I am a little disturbed to admit how much I enjoyed watching my sweetheart wield a sharp blade across his own skin this weekend.
We were spending some time with friends and it was my job to pick up our takeaway dinner. Upon my return, I found my darling and his male buddy, soaking wet, wrapped in towels in the bathroom, Sweetie getting a lesson in the manly art of shaving, just like every 15 year old boy needs. Except he's not 15; he's rounding the corner toward fifty.
To put it kindly, these two guys are rather hirsute. Less gently, they're hairy. Really freaking hairy and it started early; you can tell from their baby pictures they were going to have five o'clock shadows for much of their lives. Both of them, at some unfortunate time in high school, sported a horrible scraggly moustache that screamed, "I have hair on my lip! Lookit me! I'm a MAN now!"
For reasons lost in the vapor of time, neither of them was ever taught the finer points of gentlemanly grooming. Like most North American men of their vintage, they learned to shave by trial and error or maybe from TV or more likely, from friends. Over the years, they've used cheapy blades from the drug store, whatever was on sale, and somewhere along the line, graduated to the new five, six, and seven blade machines which are quite pricey.
Now, thanks to the miracle of Youtube, Sweetie's friend has become a connoisseur of shaving the old-fashioned way: cup of soap, brush and a single, replaceable blade inside a safety razor. He has not yet graduated to the straightedge but his wife is concerned a strop may be his next purchase.
Last night, my discovery of the two hairy men in towels was Sweetie's introduction to this old-fashioned ritual of manhood, and it's a very involved ritual indeed: at least fifteen minutes of rinsing and soaking and soaping and scraping and alum and pomades and admittedly, some blood. Honestly, I really don't know what all they got up to in there.
Sweetie's not sure he's interested in all the fuss; it seemed to him the cost/benefit of time versus smooth skin might not work out in his favour, and he says his life is not so stressful that he requires a lot of grooming time to get 'centred' at the start of his day. I'll say, though, I've never felt his face any softer and I couldn't keep my sweet lips off it, so maybe that will tip the balance. The question is, which way?
Monday, July 28, 2014
Monday, July 21, 2014
Homeward Bound
Maybe you were wondering what that sound was on Friday evening at about 5:30. It was a "Squeee!!!" from me.
Sweetie and I were dining with my mother when the 'phone rang and it was my seven year old niece calling from Brisbane. She wanted to talk to me, and wanted to know if I would run a 5K race with her on Labour Day. In Toronto. The 'squeeee' came when I figured out that my fractured family is reuniting!
My brilliant and amazing sister in law has a big fancy promotion, even bigger than the one that took she and her family to Brisbane two and a half years ago. Apparently, divisions within the corporation she works for have had to duke it out over her talents. The family will be home for the start of the Canadian school year, no doubt wearing toques and scarves after their time in the Australian sun.
One of the children is less happy about the return trip than the others; the one that's been thriving in an elite school, but a girl who earned her way into a State school on academics and athletics is likely to thrive anywhere. We'll just have to jolly her along until she finds her path here.
Until then, I'm looking for races and working on my times so I won't be so embarrassed by the children I finally get to run with again.
Did I mention, Squeeee!
Sweetie and I were dining with my mother when the 'phone rang and it was my seven year old niece calling from Brisbane. She wanted to talk to me, and wanted to know if I would run a 5K race with her on Labour Day. In Toronto. The 'squeeee' came when I figured out that my fractured family is reuniting!
My brilliant and amazing sister in law has a big fancy promotion, even bigger than the one that took she and her family to Brisbane two and a half years ago. Apparently, divisions within the corporation she works for have had to duke it out over her talents. The family will be home for the start of the Canadian school year, no doubt wearing toques and scarves after their time in the Australian sun.
One of the children is less happy about the return trip than the others; the one that's been thriving in an elite school, but a girl who earned her way into a State school on academics and athletics is likely to thrive anywhere. We'll just have to jolly her along until she finds her path here.
Until then, I'm looking for races and working on my times so I won't be so embarrassed by the children I finally get to run with again.
