Thanksgiving Revisited: the horror

Our computer has been in the shop all week, so it's been near-impossible to get a new post up. But what I AM able to do is share last year's Thanksgiving post with you all again--the Reader's Digest version. If you want the full, gory story, click here.

POISON POTATOES: REASONS TO BE THANKFUL (THAT I DON'T COOK FOR YOU)

Thanksgiving weekend ended up being full of adventures, many culinary. I threw myself into the deep end of the pool on Saturday: Mom’s family was getting twenty-five of us together and I volunteered to bring the sweet potatoes. To be fair, I hadn’t realized there would be twenty-five people when I volunteered, but when I found out the night before, I was brave and just bought more potatoes.

I had made mashed yams once before, a few weeks prior, when I attempted to make baked sweet potatoes. We had been visiting my parents, and eager to show them my new cooking interest, I had found a recipe online for a twice-baked sweet potato. The instructions were deceptively simple: bake, scoop out, mix ginger and raisins, bake again. What ended up happening was that after an hour in the oven, the damn things were still hard as a rock, so we threw them in the microwave and did them as ginger-raisin mashed potatoes instead. They turned out really delicious, and Mom was a great support; I was so frustrated that I couldn’t pull off this recipe that a certain famous Food Network chef thinks is sooooo easy. Mom just kept saying (and this is my advice to all of you): “Potatoes are funny things; sometimes they’ll cook in no time, and sometimes they’ll take hours. Don’t bother with that stupid recipe. Throw them in the microwave.” And her mantra for the evening, chanted at me so I wouldn’t throw the yams out the door: “It’s not YOU, it’s the potatoes.” In the end, we made a delicious dish, and I felt ready to try them again for the larger family.

Saturday morning, first thing we did was wash the potatoes. Then Brian volunteered to cut them up into smaller sections, as I was determined not to nuke my food in the microwave; we figured, cutting the potatoes into smaller portions would help them cook faster. We had talked with some tweeters the night before about just getting pre-cut potatoes, but a) I didn’t find them, and b) I figured my best bet was to follow my botched twice-baked recipe again, with the same modifications, because the end result had been great. After what happened next, I’ll tell you, I wish I had bought the stupid cut-up potatoes…

Brian cut his finger open. Even writing this out, three days later, I cringe. I left the room for two seconds and that’s when I heard his swearing. I knew what had happened. I thought I was ready for it. I ran in, saw the blood pouring out of him and the actual fear on his face…and I panicked. All my First Aid got jumbled in my head, like someone dropping a deck of playing cards. We managed to rinse the wound, sit him down, and apply pressure with a clean cloth. But every time we tried to look at it, it gushed again. What did I do? The only thing I knew how to do: I called my BFF MJ, who worked as a chef for fifteen years. I made her come over and assess the wound. She doesn’t live far, and she showed up, my hero, in mismatched pyjamas, running up the stairs. She suggested the Brian needed stitches, which Brian flat-out refused to do, so she suggested keeping an eye on it and seeing what happened. What happened was, it refused to seal itself, so we went to the pharmacy and got that 2^nd Skin stuff to seal it.

As Brian lay down for a while, looking pale and really scary, I forged on with the potatoes. I baked them for an hour, only to find they were still rock hard. I gave them another thirty minutes, and then discovered half of them had dried out. Stress and worry got the better of both of us, and Brian and I had a seriously crabby argument for no good reason while I tried to salvage the portions of potato that were either undercooked or cooked, but not dried out. I threw the resulting pulp into the microwave, feeling like a big cheater.

After that, though, the potatoes were indeed cooked and there seemed to be a pretty good yield, though maybe not enough to feed two dozen people. I mashed and stirred the potatoes, adding some (almond) milk, butter, raisins, and ginger, but it still tasted like it needed something. In a moment of inventiveness, I grabbed the maple syrup and gooshed in a large amount: perfect. They tasted great and I was satisfied. We took the bowl to dinner and ordered everyone to eat some, as there was, literally, blood, sweat, and tears in those potatoes. I received compliments, and somehow the fact that Brian was slowly bleeding to death seemed worth it. (I kid. Mostly.) There were leftovers and my mom in particular loaded up a container with them, which made me puff up with pride.

