July 2006

Lately I’ve been finding.. Justin Timberlake.. kind of.. attractive.

Is there a medication I can take for this?

I always say that what I want from life is balance.

What I really want, however, is everything.

What I want is the comforts of modern life that I most appreciate – internet, for example, and a warm place to sleep at night. I want the freedom to explore and challenge and try new things and experiment and wake up feeling alive. I want more time with my husband. I want more time to wander around outdoors – hiking and swimming and watching the seasons change. I want a slow life. I want nature to surround me.

Growing up, I didn’t spend a lot of time indoors. Our television came via a giant antenna and was always crackly and filled with static. We had a lawn that was around an acre (I think?) and while much of it was mowed there was secret places underneath the trees and at the back of our property. Our land was surrounded at that time by open fields, sod farms, forests and agriculture. I grew up hassling garter snakes and toads and making thumbnail ‘x’s on my mosquito bites. We had no central air.

I moved to Toronto – the big city – in 1993 for university. I quickly adapted to cable tv in my bedroom, technology at my beck and call, stores full of expensive clothes. I learned to aquire things that weren’t always useful. I came to appreciate the beauty of an object simply for its beauty, and that’s not a bad thing at all as far as I’m concerned. I met people who were focused on careers and I met people who were focused on money and I married a man who had his own obsession with both.

Through all of it, I have wanted to return to something simpler. Easier.

The process of acquisition starts a downward spiral. I’ve been caught in that spiral for a long while, and simultaneously, I’ve been fighting against it.

Our first purchased home was a monstrosity. It was 3,500 square feet, three floors, hardwood and sealed windows and a soaker tub and jacuzzi. There was very little land, of course, save for a fenced yard for my dog. The only vegetation we grew were some flowers in the front garden, and even those wilted under the stomping feet of our neighbour’s children. Then we began the process of acquiring ‘stuff’ for the house. More trash bins, another sofa, an extension ladder, a new fridge.. We bought things to make life easier and better, but we trapped ourselves further into the cycle of consumerism.

Currently, Coffee and I live in a fairly new townhouse of about 1,500 square feet (give or take). We have central air and wall-to-wall carpet and three bathrooms. We have a dishwasher and three televisions. We have many computers and various electronics. 99% of the time we sit in the same room, reading or talking. We sleep together, eat together, play together. It’s what we both want out of our marriage. It’s what we both need for ourselves, too.

Coffee, too, has been spending time reading about peak oil and the way the economy is heading in the short and long term. And so we began to talk about moving off-grid and onto a large plot of land with some solar panels and a wind turbine. But the technology is completely new to us, other than having read a few articles and books. No practical experience, no one we know currently doing it themselves. That’s pretty scary.

We talked about building a small cottage and heating it with wood. We talked about what’s involved in building, what’s involved in solar/wind power, and how we’d learn all the things we needed to learn. We were overwhelmed with the potential but with no clue how to proceed. Sure, we want to go off-grid, but how? Where? What’s involved? How do you know how many panels you need?

And then I found the miniHouse web site and made some pretty wicked screaming noises.

But it’s 350 square feet. That’s… tiny. How could we fit two grown adults (one with limbs that stretch on forever) and two dogs into such a small space? Where would we keep our stuff? Sure, we’d have to pare down, but could we fit ANYTHING into 350 square feet?

We made an appointment on Sunday to visit the miniHome in Toronto. It’s parked in the Glen Rouge campground and Andy and his wife and kids were pleased to let us wander through. We opened cupboards and looked in storage spaces and crawled up into the loft and peered at the rooftop garden. We poked and prodded and tried to imagine ourselves living in that space. I think we were both somewhat surprised to realize how easily we could do it.

