Saturday, January 5, 2008
Friday, December 28, 2007
First, It’s the Little Things
Little things like WE HAVE A DISHWASHER. Yes. Last night I was telling my friend that having a dishwasher has made a quantifiable improvement in my life. I think I can say with confidence that my life is a solid 10% better than it was before the dishwasher. It really is the perfect thing for a lady whose (blogging) name rhymes with “messy” and whose blog title rhymes with “house gone smelly.”
Look! I’m so excited, I’ve even included a picture of the dishwasher. I AM THAT BIG OF A DORK. Live with it.
Actually, as you can see, I wanted to draw your attention to some other things. Namely, our counters are granite. I’ve always been cynical of granite counters because I thought their only function was to show everyone how much money you spent on your counters. However, it only took me one (1) day to realize the error of my ways. Because granite counters DO NOT STAIN. They’re made of rock! How can they stain? That first morning when I didn’t have to rush at the counter with a cloth and some baking soda in an attempt to prevent those faint brown splotches that always spring up like mushrooms around the coffee pot…WELL. Consider me sold! All I need for a sparkling clean counter now is a damp dish cloth, NO ELBOW GREASE REQUIRED. And it really does sparkle. Which is the other thing.
As an aside you’ll note that I have three decorative jars on the counter. They’re old honey jars from the farm. What should I do with them? Flowers? Sea shells? Nothing? Design mavens can leave their ideas in the comments.
Also? We have in-suite laundry. BELIEVE IT BABY. Dreams can come true! (At this point–what with all the links to my housekeeping disasters–I feel compelled to say that we don’t live in squalor. Honestly.)
And now, a whole string of dorky pictures, which I’m not afraid to admit are mostly for the benefit of my mom, who is likely the most interested in how I’ve done up my new place. First, our new sideboard. This is blog-worthy because it is the first piece of furniture we’ve ever had that’s neither a hand-me-down nor from Ikea. Also? Look how pretty!
We bought it from an actual, for-real antique shop! And it’s an actual, for-real antique! Made of actual, for-real oak! And look at the hand-carved knobs on the drawers and the hand-carved feet (is that what they’re called–feet?)! Squee! (Note festive potpourri and slice view of Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Squee!)
Next, my antique bottle collections. There’s an old midden in the back 40 of the farm and I’ve been digging up treasures from it since I was a kid. I finally got organized enough to pack up a few favourites and bring them out to Vancouver. Here’s the little collection of pop bottles:
I like the two generations of Canada Dry. And the old Pepsi bottle and the Patio cola bottle, which is the original Diet Pepsi. And, whoever inhabited the farm in the 60s was a huge fan of Calgary soda, which has been obsolete for at least as long as I’ve been alive but I’m rather curious about it since it was obviously a local phenomenon.
And, next my favourite odds-n-ends bottles:
The brown bottle is an old Javex bleach bottle; the green an old lemon juice bottle; the blue is of unknown origins but it’s such a pretty colour; the jug is a true Alberta antique, made from clay in Medicine Hat; and the clear glass bottle on the end had Castor oil in it. Weren’t every day objects prettier before plastic?
Finally, my festive centrepiece (and a sneak preview of the view from our dining room)!
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Wherein I Rant, Rave, and Rant Again
My favourite Holiday flower: Paperwhites! They’re so dainty and fragrant.
Yesterday? On the (for us) somewhat ironically titled Boxing Day? We unpacked our last box! It was Unboxing Day! This is exciting for us because…Hello! Nightmare!
And, well…OK. I’ll tell you the truth. When we first moved in here, I hated this apartment. A lot of things about this move–indeed, our lives–were a logistical nightmare and I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. It was a logistical nightmare that seemed to gather speed and snowball on an almost daily basis until it culminated in the moment when I realized there was no cutlery drawer in the kitchen and I wanted to use a dozen drawerless butter knives to kill somebody. And really, a murderous rampage with the butter knives wouldn’t have been that messy because, since there’s no linen closet here, all the towels that were spilling out of garbage bags and strewn about the floor were just waiting to helpfully sop up a mess for me.
