In praise of...the bath

I keep forgetting to contribute to my "In praise of" blog series. It was supposed to be a monthly homage to the good stuff in life, but I think I missed November entirely. Oopsie. It certainly isn't because I don't have enough good stuff in my life, either. Nope, life is rife with the good stuff; just not rife with writing/blogging time it seems.

Anyway, today I will wax poetic about THE BATH. Last week D and I stayed at the London Armories hotel, and there was a glorious, deep, marble tub in our room that we promptly made use of. I'd almost forgotten how amazing it is to float shoulder-deep in hot water for an hour. We've been having some water issues at Someday, so I've avoided the bath because I don't want my skin to turn a brilliant rusty orange the way our toilets have from the iron in the water. But spending some time in the bath has inspired me to sing its praises...

- A bath is the ultimate mood enhancer. Anxious about the presentation you have to give tomorrow? Upset about a romance gone sour? Screaming baby making your hair fall out? The bath is the answer, my friend. As soon as you start running the water, your shoulders will release themselves from their hiding place beside your ears. Drop your clothing on the floor and you'll feel your breath start to deepen. Sink into the luxurious warmth of a full tub and all the nastiness of life seems to disappear, if only for an hour or two. Add a few candles and a glass of wine, and you've got yourself a few hours of pure, simple bliss. Ahhhhh....

- Food tastes better in the bath. Eat in the bath, you say? Oh yes. And somehow, eating and drinking in the bathtub makes everything taste better. Red wine becomes silkier, popcorn is crispier, apple slices are tangier, chocolate is...um...chocolate-y-er. I think it's because eating in the tub is a bit taboo, kind of like eating in bed. And we all know that doing something slightly naughty is just plain fun. Don't believe me? Try floating a plastic bowl of buttered popcorn beside you in the tub next time you climb in and see if you don't agree. The only downside is fishing out the mushy bits that don't make it to your mouth.

- You get to be naked. There just aren't enough acceptable times and places a person can be naked and feel completely relaxed; the bath is an exception. Not only are you supposed to be naked, it would be weird if you weren't. So look down, appreciate your wonderful naked self - wrinkles, hairy bits, freckles and saggies and all! Our bodies are pretty cool things and treating them to a nice, warm bath is a good way to show yourself you care.

- Your voice becomes magically enhanced. Singing in the bath is even better than singing in the shower, because your voice carries up from the depths of the tub and bounces off the water. I can easily become Beyonce when I'm in the tub. Or at least one of those nerdy kids from Glee.

- You can be alone. Perfectly, wonderfully alone. You can close the door. You can even lock it if you have such a luxury. Baths are times for solitude and reflection. Unless, of course, you have a big ol' tub with room for a friend. But that's a whole different blog entry.

Stuff I'm slightly embarrassed to admit I like

Oh come on. Everyone has a list. You're just too chicken to blog about it.

1) Baby Duck/Molson Canadian
Cheap, sweet, fizzy wine drunk out of plastic cups on the beach at midnight tastes just like Veuve Cliquot. Trust me. And I'm the beery snobbiest of beer snobs, but a bottle of Canadian so cold your lips almost stick to it is the best way to quench your thirst on a muggy August day. Plus it has fuelled more two-steps and helped me wash down more salty midnight buffets at wedding receptions, stag n' does and reunions than I can count. How can you not love a beer that does that for $2.00 a cup?

2) Friends
I really can't say why this show makes me laugh so much. I mean, it's fairly predictable and not exactly high-brow humour. But there are a few episodes (the one where Phoebe pretends to seduce Chandler, the one where Jon Lovitz is a stoned restaurant owner, the one where Joey discovers that his tailor is a pervert) that make me howl every time I see them. I guess the show is kind of like a warm blanket of sorts; you know the characters, you know the dialogue and you know what's gonna happen because you've seen the episodes a million times. It's not as acerbic as Seinfeld was. It's kind of like eating a nice, warm, fresh squishy plain doughnut. Not great for you, but it won't kill you either.

3) Zoodles
There's something to be said for limp noodles in sweet tomato sauce with a sodium content that would fill three salt shakers. Plus, it comes out of a can! I don't think the recipe or packaging has changed since I was a kid, which is impressive. And this stuff saved my life after my C-section when no other food appealed to me. Now the real question: are Alphaghetti and Zoodles just cleverly disguised fraternal twins? I must do a blind taste test someday.