The next morning, I crawled out of bed, went to the kitchen in search of sustenance, saw the maple syrup…and realized something terrible. It was mouldy. A thick, fuzzy-gelatinous carpet of mould was floating on the top of the syrup. I think I thought it was frothiness, the day before when I used it. I don’t know how I didn’t spot it. Brian had woken up feeling a little sick, and suddenly I was terrified. I snuck into the art room, shut the door, and called Mom. When she answered, I said, “Mom, listen to me carefully. Don’t eat the potatoes.” She asked why, and I told her. She scoffed and said not to worry about it, mould wasn’t a big deal and no one was sick; why, she’d eaten a big helping of the potatoes again for breakfast! I blanched, but pretended to find that reassuring.

Author's note, one year later: no one ever did get sick off those potatoes, but this year I refused to be in charge of them. I'm making a quinoa salad, something I feel much more confident about. The whole family is coming to our house for the meal, but everything is being prepared by other people in their own kitchens. Wait...as I type this out, I suddenly wonder if maybe this is a ploy to stop me from poisoning everyone again...

Oh, well. At least I don't have to cook. Bring on the stuffing.

From Points B to A: a bra misadventure

What happened to simple underthings???

I decided this past weekend that it was time to embark on one of my most hated purchasing ventures: bra shopping. Oh, I see the pretty magazines where Victoria’s Secret models prance around and tell me how incredible my bust will look when I put on one of their cheetah-printed numbers; but generally I’m into a less fussy set of underthings...and I am so freaking tired of everyone offering to push my girls up, spread them apart, or pull them together. All I’m really looking for is an easy-to-wear, padding-free bra that embraces my boobs gently, tucking them into place and otherwise leaving them be.

Unfortunately, the current trend in bra fashions means that I’ve been wearing foam-cupped contraptions for the past couple years, because the non-foamy choices generally are ugly things. The message is: if you don’t want your bust lifted and enhanced, then you must just want them swaddled tight against your chest in a sea of taupe polyester.

Consequently, I have held onto the few bras I do like, well beyond their recommended life span. It was around Wednesday last week that I realized this might need to be remedied. I was pulling on a rather hot little skirt for work, and Brian made a comment about how good I was looking...and then we both kinda looked at my unravelling, once-white, pilling cotton bra, and I said, “I’m going shopping.” Because it’s just way too early in this marriage for the bad underwear to start.

Mmm, sexy taupe, wide straps...rowr. (Sigh.)

So I headed out to the mall, and I went to a certain nationwide department store where they have a ton of bras and brands. I figured this was a good place to start: lots of options, lots of choices. Surely I would accomplish my goal of finding some non-foam, non-padded, moderately-cute bras. Surely this couldn’t be too hard.

I wrangled a saleslady into helping me, because as I wandered through the aisles I found my pulse racing and my palms getting sweaty; there were just too many options, and I couldn’t figure out what to try. Not to mention, I haven’t been sized in a really long time, and lately I wondered if maybe I’d lost a bit of...cushion...in the chest department. After explaining what I was looking for, the saleswoman approved the choices I’d pulled out, then sent me into the changeroom. I stripped off my top layers, pulled on a cute plaid number, stood up, and realized that I have, indeed, lost some volume in the bust area. The B-cup sat on my boobs like a pair of deflated parachutes, loose and wobbly. I sighed and asked the woman for some help.

She peeked into the room, tugged at the straps, and said, “Well the problem is, you’ve got nothing there.”

Yeah, thanks, lady. Saturday afternoon, in a busy changeroom, and you’ve just announced that there’s nothing there.

credit: Ambro

This shouldn’t bother me. I had a breast reduction five years ago—dropping from a DD to a small B, much to the relief of my nerve-damaged back and shoulders—but there was something about the way that she announced my breasts as the problem that just really made my stomach churn.

