In der Küche

One of the reasons I jumped at buying my new place, is the size of the kitchen. I can twirl around in it, with my arms outstretched. And not touch any countertops.

From whence I came (and I'm talking Christie Street here) I had this punishing

"galley kitchen" with a smidgeon of counter space and shelves that sagged from the weight of cans of tomatoes and sacks of sugar and flour. Still, in spite of those limitations the Zood and I had many a fine meal prepared from the confines of that teeny kitchen.

One summer, I went through something of a cake baking frenzy in that hallway kitchen. I loved the final product. But the process was an exhausting experience because I was constantly washing dishes to make space and I had to move part of the production to the living room/2nd bedroom. Wow. It feels odd to type that (living room/2nd bedroom), but that really was the scenario. I used to refer to the Christie Street abode as the flophouse and not lovingly either. No wonder I feel like I'm living in a penthouse/mansion right now.

Another thing that sold me on the kitchen: no stainless steel appliances (save for my toaster and coffee maker). I love the homey beige fridge, oven and dishwasher. Even better would have been harvest gold, straight from Sears circa 1974. It speaks to me of Helen Reddy blaring from a tinny clock radio, saloon style kitchen doors, of mother daughter talks and Sissy Spacek (oh my god, I've done it again--just when I think I'm using my unfettered imagination I end up referencing some movie -- I believe this time, it's "If These Walls Could Talk".

I digress.

I love my kitchen, I do, though, I want to do more things to it (I feel like that sentence is the downfall of every interior designer, but I'm not one, so hey).

I've got my Helga clocks, and I've got those lovely plates up there, but now the area on top of the cupboards seems so bare.

I got the latest Architectural Digest (Diane Keaton was on the cover, I couldn't not get it) and she's got this big rambling Spanish style house (which, overall, I actually didn't like) but in her library, she's stenciled a motto on the wall above her shelves. Now that I did like.
And I was thinking perhaps I should stencil a motto in my kitchen above the cupboards, or better yet, how about some great advice or a favourite motto of CHY's. Though she never said it to me, I did find this scrawled in one of her agendas "A child craves certainty. An adult is content to live with doubt." I like that, but it's a bit long. If I do end up stenciling something perhaps I'll stencil E.A.T. as an aside to the keeper of peacocks, Flannery O'Connor.

I need to walk into a clean, happy kitchen in the morning. And I need to be able to walk into it barefoot. Actually I need to be able to walk into it.

Not pass through it.

It's funny, the bedroom can be in disarray, the living room can be a mess of coats on the backs of chairs and papers, but if the kitchen is messy, it's just not welcoming. When I'm in the mood for some serious cooking, I'll post some more pictures of me doing my favourite thing, playing with my wooden spoons, rolling pin and standing mixer.

My D.J. Booth

I am a firm and total believer in Jinxes. You know how it works don't you? Monday night you tell all and sundry how much you love your job and how the people you work with are just tops, and then Tuesday you go into work and have the worst fucking day of your life. That's because you jinxed yourself on Monday.

I love the Huffington Post, I do, but don't they know with this constant talk of Obama winning by a landslide that they are just jinxing him? I can't read their blog until after Tuesday, I just can't. I also refuse to listen to the CBC news, I don't want to hear Canadians discussing the Bradley effect or anything else. I live in Canada for crissakes and I am as anxiety-ridden as the people who are voting. I know my anxiety is directly related to this crazed media onslaught that seems to know no bounds. I was even at the writer's festival on the weekend...talking about books, watching a round table discussion....nobody on the panel was American and yet the annoying moderator had to include a gratuitous question about the election.

I will play no part in this jinxing. I will NOT. Yesterday I cooked my dinner in total silence, when I went on the internet I did not so much even glance at the Huffington Post. And then when I couldn't take the silence any longer, I went into my cedar closet where I keep my stereo and put on CDs.

I listened to the soundtrack to South Pacific (one of CHY's favourites), and Elvis Costello over and over again. I wanted to turn the sound up, but my small tinny speakers don't like it, and they rattle and hum to show their annoyance. I'm glad I traded in my coffin-sized speakers but perhaps I should spring for some better speakers. I got the 4 small silver-coloured ones at a pawn shop. I liked getting them because the Zood bargained with the sales guy. And the way the Zood barters works especially well: he just stares with his intense blue eyes and looms with his 6 foot 2 body. It's a very good technique. The sales guy went from $30 to $20.

This morning, I also refused to turn on the radio. I just slipped into the closet/booth and put on some X and had my coffee while John sand and Exene whined. It was the most incredible music to me when I was in high school, and I'm happy to say I still enjoy it.

The D.J. booth of course needs work: I'd like to have my CDs and DVDs out of the cardboard box and hanging on the wall sometime soon. I wonder too, about converting the space into a little office? Maybe...but for now it's where I play my music, and from Wednesday on, it'll be where I listen to the radio too.

It's the small things

What with a maxed and credit card and all this fucking doom and gloom talk, I've been holding off on big ticket purchases, namely a certain Crate and Barrel cabinet for the dining room.

So, what have I been doing? I've tweaking the little things. Seriously. The only thing I allowed myself to buy for the house were two plate hangers. That is it. I hung the two Dijon plates where one might hang an upside down horseshoe for good luck. I never thought I'd be one for hanging plates on a wall, or trays for that matter, it seemed too bed and breakfast, too quaint little English cottage, but look at me now, or look at my place.

I also took my Bay of Fundy rocks that my mother collected for me and put them in a nice plate I picked up at the St. Lawrence market. I was never sure what to do with this plate...it had

been housing keys I never use and paper clips and screws...but I much prefer it with the rocks. They complement each other very well.

