The Big Love

Love is so thrilling. And while people define it differently, we experience it in a similar way: it’s a warm, embracing feeling that lifts our spirits, helps us dream, energizes and strengthens us, challenges us and heals us.

Our ability to feel love is a birthright, but choosing to give love is a most beautiful gift. We can give our love to friends, to family, to pets, to strangers, to our neighbours, even to those make it difficult for us to want to share it. To receive the love of another is something to be appreciated, respected and honoured.

A marriage - however you define it - is an ultimate expression of love. Making an honest promise to love someone as they are, for a lifespan, is a most deep expression of love. It’s the BIG love. It’s about a deep respect for something bigger than yourself. It’s about letting go of selfishness and joining souls with another. It’s about what the other teaches you about the world, what they teach you about their world, and what they teach you about yourself. It’s about having respect for the other and patience. It’s about going to bed some nights scarred of how interconnected you are with another. It’s about waking up the next morning, thankful for the interconnectedness.

How lucky we are that we find a person who we actually want to give our love to, for the rest of our lives, and who we want to stand by and support, for the rest of our lives. We are so lucky that we find comfort and elation in giving and receiving the BIG love.

Being loved is a privilege. Finding someone who promises to love you forever is a gift like no other.

What makes you feel a rush of love? What makes your heart feel warm and drenched in happiness? What makes it sing, and what makes it dance? Take time to celebrate your BIG love. Because chances are, they make your world more wonderful.

I'm Not Sarcastic (insert sarcastic mark)

It’s come up several times over the past couple of weeks that I’m a bit sarcastic. Because I’m not sure how to take this, I’ve thought quite a bit about it.

This is what I’ve come up with.

I like sarcasm. I love reading things that are sarcastic; they make me laugh out loud. Witty sarcasm really saturates my dry sense of humour.

I’m not funny, per say. I’m witty (I like to think), which often translates to sarcasm. I never use sarcasm to hurt others, or to put them down. It’s just an automatic default for me. Perhaps though, this doesn’t always sit very well.

Like many others, I find that humour breaks down barriers. And because I’m not funny, and I think sarcasm is, I use it like others use actual humour.

When I feel uncomfortable, I use sarcasm. When I feel out of place, I use sarcasm. When I feel that I’m being judged, I use sarcasm. When I don’t feel important, I use sarcasm. When I admire someone, I use sarcasm. When I don’t know how to express myself, I use sarcasm.
I think the more I know someone, the less sarcasm I use. So maybe I just don’t know too many people very well.

See, I’m an introvert. And ironically (because I have a blog), I don’t like a lot of people to know me; that would be threatening. I share the things I want people to know, and that I think may benefit others (dig back into my blog about two and a half years). In that way, I’m not selfish.

When I feel like I need to stop sharing, I let a sarcastic remark slip. I’m pretty sure it’s my way of deflecting conversation. And I also use it when I want to tell someone something positive, but I either don’t know them very well, or I feel uncomfortable speaking from the heart.

I in no way think I am unique in how I use sarcasm. Maybe just unique in how much I use it.

Full Circle, Back to Fredericton

It’s funny how things come full circle, without any intentional intervention.

13 years and three months ago (I’m dating myself right now), my Mom, Dad and brother Brent drove me from our family home in Connecticut, to Sackville, New Brunswick. This would be my home for the next four and a half years, while I was going to MtA (or, Mount Allison University).

I had never set foot in the Maritimes prior to this trip. While most people like to visit where they apply to university, I prefered taking the trusted word of my Dad, and signing the “I accept” line on my MtA letter of offer.

On our way to MtA we spent a night in Fredericton. I remember rolling into town late in the evening, and going straight to bed. I remember feeling extremely sick (turned out I had an ear infection and a sinus infection), and therefore not really paying attention to my sourroundings. I do remember, very fondly, eating breakfast on a large deck that was part of the hotel restaurant, facing the what I later found out was the St. Johns River. That particular morning it was very sunny. Fredericton’s warm welcome carried through my entire four and half yearsin the Maritimes.

I think of who I was on that late August day, back in 1996, in Fredericton. I was 18, had just finished high school in Connecticut, had travelled through Europe with my brother, had spent a great time with my family at our cottage, and had a taste of dancing on pedastles and tabletops in bars.