Did I mention, Squeeee!
Friday, June 27, 2014
best. day. ever.
Today is one of the best days of the entire year if you're a kid. OK, it's not Christmas, but it's still pretty good: it's the last day of school. If you're leaving elementary school, you get your report card and your classes for the first day of high school. If you're still in elementary school, you might find out who your teacher is next year, hopefully the 'good' one.
One of my colleagues spent some time with a group of young students this week, finding out what they were looking forward to in the long hot days of summer.
One of the wee ones said, 'I'm going to ride my bike....' and that was pretty much the sum total of her plans. She was planning to ride her bike.
It sounded... heavenly.
Remember the days when summer consisted of vast acres of time, riding your bike, maybe hanging out near a creek, maybe going to a midway?
Let's make a deal, you and me: instead of complaining about the heat and the air conditioning or the politicians or the bills, for the next two so very short months, let's go ride our bikes and see if maybe, just maybe, somewhere up the trail or across the street, we might catch a glimpse of our former, innocent and unjaded self, enjoying the freedom of a sunny summer day.
One of my colleagues spent some time with a group of young students this week, finding out what they were looking forward to in the long hot days of summer.
One of the wee ones said, 'I'm going to ride my bike....' and that was pretty much the sum total of her plans. She was planning to ride her bike.
It sounded... heavenly.
Remember the days when summer consisted of vast acres of time, riding your bike, maybe hanging out near a creek, maybe going to a midway?
Let's make a deal, you and me: instead of complaining about the heat and the air conditioning or the politicians or the bills, for the next two so very short months, let's go ride our bikes and see if maybe, just maybe, somewhere up the trail or across the street, we might catch a glimpse of our former, innocent and unjaded self, enjoying the freedom of a sunny summer day.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Closing the School
The elementary school I attended up to Grade Four will end its life as a school at the end of this month. I don't know what the plan is for building in Creemore that was first a high school, and later an elementary school, and was the first school I attended. There will still be an education offered to young people in Creemore, it's just that the "annex" is closing, and all classes are being consolidated into a newer building nearby. With its high ceilings and large windows, the old school would make an excellent set of condos. I was asked by the editor of the Creemore Echo to put together some of my memories of NCCS, and here's what I submitted.
There may have been a hierarchy at play when I was a student at the 'tall school' in Creemore. Kindergarten was in the basement, Grade Four on the top floor. Yellow shag carpeting dotted with red was no doubt designed to cover spilled paint, dirt and the occasional barf that rained down on it.
Two of the little boys in my Kindergarten were so shy, they would not come into the class. They stayed in the hall, terrified. For one of them, it may have been Christmas before he screwed up the courage to join the Birthday Circle. Miss Bambrick was very patient, and it may have been the lure of a chocolate treat to finally bring him in.
The first year I was in the split Grade One/Two class taught by Mrs. Davidson, I was assured at home that I was so smart, I was being paired up with the 'slow' kids from Grade Two. However, when I was on the Grade Two side of the split a year later, the story changed: I was so bright, I was being recruited to help those poor dummies in Grade One. When I was in a split class again in Grade Four, I noticed there was no one in my class whose surname started with B, F, or H. We were the Ms to Zs, and there were no dummies.
I got into trouble in Grade Two when Lisa Prime busted out a swear word I had taught her in the confines of our snow fort during lunch hour. The teacher didn't believe golden-haired little me had provided that piece of Lisa's education until I confirmed it and solemnly promised never to bring 'barn words' to school again. Two years later, in the middle of a geography lesson, I was engrossed in a Harlequin Romance stolen from under my mother's sewing table when I heard my name and looked up just in time to see a huge cloud of white chalk dust rising around Mrs. Marion Hawkins. I had been so immersed in my purloined love story, I didn't hear her call on me. She had finally lost her temper and slammed her hand onto the chalkboard in frustration.