And with little to buy (I probably won't be out of debt until after Christmas), I'm also focusing on getting all the dishes washed and put away before I go to bed. It's so important I find: Schlepping into the kitchen at 5:45 a.m. and seeing that it's clean and tidy. I tell you what else I have been training myself to do...sit at the table and eat. Sit at the table and use the computer.

It's very easy for me to sit on the couch and balance crackers, dip and the laptop, but it feels trashy, or like sad single woman behaviour, so I'm putting an end to it.

Now, if only I could stop taking the laptop to bed, and curl up with a nice little book...how very English cottage of me. Blame the plates on the wall.

Crate and Barrel LUST

The Zood is not one for window shopping, but I am. When I'm on my own I am perfectly content to spend an hour drifting through aisles, feeling fabrics or imagining chairs, sofas or desks in my possession and constructing domestic scenarios around them -- right there in the store.
I've even been known to stand in line clutching four or five things and then just as it's my turn at the cash, I abandon what I've been holding because I'm just not in the mood to anymore. I may have been wandering around the store for hours carefully accumulating things, but then, nah I was just only in the mood to look and daydream.
The Zood and I went to the new Crate and Barrel store at the Yorkdale mall on Saturday. And boy did we windowshop, I mean, we really went to town. I don't really know how to put our experience into words: I don't know how to write about lust or yearning when it comes to furniture or linens. I don't know how to write about that ache you get when you plop yourself down in a plush olive green chair with a mahogany frame, or the need to run your palm along every desk, hutch or buffet. I had to open every sideboard and look at the shelves. I had to compare all that beautiful solid wood furniture (that wasn't so outrageously priced) to that compressed wood shit that comes out of Ikea. And while I was sitting or reclining on chairs and sofas, and feeling up the wooden tables I was also daydreaming about which piece I could use to fill up that negative space in my dining room.
And yet I must be smart about money.
I was approached by a sales clerk who took the time to explain how to purchase this immense leather arm chair that could very easily seat two. I stared into her eyes but didn't hear a word she said. (I use this technique a lot. It's called, spacing out) I had one question I was burning to ask her. "When will there be a sale on the floor models?" But I didn't ask her, I probably would have embarrassed the Zood, and maybe she took me for someone who could actually afford to pick up numerous items there at once.
But no, the credit card must be paid off in full before I get any big ticket items.
The Zood and I window spent a while (could it have been more than 30 minutes?) in Crate and Barrel before we popped in to watch W. There was a lot to mull over in that movie. So the next morning I asked him, "have you been thinking about the movie?" He answered, "To tell you the truth, I spent more time thinking about Crate and Barrel and everything in that store.
Oh my god, Daph."
Yip.
My feelings exactly.
Look, I will always be a Goodwill girl, I will always be the one to brag about finding something for 3 dollars, but Crate and Barrel. Oh my god, indeed.

The One Year Anniversary

It's October 14th now, but I'm referring to October 12th, 2007. The date CHY, my beloved CHY, permanently shifted her shape, got beamed up, or as like to refer to it, the date CHY left.
One year later, it is now our anniversary - just hers and mine --(really, after sharing her with so many people over the past year, with a range of results from annoying and tactless to amazing and healing), I decided to become selfish and had my own day of rememberance. 'Day of Rememberance' sounds pretty stiff considering how my day turned out. It was such a pleasurable day. And get this: I did not cry even though I fully expected to.

Here are some of the things I did: I cooked from CHY's old cookbooks. I used her old cookbook called The Continental Flavour. I made pasta bolognese (this was the real deal with chicken livers and all). I had never made this before. Then I made a chocolate torte with apricot jam and Italian icing. This I used to make when I was 16. It's a such a dense cake and it's not sweet, and the icing is made with sugar, chocolate and boiling water. Really good, the taste brought back nice memories.
Previously, I confessed that during my high school years, I didn't study at all, or do homework on the weekends. Sundays I locked myself in my room to decorate my walls and worship pop music, and on Saturdays I would pore over my mom's cookbooks and bake. My mother would usually be napping on Saturday afternoon after a busy week and I would come into her room presenting her with a tray of something I'd just made.
As I chopped vegetables, washed dishes, heated cream etcetera... I listened to opera.
It all felt very adult. Maybe I even felt like a little bit like that Meryl Streep character in The Hours when she's preparing for her party. But this too was a tribute to CHY. She always had the radio on. She even slept with it on. (It's gotten to the point that I can only fall asleep while listening to This American Life)
And as I was cooking, my heart did not feel heavy, I felt industrious...happy, even.
With everything ready, I drew myself a bath and added plenty of epsom salts. CHY was very big on epsom salts, and I lolled in the tub for a good chunk of time. I had thought about buying one of those Umbra trays to put over the bathtub to display soap, a loofah or a pumice stone. The picture on the box features a glass of red wine, and a book balanced on the tray....I can't imagine drinking a glass of wine naked in the tub...it seems a bit far-fetched for me. I can just imagine what CHY would say about such a thing. OH NO!! Alcohol and a hot bath is a LETHAL combination. You could pass out!! Promise me you won't do such a thing. Promise me, my duckie!!!
And she would say it in that breathy faux English accent of hers. And I would roll my eyes all exasperated, but secretly I would smile.
After I got out of the tub, I ironed one of her tablecloths, set the table, poured myself a glass of kir -- memories of our mother daughter trip to Dijon 1984-- and ate.
After dinner, I watched Antonia's Line for the first time. I was living in Vancouver when CHY saw it, called me and raved on and on about it. It's a perfect mother daughter movie and I loved it.
There were other things that I was supposed to have done, go through my trunk of memories, scan and work on photographs, re-read the journal I kept in the hospital...but I didn't feel up to it. Maybe those things would have made me cry...I'm not sure. I don't cry at home, really. When it does happen it's usually when I'm on the bus or subway.