I could tell so many stories, from between now and then. But that’s not the purpose of this.
Rather, the purpose is to say that I ended up back at this hotel, 13 years and three months later for a work conference. My visit was for a different purpose, at a different time in my life. And it was a reminder of how much has happened, and how much I have enjoyed and loved my life and my choices since I last spent a night in this hotel.

This time I flew to Fredericton for work; it wasn’t a stop off while heading to Mount A. This time, I was there with great work colleagues, not with my family. And this time, I wasn’t the daughter, I called my daughter every day, twice a day.

It was that first stop off in Fredericton that brought me to Mount A, which directly resulted in me going back to Fredericton for work. With many stops along the way.

Seamus, Stop Calling It the Swine Flu

While it definitely rolls off the tongue easier than H1N1, calling the virus the “Swine Flu” is seriously crippling the pork industry.seriously crippling the pork industry.

Vegetarian or not, I don’t think anyone wishes financial hardship on those who feed cities. Until a few weeks ago, I worked at our country’s agriculture department, and part of my job was reviewing the public environment (media, popular blogs, social research) for what was being said, and reported on, about agriculture. Hands down, the pork industry was front and centre.

Pork is super cheap at your local grocery store for a reason. Recently, after spending $150 on a load of groceries, I got a gift; a rack of ribs. This was a first. And why? Because, the current market value of pork is significantly below the cost of raising a pig, and some of our largest trade partners have shut their borders to the product. Pork producers are loosing money hand-over-fist.

And you guessed it, this started when the media spread the term ”Swine Flu” faster than the virus spreads in a daycare.

What blows my mind is that national media outlets are refusing to stop using the term “Swine Flu” - even after outcries from industry associations and requests from federal government. Apparently it’s sexier to us Canadians when our favourite news anchor refers to the “Swine Flu”, and not (it’s actual name) H1N1. According to my favourite national news station, H1N1 doesn’t “resonate” with the public as well.

I think it’s pretty unfortunate that the news media is more concerned about turning its viewers on, than the effect their choice of terminology is having on those that provide them their greasy spoon breakfasts. I’m sure the damage is done, but the fact that they won’t jump ship and use the term H1N1 – even symbolically – is really unfortunate.
Seamus, I think it’s sexy when you whisper H1N1.

FOS

I remember saying on many occasions: When you have a kid, your life should only change as much as you let it.

I was so full of shit (FOS).

I only realized this though about 15.5 months into my daughter’s life, during a trip to Newfoundland to a college friend’s wedding.

Until this point, I tried hard to live by my naive words. You see, I’m an extremely stubborn woman, born under the Taurus sign. I like to live by my words. The problem was, I was trying to live by words that I spoke as a relatively responsibility-free, late 20-something that liked to spend as much time downtown as possible.

I did a pretty bang-up job though, considering. Within 11 months I gave birth, packed an entire townhouse, renovated it with the help of my BFR (boyfriend-with-a-ring), moved to a new home, took two university-level courses, planned a wedding, had a wedding, went back to work full-time, and of course, maintained my priority of raising my baby. I did my best to maintain friendships, keep in touch with family, and keep my relationship in check.

By the time I went to Newfoundland, I was spinning. I felt like I wasn’t doing anything well. I felt that all of my time was spoken for. I was trying to be the person I was before I had EM, and that was just not going to be possible.

When I was in Newfoundland, I realized something great: I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I came back to Ottawa with reorganized priorities; I have a new outlook. I can’t really explain it well, but I have a sense of peace knowing that “this” is what I want.
All this to say, I am much more careful with my words now.

A Long Trip

Selling my Jeep was like finding an old dog a new home. I couldn’t just sell it to anyone: the vibe needed to be right, I needed to like the new owners, and they need to love her.

A couple of weeks ago, my Jeep – the bane of my young adult existence, and the love of my life – went to a new home. I found a good owner. I probably sold it for less than I could have, but that doesn’t even matter to me. Knowing that she’ll be loved and well taken care of is more important than change in my pocket.


When I got confirmation that the deal was a go I started to cry. Marc started to laugh (and then he gave me a hug). It’s not as much about the Jeep; it’s about letting go of something concrete and real that represents a chapter of my life (OK, and a bit about the fact that I’m selling my Jeep).