4) Journey/Abba/Simon & Garfunkel
Ahhh, listening to those soothing ballads punctuated by Steve Perry's freakish high notes on a long trip home from Waterloo. The tinny melodies of Bjorn, Benny and the girls as background music while I make supper. Singing along to the warbling, angsty harmonies of Sim n' Garf as I dust the living room. These tunes are all leftover loves from my teen years when I'd play the same albums over and over and over again. Not enduring classics to any ears but mine, probably. It's still fun to make up words to Abba songs though.

5) The X-Files
I think I've mentioned before how obsessed I am with this show, 7 years after it ended. At first, I had to content myself with reading the episode guide books, which are mostly awful. Then my good friends lent me the entire nine-season DVD collection, which was just mean, 'cause now all I want to do during every spare minute is watch Mulder and Scully play with their flashlights. Jade probably has so much alien conspiracy dialogue embedded in her little brain from all the times I've nursed her while watching X-Files; I've no doubt that someday, I'll be lamely trying to explain why she insists on drawing green men with big eyes during a parent-teacher interview.

In praise of...sisters

I just realized I'd better get my August entry in for my "things I love" blog. No sense starting a new series if I don't keep 'er up! So here are things I love about...sisters.

I am the filling in a three sister sandwich. Tanzi is two years my junior and Sissy nine my senior. Tanzi is teaching English Lit in Moscow until next June and Sissy has been enjoying life down under in Australia for almost twenty years now. Despite gaps in age and distance, we're close and fondly refer to ourselves as "crazy sisters three." We even have our own theme song set to the tune of Dolly Parton's 'Islands in the Stream,' but it only exists in a rarely heard live version, usually fuelled by a lot of champagne.

On the rare occasions that all three of us are together, we talk and talk and talk. And drink. And then talk some more. And I'm not even gonna touch on the giggling fits that drinking and talking induce. The exciting part? There's a slight chance that we may get the opportunity to do just that this Christmas, and it will be the first time since D and I got married that we'll all be in the same country together.

Since meeting D, I've been exposed to the brother dynamic (he has two), but I have to say, it pales in comparison to the sister connection. For one thing, the brothers Lowry don't hug, or talk about stuff unless it's mechanical or cider-related. So I thought I'd jot down a few of the things I love about sisters, just for the record.

1) Sisters get you.
Whether it's your weird fear of feet, the way you blink really fast when you're lying, your penchant for toilet reading or your addiction to Asian knick-knacks, sisters get you. They get your jokes, your quirks, your habits in a way even a parent or a spouse can't quite appreciate. I've seen D and my Dad look bewildered over many of the things I do or say, whereas my sisters simply shrug. "Hey, that's just Kim," their expressions seem to say. "Accept that she's weird. Move on."

2) Sisters are your biggest fans.
Sisters have a knack for making you feel good about even the smallest of your accomplishments. My sisters cheer me on constantly, about things as innocuous as creating a new jam flavour to getting one of my articles published. We encourage each other, no matter how crazy the scheme or plan or idea may sound, and we are there to hurrah or comfort as the situation requires. When I publish my book, you can bet my sisters' names will be first on the dedication page.


3) Sisters are kinda like you, but not really.
Even though you share may similarities and certain traits that cement your status as sisters (in our case, a seal-bark of a laugh that has been compared to our Nana's, a bad habit of making funny faces in photos, and a love of lychee to name just a few), you're very different in other respects. And that's a good thing. It's like you're just similar enough to feel connected, but different enough to earn each other's respect.

4) Sisters let you borrow clothes.
'Nuff said. From what I can tell, the brothers Lowry only borrow tools.

So what else can I say? Amen to sisters, my friends. There's nothing quite like 'em.

The mixed tape: a lost art

Lazylad, both a fellow blogger and fellow insurance jockey, did something really nice for Jady Lady and I: he made us a mixed tape. Okay, it's a mixed CD, but still! When's the last time anyone gave you a mixed tape? It's a very cool gift.

When making it for oneself, a mixed tape affords you the luxury of capturing favourite tunes, thus avoiding less-than-great albums. But creating a mixed tape for someone - if it's done correctly - is an art. It's more complex than picking a few songs you dig and slapping them on a tape; the music has to have a flow, the songs have to connect and be meaningful to both you and the lucky recipient. You can build a mixed tape on a theme (most of Lazylad's choices had something to do with girls, in honour of baby Jade), or start off mellow and reach a crescendo, or just basically rock out. It's all in the hands of the mixed tape creator.