I stood there in that saggy bra and demanded she find me an A-cup, as this was clearly what needed to happen. If I’d discovered my reduced cup size on any other day, in any other situation, I honestly wouldn’t be bothered by it at all; but now I felt vulnerable, cold, and a little naked. Oh, wait...maybe because, you know, I wasn’t wearing a shirt.

The lady went and looked, and came back to inform me that there were no A-cups out there for my size, in the style of light little bras that I wanted. I thanked her, got dressed, and went to exit; but she seemed to develop a sudden sense of sympathy and instead of letting me leave, she made another suggestion.

“You know,” she said, ”Probably what you should be doing is shopping in the little girl’s section. Go downstairs, and see if they have your size there. It’s probably the best you can do.”

I stared at her open-mouthed, then walked away.

And at the last minute, I turned into the little girls’ section.

The dream, not the reality.
credit: Charisma

With burning cheeks, I checked, and yes: they had my size.

The punchline? All the little girl bras were padded, too. Don’t get me started on messed up I think that is.

I left the mall an hour later with some bust-enhancing foamy bras from a different shop in the mall. I wish I’d found what I was looking for, but in the end these bras are fine and maybe helpful, now that I’ve ‘got nothing there’. You can’t always get what you want...but if you try sometimes, you get what you need.

After this escapade, what I really needed was a stiff drink.

Happy Anniversary!

Adam Pap Photography

One year ago today, Brian and I got married.

365 days later, everyone's still alive and breathing, and likes each other, even.

There may be some of you who don't know about Project: Priceless, the free wedding experiment: in short, we planned our wedding over ten months, and we did it as free-of-charge as possible; seriously, check out the Project: Priceless blog if you haven't before. What started out as a request to family for old decorations turned into an outpouring of support from strangers and businesses alike. We had the time of our lives meeting new people and promoting a lot of independent business, and best of all, we used social media to do it. On our big day, we were surrounded by friends, family, and tons of the people who helped out with the wedding...and yes, a handful of bloggers, too. We had a hashtag -- #ppwedding -- for people to live tweet the whole day.

Adam Pap Photography

That one beautiful day, Brian and I felt so overwhelmed with love and kindness. We had each other, and just as amazing, we had a community brought together through a crazy little wedding blog. And you know, we still feel that love and connection with so many of the people from our project. (If you want the rundown on the wedding project, watch this video.)

I am, naturally, thinking many big thoughts today. Mostly, I'm thinking about how lucky I am, for many reasons and because of many people, but certainly because a special person named Brian agreed to love me forever.

Here's a little montage from our wedding videographers, Bytown Productions. Celebrate with us today: lavish a loved one with a much sweetness as you can.

Friday's with Bri - How to not end up on the couch, especially if your wife is a blogger.

Here is a post for all the people whose partners have blogs:

How to not end up on the couch

Jordan and I were just at the most recent SoCapOtt tweet-up where we got to meet some amazing people and have some extremely interesting conversations; and I must say my favourite part of tweet-ups are actually meeting the people you tweet with on a regular basis. That old saying, “putting a face to a name” or in this case, “putting a face to a twitter handle” rings very true. And during these awesome conversations I began talking to the men who were in attendance who jokingly said, “Ohh, you are gonna end up on the couch!” after a couple of my jokes. So on that theme, here are my Brian Bart Kent-Baas (BBKB) tips for not ending up on the couch if your partner is a blogger. (Yes my middle name is Bart.)

#1 Be supportive. (B)

Blogging is a big commitment and it takes a lot to be able to pour your heart and soul into what you write. So be their number one fan, read everything they write; even if it’s printed for you in paper hard copy form. Go to the events where their blog is being celebrated and celebrate the small successes with them even if you don’t understand; ie. finally breaking 1000 hits on their blog is a very cool moment.