So much happened in my life while I drove my Jeep. Here’s a snapshot:


Gift: She was a gift to me, from my dad. That does not mean that I was spoiled; my brothers and I were very lucky growing up to have parents that taught us beautifully about life, love and responsibility. I don’t even know why my Dad did this, I’ve never asked. I just really appreciate that he helped me out this way.


Long Distance Drives: I drove long distances in my Jeep, and I absolutely loved it. It was a rough, loud ride, but it made me so happy because I loved driving it so much. The longest drive was from Branford, Connecticut, up the east coast through Rhode Island, Mass, New Hampshire, Maine and into New Brunswick where I went to school. It was a solid, and beautiful, 12 hour drive. I drove many times from Ottawa to Connecticut, through Quebec, Vermont, and Mass, and from Ottawa to Connecticut through New York and Mass.


The Cottage: I drove my Jeep countless times from Ottawa to our family cottage in Quebec. This drive is stunning. I particularly love the feeling I get when I leave Gatineau, and I love the part about one hour in, just along the river, especially just after a rainfall. One particular summer was really amazing. It was when Jo, Nikki and I were living together at Nikki’s house, and we’d pack up on Friday nights and go for the weekend. We’d come back into the city on Sunday evenings, tanned and relaxed, we’d BBQ some chicken and sit in Nikki’s backyard and eat and drink wine. On Monday morning we’d email each other about how we longed for the next weekend at the cottage.


It Brought Out the Worst in People: An ex-boyfriend of mine bashed my Jeep (in words) all the time. It made me so sad. Really, I think my Jeep was trying to help me understand what a dick this person was. Because really, his attitude about my Jeep was pretty much his attitude about everything: Nothing was good enough. He tried desperately to convince me to trade her in for a Honda Fit. WHAT A TOOL.


It Brought Out the Best in People: With the exception of the aforementioned, everyone who got in my Jeep, particularly when the top was down, was very, very happy. There’s something about driving around on a beautiful summer day with the sun beaming down on you. How could it not make you happy?


Sex: Yes, I had it in my Jeep.


Subsidized Housing: One night, I left my Jeep downtown in a “monitored” parking lot. My friend Erin was staying across the street while doing a coop term, and so, I crashed there after a particular fun night out (I remember it being extremely cold – the last time I ever waited in a line-up, in the cold, at a bar). The next morning when I went to get my Jeep, and long story short, someone had moved in. NO KIDDING! Someone had thrown it in neutral and moved it to face the opposite direction as I had parked it. They had popped the hood, had removed all of my belongings (such as my skies, which had put on top of my Jeep), and moved their stuff in (some half-eating fruit, a hat, some maps and blueprints, you know, the essentials). I found the guy’s wallet on passenger side seat, took it, and ran back to Erin’s to call the cops. When they arrived they drove us to my Jeep where the new “owner” was found “cleaning” it, prepping it for a ride to Montreal. What really sent me into a tailspin was the construction floodlight that he had pointing under the hood so he could “tune it up”. Turns out this man was schizophrenic, on pcp, and wanted by the cops for uttering death threats and assault. Apparently I was very lucky that he didn’t actually see me take his wallet out of my Jeep (this creeped me out a bit). When the cops asked him what was going on, he said that he ran the plates of the Jeep in the machine, and it told him it was his. He was arrested, but couldn’t be charged because of his illness – which is totally understandable. What was sad was that he was refusing all social assistance. A week or so later, the officer responsible called me to tell me that the man had been arrested again, and this time was admitted to the psychiatric hospital in Brockville. He’d gone to a car dealership and taken one of the used vehicles for a test drive – and didn’t’ come back. They found him about an hour away. Oh, and I almost forgot – he’d taken the plates off my Jeep and hung them in a tree (???). Ya, that was totally weird.