It is a marvel of design. The house itself looks small – obviously – but the use of space is unbelievable. Nothing is sacrificed – there’s a soaker tub, for god’s sake! – and everything has been remarkably well planned. It’s environmentally friendly. It’s solar and wind powered. The appliances (included) are all low-energy. The lighting is LEDs. The insulation is fabulous. The materials are all from renewable sources. It looks modern and cheerful and has a lot of light. We could both be in the house and not in each other’s direct view. It’s made for Canadian seasons – including winter. I could go on and on and on. There are enough sleeping spaces for 6 adults in total. The kitchen is more useful than the one we currently have.

And so we are considering it. Seriously considering it. Pondering selling our house, buying some land and living in the miniHome.

Off-grid. A garden to grow food and flowers. Bees! A chicken coop and a pond, perhaps. Trees. Tall grass. Dogs who run free.. If we can convince someone else to come and live on the land, even better. Community is good, particularly with other people who don’t want to acquire more and more and more but who want to enjoy their life free of the endless pursuit of more. But even if we’re alone, that’s okay too. We have big dreams and the curiosity to try to follow them.

We’re not rushing into it, of course. We’re investigating all the details and all the options. But by next summer, we may just be settled into our new little home on a big piece of land. Can you imagine?

On Friday I met Kelly in person for the first time.

I adore Kelly. I think I’m developing a wicked girl-crush on her. Shhhh, don’t tell her!

She’s funny and she’s smart and she’s creative and colourful. She has an amazing perspective on people and places and things and a very open mind. She has a positive outlook on the world around her and a curiosity to learn more. She has travelled all over the world and speaks multiple languages. She makes things and knows things and … yeah. See? Girl crush! I could go on forever! I’m smitten!

Okay, now YOU have a girl-crush on her too, don’t you? Wheeeeeee!

We had talked about meeting up, tentatively, but she wasn’t sure about the timing of the day and how it would work out. In the end, I forgot to give her my home address (she had my PO box) or my phone number (it’s unlisted because it’s VoIP) and by the time I realized I hadn’t given her ANYTHING to go on, I knew she was already on the road and I figured it just wasn’t going to happen. But she’s crafty, oh yes, and she called Coffee at work and asked him for directions. I was outside, drenched in sweat from walking dogs and gardening, after a morning migraine-from-hell when I heard, “Hey, VIOLET!” from behind me. I turned and.. recognized her immediately. Well, after squinting a bit – I didn’t have my glasses on!

We didn’t have a lot of time to play – her boyfriend Michael was with her and they had spent the day being busy and exploring Niagara-on-the-Lake and taking care of some business-related work. I spent a bit of time at the end of the day with them, though, when they were tired and relaxed. We ate pizza and chatted and I was able to give Kelly her birthday box. (Albeit unwrapped and unfinished..) Then they made the hour-plus trek home.

Having made the decision to move to the KW area in the near-ish future I’ve been nervous about making friends there. I have my dear Melle Patel, of course, but I suspect she’d occasionally like some time to herself and with her other friends. I have Coffee (he’s stuck with me! Muahahaha!) And now? Now I can play with Kelly, too! She’s already sent me so many links to places I want to visit, things to explore, and we’ve discussed a few things we’d like to try out together once I’m living in the area.

New friends are good. Is it greedy to want more and more and more of them?

Last night I fell asleep feeling as though I had spent the entire day swimming and lounging in the sun. My skin was cool and dry and definitely not sunburned, but my muscles felt stretched and loose and very, very good.

In the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the rain, we stood knee-deep in Lake Ontario, letting the waves crash into us. I rolled the legs of my jeans up to my knees but ended up soaked up to the middle of my chest from the swells and waves and splashes. Coffee sorted through pebbles and stones that he scooped up from underwater when the tide was moving outward – before the next white-topped wave crashed into us again. The undertow sucked the same small pebbles out from under our feet over and over. (I have the world’s most exfoliated toes today.)

We ate french fries from Hutch’s, and brought our leftovers wrapped in a tray liner out onto the beach to feed the seagulls. They hovered in the air above us, catching the food in their mouths. I wished I had my camera there to take pictures of the white bird-bellies as they screamed a few feet above my outstretched arms. The wind was strong enough that they were floating off even as they tried to hover. They were persistent nonetheless – seagulls are just like people when it comes to thick, perfectly-cooked fries.