I ran into Mrs. Davidson the other day, and no matter how many years have passed since I was in her classroom, I can't call her Audrey. I just can't. There was no question of she or Mrs. Hawkins, Mrs. Arnold, Mr. Bell or Mrs. McArthur being referred to by anything other than their honorific and heaven forbid any of those venerable ladies showed up to school in slacks!
I can't remember if we obeyed the stone-carved 'boys' and 'girls' entrances, although I do remember thinking it was pretty stupid to divide us, even while I practiced writing out my married name if I were to partner up with the only boy in my class taller than I. During cold winter recesses, we girls huddled around the front door, chanting, "Mis-ter-Bell, ring-the-bell!" to let us back into the warmth of the building. Once inside, there could be no sneaking around - the din from those squeaky old wooden stairs was so loud it would overwhelm even the laughing, screaming kids as they hustled up or down on their way to learn.
There may have been a hierarchy at play when I was a student at the 'tall school' in Creemore. Kindergarten was in the basement, Grade Four on the top floor. Yellow shag carpeting dotted with red was no doubt designed to cover spilled paint, dirt and the occasional barf that rained down on it.
Two of the little boys in my Kindergarten were so shy, they would not come into the class. They stayed in the hall, terrified. For one of them, it may have been Christmas before he screwed up the courage to join the Birthday Circle. Miss Bambrick was very patient, and it may have been the lure of a chocolate treat to finally bring him in.
The first year I was in the split Grade One/Two class taught by Mrs. Davidson, I was assured at home that I was so smart, I was being paired up with the 'slow' kids from Grade Two. However, when I was on the Grade Two side of the split a year later, the story changed: I was so bright, I was being recruited to help those poor dummies in Grade One. When I was in a split class again in Grade Four, I noticed there was no one in my class whose surname started with B, F, or H. We were the Ms to Zs, and there were no dummies.
I got into trouble in Grade Two when Lisa Prime busted out a swear word I had taught her in the confines of our snow fort during lunch hour. The teacher didn't believe golden-haired little me had provided that piece of Lisa's education until I confirmed it and solemnly promised never to bring 'barn words' to school again. Two years later, in the middle of a geography lesson, I was engrossed in a Harlequin Romance stolen from under my mother's sewing table when I heard my name and looked up just in time to see a huge cloud of white chalk dust rising around Mrs. Marion Hawkins. I had been so immersed in my purloined love story, I didn't hear her call on me. She had finally lost her temper and slammed her hand onto the chalkboard in frustration.
I ran into Mrs. Davidson the other day, and no matter how many years have passed since I was in her classroom, I can't call her Audrey. I just can't. There was no question of she or Mrs. Hawkins, Mrs. Arnold, Mr. Bell or Mrs. McArthur being referred to by anything other than their honorific and heaven forbid any of those venerable ladies showed up to school in slacks!
I can't remember if we obeyed the stone-carved 'boys' and 'girls' entrances, although I do remember thinking it was pretty stupid to divide us, even while I practiced writing out my married name if I were to partner up with the only boy in my class taller than I. During cold winter recesses, we girls huddled around the front door, chanting, "Mis-ter-Bell, ring-the-bell!" to let us back into the warmth of the building. Once inside, there could be no sneaking around - the din from those squeaky old wooden stairs was so loud it would overwhelm even the laughing, screaming kids as they hustled up or down on their way to learn.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Yup. All of Us.
More than a million posts have been written on the social media site, Twitter with the hashtag #YesAllWomen.
Even if you're not a twitter subscriber, (and 98% of us are not) this is a pretty impressive number of people weighing in on a topic dear to them.
To catch you up, a twisted teenager went on one of those all-too-familiar shooting rampages in the US on Friday, killing six people at the University of California campus in Santa Barbara. Beforehand, he posted a bunch of videos on Youtube, talking about why he was about to do it. He was pretty clear; he was mad at being a virgin at the age of 22, and wanted revenge on the women who had rejected him. He went to a sorority house, but didn't get in, so, thwarted, ran down some people, shot some others and then finally, apparently, himself.
Some Twitter users posted their thoughts with the hashtag #notallmen, making the point that not all men hate women.