I'll still do those other things...I'm just not sure when. October 12, 2008 was a good day. A very low key day but just what I needed: The perfect antidote to October 12, 2007

Nesting

It was, in my estimation, a tremendous weekend.
Friday night the Patti Smith documentary at the Royal. Afterwards, I replayed scenes
in my head. There were so many great moments, but I particularly liked the title
of the movie...Dream of Life, taken from Shelley's Adonais. I loved this part of the poem which
Smith reads in the movie:

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—
He hath awakened from the dream of life—



I can't explain how comforting those words were to me. But they were. And they continue to be.

Saturday was a pedestrian day of errands and workshops...but it was Sunday that made me the happiest. I woke up and had nothing planned...just heaps of laundry to do and preparations for next week's dinner party and the item that has been on my to do list for weeks on end: put up pictures. And I did, still haven't done my bedroom yet, nor the kitchen but I got some pictures up in the living room and my favourite picture of all time by my bookcase nook. And as I was decorating and hammering and spilling wall dust on the floor, I started remembering decorating my bedroom when I was in high school. My tiny, tiny nook which barely housed all my straight from Sears furniture. My tiny, tiny nook painted a girly shade of lilac.


On Sundays I would lock myself in my bedroom under the guise of studying and making notes for school (did I ever study for anything in high school? I think not. I'm positive -- no). And then I would plaster my walls with magazine pictures taken from Flexi-Pop, or any other British music mag I could get my hands on. I would spend hours doing that....and it brought me such a sense of joy and satisfaction. Yeah...school....didn't do well, but I slept well surrounded by my collage-ridden walls.
So, after seeing the pictures up...I started to feel more settled at home. My homelife seems less surreal now and more placid and enjoyable.

I've got to suspend my spending for now...no more acquisitions...for at least a month...and that's good...I'll spend time in my apt, just playing with what I have.

It happened.

Yes, yes, it happened!!!

Tuesday night I had to be downtown late, so I slept over at my father's place.
And though the bed was comfortable and I had all my necessities at my disposal...I awoke just
feeling all out of sorts. I had had my requisite 8 hours of sleep, but I still felt out of it
and doh-dohed on the bus and subway. When I arrived at work, I still couldn't shake the feeling.
And then when I finally made it back to the apartment, I turned the key in the door and saw my place with new eyes/fresh eyes as it were. And I knew I was home.
I still can't figure out the dining table/work table quandary and I have a cluster of chairs in the corner that seem to indicate an AA meeting will soon take place. Yes. Long story short...there is work to be done. But even at this stage it feels like home.

Nice.

The Rocking Chair is Back

Yes, yes, my rocking chair, my pride and joy that I rescued from the trash got re-caned by the masterful hands of Donna Kim at Edge of Your Seat. Actually, just the seat was re-caned and I can see the care that went into it. I kind of wished that I had the back done as well as the seat.



But for my first caning experience it was a very good experience indeed. I got the feeling that Donna genuinely cared. When I came to pick the chair up, she asked me what my plans with the chair were.

The innocence of that question made me think, "what?" I did a double take. Then she elaborated. "Yeah...are you going to put it on your balcony, or in the living room...?"I fell in love with her, just for a second. I love answering those kinds of questions! So I gave her a really thoughtful answer. I lamented that I didn't have a patio...more like a narrow balcony and what I really wanted was a daybed so I can sleep outside...and as I was picturing that rocking chair in every area of my apartment, I kind of forgot she was standing beside me. But then I came out of my lucid daydream and ended my speech with:...."so I think I'll put it in my bedroom, so I can sit in my rocking chair in my PJs after a bath and read."


Hey what can I tell you? A simple question from a willing listener really made my day.




Right now, however, the rocking chair isn't the scene stealer I was hoping it might be. Maybe it does need a paint job, and perhaps it needs to be the only chair in the room. I might move the one chair that's already in there out to the balcony, so as to give centre stage to my rocking chair.



I've got to keep going with my place...although sometimes I feel stuck. It does take a while, so I was told. And as of yet, I haven't really hung anything on the wall. And I really need a good couple of lamps and a work table. Who am I kidding? I need time. Lots and lots time.

Stopping is easy.

I did not mean to take a month long hiatus from this blog, I swear.

I did not mean to take a month long Rosie-O'Donnell hiatus from the computer...but apparently

I did.

I took my computer into the shop where it stayed for weeks and weeks upon end...and the thing was, after I got over not being able to watch Judge Judy on Youtube whenever I wanted, I started to enjoy this not having a computer thing. And actually started reading before bedtime, and listening to the radio, and sleeping more soundly.

But now I'm back...I'm hurtling myself into my blog once again, to see how far I've come.

I guess what I had been struggling with before my computer went kaput was putting up fabric covered corkboards from which to hang my jewellery. It took forever, I tried double-sided tape, silicone (not my idea...the Zood's) and the boards just slipped down the wall leaving a thick and sticky trail of silicone in its wake. Finally I relented and got some gorilla glue like stuff, and now they're sitting pretty. Need some nicer tacks, though.

Things are coming together, but there are difficulties to work through.

