would think I was the one going off to work every day by the look of that mess.  It’s so full Pete keeps his work shirts hanging down in the shower so they don’t crease.  He has four suits, a hanger of ties and two ‘dress’ shirts in the wardrobe.  Most of which he wears completely over the course of a week. 

Now the ‘evil’ part of me would say with the clothes in such frequent use it’s better that they remain out of the wardrobe and in easy reach.  But I only just thought of that at this moment as I write and it is quite wicked, really (relatively).  The reality is my unworn collection is squeezing him out.  Another opportunity for a metaphor, there.  My wishful thinking smothering reality.  (I really have been in academia too long when I can’t just get on with things without creating a ‘meaningful’ narrative to accompanying the most mundane of activities.  I mean for f**k’s sake, I’m just cleaning the house in preparation for the perpetually-on-its-way-but-never-really-arrives Spring.) 

It isn’t fair to Pete.  I mean he gets up (to an incredibly loud and head-splitting alarm) and goes out to work every weekday morning while I stay in bed for another few minutes and then leisurely start my day.  (Totally off topic, but it appears those extra few minutes everyday have an effect on our bed slats and no matter how you flip the mattress there is a definite depression on my side of the bed.  Hmmm.)

I am working to rectify this situation (the crowded wardrobe and the depressed mattress).  Every few months I weed out enough clothes (or find new places to store them) to allow Pete’s shirts back in the wardrobe without a lot of shoving and relatively crease-free. 

And then I find a dress or skirt or whatever I can’t be without.  

It’s an endless cycle. 

It has to be stopped. 

I mean, he’s not asking for much, is he?  Just the ability to put his clothes away. 

What kind of wife would I be if I deny him this luxury?

Of course, if I do suddenly have to start dressing for work, then all bets are off and we will again tussle for wardrobe space. 

But until that time, I will endeavour to make space for Pete in the wardrobe (and the rest of the house) because, as we geographers like to say, 'Space Matters.'   

It Continues

You thought I forgot. 

You thought Mission: Declutter went the way of so many proclaimed projects.

Well, I hate to disappoint, but it is going along at pace.  This past four-day weekend (no, it wasn’t a holiday, I just took four days) I finished up the living room and even tackled the front hallway. 

I slowly reclaimed the living room.  Three small boxes of charity bound items are at their designated charities and we have four quality items to sell. 

We also finally freed up some floor space by dismantling the ‘4D’ puzzle of London we have been working at for a month. 

One of the items sent away to the charity shop was my bookbag from University.  I graduated over ten years ago but I still have this bag.  I only went back to it once.  I went back to it during my first round of graduate school.  I was having a bit of a rough time in the program and I thought the bag had a bit of magic.  The years I used it during undergrad were so great I thought I might reclaim a bit of that magic if I reclaimed the bag. 

It didn’t really work. 

But, I kept it around.  I still believed it had a bit of magic.  Or maybe I was just a bit nostalgic for a time when I was a bit more confident and ignorant of the world.  It was a good time.  The good times didn’t translate to the new use.

However, the bag and its related magic have gone a bit dusty and musty.  But I still couldn’t part with it.  This weekend, I decided it was time to let it go.  As I have said so frequently, time is moving along and I am changed by it and it is time to embrace those changes. 

But before I sent the bag out to serve someone else, I removed the butterfly patch.  They could have the bag but the patch would stay with me. 

Suddenly, it was a different bag.  I had no attachment to it.  The magic had left the bag.  I’m sure there is some beautiful statement I could make about the fleeting magic related to the fleeting presence of a butterfly, but I’ll spare you the nausea. 

Next up is the bedroom.  This will take quite awhile.  The wardrobe alone will probably take at least three weekends.  Then there is the dresser, the built-in shelves, night stands, under the bed…For such a simple room we have a lot stashed there. 

I clean as I go which mostly means dusting.  Dust has become the bane of my life and damp dust sucks my will to live. 

We have a lot of damp dust.