It was a miserable day for most people, I assume, since the beach was unoccupied save for a few people with kids in the distance. Hutch’s was full of people sitting near the windows, mostly obscured by the rain, but that’s to be expected. It’s a Hamilton ‘institution’. Everyone knows the best place for fish and chips is down at the beach even on a rainy day or in the dead of winter. It was good to have the space to ourselves. It was nice to have no distractions from our natural surroundings.

As I stood in the waves I started laughing uncontrollably – I couldn’t stop, but it was barely discernable over the sound of waves. It was beautiful to be in the water. I wanted to shuck my clothes and swim out as far as I could go – regardless of my well-noted lack of swimming prowess and my overwhelming fear of drowning in the very turbulent lake. I have always loved water – swimming pools and bathtubs and lakes.

We returned to the car and I peeled my jeans off in the parking lot. This seems to be a habit of mine – heading to the lake, getting drenched, and returing home sans pants. Day or night. It’s not a bad habit, I must say, just one that I hope not to be arrested for in the near future. As I slid the jeans down my calves, the folds started to unravel and endless pebbles fell out onto the ground. No wonder I was having problems walking in the water; I was carrying what appeared to be 10 pounds of beach in there! I wrapped my polar fleece jacket around my naked legs to keep them warm. We opened the windows in the car and turned on the heat to our feet.

When we arrived home we showered together, lathering each other up and scrubbing each other down with lemon-scented shower gel (for me) and maple gel (for him). I am blessed with a husband who washes my hair more delicately and gently than I would ever do for myself – it’s unbelievably luxurious to have him work out the tangles and scrub my scalp with his fingertips. My hair always feel so much softer and cleaner when he does it. If I were feeling all-cheesy I’d say it’s because he washes it ‘with love’. (But I’m not feeling particularly cheesy, so we’ll attribute it to skill. And looooooove. Oops. There I go..)

Friday afternoons are filled with anxious anticipation. Sunday afternoons contain a slow sinking feeling. The sooner we move into this house, the better.

If you wake up with a headache, and suspect it might turn into a migraine, you really should not shrug your shoulders and head off to the grocery store anyway. Sure, you assume that the migraine will control itself – or that the Tylenol will keep it all in check – but you are wrong. You are very wrong.

You will arrive at the store, your head will be pounding, and you will find yourself, in a state of agitation and desperation, vomiting into a clear plastic produce bag in the middle of the produce section with all the produce-buying-people staring at you.

If that isn’t enough – if you don’t then feel like a) the world’s biggest tool, and b) migrainey-enough not to be as concerned and mortified as you know you should be – you’ll feel even worse when you’re clutching the bag of vomit in one hand, your head in the other, trying in vain to figure out what to do next, and a little old lady sidles up and says, “How many months along are you?” WHILE STROKING YOUR BELLY.

Really.

Can you tell that I’m sitting in a different spot this morning, while writing? I am! I’ve parked my butt right next to the window so there’s a bit of natural light on the screen, and I’m dangling my feet over the A/C vent. They’re slowly getting colder and colder and numb. It’s lovely. Truly. I will regret it, shortly, when I have to move away from here and the rest of the world feels like it’s 2,000 degrees, but for now it’s nice to have some part of me not sweaty and full of heat-related complaints. The ottoman I’m sitting on is definitely not as comfortable as the sofa, however.

Actually, this ottoman has a long and marvelous history of its own. Not to mention a saucy brown velour fabric! (It’s not saucy. It’s really quite.. ugly.) I once considered having it reupholstered in a pattern or colour that might be a bit more attractive, but then decided to wait until I could possibly learn to use the sewing machine myself. I could make a simple slipcover and then change it whenever I got the urge!