#2 Be Understanding. (B)

With blogging comes social media; with social media comes time commitments. Let them have the time to build their brand and really succeed in what they are writing, and genuinely take an interest in it. You don’t have to understand all the technical jargon but at least show that you care.

#3 Keep letting them know you love them. (K)

It is the most horrible experience when a blogger gets their first negative comment on something they write. If it’s a internet troll or just an angry person, getting negativity around your writing is very, very, very hard to take. So let them know no matter what that you love them and that just because there are angry people in the world it is no reason to stop writing. And be ready to show them all the good comments they have received.

#4 Bring them Treats (B)

what is #FF - picture source

Yes, this is a great tip even if your partner isn’t a blogger: random treats and presents are always a good step. You should never need a reason to give your special someone a present, so go out and get them one; they deserve it. And if your partner is on twitter, get them a card with the present and make it say, “#FF (their name) because of how wonderful they are every day”. 

If you don’t know what #FF means it means Follow Fridays and you are telling everyone that you think that everyone should follow your special someone; it's a big deal for the twitter nuts... and it shows that you're paying attention.

With those four tips finished, I realized that there are no “support groups” for the partners of bloggers, and there is no meet-ups for the invisible husbands or wives of all these amazing bloggers. For all those who are reading this on a piece of paper because you don’t know how to read blogs, I want to let all of youknow  that the great thing about us tweeters, bloggers, and social media junkies is that we are able to make conversations out of nothing, and we have those conversations with people we have never met before. So come on out, it's a great way to show that you are using the BBKB steps. Attend social media events, like tweet ups, with your partner; we bloggers never get to meet you and you never know, you may be slowly turned into one yourself.

~Brian

Picture source

Feed the Fire: Advice on keeping it hot.

It’s Valentine’s Day week, and while we here at the NEST don’t believe in a commercialized day of romance, I did think it might be a good time to give you a brief spot of advice. February is a dismal time of year, where spring taunts you with smatterings of rain or above-average temperatures, but generally it’s still dark and miserable outside. The only difference indoors is that you can control the heat and the majority of sitcoms have new episodes. But if you have a special someone in your life, you can remake February into Cuddle Month. Here are some tips for keeping the home fires burning.

flickr.com

STRESS KILLS ROMANCE.

I heard a study done long ago that showed how women and men responded to times of stress. The study—a little too simplistically divided along the genderline, but interesting nonetheless—stated that women will have a reduced sex drive in times of stress, because they biologically recognize this isn’t a good time to be reproducing. For men, the study said, the stress response is the opposite. Apparently on a biological level, men are spurred on to create more babies in a time of stress, to prevent the decimation of the human race. My experience has been that these rules do apply to people, but may not apply to the appropriate gender. You may find yourself, a male, who has no sexual mojo at all, or you may find yourself a gal with a burning desire to grab your mate. Worse yet (and this is my world), both you and your partner may both be the stress-cancels-sex types.

Be aware of your own stress reactions. If you know what’s happening you can consciously take steps to reduce the stress, or at least be able to talk about the romantic lull with your partner. In the meantime, find other things to do with each other that feels like intimate time.

source: Life as a New Wife

LITTLE THINGS COUNT.

Remember high school? Remember French kissing at the movie theatre and how awesome that was? As adults, we get very focused on the…ins and outs…of sexual encounters. What a waste of all the wonderful ways we can be close to each other. Try getting really close to your sweetie and not kissing…just feel the electricity. When s/he starts to smile a devious little grin, I guarantee your toes will curl and you’ll feel seventeen again.

CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE.

What are we supposed to give to a woman to say “I love you” this month? Chocolate and flowers, right? While I am never opposed to gifts of chocolate, this may not be every girl’s deepest desire. Likewise with men: not every guy really gets the big deal with lingerie. This Cuddle Month, try doing something you actually both enjoy. It’s okay if that means going to bed at 9pm after watching old Matlock episodes—it’s your time together, whenever you make it happen throughout the year. Be adaptable, and learn new favourite things to do with each other. The right activity, even one as everyday as going to a museum, can become a special, intimate ritual for the two of you. A trip to the Nature museum with a box of Jr Mints, two headphones in one Ipod, and a secret kissing game everytime an animal has a silly name…now, that’s a hot date.  

source: homorazzi

REACH OUT. 