Most Beautiful Destination: The most beautiful place my Jeep drove me to was Bar Harbour.
First Breakdown: I had just come back from a lovely and relaxing vacation in Virginia and North Carolina. I drove directly from the airport to pick up Atlas (about 30 minutes outside of Ottawa). On my way home, my transmission fell out while driving on the Queensway. Yes, that’s right, my transmission FELL out. Unfortunately, my warranty had expired about four months previous. That only cost me $4200. And so it began…


Mont Tremblant: I drove to Tremblant with my soft-top only Jeep on possibly the coldest weekend ever (the high was like -38C). It was so cold that we couldn’t ski. This worked out fine for my friend Chris and I, because we spent the day sleeping and eating. Sunday morning I went to start my Jeep, and of course, it wouldn’t start. Chris and I spent the next three hours running around the village trying to find a tow truck that would give us a boost. We finally found one and they tried to boost it. Nothing. They tried pulling it and starting it. Nothing. So the tow guy suggested pushing it down the mountain (on the road, don’t worry) and have the momentum help jumpstart it. I agreed, and off the guy went in my Jeep, down the mountain. Chris and I looked at each other, both realizing at the same time what just happened. A stranger took my Jeep (and our ride home), our money, our credit cards, our ID and our clothes, and shot himself down the mountain. So we did what anyone would do, and we ran after him. We did find him, and my Jeep had started.


Therapy: Driving is like therapy to me. And during my twenties, God did I need therapy! Driving gave me time to be alone and think through things. I did so much thinking in that Jeep. I made so many decisions, I cried so much in it. And of course, when I was in it, I became a pop star singing to my heart’s content.


I think I could go on all day about my experiences in my Jeep. But let’s leave it at this: My Jeep drove me through my young adulthood, and it brought me to where I am now.


I heart you Jeep.

Brown is more than a colour.

Brown is our cat. His full name is Charlie Brown, but he looks more like a “Brown” than a “Charlie Brown” or “Charlie”. He’s a three (shy of a month) year old Himalayan. He’s a variety of shades of brown – his lovely velvety chocolate feet and ears, I think, are the most parts of his coat. Brown has very beautiful, clear blue eyes and an incredibly small nose (his nostrils are the size of a pinhead – seriously, it’s surprising that air can even fit through them). He sort of looks like an ewok.

If it’s possible that a cat can be eccentric, then Brown is. I can say without hesitation that he is the most unique, odd, fantastic cat ever born. For starters, he has species-identity disorder: He thinks he’s a dog. When someone comes to the door, he runs to it like a dog (and out of our three pets, he’s the first one there – and he actually skids around corners to get there before the real dogs). He knows our schedules, and waits by the door when we should be coming home. When he wants attention, he follows us a around and meows, and if that doesn’t work, he starts to bat us with his paws. Brown even chases his tail – yep, that’s weird, I know. And get this, HE COMES WHEN YOU CALL HIM! What cat does that? He also likes to play with both Eva-Mae’s toys and the dogs’ toys – much to Atlas’ frustration.

Brown’s the most affectionate cat that I have ever come across. He’s the first of the animals to jump up on the couch, and more often than not, cosies himself right up on one of our laps. He also tries to sneak into our bed our bed at night, casually I might add, as if it’s just something that he’s supposed to be doing. And he doesn’t want to sleep on it; he wants to sleep curled up under the covers, in our legs. And while this is very cute, it’s not very conducive to (much needed) slumber.

Brown is also Eva-Mae’s favourite pet of the moment. She LOVES him. Every morning after she wakes up, we do a survey around the house of whose home and who isn’t (it’s a good way of teaching her our pets names and that her daddy’s at work). When we find Brown, she gets a huge grin on her face, her legs start kicking, she starts to babble, and she reaches out for him. Luckily Brown digs Eva-Mae too. He’s always close to her, and cleverly, has learned to stay just out of her reach. She’s definitely thrown him for a loop now that she can crawl – the days of restful, curious watching are over for Brown. He lets her tug at him and pet him; he’s really very good with her.

Just after we moved last September, we thought that we had lost Brown for good. Sneaky little ewok got out on us, and we didn’t notice for a couple of hours. Marc spent about three hours combing the neighbourhood for him, and I made signs offering a $ub$tantial reward. Luckily our moneygrab worked, and the next morning I got a call from a woman who had taken brown in the evening before (this is a bit of a sore spot for me, because she found him about two houses away from us and brought him home and put him in her garage. By our calculations, he’d only been outside for like 30 minutes max. And then she took our cash). Anyhow, we got Brown back, and since then, he’s been wearing a bell around his neck so he can’t pull his sneaky moves anymore. The entire experience was heart-wrenching though.