You see, (part of) what happened was that Kieran and I didn’t pick our apartment. Right around the time that Kieran and I were beginning to realize that the always (incredibly) expensive Vancouver has become retardedly so* and our options were to a) live in the asshole of hell** b) not live in Vancouver c) have some kind of incredible stroke of luck, we got a call from my uncle. My uncle’s retiring in two years and he and my aunt will be wintering in Vancouver! They were buying a condo downtown and would we be interested in renting it from them for the next two years at a rate that we could afford? Um, let me think about that for a sec–OK! So it was Option C that ended up choosing us, and us that ended up not choosing our home. Because, obviously, when your generous uncle offers to rent you an apartment in a really nice neighourbood at almost half the rate of what he could get from someone who could actually afford to live in this part of town, you just internalize your need for control over certain details (like cupboard space and linen closets) and thank your lucky stars. And your uncle.
Then, as we neared my uncle’s/our possession date, a bunch of really stressful and unpleasant things happened and our temporary living arrangement came to an abrupt and unforeseen end and we ended up homeless for a brief stretch, shuffling between a hostel, my brother’s living room floor, and an assortment of couches and spare bedrooms across the Lower Mainland. Then I returned to Alberta for our stuff and orchestrated the Worst Move in History and we found ourselves all but buried in boxes in our new apartment, feeling…shell-shocked and numb. Did I mention that the Holidays is a really bad time for both homelessness and moving? Because you have to, like, do stuff for the Holidays. Organize things. Which is hard when you’re packing up your suitcase for the fourth time in a week and have to put all your organizational energy into making sure you have somewhere to sleep the next day. And when THAT’S all over and you’re just exhausted, it’s time for all the family events and Holiday parties and work parties when what you want to do is crouch in a corner of your new apartment, eyeing the towers of boxes and rocking back and forth while eating your hair.
So when there was nowhere to put my cutlery? Well, obviously, the Universe hated me.
Of course, for every problem there is a solution, which for us, because we were burnt out and just needed things to be nice and peaceful as quickly as possible, amounted to throwing money at everything that didn’t work. And there were a lot of things that didn’t work. Because, while this apartment is actually bigger than our last place, it is so dramatically different. Everything is…on a different plane of existence and lots of our stuff just didn’t have anywhere to go. And every time we came up with a solution to one problem, it created another problem. For example, to amend the cupboard/drawer problem, we bought a pretty antique buffet for the dining room, which in turn displaced our bookshelf because the bookshelf doesn’t fit on any other walls. So then we had to go furniture shopping AGAIN to buy two skinny bookshelves. And so on. As a result, the whole unpacking ordeal seemed to take forever. And regardless of how it seemed, it took much, much longer than we anticipated.
Of course, what you didn’t know is that when I said “so dramatically different,” I meant “so very pretty.” And that the different plane of existence? Is a very pretty plane. With floor to ceiling windows. And a view of False Creek. A pretty, pretty view that includes the Granville Island ferry and sometimes, at night, boats that are all lit up with Holiday lights! And…I LOVE MY APARTMENT. I love it! I L-O-V-E LOVE it! Never have I done such a complete 180. And next post? I’m gonna post pictures and rave some more so that you can love it too! Whee!
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*Dear City of Vancouver: Ever wonder why there’s an ever-growing population of people living in tents in the middle of downtown? YEAH. That would be because even two educated professionals with no children can’t afford to live here. Ever hear of afforable housing? Rent control? No? Well…DUH. (Jerks.)
**Again, two words: AFFORDABLE HOUSING.
And, as an aside, who the hell wrote the Wikipedia article on the Downtown East Side? The Whitewashing Committee of Vancouver?!? Way to not mention this is the poorest, most dangerous neighbourhood in Canada. Way to sidestep the fact that this is, in fact, one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in the world. And, oh, did you know that, while maybe there’s a “notable” police presence, that’s only because prostitutes and runaways choose this neighbourhood because of the “tolerance” and “variety of services”:
There is a noticeable police presence as poor transitional populations including runaways, prostitutes, petty criminals, people involved with the mental health system, and drug addicts cohabit the area due to its affordability, variety of services and tolerance.
WTF? Yes. I’m sure the children being sold for sex have chosen the area for its SERVICES. And, excuse me, since when are heroin and crack dealers with gang affiliations “petty criminals?!?” But come one, come all to the 2010 Olympics! NOTHING WRONG HERE. Oh no, just a small serial killer problem. It’s wee, really. Do you have your tickets to Ice Dance? (YES I’M MAD. Fuck you, Wikipedia author!)
Uh, anyway. I really like my new apartment.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Like An Old Friend
Guess what turned up in an old SHOE BOX destined for recycling? My camera cord! (Which, I know, it’s actually a USB cord, but all I use it for is the camera. So.) It was really fun to see all the pictures I’ve taken and forgotten about in the last few months.