Saturday night, someone created #YesAllWomen, as a reply to not all men. As in, maybe not all men are mean to women, but yes, all women deal with the fallout of men's behaviour toward us and here's an example.
The people post about being groped and grabbed, honked at and whistled at. The posters note young women are taught to avoid being raped but wonder how much effort is put into teaching men about consent, or that they don't have a right to sex. They write about how it's unfair how many of us are afraid to walk alone at night, fearful that a man will attack us. When alone in our homes, we worry about being attacked by a man. On a smaller plane, but still on the same continuum, when speaking our minds, we are often silenced. Men explain things to us, even when we know more about those things than they do. Yes, it's a wide range of experiences, from silencing all the way through some dumb jerk grabbing a boob, right up to rape. All women experience some of it. And yes, things are better in North America than they are elsewhere, but better doesn't mean right or fair.
So far, somewhere around 1.3 million people have posted. You should join Twitter, even for just a day, to read some of the posts, especially if you're reading this, and thinking, "But not all men are bad!" or, "But things are worse somewhere else," or really anything that begins with a "but". Let the million examples of small nastiness and big horrors women experience every day wash over you, and then think.
Even if you're not a twitter subscriber, (and 98% of us are not) this is a pretty impressive number of people weighing in on a topic dear to them.
To catch you up, a twisted teenager went on one of those all-too-familiar shooting rampages in the US on Friday, killing six people at the University of California campus in Santa Barbara. Beforehand, he posted a bunch of videos on Youtube, talking about why he was about to do it. He was pretty clear; he was mad at being a virgin at the age of 22, and wanted revenge on the women who had rejected him. He went to a sorority house, but didn't get in, so, thwarted, ran down some people, shot some others and then finally, apparently, himself.
Some Twitter users posted their thoughts with the hashtag #notallmen, making the point that not all men hate women.
Saturday night, someone created #YesAllWomen, as a reply to not all men. As in, maybe not all men are mean to women, but yes, all women deal with the fallout of men's behaviour toward us and here's an example.
The people post about being groped and grabbed, honked at and whistled at. The posters note young women are taught to avoid being raped but wonder how much effort is put into teaching men about consent, or that they don't have a right to sex. They write about how it's unfair how many of us are afraid to walk alone at night, fearful that a man will attack us. When alone in our homes, we worry about being attacked by a man. On a smaller plane, but still on the same continuum, when speaking our minds, we are often silenced. Men explain things to us, even when we know more about those things than they do. Yes, it's a wide range of experiences, from silencing all the way through some dumb jerk grabbing a boob, right up to rape. All women experience some of it. And yes, things are better in North America than they are elsewhere, but better doesn't mean right or fair.
So far, somewhere around 1.3 million people have posted. You should join Twitter, even for just a day, to read some of the posts, especially if you're reading this, and thinking, "But not all men are bad!" or, "But things are worse somewhere else," or really anything that begins with a "but". Let the million examples of small nastiness and big horrors women experience every day wash over you, and then think.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
The Lines in Your Head
I almost burst out laughing during a newscast today, telling the story of a pair of alligators rescued from a backyard shed north of Toronto, where they were being kept as family pets.
I wasn't the story itself that made me laugh - it was the memory that came with it.
Nearly every time I hear the word, alligator, I am immediately transported back to the lazy summer days of my childhood, when lunch in our farmhouse was served promptly at 12:30, just as soon as Leave It To Beaver was over. The episode connected to the alligators is the one where the boys go to visit Captain Jack, the local keeper of the alligator farm, who told the boys if they were to fall into the alligator enclosure, the animals would not "chew your arm off, they would SAW it off!" Later, the children get their own alligator, and mayhem ensues.
I'm not sure how this particular line embedded itself in me, but it gets me, every single time.
The city of Red Deer also makes me giggle every single time I have to say it, but that's connected to a dirty joke.
I wasn't the story itself that made me laugh - it was the memory that came with it.