Brown makes our family just that much happier. He always brightens my day – just by being around. I’m so glad that cats have long lives, because I want this little guy around for a long time.

For my love.

Shortly after we met, you asked me to please talk to you, not just write to you. I did, and I thank you for it. I do feel that in doing so, you missed out on many of my thoughts that while I could have put on paper, was not always able to express.

So tonight I write to you, for fear that I will rob you of the love I feel right now.

My hand feels warm tonight. Finally I have the band of precious metal and stones on my left ring finger. It has surprised me just how much it has made me feel – shocked me really. I'm practical and you are passionate. Or so I think. Even in the face of my practical approach to our wedding day and engagement, you came home tonight, bent down on one knee and asked me to marry you. Tears flowed down my face. These were different though, not nearly as salty as many that you've seen. Tonight I had no choice but to feel passion.

My love, in our short time together, we've conquered odds. People questioned our instant connection. I remember our second date; we had to leave the restaurant because I couldn't stand sitting that far away from you. I picked you up from the airport on January 14th and you never left my house. Our relationship was drenched in love from the very beginning.

I gave my heart to you, and you didn't hurt it.

After only 9 months together, we made a baby. Our lives quickly changed. And while it was hard at times, we were still so in love. And now we have a beautiful baby girl who will hand us our wedding rings on May 30^th.

When you wear your grey hat, the one that makes your eyes so piercing, my heart melts. It reminds me just how strikingly beautiful you are. When you do the chicken walk that makes me laugh so hard, it reminds me of how alive your spirit is. And when you chew on your nightly tea, it reminds me of how fleeting those little annoyances are.

Being with you is the easiest and most peaceful thing.

You treat as if I am so much more precious than this ring. You listen, you love, you hold back, you're my best friend, you hug me, you challenge me, you're the same as me, you're different than me, you support me, you compliment me, you're the best dad. You treat me the way I feel you deserve to be treated by the World.

My heart feels warm like my hand. I am so happy that we are going to spend the rest of our long lives together. I'm so excited about what our future holds; the surprises, the good and the bad.

At the end of my days, you will be the person that I shared the most with – my life with. You will be the only person that truly knows my depths. And nothing makes me happier.

Caught with his pants down!

This deserves a posting.

For the past two months I’ve been attending church on a fairly regular basis. Primarily, I started going because I want to be married the particular church in question, by the particular minister. It’s the United church that my Grandma and Grandpa went to for 50 plus years. My Grandma and I are very close, and so, it’s something that I really want to do for her.

I’ve never been dipped myself, and Marc is Roman Catholic. I hold some pretty liberal views very close to my heart, and so getting married in a church of Marc’s faith would feel like a complete fraud to me. I really respect my Grandma’s minister because she's very inclusive. She performs same sex marriages for instance. She’s a very interesting, open-minded woman, intelligent woman who provides excellent food for thought.

I digress.

So yesterday I’m sitting in a pew next to a man who’s probably in his early 80’s. The minister asks us to stand, shake hands and spread peace (this is all new to me – I find it slightly weird and awkward). I hear the man next to me and the couple behind me laugh nervously, and when I turn around to see why, well, the man’s pants had fallen down.

That’s right, the man was caught with his pants down in church!

Oh my God (is that OK to say?) it took everything in me not to bust a gut! The fact that he lost his pants (in church!) was funny in and of itself, but his reaction was priceless. He laughed, pulled them up and said that he must have finally lost that weight he’d been trying to shed for 30 years and that he needed a new belt.

Whose pants fall down, and whose pants fall down in the middle of a church service?

When I sat back and thought about it last night, I belly-laughed for about 15 minutes. Church really does promote selflessness: I needed a good laugh so a man sacrificed loosing his pants.

Renovations: A comedy of errors

Three and half years ago I bought my first house. It was a lovely 3-bedroom townhome relatively close to the Ottawa River in Ottawa.

I got a smokin' good deal.