Touch is crucial in a relationship. Your partner may not be a fan of constant contact, PDA’s, or kissing in the middle of go-go-go days, but a caress on the arm or back can send a wonderful message of love and support. As a task-oriented person, I’m still learning how to do this. I’m putting a lot of effort into reaching out and squeezing Bri’s leg when we’re driving, or ruffling his hair when we’re sitting on the couch. A cautionary note, however: not everyone likes having their hair touched. My rule: no mussing up my hair til 10pm or we’re settled in for the night. Otherwise my 20 minutes of hairspray and hot iron were for naught.

GIVING IS AN ART FORM.

At Christmas, we did a post about the art of gift giving as a guest post on the UsedEverywhere blog. I suggest you reread it. There are many times in a year when we may find ourselves in a position to offer a token of affection to our sweetie; work hard to learn how to do a good job of it. And receivers: learn to show your appreciation. We’re not all the jump-up-and-down-squealing type, but a few extra hugs that day or even an email at work the next morning may be a great way to say thank you and ensure the gifting continues.

photo by Adam Pap

RELAX.

Last piece of advice: stop worrying so much. Some people thrive on a date night schedule or gift-giving schedule, or even a ‘cuddle’ schedule. Some people have  the natural ability to consistently make time for tender moments. Usually, we fall in love with someone opposite of ourselves. We all need to stop judging and condemning ourselves for not living up to a cultural image of red hearts, satin sheets, and teddy bears. Communication is key, and kindness is crucial. Forgive yourself for sucking if you suck, and forgive your partner too. Then get to work; if you’re like me and Brian, you’ve got nothing but time to practice getting it right.

Reflections on marriage: guest post reshared.

Photos by Adam Pap.

Fridays with Bri is postponed this week, as Brian is otherwise occupied with a truck full of sleazy body pillows. That sounds worse than it is; he’s helping out our friend with a convention, and…well, I wasn’t lying about what was in the truck. Anyway, it worked out quite well, as there was a post I wanted to share and this turns out to be a great day for it.

I wrote a guest post for Wedding Republic’s blog this month, and it was up in two parts, for those who follow our tweets and got to see it. But I know that many of you didn’t, or might have only caught one half of it—which makes my inner author cry out in pain. I wrote this post far more candidly than I usually feel free to do, and I think the end result is pretty phenomenal. When I read it to Brian to proofread, we both got teary-eyed and started cuddling in Starbucks like a pair of teenagers. In any case, here is the post, whole and unabridged.

So…we’re married. We had a ten month engagement; we planned a fantastical free wedding (see our first blog) in that time, then had the party, and after a week of hanging around town on vacation, we began our new life as a married couple. After the new pots were put away, the dress was stowed, and the decorations donated to the next frugal bride, we were left with what we started with: each other. And more blogging, of course. 

THE MORE THINGS CHANGE...

Does your relationship change after the big day? I think it does, though I’d argue that it changes slowly over the course of your engagement. Maybe the change is more apparent when one has a shorter engagement, like Brian and I did—I imagine the experience is different for some of you out there who are planning weddings 2-3 years into the future. But I could feel the change not too long after Brian popped the question…it was a subtle shift from being two entities, tied together by time spent in mutual activity, to becoming two entities, tied together by…well, everything.