In other words, the ottoman will perpetually be an ugly brown velour and I will perpetually talk about how I’m going to make a slipcover. At least I’m aware of my patterns of behaviour.. la la la..

(Now I’m lying on the floor with my laptop over the A/C vent, trying to make the dual fans stop..fanning. As much as I love this laptop, it’s terribly un-well-designed. Sheeesh.)

My paternal grandfather, known as Papa, had a chair in the corner of the living room that was solely his. No one else ever sat in it unless they were a guest who didn’t know better yet. In the 22 years, or thereabouts, that I knew him before he died, he owned exactly two of these chairs. Identical. Big, hulking armchairs made of .. brown velour fabric. Dark wood accents.

The first one lasted about 15 years, I believe. At the end it was lopsided, had a perfect butt imprint, had cigarette burns on the arms, had bare spots where the velvet was worn down, and was spectacularly uncomfortable for anyone other than my grandfather to sit in. He preferred that, really. I have no idea how he was convinced to eventually part with that chair, but I assume it was only after he had located a new one that looked exactly the same. I imagine my grandmother had to beg, plead, cajole and possibly withhold marital relations. My grandfather, like everyone else in my family, was stubborn.

The replacement chair, as noted, was identical to the new one – which was a good thing since the ottoman parked next to the chair was rarely used and matched the new chair perfectly. One less item to switch in my grandfather’s world of consistency! Huzzah! The ottoman’s lid opened, and the box underneath contained phone books and yellow pages and various papers. At Christmas, my grandmother would sit on the ottoman next to my grandfather – every picture I have of her from the holiday season shows her carefully perched next to a man who is sitting crookedly in his sagging-chair-of-glee.

When my grandparents died and my Dad began the process of cleaning out their house, he planned to send the ottoman and chair to Goodwill or a similar charity. There was no point in saving the chair, of course, since the likelihood of someone else having the same butt-shape as my grandfather was fairly minimal. Much like snowflakes, every butt is different. But I decided that I needed the ottoman. As ugly as it was, it would be perfect for storing my phone books and papers, and obviously good for sitting on during the holidays when extra seating might be needed.

Now it sits in my living room next to the fireplace. The dogs perch on it to look out the window, contorting themselves to lie down without their limbs trailing on the floor. Inside is a collection of tools and batteries and doo-dads that mostly belong to Coffee. One of the fake-brass hinges is broken. In short, the only thing it’s missing is a butt imprint – and Daisy seems to be trying hard to remedy that. I suspect my grandfather would be more than pleased to know that his brown velour ottoman was being well-cared for. And some day I will make a slipcover…

I am drawn to the weirdos of the world. I am drawn to colourful characters, strange stories, women wearing dresses that float around their ankles and men who make eye contact. Direct eye contact. I am a sucker for a good hearty smile and those who are curious about everything. Be polite and be kind but be a little bit crazy, too.

Lately I have been daydreaming about finding the perfect green glass vase. Something similar in colour and opacity to the old Coke bottles (which you can, of course, still get in Mexico) but tiny – an inch or two high and the right size to hold a single wildflower. I blame the wildflowers between my home and the park for this daydream, by the way. They want to come home with me one blossom at a time. Little daisies and pointy purple blooms and the tiny yellow snapdragons..

I went to the dollar store this afternoon to look for that tiny green glass vase. It wasn’t there. Instead I found some pretty beads and some purple felt. I have a project in mind if I can muster my bravery in the next few days.

I was still thinking about the vase, though, as I walked home.

It started to rain. I knew it would.

Not a downpour, not a storm, just dark heavy skies and dramatic fat drops hitting the pavement. I decided to walk home with my face turned upward. When I open the front door of the house the air hit me like a brick wall – deliciously cold. It felt decadent. What kind of a princess deserves this shivery bliss? Me, apparently.

The rain stopped as quickly as it started but the sky is still dark and everything outside the window has a slight yellow-green tinge. I am waiting for the thunder. It’s coming, too.