A Japanese Maple in the rain, taken during our first few weeks back in Vancouver
Some highlights:
A Japanese Maple in the rain, taken during our first few weeks back in Vancouver
Sunset, as seen from the woods out at the farm, taken during my trip home late last month
Me with my beautiful best friend, who is due any minute now. I love her. If her baby has red curls and freckles like her, my heart will absolutely burst.
Another glorious sunset out at the farm
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
2008: The Year of Vigilance
At our early Christmas celebration, my brother gave us this calendar from Cat Lovers Against the Bomb. Personally, I simply can’t say the phrase “Cat Lovers Against the Bomb” without giggling. Nor can I look at the cover cat, Pee Wee(!) Lubin, who’s peering over the edge of a pot with the brazen declaration “2008 The Year of Vigilance” splashed next to his whiskers, without giggling. I mean, shouldn’t this be wry? However, these beautiful folks are in it for the peace, not the irony. And that makes me love them more.
The calendar is even more delightful when you open it. Each month has a picture of someone’s beloved cat, and the pictures will have captions such as “Create Paws-itive Resolutions,” or “Kitty in the Clover Contemplates Real Security,” and, my favourite, “Tabbies Detest Wiretapping.” The cycles of the moon are denoted by a cat’s face, which will appear as half white and half black for the half moon and so on. And the calendar days are a dense hodge podge of world history and cat trivia. For example, on January 2, two dates appear: “1972: Scottish cat turns 43*,” and “1992: UN established first Conventional Arms Registry.” Again, these juxtapositions just…they just…well, they make me laugh. (Although, I do take peace seriously.)
Anyway, I’m just putting this out there in case you have peace-loving cat lovers (with or without a sense of irony) in your family.
Logan Meditates On Affordable Housing for All
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*Forty-three! FORTY-THREE! I don’t know why this creeps me out, but it does. The poor love must have been a rickety old skeleton by that age! I guess I don’t have to worry about my morbidly obese cats (who most definitely do not believe in practicing hara hachi bu) living to that age.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Ugly Photo Meme
It took me a little while, but I’m finally participating in the Ugly Photo Meme, conceived by Shannon and Anne and bravely realized by Schnozz.
I look like a zombie monster that hasn’t eaten any brains in a while. Don’t make any sudden moves…
I will preface this by saying I am not photogenic. Not. Photogenic. I usually look nothing like me in my photos and more like a) A man with a wig on who vaguely resembles me b) A puffy, porcine stranger who vaguely resembles me, or c) In the case of my passport photo and my first driver’s license, a crazed lunatic who vaguely resembles me. In the case of the former, everyone who has seen it says I look like Charlize Theron…in Monster. In the case of the latter, so astounding was this photo (in which I not only looked like a man with a wig on, but a man who also happened to be missing a chromosome who just escaped from prison by way of eating the guards) that when some kids snagged it and started making fun of it and my Biology teacher intervened, he cut himself off when he caught a glimpse of the photo and had to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle a guffaw.
So here is the Ugliest Photo of Me, chosen because I fit all three of my ugly photo categories: I look a little like a puffy, porcine, tranny bride and definitely like a crazed lunatic. I am clearly letting out a hag cackle, while my husband visibly wonders what he’s gotten himself into and a frightened groomsman looks on:
To contrast and compare, this is what happens when I’m not overly animate:
I look like a zombie monster that hasn’t eaten any brains in a while. Don’t make any sudden moves…
Here is my stunning “just-woke-up” photo, wherein a swamp creature masquerading as my hair is devouring me alive. As a bonus, I am slightly hungover and have that weird mooneye thing going on, instead of the usual raccoon eyes.
And, finally, redemption. Two photos of me looking relatively like myself and neither like a science fiction creature nor a homicidal maniac. (Ed note: I hate to be overly heavy-handed with the wedding photos, but we have, literally, thousands more wedding photos than any other kind of photos and I guess there was just a larger pool to draw from.)
For my own category, I have chosen “Worst Holiday Photo Ever.” First, in Ireland, where I have a combination of jet lag and sheer exhaustion conspiring against me. This is what I look like when I’ve had three hours of sleep in three days: my face swells to twice its natural size and I am incapable of smiling.
And here I am in New York at Bryant Park looking like a demented lawn creature and also a little like Gollum. This photo was also a candidate for “Worst Forehead Shadows Ever” and “Worst Bobby Pin Placement Ever” (and can somebody please tell me why it looks like I have scales?!?).
OK–You’re it!