Actually the only difficulty I'm dealing with right now stems from work. Yes, the salary kinda sucks, but it's not the lack of money I resent as much as the time...time spent commuting. And then by the time I get back home it's nearly 7:00 and I have energy to eat my crackers and dip

(oh and by the way, Smoked salmon pate, you have no greater fan than Ms. Peepee Faye Boxill.)

sip my reduced calorie iced tea (could there by a trashier drink? Maybe RC cola) listen to As It Happens and it's pretty much time for bed. I wish I could be one of those who stayed up until 11:00 doing things but my tear ducts pretty much run dry by 8:30.

I need to get out of Mississauga, I know that...I just didn't know it would be so hard. Still, I persevere, I must keep persevering. So, I leave you with a picture of my fabric bulleting boards which gave me so much trouble. Few things in this life come easy to me. In the past, I found conjugating French verbs easy, and making frittatas, but the rest has all been an uphill battle.

What I have...

This is one entry in two parts. The first entry focussing on what I have, the second focussing on what I do not.

Have.

So, on Friday, I got my rug back. And I love it! It's not just how I acquired it that makes me love it, it's the rug itself. A nice little rectangular piece with a delightful floral design. Yes, that's right, I said "delightful". I lived in England, I can say such things.

But of course I'm just waiting for someone to come and see it, so I can tell them how I got it.

Here's how I imagine it:

"Oh, what a cute rug!"

"Oh thanks."

"Where did you get it?"

"Oh, I found it on the street."

"Really?"

"Yes. I was walking along Howland Street after seeing a dreadful Fringe show and I noticed this heap of stuff close to the curb. A wicker chair, a desk and this rug. I unrolled the rug, thought it would be the right size, so I just rolled it back up, rested it on my shoulder and kept walking."

"Wow."

"Yeah, I can't believe the things people throw away."

That's how I imagine the conversation, but it'll probably go something like this:

Someone comes in.

Me: "Hey, do you like my rug? I found it in the trash!"

Someone: "Oh."

It really does add something to the room....Makes it look less bald, if you can use that term to describe a room. And it partially covers up the footprints. I don't mind the footprints though. It reminds me how eager and excited I was about moving in to the apartment. The parquet floors were buried under pink wall-to-wall carpeting, so before I moved in, I arranged to have the carpet removed and the parquet buffed. Ami did a great job, but he put this varnish on the floor that took a long time to dry, so I walked on the floor before it had completely dried and you can clearly see my footprints.

Meh.

Very me. Very Duckie.

What I don't have...

I don't have my blown up pictures -in frames that I made-up on the wall.

I came very close, very close indeed, but before hubris led me to destroying my wall. I stopped and decided that I would just have to wait.

And the thing is, Better Homes and Gardens just made it look so bloody easy.

How hard could it possibly be to screw two pieces of wood together? I didn't even need 4 pieces of wood, just two...On Saturday I went to Home Hardware (I know, I know I had said Iwouldn't go back, but it was on the way back from my meeting). I was expecting the same surly service I got when gently inquiring about how to hang trays, so I drew in a breath and then exhaled, "IfIbroughtintwopiecesofwood, approximately3 feetinlength, would youbeabletodrillholesinthembecauseI'mplanningtomakeapictureframe..."

And, before I knew it, there was a call for customer service and 3 tall men swooped in at the cash. Gee, all this attention for little old me?

One said, "I don't know." The other said, "A picture frame? Geez that's complicated." And the third one said, "I'll ask Jeff". Then Jeff came and joined the circle and told me it was no problem.

So it was decided. After my errands, I would come back and get my holes drilled.And then I walked along Brooke til I got home. And it took F-O-R-E-V-E-R. The heat just pressed on me, slowing me down and making me so thirsty. As soon as I opened my apartment door I could feel the cold from my fan blow on me, and I was thrilled. I think I moaned loudly about that.

I lay on the sofa, thinking about how I would execute the rest of the afternoon. I had to take my rocking chair to Edge of Your Seat to get it fixed, then I would go to the library to see if I could find that book that gave me the idea of building a frame, and then I would go get my wood drilled.

After the library, I got to thinking, why don't I just drill holes in the wood myself. Yeah. Why the fuck not? So I googled "Drills for Beginners" and thought the 3/8 model would suit my needs rather well. I went back to Home Hardware, got the drill, the drillbits, the clamp, the screws, the polyurethane, and the picture hanging kit and I was all set.

By far the most exciting part of the exercise was drilling through the wood. The power! The power! Ah...the power! I would love to just drill holes through wood with my trusty little drill for hours.

I had successfully sandwiched my blown up print between the two pieces of wood. Yes...yes...almost there...had lined up the holes properly so it fastened properly...yes...getting closer...but how the in bloody hell do you hang it? Tried with the eyelets...tried balancing the frame on a nail...nope, nothing. And then in my fervid excitement, I thought...I'll just get a really long screw and screw the frame directly into the wall.

And then I thought, I'm alone...I don't have one of little gadgets that tell you if a picture is level, I have no one to ask. And here's what I decided on Sunday. I will wait for my Zood.

and here's what I decided yesterday. I will just get my blown up prints plaque-mounted at Costco. I don't have a membership, so I will still have to wait for the Zood.

And...I will see if there are any other projects that require drilling holes.

Dreaming of a daybed

If there was one thing I wished I could have done yesterday, it was this: have a nap on the balcony. And boy did I need it. I had a most a-typical Saturday night as I did things beyond the realm of my weekend routine. I travelled to the east side, met up with an old friend and went to a house party.

I can't remember the last time I was at a house party, but I was feeling game. I was with someone I used to pal around with when I was twenty-four and that made me feel youthful and daring.