Nearly every time I hear the word, alligator, I am immediately transported back to the lazy summer days of my childhood, when lunch in our farmhouse was served promptly at 12:30, just as soon as Leave It To Beaver was over. The episode connected to the alligators is the one where the boys go to visit Captain Jack, the local keeper of the alligator farm, who told the boys if they were to fall into the alligator enclosure, the animals would not "chew your arm off, they would SAW it off!" Later, the children get their own alligator, and mayhem ensues.
I'm not sure how this particular line embedded itself in me, but it gets me, every single time.
The city of Red Deer also makes me giggle every single time I have to say it, but that's connected to a dirty joke.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Requiem for a Run
It's not just this blog I abandoned a few months ago.
I haven't been quilting or doing calligraphy or working in the garden or doing much that's very useful, for quite some time.
I blame Netflix and Mother Nature.
House of Cards, Happy Endings, Downton Abbey, My Boys, Mad Men, The Newsroom, (OK, that was borrowed from a friend...) House of Cards again, Portlandia and now, Bones plus movies and documentaries and TED talks galore: these are things that have occupied a lot of my non-working, non-sleeping moments for the last five months or so.
I have a huge cupboard full of movies, several bookshelves full of terrific novels and non-fiction works along with a tall stack of books I bought with my "Christmas money", but there's something about the Netflix that draws me in, day after day.
I don't want to be one of those tiresome and pretentious people who says they don't watch television, but I will say Sweetie and I haven't had cable or satellite television for nine years. We were over-the-air analog with about seven channels and now, with the digital revolution, we're down to three. No hockey, no baseball, no reality shows, not at our place; it's news and Netflix, and my house has never been dirtier or my running shoes so abandoned.
Because of my addiction to the tube and the snuggly blankets on the couch, I will have a painful, embarrassing and sore Sunday morning in Toronto.
In a reckless fit of optimism in January, I signed up for the Sporting Life 10K, a road race down Yonge Street. Not only did I sign up, I convinced my running buddy to come along.
AND I was doubly optimistic and signed up for a faster corral than last year, thinking I might improve my time from last year's race.
But I wasn't counting on the coldest winter in memory. Last week, there was still snow on the trail I run - yes, last week!
So, spare a little pity for me, even though it's my own fault that I will be puffing and huffing and wanting to die on Yonge Street Sunday, and likely a very sorry girl on Monday.
I'll recover with the rest of season three of Portlandia.
I haven't been quilting or doing calligraphy or working in the garden or doing much that's very useful, for quite some time.
I blame Netflix and Mother Nature.
House of Cards, Happy Endings, Downton Abbey, My Boys, Mad Men, The Newsroom, (OK, that was borrowed from a friend...) House of Cards again, Portlandia and now, Bones plus movies and documentaries and TED talks galore: these are things that have occupied a lot of my non-working, non-sleeping moments for the last five months or so.
I have a huge cupboard full of movies, several bookshelves full of terrific novels and non-fiction works along with a tall stack of books I bought with my "Christmas money", but there's something about the Netflix that draws me in, day after day.
I don't want to be one of those tiresome and pretentious people who says they don't watch television, but I will say Sweetie and I haven't had cable or satellite television for nine years. We were over-the-air analog with about seven channels and now, with the digital revolution, we're down to three. No hockey, no baseball, no reality shows, not at our place; it's news and Netflix, and my house has never been dirtier or my running shoes so abandoned.
Because of my addiction to the tube and the snuggly blankets on the couch, I will have a painful, embarrassing and sore Sunday morning in Toronto.
In a reckless fit of optimism in January, I signed up for the Sporting Life 10K, a road race down Yonge Street. Not only did I sign up, I convinced my running buddy to come along.
AND I was doubly optimistic and signed up for a faster corral than last year, thinking I might improve my time from last year's race.
But I wasn't counting on the coldest winter in memory. Last week, there was still snow on the trail I run - yes, last week!
So, spare a little pity for me, even though it's my own fault that I will be puffing and huffing and wanting to die on Yonge Street Sunday, and likely a very sorry girl on Monday.
I'll recover with the rest of season three of Portlandia.
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