We had a health scare last March, and Brian ended up in the hospital. That was probably the first time I realized that, as our engagement moved along, we were becoming two halves of one whole. Holding my sweetie’s hand as the doctors drugged him into oblivion, I found myself picturing the horror of going home to our apartment, alone, to a place that was supposed to be ours. Thank the heavens, Brian got better, but a few days after this ordeal I called one of my best friends and blurted out that I was calling off the engagement. Patiently, she asked me why, and I said that this was too hard; I hadn’t expected to feel like my life would end if my partner’s did. I told her I wanted to call it off because I didn’t want to face the sorrow of ever losing him. My friend, a long-time married woman herself, laughed and pointed out that I would effectively then be losing him right now. I could see her logic, and reluctantly agreed to carry onward with the wedding, eventually laughing at my own panicked reaction. But it was a significant moment, realizing that going home without Brian would be like going home without half of my self.

THE LITTLE THINGS...

.

That’s a pretty intense example of how marriage—and the journey of engagement—changes a relationship. There were more subtle moments, too, like the very last time we fought about leaving clothes around on the floor. I had been fighting with Brian about this for months, in particular because I was tired of discovering entire beaver dams of smelly socks tucked behind end tables and under the sofa. I found myself always saying that I couldn’t see how we could move forward with this marriage business if we couldn’t even get the sock squirrelling under control. Time and again, I heard myself threatening to break things off if these types of issues didn’t improve, because, “I wasn’t ready to stand before an officiant and swear to forever follow you around picking up your socks.” But that last time we argued about it, something shifted slightly and I had a new idea. I was on my handsfree mobile, driving home from work, as I chewed Brian out for the sock nest I had one again found behind the bathroom door in the morning, and I was about to warn him again about calling the whole wedding off…when I realized what I was going to say instead. “Brian, I’m not going to leave you if you leave your laundry around,” I said. “You’re not?” he asked, suspicious. “No,” I said. “I’m going to marry you like I said I would. And then I’m going to be with you forever. Forever, Brian. And you know what that means? It means that I will be there, every day of your life, nagging you to insanity about those socks. I will be there forever to drive you crazy. And I will never, ever leave.” There was dead silence from Brian, an eventual meek, “Okay,” and we haven’t had a sock nest since.

A DEAL'S A DEAL (IT SAID SO ON OUR CAKE)

Now that we’ve been married for a few months, there are more subtle changes I’ve been able to observe. First off, arguments are entirely different. I find we’re both more passionate about them, because we’re establishing the interpersonal boundaries that will exist between us for a lifetime. When you’re dating someone and haven’t made that ultimate commitment yet, you may fight pretty hard, but some part of you knows you can walk out any time you want to…whereas once you’re married, the idea of divorce—with its expenses, legalities, stigmas, and alimony payments—means that you’re going to stick to your guns and demand that you get to keep (and display) your limited edition 300 Immortals mask, even if the resultant fight means you sleep on the couch for a week. (Note: it is Brian who owns a creepy mask collection, not me.)

That same fear of expenses, legalities, and stigmas will sometimes be the only thing that stops you from strangling your spouse and throwing the hideous masks out the window.

WHEN YOU START PEEING WITH THE DOOR OPEN

There’s a deeper intimacy that comes with marriage, too, though. I think we were married about a week before we started peeing while the other person brushed their teeth. This is something I swore I would never do, but Brian likes to groom in the mirror and my bladder likes to go precisely when it wants to. For the first month, I insisted he run the water while I go; I have since then stopped worrying about it. It’s funny this was a concern in the first place, as we have already both nursed each other through stomach flus that were ‘cathartic at both ends’, to put it lightly…but peeing in front of each other was on a different level. Shortly after I took the plunge, Brian decided he’d do it, too; he undid his fly, started his business, and had to shove me out of the room with his free hand because I began nervously giggling. I’m over it now, but I think he took my tittering a little personally, as he gives me the evil eye if I so much as smile when he lifts up the toilet seat.

Every day seems to bring new matrimonial adventures. Amalgamating our student loans onto one credit line nearly made me puke, because this was the first time I would ever have shared finances with another human being, let alone with a man can’t even remember to brush his teeth before bed. I’ve discovered some of his less cutesy habits, like his uncanny knack to produce toxic flatulence at the worse times…like when I’m trying to sniff a questionable sock, or just as my boss walks over. Some of the infatuation magic now gone, I also get to observe with more candour some of his behaviours; for instance, watching Bri struggle with sweaty nether regions makes me glad I don’t have the type he does, and also makes me wonder why we women mate with those who do have them. I’m certain that Brian has seen beyond the infatuation magic, as well, and has even recently mentioned that he thinks it’s pretty crazy when I brush my teeth in the shower.