As I said I was feeling game, but looking back I realize that I was a little too game. I had glass after glass of red wine and about a thousand cigarettes.

Upon realizing that I was past the point of tipsy at a party filled with people I didn't know, I quickly left. I climbed into a cab on Queen Street and can't recall what I said to the taxi driver. I had a little doh-doh in the back and by the time I woke up we were barreling along the 401 and the meter was at 47 dollars.

I made it back to the condo and up to the fifth floor. As soon as I got out of the elevator I slid along the walls until I found my door. And then I stumbled into bed. No, more like I flung myself into bed.

I spent the entire Sunday recuperating. I couldn't take enough naps. I knew that fresh air would make me feel better. I tried to nap in the chair on the balcony, but it didn't recline far back enough. It would have been perfect though, and so healing. Out there with my flowers, and there was the best breeze. But, try as I might to make myself comfortable enough in the chair (I fetched a pillow, the ottoman, a sheet, I even brought out dock to listen to podcast) nothing worked, so I went inside to nap on the sofa. I could fully lie down, but I couldn't feel the breeze.

And that was unsatisfying. I still slept though, but oh how well I would have slept in the open air!

What I realize now is that rather than two chairs and a table, I really should have gotten a daybed.

Oh well, there's always next summer.

After my second nap, I did some chores (ironing, without a doubt my most hated chore, a bit of food shopping, laundry...)at a zombie-like pace. And then, wouldn't you know it the sun had gone down. I decided to give myself a really special send off to the land of nod. So after making my bed with fresh sheets, watering my plants and putting away the ironing board. I drew myself a bath and placed my ladybug candles around the tub.

Then I went out to the balcony and lit almost all of my lanterns.

I relaxed in the tub listening to CBC. After towelling off and putting on my gownie (this is what the Zood calls it), I went out to the balcony. It was pitch black save for the lanterns and the temperature had dropped. So I just sat there drinking it all in, until I was drowsy enough for bed. And then I climbed in and felt the fresh sheets against my skin. That was such a great feeling, and such a great ending to a day that was punctuated by my inertia, dehydration and restlessness.

and as for the houseparty and the drinking...okay to visit, but I'm sure glad I no longer live there. A pleasant wine buzz is all I'm up for these days.

I'm a budding-crafty spinster now, and it's time I acted like one. Next week: sewing circle of two!

Always a learning curve

It's one of those perfect nights. I'm sitting here at my desk listening to This American Life quietly working on...stuff. And I am engaged. That happens all too rarely. And when it does I really like it. The opposite has been happening to me on the bus lately. Trying very hard to read Beyond Belief: The Lost Gospel of Thomas...but my mind wanders. I am so not engaged.

Oh look, I've digressed. Where was I? Oh yes, working on my stuff. Specifically? Scanning negatives. I've decided that the artwork on my walls will be photographs (aside from the Florentine trays that is). Oh, and the shoes which I've glued to my wall.

I'm decorating with snapshots, mostly of CHY. I especially love the photos of when she was a nursing student in Montreal. I want to blow them up poster size. But, you know, the colour is all off (that's part of their charm actually) and sometimes she's posing with someone I don't know. So I took a photoshop seminar at Henry's this weekend to learn how to fix up pictures.

But wouldn't you know it, the photoshop I have installed on my PC is completely different from the photoshop I learned on the iMac. There is, however, a program similar to photoshop that came with the scanner. So I'm just fiddling with it...asking myself why there must always be a learning curve. I've got to print out the manual...tomorrow.

Now...I'm just going to say goodnight to my plants, load up the dishwasher and show you some pictures which will soon be on my wall, as, you know, art.

Why I Love Julie

There are countless reasons I love Julie, really. I love that her appetite for the Goodwill is nearly as strong as mine; I love that, like me and the Zood, a cup of Aroma coffee can make her swoon; and what else? her good common sense and her love of things crafty...I could go on and on.

But today, the number one reason I cherish her as a friend, is what she did for me on Canada Day. It was quite simple: she sat with me while I sewed.

For weeks upon weeks my brand new White sewing machine sat on my table all perky and plastic, daring me to try to use it...again. I'd tried...and just when I had successfully threaded the needle (this involved lots of talking out loud in my too-calm-therapy-voice)and was ready to celebrate...something went awry with the bobbin, or the pedal, or the zipper foot dropped off.

It seemed, there was always something.

And yet I so desperately wanted to sew...I wanted to recreate how exciting it was to make something, as I did at The Work Room, that Saturday afternoon in early May.

I was nervous, sitting down in front of the machine, and quite skeptical that I would be able to produce anything...but my nervousness quickly turned to excitement as I sat in front of a machine and made it whir. When I had my foot on the pedal and I pressed it and watched the needle go up and down, I felt as giddy as I did the first time I was behind the wheel of the car.

So much power!

The Work Room is a pretty cool place, as all those knitting/sewing boutiques are, but I didn't care...I stepped on the pedal and went "weeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" I think it's good that at age 41 I can make this sound with abandon.

After all that I came home with a pretty little pillow which I proudly showed off to Zood. "I made this!", I bragged and Zood was very impressed.

I knew that in my new place I didn't want a television. I had all these plans for myself about the pioneering sorts of things I would do in my very first home without a television. Bake pies from scratch, learn to crochet, have a herb garden, read, listen to my podcasts and sew.
On Tuesday, with Julie sitting patiently beside me, guiding me when my bobbin thread balled up or the helping me to rethread the needle I got a taste of my life as a spinster/pioneer and it was so thrilling. And I successfully made a cushion cover. And I'm so proud! Of course I want to make another one...this time I'll try it on my own. I got myself a desk at the Goodwill for $10, so I'll make myself a little sewing nook. My next task, of course, is to sew alone...and I'm up for the challenge. I've also signed up for some lessons in August and I'm hoping that the lessons will help me make a duvet cover.

