Findings in Cleaning House and Other Distractions.

Don’t get me wrong. It is not the first time I vacuum since we’ve arrived here. It’s just the first time I do it properly. Don’t look at me that way. I am lazy. I do it properly more often than not. Oh, shove off.

(Wait – was I having a conversation with the little person living inside my head again? Sorry about that, throng of readers. Carry on.)

It pains me to even think of vacuuming properly ever again, because – oooh having four floors is fantastically awesome – but goddammit (my spell check tells me this should be spelled g-o-l-d-s-m-i-t-h) I had to plug the vacuum cleaner in three different outlets – three! – to vacuum all of the stairs. Breathe in, Caro, breathe out. Little person living inside my head, I suggest you go get dressed and quit whining. What? No. You don’t look sexy in a loincloth. Now go.

(Again, I apologize, numerous fans.)

There are 20 steps total in this house, divided in 3 staircases, one of which angles at some point. When I go up the stairs, it angles to the right. When I go down the stairs, it angles to the left. Very strange. It’s like one of those Escher drawings. Anyway. The vacuum’s tube is not long, so after I’ve vacuumed the bottom two steps, I have to hold the vacuum up in the air with one arm, and vacuum vigorously (it’s carpeted stairs) with the other hand. Okay, granted, this is a petty whining topic, but it pisses me off! I just had to write a post about it. I know someone somewhere is agreeing with me right now, sitting in front of their PC (…or Mac) nodding and remembering it’s about time they vacuum too. Sorry for reminding you. I recommend going home after work tonight, having a glass of wine, and completely discarding the thought from your mind. Okay, maybe two glasses of wine. Drink half the bottle. Then you can do something else and not feel guilty. Oh - and about those vacuum tubes? My whole life, I’ve thought these things look like elephant’s trunks. Especially those fabric-covered ones, just like on my grandmother’s old Electrolux. But that is beside the point.

The Two and the Twenty-Three.

Today, I am cooking. Okay, okay, I am also knitting. I knit every day. Too much knitting to do before Xmas. Gotta get these gifts ready in time...but in between the knitting and the watching Battlestar Galactica, I am making cretons for fun and also ragoût de veau for tonight’s dinner. I have to get dressed this afternoon (yes – I am still in my jammies, get off my case) and get a decent bottle of wine at the SAQ. I’m thinking a nice Beaujolais or a Pinot Noir. Mmmm. Yesss. Definitely a Pinot Noir. Today is our 1st month anniversary living in our new home. We still think it rocks.

What rocks less is last night. We had our first annual general meeting of co-owners. About 25 people in a small room at the University, sitting around tables arranged in a big rectangle, butts hurting for three hours because of the conference chairs (which, I admit, could have been worse, they could have been plastic chairs). Twenty-three of these people were at ease or at least looked it. Twenty-three of these people were well-off, probably upper middle class (or higher), and discussed important issues about expenditures, investments, budgets, special kiss-my-ass budgets for new windows and doors, and air-conditioning systems. Twenty five not-too-pleased people found out they would need to fork out between seven and ten and a half thousand – thousand – dollars next year at this time to replace windows and doors for the whole block. There was an election.

Two of these people went home, had martinis, and played tennis and bowling and golf on their new Wii.

A Girl Walks Into a Fabric Store...

…with her better half. Today, he IS her better half because he, unlike her, does not have shooting pain in his back, uterus, or buttocks. He is the picture of cool. His hair looks good. In one word, he is hot. He, ladies and gentlemen, unlike his not-so-better-half, does not feel like strangling the woman entering the store behind them because of her incessant throat-clearing.

The girl gets irritated and impatient because her better half does not seem interested in looking at the drapes at all, which is the sole purpose of being in this store. She reminds herself she is not interested either when they take mandatory monthly trips to Future Shop to look at video games and the X-Box 360. You know, just to go have a look. So she tries to make it quick. Understand your man.

Long story short, we got drapes. They look good in the package. They’re somewhat what I was looking for, although not exactly the color scheme or texture I was hoping for. The color scheme I ogled over for was not on sale, and cost three times the price we paid for what we bought.

Now you’re all caught up on my home life, I’ll let you sit there and be happy for me while I go stare at the new curtains in their plastic packages.

I never thought I could write better half so many times in one post. Says a lot.

The One with the James Mason Impersonation.

The weather is crappy, I am a housewife, and I have too many projects: I really don’t know where to start.

Okay, technically, I am not a housewife. I am just a girl who stays at home, bakes, makes her boyfriend’s lunch in the morning, puts little notes in it, does laundry, makes dinner, and cleans up. Also, I knit, and have started talking to my cat. Closest thing to a housewife I’ve ever encountered. But I like it. Why does all this sound familiar?

Talking to the cat is not really a problem: I’ve been doing it close to 3 years now. The problem is he now answers me, in a James Mason voice. (Click here to see one of my favorite comics, Eddie Izzard. He’s doing James Mason as John F. Kennedy. Couldn’t find any James Mason sound clips.) Well, I do the voice. I’m just pretending the cat talks like James Mason. And he ends all his sentences with: “puny human”. So a conversation with the cat sounds like: “Oh, Boo, why do you do that? You are so cute, all on your back like that. Cute little minou. You cute little minou thing, you. Yesss.” He then answers (in the James Mason voice): “Quit whining, bitch, and feed me my yummies. Can’t you see I’m being cute for a specific reason, puny human?”

Don’t judge me. He’s my entertainment, because I do not watch television.

So before I started telling you about my delusions, I was saying I have too many projects. I’m thinking of starting …a list. Shit, this does sound familiar! I’ve gone full circle. I’ve run out of things to talk about. Better get cracking and get interesting things happening!