The reason I got this deal was because the elderly woman who had lived there since it was built (back in the early 70's) had to move into a retirement home after a particularly bad spill down the basement stairs (there was a nice indent in the drywall to prove it). Her only son was in Vancouver and basically just wanted to offload it. A bit sad, really. For her, not me. This was very good for me.

I walked in and saw the potential. It was very well maintained and structurally it was in perfect condition. It was however, wallpapered head-to-toe in white/pink/floral wallpaper that was both shiny and textured. The flooring was all over the place (pun); carpet, laminate, parquet, cement. It needed some aesthetic love.

Fast-forward three and a half years. For the first year and a half I worked on peeling and painting by myself (Marc was not yet in the picture). For the past two years, we've been doing flooring, fixing up the backyard, etc.

We sold the house in September when we bought our new one. And as part of the deal, we had to complete certain additional renovations. Now the beauty here is that we sold it to my parent's as a rental property for them, so we had a rather flexible timeline for getting the updates completed.

But it's taken forever.

All said and done (well, we're like *this* close) though, it looks amazing. I'm really quite proud of what we've done. We've managed (outside of regular life activities) having a baby, learning how to be new parents, growing Marc's business, selling and buying, moving, and renovating a house all since June 14th of this year. We've been busy. And man we're tired, but I digress.

Last month after a rather frustrating few evenings at the condo, I wrote the following email to a few friends (I can laugh now because we're like 2 hours away from being done).

Now we get to start on our new place. We don't learn.

***********************************

So how do you explain to a new owner why there is a month delay in the renovations of a condo being completed? You try and then you just give up, acknowledge that you suck and put in 4-7 hour nights trying to get things completed.

If one WAS in fact able to discuss the comedy of errors that has resulted in the delay to the new owner, this is what the dialogue would consist of:

1) The floors were ordered. The floors were picked up. Half the flooring was laid in one room (a very unsquare room at that, that required a myriad of small cuts). One realized that in fact, the wrong floor had been provided by the store. The flooring is riped up.

2) The flooring is returned and re-ordered. It is supposed to be in in one week. One calls the store, the clerk says it is in, so one takes the trip to the store with the infant. Upon arrival, the flooring is in fact not there. The computer said it was, but in fact it wasn't. This results in another week delay.

3) There are problems with the toilet. As there is limited experience with plumbing, various "tricks" are tried out. It is made very clear to all parties (including the real estate agent) that the toilet is not to be used until further notice.

4) Upon arrival at the condo one morning, the house smells of an odour of shit. Oh look! What do we have here! Someone has taken a dump in the toilet! Fantastic! This delays the toilet fixing process because before one can fix the toilet, they now need to clean the shit out. Oh yes, and air out the condo. And who was the shitter you ask? The real estate agent. Did he bother to call to let the renovator know about the incident? No - too busy we guess.

5) And after all of the toilet drama, and just when the renovator has the toilet working like a dream, the bowl actually cracks. Just. Like. That. CRACK. And so now, the renovator must replace the entire toilet.

6) The renovator's assistant goes to home depot to pick up $170 of paint to do touch-ups. Two of the colours are colour matched. The assistant touches up. The assistant, after two hours of drying, realizes that two of the colours were not exactly "matched". Now two entire rooms need to be repainted.

7) And this will really get you howling. The evil parking guy at said condo complex who we will refer to as "Harry" believed that a random pail of plastered that was left in the common area belonged to the renovator (even though he no longer lives there), and left it the condo's backyards where his assistant fell over it upon entering the gate. The pail did not belong to him, and so the renovator placed it by the garbage area. The following night (back at the condo again), the renovator goes out to his truck only to find that "Harry" has retrieved the pail of plastered from the garbage area, and has placed it IN his truck. That's right, "Harry" took it upon himself to open the cab and place it inside. And the renovator found this out when he opened the cab, and the pail fell out and hit him in the nuts. The pail of plaster was placed on "Harry's" doorstep.

I would like to recommend 1) not taking on large renovation projects when you a) move yourself b) have an infant c) have a boyfriend that works 11 hour days with one job and several other hours a week with a second job and d) you have limited babysitting services (shout out to Theresa and Anna). It's pretty much just a recipe for disaster.

Funny, but definitely a recipe for a disaster. (note that this list in not exhaustive).