Monday's AAAAAAAARGH!!!! to Friday's Gratefulness

It's Friday today, but I started this post on Monday. I had intended to finish writing it and publish it Monday evening...but I was just too tired. And then there was Tuesday, Wednesday, and I wasn't in the mood to do anything after work except eat, watch Judge Judy on youtube and sort through negatives. Thursday I was beginning to come around....but this is what I started with on Monday and I'm keeping it. Because it was how I felt:

Today, is not a good day. Yeah, take what people say about Mondays and quadruple it...that's how I feel about this day. And I just got a visit from the Munsters...(note to lady superintendent, that bowl cut does not suit you). I cut my eye at ugly and uglier before flinging the door open saying, yeah okay come and clean the fan, but I agreed to it last week, not today. I think the root of my frustration was not having enough time by myself in the apartment this weekend. Not being able to spend enough time in here just pottering around, twirling on the parquet and daydreaming. Yes, I got some shopping done, but mostly I just dropped the bags before I was out the door doing something. I had taken the Friday off, but really this weekend went by far too quickly.

And I was so irritated on Monday...not just at home, but at work as well. Then I thought I should look around my place and think of things that make me happy. That is a good exercise...

rather than this constant looking forward and envisioning how this place will be, let me look at what I've done or what I have and appreciate it. Let me do this often. This is what Tracey would refer to as living in the now.

Favourite thing number one: my lovely headboard.

Idea stolen from Martha Stewart's Living magazine.

Now an unapologetically HUGE fan. So, here was the childhood thing creeping in again. I was going to have my very own bed...

not a futon, an actual bed with a coiled mattress and everything.

And then I remembered the last time I had a bedroom set and how incredibly exciting it was to take the Sears catalogue to bed and picking out a canopy bed, or one of those beds with the drawers underneath. The whole bedroom set buying event filled me with hope. A bedroom set from Sears...just think there was a time there was nothing cynical or cliche about it. You know, a good deal of my childhood was informed by reading the Sears Catalogue,

and let's not forget TV Guide. But I digress,

Thinking about how I could festoon this bed took up a lot of my time. I'll admit I wanted a four poster bed...I saw beautiful ones of Pottery Barn and Pier One...they were over $1,000. I even saw a reasonably priced one at Ikea, but the four posters were just so wimpy looking...if I had bought it I would have had this niggling reminder that I had settled. And then I thought about a brass headboard and loooked at some on Craig's List. But I'm not that enamoured with Craig's List...it just seems too random, too much of a free-for-all. And then I picked up an issue of
Living...and I saw a picture...and I got my idea. And this was my mom's quilt which I had wanted

and this made me so happy. Not to mention it was the first kind of DIY thing I'd done to the apartment...so it's a source of happiness.
This is the second thing I love. The Zood and I had gone to Lowe's

just to have a look at the Gardening Centre. As soon as I saw this

I knew I had to buy it. It seemed kind of macabre and absolutely fascinating. Whose blood and whose bones is making my flowers so pretty? Of course my imagination is running away with me, but

I'm choosing to let it roam free. This blood and bone meal ties into my whole theory that after we die we just go back to the earth and come back as trees, plants, flowers...and then the cycle starts again.

And speaking of plants...I love my little guy. As I said before I equated gardening with making mud pies. Didn't know a whole lot, but I didn't let that stop me. I got parsley and basil seeds, dug holes in the dirt, watered the contents in my long, rectangular flower box and hoped for the best.

I later learned that I didn't give the seeds enough space....and even though I had scattered in a lot, I only got this one timid little fellow growing at the very edge of the box. I moved him to the centre and water him and spray him and talk to him..."My tenacious little D, I call him" and...I just love to watch him grow. Frail, but tenacious, a survivor. And that little basil plant makes me very happy....and grateful.

Treasure Hunting

Well, I knew there was a reason I decided to get off on Avenue Road and walk across to Bathurst. If I hadn't been strolling down Brooke Street, I would have missed this, this broke-ass rocking chair. I've been looking for a rocking chair for so long...it seemed

like a sign...seeing it there on the curbside, discarded for its broken caning. I picked it up and carried it home (I think there's a scene in Married to the Mob when Michelle Pfeiffer does something similar), that's who I felt like. Not Michelle Pfeiffer, but the character she played in the movie. Angela, I think here name was. Now I have to find a place that does caning...I don't know if this will happen, but I will give it a go and look.

Wednesday, after my doctor's apartment I went to my father's condo as I was on his side of town. I told him that I would be visiting primarily for two reasons...(seeing him was a given)

to try and fix his dying Bonsai tree that I gave him, and to dig in the basement and look for stuff that CHY saved for me. He left me there in the "cage" (that's what condo lockers look like) and boy did I have a good time going through boxes. What fascinated me was how disorganized all the pictures/mementos/post cards/slides were...it kind of delighted me as well, because that's exactly how I am. I have these two slim memory boxes and I just throw things in there willy-nilly...but there were two big boxes full of stuff. I've decided to appoint myself family archivist and try to put things in order and come up with several volumes of books. Luca, at work, showed me how to use a slide scanner...and Rob told me that once I get everything organized I should do iphoto or some such Mac program. (Every day I grow sorrier that I did not buy a Mac).

It's amazing to see pictures I've never seen, and to see how absolutely stunning my mother was.