The One About Seeing.

I have never been the type of person to hold back tears just to look good or strong; I cry when I need to. I'll cry at a funeral. I'll cry at a wedding, if it's two people I love getting married. I’m just saying – I’ve been at a wedding where it was a friend getting married to a complete idiot, and I did not cry at that particular wedding.

I cried on Saturday, because they played The Last Post on Radio-Canada as part of Remembrance Day coverage. Last time I had heard that, I was at my grandfather’s funeral, at the National Military Cemetary. The monument he designed lies feet away from where he does. So I cried for him. I’m proud of him. That's him unveiling the monument two years ago:

A friend recently told me she was celebrating a broken heart. She said the sorrows in her life she could think about with a smile instead of a sharp pain in her heart were the ones she had cried all the tears in the world for. She wished me tears to help with the pain and avoid festering of the wound. I thought that was the wisest wish I had ever gotten. Her celebrating her broken heart was also a pleasant surprise for me – how can you celebrate having your heart broken? So I went back upstairs, had a cup of coffee, and tried to make sense of it.

Then it just hit me, and I understood. He does not weep who does not see. I can’t take the credit for that one – Victor Hugo said it.

I’m celebrating my grief by giving it a name. I am celebrating, because although this pain is sharp and had all kinds of edges, it goes down easier if I look at it with a smile. I see, therefore I weep.

So, friend, you know who you are, thank you for the wish.

Happier Post.

I got stuff done today. Which is good.

Being at home is good for me right now. It is giving me time to think. It is giving me time to appreciate what I do have rather than what I am missing. It’s also creating a much needed special protective padding around me: I can shield myself from inquisitive eyes, mouths and ears. I can live through this day by day, at my own pace. And being able to do that is crucial to me. Voilà.

Today: good day. I went for a walk to the yarn store this morning (really, it’s sad I live about 5 minutes walking distance from it…very sad) and got yarn my mom needed as well as a special treat for myself. My friends came over to knit, drink tea and eat cookies they baked for us. I learned how to knit that pattern I just couldn’t wrap my head around (maybe I should have tried wrapping it around my head). We agreed we have Christmas knitting to do, so we made this a weekly date. I made chicken broth. I am having a friend over for drinks tonight. Life is good.

I am sitting in the baby’s room, and I’m ok.

A Lion In Its Cage.

Rediscovered the web this morning after nearly two weeks without a computer. Moving deprived me of a fantastical world of…stuff. Replied to my e-mails. Looked up felted clogs pattern and did not find it. Read blogs. Wrote The Great Bookscape post. Got an e-mail from a friend’s mom asking me if I’ve given birth yet and how am I doing. Realized it was time for lunch. Was not hungry. Tried to find out how to revive my potted azalea that is slowly dying. Had my vegetable curry for lunch at 12:45. Ate it all, ate too much. I make good vegetable curry.

Have to work up the courage to do some laundry.

It is raining and blustery out, I do not want to go for a walk as originally planned. I am not masochistic. Good to know.

Feel like knitting. Pulled out a project, dropped it on the table and stared at it. Maybe I should cast on for a new project. That cotton/linen blend I bought yesterday, perhaps. I just don’t know what to knit with it yet. Thought of making coffee. Checked pulse. Racing. Coffee not a good plan. Picked up a book instead. Don’t feel like fantasy. Maybe I missed something on the web. Better go check again. Went down one floor too many, ended up in my bedroom. The bed is very tempting. Stared at the bed for a second. Picked up laundry basket instead. It’s filled with mittens and scarves and the thingamabobber to store them in the closet. Trying to work up the will to go organize mittens and scarves in the hall closet upstairs. Writing this instead. I think I’ll have some of that Kusmi tea. It’ll warm me up inside.

Just say it. Write what is really on your mind. This is your therapy. You have to grieve. You have to write. Your throng of readers won’t mind. They can always close the window if they don’t want to read this post. You need to write this down. It’s driving you mad.

I am sitting in the baby’s room.

It was occupied by my seven-week old niece over the last couple of days, and there are ever so subtle remnants of her sweet baby smell. I try to catch them when they pass, but I inhale them too quickly and the bliss disappears instantly. My sister, her husband and my niece came over last Sunday and while they were picking up their gear and getting ready to leave early Monday morning, I was looking after the baby. She was lying on her back on a thick blanket on the living room table. She is so tiny. Gabrielle was tinier, I thought. And just when I thought that and was trying to block the image I have of her in my mother’s arms, the baby looked at me and smiled a smile that never ended. My eyes filled up with tears. I felt like she could sense my thoughts and could see Gabrielle in my eyes. She just kept smiling and staring into my eyes like she knew, at that precise moment, exactly what was going through my mind and was trying to tell me everything would be ok. I was having a breakdown I did not expect.

This room does not look like a baby’s room yet. There is a dismantled crib in a corner with the little mattress propped up against it. The rocking chair is in the middle of the room with stuff on it. There are six bins in the closet filled with baby clothes and other baby items. I had to put them away, I could not have them piled up in this space staring at me until I can empty them and put their contents to good use. I could still see where we had applied masking tape and written Gabrielle. The ink marked the plastic, and her name is forever written on six plastic bins in the baby’s room closet. I miss her.

Happier post to come. I promise.

The Great Bookscape.

I found this on J's blog, and thought it was the best thing I'd heard of all day (it's still early).

From zombiesquirrels.blogspot:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.

"The guards," Moiraine muttered as if to herself. "I saw them in the corridor still, and never thought." She smoothed her dress, composing herself with an obvious effort. Elayne did not believe she had ever seen Moiraine so out of herself as tonight.

Great. Now people will think I read cheesy porn.
The first book I found had a graph on page 123. Crap.