THE FOREVER FRIEND

There are other moments, too, that are definitively ‘married’. One I like is when Brian walks me down to the bathroom at night after we’ve watched a scary movie, and I know that for the rest of our lives, I will have someone to keep the zombies away. Or when he disappears to his computer for a while, and I find him surfing through the real estate sites looking for a house that matches my dream wishlist. When he knows just how to make the perfect cucumber sandwich, and when we can bemoan a bad batch of Kraft Dinner, but promise we’ll get it right the next time. The key part there: “the next time”. When you’ve made your vows, you can always say “next time”. We will talk it out better next time. We will compromise on that next time. We will go there next time. We will forget about it next time. Because that person is sticking around, so you can do it better/faster/smarter/right the next time. It’s one never-ending work in progress, this relationship.

And then there are the perfect, naturally perfect moments that are yours, together, forever. My favourite: nuzzling into the crook of Brian’s armpit at night, legs layered over each other’s like Jenga pieces, my hand on his chest, his breath on my head. Knowing that he will hold me like that, every night without fail…it fills me with a peace and gratitude I have never known before.

It definitely makes up for the socks. 

Update: on newlywed bliss and feathering the nest

Old tenants used this room as a messy dining room; we're making it a living room.

We’ve been in our new place for six weeks now. Believe it or not, I think we’ll be throwing the last cardboard box out this Monday. Despite the grander size of the new place (or at least, it feels bigger because it’s two storeys of a real old house in Hintonburg), it took a long time to find homes for everything. I am typically unpacked from a move within two weeks, but it just wasn’t possible this time; because the new place is laid out so very differently from the old place, it wasn’t the usual simple matter of unloading a ‘living room’ box into the new living room.  Each item had to find a proper home, sometimes in odd locations—my bakeware is in the living room closet, for example—and many ‘homes’ had to be built or rigged.

Old tenants left holes and chipped paint.

Brian really took the lead and shone as my housewarming hero by putting up a pot rack, new shelves in the bathroom, and various other hardware/hardwired things involving screws, nails, and levels. This freed me up to focus on layout, organization, and style, and consequently, we’ll be settling into our new digs, box-free, with about 50% of our decorating vision already realized. Without Brian, I wouldn’t have made it this far, I can tell you. As the various troubles we inherited came to light over the first week (holes in walls and ceilings, crooked floors, no heat, etc), I would find myself despairing, but Brian would be there in a flash, with a hammer and drill, distracting me with more spacial planning details. Thank god for Brian, or I would probably be sleeping on a pile of dirty laundry surrounded by boxes, whimpering quietly.

We patched and painted...looking good!

It’s taken me six weeks to realize that Brian is best left to these ‘broad stroke’ type of tasks, and that it’s self-defeating of me to put him on small detail duty. Yesterday I stuck him in the dining room and told him to sort through and stash a bunch of computer cables, a socket set, and a tangle of extension cords. I came back two hours later to find he’d wandered off after sort of nudging the piles around the floor. I realized that these last finishing touches will be my sole responsibility, even though it inevitably means that Brian will one day go looking for those computer parts and will be pissy when they aren’t where he left them…yes, in the middle of the dining room floor.

BEFORE shot: Old tenant's junk room (above) is becoming my office.

But it’s important, I’ve found, to establish what your teammate is good at, and then just let them be good at those things. For example, if Brian had met me, dated me, and then upon marrying me, had demanded I become skilled at geometry, we would have had quite the fight. I can no more measure an equilateral triangle than I can perform my own dental work, and the same is true of Brian and little details. He is a big picture fellow, and the sooner I embrace that, the better we will both feel. This is easier in word than deed, of course; naturally, I am weary of labelling storage boxes and arranging knickknacks, but I am more weary of harping at Brian for not doing these things well himself.