Upstairs the baby finches are screaming relentlessly for food, love, a trip to the toy store, or whatever it is they need. It is an incessant yell – surprisingly loud for such tiny little mouths. This morning when I fed and watered the birds I was able to gently stroke Lucky’s tail feathers as he sat on a branch near the ground. No fear.. until his parents showed up to shout at me. Then I witnessed a burst of ping-ponging around inside the aviary as he tried to find a perch away from me.

If it weren’t for the heat I’d go out and play in the rain that’s falling again.

Me: [rambling about how I want to see the entire 'chicken processing' process at the plant]

Coffee: I… maybe that’s not a good idea.

Me: What? Why not?

Coffee: Because.. you’re.. kind of, slightly, highly empathic.

Me: Did you just add in the “kind of, slightly” part to be polite?

Coffee: [sheepish] Yeah.

What he really wanted to say, I suspect, was, “Sure, go ahead and do it. Just start saving up now for the years of therapy it will take to undo that action. And buy kleenex in bulk, too, you idiot. Have you never MET yourself? YOU CRY OVER DEAD CATERPILLARS, YOU FREAK, YOU CANNOT HANDLE WATCHING SOMEONE SLAUGHTER CHICKENS!”

Everyone’s got their breaking point,
For me it’s spiders
For you it’s me.

- The Tragically Hip, “Thugs”

Okay, so perhaps spiders aren’t really my breaking point. I rather like them, in fact, with their intriguing bodies and web-spinning and the way they walk straight up a wall and hang out in the corner eating dust mites. Moths, on the other hand, make me scream like a girl. Except the pretty ones that resemble butterflies – those are just fine in my books.

In every relationship there are lines. Lines that you just don’t cross unless you’re prepared to deal with a big scoop of consequences topped with a delicate sprinkling of repercussions. If you’re lucky, those lines are clearly defined in the early stages – in a casual conversation, ideally. It comes up over a plate of french fries, “Oh, did I ever tell you that I cannot handle when my friends do X? I can’t. Let’s avoid that, ok?”. More often, though, the lines are accidentally toed by an unsuspecting participant and a flurried discussion is initiated. “Please don’t do that. I can’t handle it and it upsets me.” “I’m sorry; I didn’t know. I won’t do it again.”

Like a child learning about the world around them, a relationship needs to be explored with a balance of reckless abandon and careful footsteps. It helps, of course, to have someone caution you about the relationship equivalent of the red-hot stove burner before you learn the hard lesson by smacking your hand down on it. If we worry constantly about upsetting or offending our friends, we’re no longer authentic. If we never worry about how our actions/words impact the other person, we’re not human.

Sometimes we have lines we don’t even realize we’ve drawn until they’re crossed. I don’t tolerate, for example, anyone talking smack about my husband. It’s a line that I am completely inflexible about, and it’s a line that someone had to cross in the past before I realized that it was a very deep and hard rule. My hackles are raised, I become territorial and protective, and nothing good can come of it. I cannot forgive it because I refuse to bend on the matter. The button is pushed and cannot be un-pushed.

Relationships are about power transferral to some extent. I give you information about myself and, in theory, it puts me in a weaker position. You have the potential to hurt me. You know what I fear and what I wish for and who I dislike and, with a few keystrokes or a well-placed phone call, you could inflict a great deal of pain. In a strong friendship, you could say the same about me. We have to trust each other not to push the button that annihilates the friendship and trust each other to hold our secrets even in our most angry, hurt, disappointed moments.

We don’t have to give that power to each other, of course. It’s a choice.

It’s a choice I have a hard time with, though. Like everyone else in the world, I’ve been burned a thousand times in a thousand different ways and sometimes it feels like I’m just sitting around waiting for that pyromaniac impulse to show up again. Part of that is self-esteem – I recognize my imperfections as they pertain to relationships and I think, “It’s just a matter of time before I screw this up and everything tumbles down around me.” I assume my faults are insurmountable. I assume they are fatal flaws.