I know I'm biased, but she was movie-star beautiful.

I definitely want to decorate with the snap shots. I got this idea to blow up a snap shot on 3 feet wide canvas and hang it on the wall. The difficult part will be choosing the pictures.

The best thing I found was a yellowed article clipped out of The Voice of St. Lucia, dated December 30th, 1961. The article was entitled, "Double-Ring Ceremony Takes Place at Cathedral High Mass" and it was all about CHY's wedding. It had sentences like "The Bride looked regal and charming , as she moved gracefully up the aisle in her rapturous and breathtaking bridal gown of 'drama peau de sole'." And this, "The sweet little flower girls, Misses___ and____ in their pretty bouffant dresses, their crowns of roses and their bouquets, echoed the coral of the Matron of Honour" I just loved..."sweet little flower girls". The way my mother told it, one of the sweet little flower girls, who is a distant relative on my father's side,

puked on her wedding gown and stole her camera. My mother hated her as an eight year old flower girl and continued hating said flower girl well into her fifties. There are many, many reasons I feel blessed to be CHY's only daughter, but thinking about that long-lasting grudge is one of my all time favourite reasons.

I read the article while I was in bed and laughed heartily as I reached to turn off my bedside lamp.

The Trays

I found these trays at the Antique sale at the St. Lawrence Market. I've already written about

how heavenly it was. I love rifling through second hand goods...digging or scavenging for treasure, or kitsch. I'm not so good at bartering. When a price is announced I'll pretty much agree to it right away, or I'll suggest something so ridiculously low the answer is an unequivocable, "no way."

I managed to find these three Florentine trays outside....the guy who was selling them seemed pretty happy to get rid of them. I was taken in by how light they were and the gold. I think my favourite one is the gold and blue tray because the design looks Arabic in some way, but wouldn't you know, it's got a big ring mark on it. It doesn't really bother me....and in fact I hadn't noticed until I took a photograph of it.

I've got so many little things to do to decorate this place still...it's hard to decide what to do first, but on Saturday I thought I would try and find a way to hang my trays on the wall. I thought I'd try Home Hardware first because the last time I went in all the staff was so friendly...honestly it felt like a conspiracy. It seemed every two steps I took, there was an eager face looming in the aisles asking, "Can I help you with anything?" "Do you need help finding anything?"

I had just finished talking to Zood, relaying the very same information, chuckling and anticipating to be showered with attention once I crossed the threshold.

Well, on this particularly sticky Saturday....I got the opposite. I had to beg for help and when I got help...it was "We don't have plate hangers big enough and I doubt you're going to find any big enough for that tray" and then the suggestion to drill holes through the tray to hang them on the wall. Unhelpful, and I had to beg for the advice. I was so dejected. I just bought some glue and then I was going to take the tabs off two cans of coke and glue them to the back of the trays and hang them up that way. I didn't really understand exactly how I was going to do it, I'd just read it somewhere when I googled "hanging Florentine trays"

I left Home Hardware feeling hateful, and I was about to go home and then I thought I'd go in the rather pricey Main Course right on the corner of Brooke and Avenue Road. And wouldn't you know, just five minutes away they had large plate hangers...and I was very cheerfully shown where they were.

I could hardly wait to get them on the wall....and I'd like to get more of them, but for now, it's a start.

And will I go back to Home Hardware?
NBL

That's my way of saying, Not Bloody Likely

The Helgas

My mother is the reason I have this new house. If it had not been for the money she left me, there is no way I would have been able to afford to buy my own place. I had resigned myself to the fact that though I may one day have been able to escape 565 Christie, I would always be a renter.
But let's get back to Mom, good old CHY. Mom and I, we liked taking classes together. We sat beside each other and wrote notes if the class was boring (and the last class we took...Intro to Mac was just that) When it ended I wanted to engage her with another class. Try as I might to get her interested in bellydancing, she just refused.

And she tried to convince me to take an interior design class in the winter. And I balked. I knew I would never own my own place to decorate, so what was the point of learning interior design.

I believe her answer was, "You never know, you just might."

She was right. Yes. She's gone now. She passed away suddenly in October, and I miss her every day. But she was right. Here I am a homeowner.

And what kills me is the irony, or the impossibility of it all...she would have loved this place, she would have been so excited...but she's not here...at least in human form. So, anything that I can find that makes me think of my mother I want to have here. Because I want this to be our place.

This explains why I bought two broken clocks with two frauleins who are supposed to bounce up and down on the swing as the clock ticks along. I found them at a thrift store up the street, and seeing those clocks took me back to the time when my mother bought me the same type of clock in Ottawa.

When my mother moved to Ottawa for one year to get this great high-paying job, we became quite close. I was living in Toronto at the time and I would take the bus down to see her on the weekends. The first time I went to visit, I met this woman who looked a lot like my mother and even sounded like her, but she sure didn't seem like her. This woman was about 20 years younger and liked to go out for coffee and hunt for bargains at Big Buds and go out for lunch, and she liked to go to the Rideau Market and shop. And yet this was my mother. She was out of Fredericton, with her own place, her own job and she was free.

One weekend, we were there browsing in the market and we saw this little shop that was selling these clocks. We both fell in love with them immediately...the idea of this girl on a swing that goes up and down with the ticking of the clock. My mother bought me a clock, and I was so thrilled with it. I called the girl on the swing Helga. When I moved to Vancouver a few years later, my mother often enquired about my clock and the girl on the swing. She would do things like that. I moved so many times in that period of my life I can't remember whatever happened to that clock, but my heart leapt when I saw two similar ones in that second hand store.
And now the two helgas sit on their swings in the kitchen, they're pretty quiet, no bouncing, but I still love seeing them.