New Years - nice to get out, finally!

In the interest of full disclosure, I can tell you this is not quite what I’d thought that our ‘honeymoon period’ would look like. Currently, I’m working about fifty hours a week, winning the bread that keeps us going as Brian works his butt off back at college, where he (thank the heavens) is enrolled through a government grant for EI recipients. Between Bri’s school, my two jobs, blogging, volunteer work, and unpacking the house, we’ve been stressed out and not really enjoying each other’s company very much. My television upbringing tells me that the first year of marriage should start off with me as homemaker in a circle dress, baking casseroles and welcoming Brian home, his skinny tie and briefcase indicating his status as a young executive climbing the ladder. At night, we should light candles to eat by, then go out dancing or at least out for drinks, before curling up in bed together…and the camera fades to black. Wink.

So far, the first five months has started off with me running all over the city with two jobs that have a lot of travel, coming home to a half-time house-husband who is stressed out with studying and way too distracted to do much cooking or cleaning. I come home, throw on his old shirt and PJ pants, and attempt not to burn a tofu stir fry, then we both spend the evening arguing about how we’re going to store a Christmas tree when we’ve already squished all my linens onto a shelf with Brian’s ratchet set. We do fade to black in the evenings…but not with any winking innuendo. I mean, we literally pass out, sometimes still wearing the wrong pyjamas.

Strangely, though, as I write this out, I don’t feel despairing or distressed; I feel kind of like laughing. I think I was, indeed, stressing about all this, until the new year hit and I started making some changes. For one, I’ve started jealously guarding my weekends, committing at least one of the days to fun time. This is crucial, it turns out, because—who knew—we apparently like each other best when we’re having fun. Dating is a funny thing, isn’t it? You invest a couple years spending time with each other, primarily engaged in activities that would be enjoyable almost regardless of the company…and then you settle in with that person and suddenly the majority of your time together is spent on miserable tasks like paying bills, cleaning dishes, or grocery shopping. Play is vital to a happy relationship, and that’s a hard thing for an A-type like myself to remember. Generally, I operate like a sled dog: the harder the work, the better I feel. Well, I’m learning that relationships need a gentler touch, though I still insist we play hard, too.

I digress. The moment just recently that made me laugh a bit about the pitiful state of our honeymoon period hit me while I was finishing up the dining room. For lack of a better space, we’ve put our book shelves in there, and I was admiring the neatly organized books when I noticed the layers of cardboard stuffed under the righthand edges of both structures. It dawned on me that Brian had stuffed about two inches of cardboard under each bookshelf in an effort to straighten them out, because the house is so ridiculously slanted. As I wandered around the apartment, I realized that over half of our paintings and photographs have been weighted on one edge with taped-on pennies and bolts. (It’s an easy trick, just tape them behind the frame, not in front.) Again, this is an attempt to compensate for the crookedness of the leaning house. It dawned on me that everything in the house was jury rigged in these improvised ways; that my lemons-into-lemonade apartment is held together with packing tape and good wishes. For reasons I do not fully understand, this made me sublimely happy. Perhaps because it’s really like a little nest now, made out of spit and branches and mud.

We’re having a small housewarming gathering to kick off my 30^th birthday month in a couple weeks. I think the place will be looking pretty swell by then. As for the two of us, well, I’m okay with the weird turn our newlywed journey’s been taking, but I’m pretty tired of finding upbeat ways of answering the question, “How’s married life?” as it’s posed to me a dozen times a week.

Maybe my answer should be, “Married life, like our nest, is off-kilter, exhausting, and held together with taped-up pennies.” After the circle skirts are stowed away and the casserole’s been eaten, isn’t that the bones of marriage, anyway? I shall strive to embrace my slanty little nest and my modern mishmashed marriage; it’s a little off-beat, but I think I like it.