Part of it is from experience, too, and the memory of betrayals. It’s amazing how quickly a good thing can flip over to a bad thing – how it spirals out of control. Sometimes I think women, in particular, would rather crash and burn a relationship in a spectacularly ugly manner than try to work through it. It’s easier to say, “Fuck it!” and start the process of destruction than it is to face the mutual-responsibility for the ugly bits, to talk openly about what went wrong, to try and resolve things and get the relationship back on track. It’s better to get the upper hand first, isn’t it?

I often err on the side of protecting myself. I sense a disturbance in the friendship and I make a small, cautious attempt to fix it – whether or not I feel I’m to blame. I prod the issue a little and wait for the response. If there’s a hint of the fire, I retreat completely and rest inside my cave where I immediately make a mental account of all the ammunition that I’ve provided the other person in the past. All those emails where I said something snarky! All those secrets about my past! All the conversations we had in which I confessed something I suddenly wish I hadn’t! For a person like me, who confides openly and greatly for the most part, the anxiety trumps any anger or hostility.

But anger has always caused me to become somewhat invisible. As a kid, if I knew my parents were mad, I’d become a silent presence gliding around the house noiselessly. I do that now, too. I tiptoe around, hoping not to raise any further anger. Hoping to hide my imperfections so they don’t provoke a new anger. I don’t do it with Coffee, though, which is probably a healthy sign. When he is angry I often make him angrier – until it all tumbles out and the wound is cleaned. It’s not intentional, it’s just the way it happens. I like that. It only works because I trust him completely. I know that his goal is not to be perfect, not to make peace, not to win the argument or make me lose it – his goal is to continue to nurture our relationship. He knows, like I do, that the ugly bits are transient.

I don’t believe the ugly bits are transient with anyone else. I don’t believe that anyone else will commit to being my friend forever, through ugly and pretty. And that’s the problem.

I have always loved Coffee’s honesty. He is not intentionally hurtful and he never says things simply to wound. He is direct but not unpleasantly blunt. It allows me to know where I stand, where he is in life, what he’s thinking. I know that if I ask him a question – anything at all – he will answer me with the truth. It’s not always an easy thing to hear, but any hurt feelings heal almost immediately because he’s not speaking to cause pain. He’s speaking the truth to ultimately allow both of us to avoid pain. I’ve noticed that the ability to speak the truth bluntly is almost exclusively a trait attributed to men – and it saddens me. I remember posting to WNET a long time ago, pointing out this difference between the sexes, and wondering whether women as a group would be happier if we just spoke our minds directly. The majority of people who responded said they’d be uncomfortable with that. I was stunned.

That’s what makes it harder for me to be friends with women, I think. While my instinct is to spit it all out, lay all the cards down on the table, say what needs to be said, I recognize that it’s very unlikely to be received in the way I’d like it to be. It’s unlikely that the recipient of my words will read them, re-read them, and say, “Wow, that hurts, but I get it and I thank you for saying it, and here’s the truth from my perspective…” It’s unlikely that they’ll respond without throwing their anger behind their words.

There are always ugly spots in life – misunderstandings and hurt feelings and sadness and disappointments. We’re human; we screw up. Why can’t we just admit it – that we did something wrong or that we were hurt by someone’s behaviour – and then recommit to the relationship and make it better? Why can’t we accept a sincere apology and then talk it out and discuss those lines and try to understand what happened? Why do we need to punish other people instead?

CANCER (June 21-July 22): Are there influences that render you numb or even dumb? What experiences tend to shut you down? When you’re gliding along in your natural rhythm, are you sometimes interrupted by blips that make you feel lost and unresponsive? According to my reading of the astrological omens, Cancerian, you now have extra power to fight back against these little outbreaks of black magic. It’s a perfect moment to get the upper hand on anything that closes you off from the world or locks you away from your own intuition.

(Freewill Astrology)