One more thing about the flowers at the top of this entry. One night I was playing around with my camera (one of the million bonuses about having no TV!) and I fiddled with this image. These are my flowers, and one of them, the most flamboyant and beautiful flower stretching out towards the sun away from the more pedestrian flowers. That bold fuschia geranium with the "look-at-me" quality, that one, that's my mom.

It's Alive

What do I know about gardening? Not a lot.

I just like gardens. And flowers. In fact, I often get distracted by flowers. And trees. And gardens. I feel absolutely no guilt interrupting a conversation that might be taking place on a sidewalk, just to make a comment about a flower.

It could be as obvious as, "look at that flower."

I know what I mean. And I know the intensity of how I mean it. I trust that my fellow (who I am most often walking with on sidewalks) knows it too.

I got the idea to plant flowers and herbs on my balcony. I had a lot of fun doing it too. It was a lot like making mud pies, I thought. I go out there in the evening and I talk to my geraniums and coo to them and snip off their wilted bits and give them a little shower with my spray bottle.

Sometimes I put that 20/20 powder in their water, just to give them an extra boost. And, I've got to say, they make me amazingly happy these fuschia plants in their silver boxes. They are my pets.

The Weekend

I started off with the best of intentions...what I mean to say is I started off the weekend with a rather lengthy to-do list. After countless weekends spent at Costco, Home Depot, Winners, Lowe's gathering stuff...now was my time to spend time in my apartment, putting things together, organizing...nesting, as it were. As Tracey so aptly explained, "You are the mama bird, and you've been gathering twigs for your nest, and now it's time for you to arrange the twigs.
And here's what I can tell you, arranging twigs is a lot of work. It requires patience, imagination, commitment and confidence. Are you confident you want to hang that picture there? Are you sure? Yes. And where does this go? You have to decide. I found all that decision-making exhausting. Here's what I did: I put up two clocks (two broken clocks...I've decided I'd like to collect broken clocks...there's something I like about a broken clock...it says something rather profound about time stopping, or maybe it's just kitschy, I don't know, but I do like the idea of collecting them. I ironed. God, I ironed. Three blouses and it was godawful. That is a chore, I will always hate, I cleaned my kitchen, I repotted my parsley and basil plants and I napped. It was a good start, I think. And I will do more

On Sunday, I met Carrie to go antique shopping at St. Lawrence Market and it was exactly the kind of thing I like to do. I was very much in my element. I kept wanting to buy things that took me back to my childhood. I wanted to buy a small bronze figurine of the Eiffel Tower (I'd had one when I was 7), I wanted to buy a First Nations doll, all clad in suede with her hair in two long braids (I'd had one when I was 8) and I wanted to buy a Ukrainian Stacking doll (I'd had one when I was 6 or 7) and I did buy one.

And I've decided that along with broken clocks, this would be a very good thing to collect.

Counting Down to the Weekend

It's Thursday...and two things helped me get out of bed this morning: payday and the new issue of Now Magazine. I really live for the weekends now, because I can spend time at home.
Friday will be an exhausting day because I'm seeing Mo off at the airport and probably won't get home until midnight. Saturday, I'll be resting and hanging out chez moi. I intend to do some sewing and repot those plants. I can't wait!

Me and the camera

I haven't taken many pictures of my place. Because my place is just so...unfinished. I have no
pictures up yet...everything feels a bit stark. I wouldn't even say Zen, because Zen feels purposeful. I have to get over that, I realize. The personality...the "homey-ness" will come.
For the first couple of weeks all I took pictures of were sunrises. I'd be sitting in my leather chair, drinking my coffee, on this computer and I'd glance out the window and I'd see the most amazing sunrise, and though I felt goofy, I snapped away. The pictures that I took don't capture the magnificence of what I saw.
One night, I was up kind of late (late for me, is past 9:30). I was ironing and watching the Golden Girls on my computer. It was quite warm out and so I had the sliding door open. I heard firecrackers and then I remembered it was Victoria Day. So I went out onto the balcony and not only did I hear that lovely familiar sound of firecrackers, but I also saw fireworks lighting up the sky, and if that wasn't enough, it was a full moon too. Does the picture capture all that? Not to you, but to me it does.

A Stolen Idea

I just got an email from Danielle, who is pioneering in Moscow, and she's blogging about her experiences in the very aptly titled A Canadian Girl in Moscow, or is it Russia? Can't remember.
Anyway, I thought it wa a genius idea.
And then I thought, I am on a new adventure of my own. I'm a first-time homebuyer, and depending on how I frame it, it could be as exciting as living abroad. Probably not, but I'll hold that up as my ideal.

So, I moved in April first. And yes, I'm aware of the inherent irony.
I had had my heart set on Christie Street, as I had lived on Christie for almost all
of my Toronto life (not including the crazy two years spent here from 1990 to 1992, when I moved seven times in two years). The building I had my heart set on was a co-op and as I later learned, almost impossible to get financing for. My agent, told me that for my money, living in the annex, or the upper annex would be pretty much impossible.
And so, with some reluctance, I decided to venture outside of my zone and take a look at what they had up there north of Eglinton. The first couple of places were absolutely terrifying, and then, the following week, my agent and I visited an unimaginative concrete block of a building directly across from Baycrest Hospital. And, well, everything fell into place after that.
After reams and reams of paperwork and legalese, and back and forthing, and nausea and anxiety the place became mine. And now, the house or apartment as I still call it, is mine, and
I struggle and toil (happily struggle and happily toil) to make it a home.