I remember making dozens of mixed tapes for my friends, boyfriends, cousins and pen pals back in the 80's. My mother had an amazing stereo with a dual tape deck, so the possibilities were endless. I think I even attempted a radio drama once to entertain my sister during her first year in Australia. It had something to do with an older woman seducing a grocery delivery boy while Frank Sinatra crooned "The Summer Wind" in the background. Hey, art doesn't always have to be good.

In fact, I still listen occasionally to three or four mixed tapes I found wedged in the old glove compartment of my Kia last year. They are real, live cassettes with actual tape in them (the Kia never had a CD player), and the only place I can play them is on my old, beat up boom box (the Kia's tape player is now defunct). It was like finding little time capsules:I mean, where else can I listen to Young MC sing "Bust a Move" or groove to "That Girl" with good ol' goofy Shaggy rasping away in the background while I make dinner?

Anyway, the last time I made a mixed tape was for D, for his birthday the first year we were dating, because he is extremely hard to buy for and I was pretty much broke at the time. (Not to mention I was getting realllly tired of listening to Kenny Chesney everytime we were in his car.) It was fun picking out songs that had meanings both obvious (Girlfriend by Matthew Sweet) and more subtle, introducing him to the type of music I liked and waiting to see what he thought.

Mixed tapes can be memory boxes, love letters, games or simply friendly gifts, like a musical handshake. They were the ultimate song shuffles before iPods reared their fancy heads. Next time you have an hour on your hand, make someone a mixed tape. It's a retro way to show them you care. And plus you'll look pretty cool.

Back by popular demand...

Okay Mrs. S - you asked for it, so you're gettin' it. Fresh off the press: a baby Jade story! (Hey, I'm only breaking the no-baby-in-blog rules for Mrs. S. She's from Scotland. I can't turn down a long-distance request, can I?)

Grandma Lowry made Jady Lady an exquisite green dress a month ago after hearing me rant and rave about how I couldn't stand seeing her in one more pink outfit. Seriously - I open her drawer and behold! A sea of pink. People have been so generous with clothing and I know I shouldn't complain. It's just that...I've always liked pink, and now I'm veering into "I HATE PINK" territory, which is a shame. It's too lovely colour to loathe.

In desperation, I went to the only baby shop in Kincardine, a lovely boutique called Rolz and Sassy (after the owner's kids), and bought Jade a pair of cobalt blue pants and a jade green kimono style shirt. Seeing her in it made me sigh with relief. Until, that is, D arrived home, took one look at his daughter and said, "Kim, she looks like a boy in that outfit." *sigh*

So Grandma showed up one day with this adorable green dress. It's got little flowers embroidered on it, a lace collar that makes Jade look a bit like Queen Elizabeth and a dainty little white slip underneath. But the BEST part is the mennonite-style bonnet with white ribbons, which Jade attempts to eat every chance she gets.

We took her to church rigged up in her new outfit and of course received the requisite cooing, gooing and giggling from all Grandma's friends. It did my heart good to see Grandma showing off her little granddaughter in her pretty dress. Grandma had three boys, so having two granddaughters is setting things even for her.

Our church is small, closely knit congregation and kids are always welcome, even when they're screaming, running up the aisles or asking questions in very loud voices throughout the sermon. I'm happy to report that Miss Jady lady was a well-behaved little church mouse all through the service. The best part? We started singing the first hymn; Jade looked up at me, smiled a big gummy smile, and promptly fell asleep with the grin still pasted on her face. Guess all the singing D has done for her is paying off.

And contrary to the picture, she really, really likes her dress!

November Cheese

Ah, November. Month of damp, dank, dark days and frigid nights. Month of sleet, black ice and general moodiness. Month that could make you really hate the changing season were it not for Axl Rose and his silly, silly song, and his equally silly hair. Oh, the cheese! Please watch it. It will make you feel better, I promise.

I - can - sing - most - an -y -thing!

That is probably the most untrue statement ever made, because a) my voice is not conducive to singing and b) I screw up pretty much every song lyric I've attempted to warble. With a few notable exceptions - which I'm going to list here - there are just so many ways I like to massacre lyrics. Doesn't matter what genre of music. If I can sing it, I can kill it.

I like singing - in fact, it's one of those things that when someone randomly asks, "If you could have any talent, what would it be?" I'd yell, 'SINGING! SINGING! FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, GRANT ME THE GIFT OF SONG!' If I could magically become something I'm not, I'd become a singer way before I'd become a movie star, breakdancing/krumping phenom, lion tamer, snowboard champ or even hottest chick in Bruce County (does that qualify as a talent?). I've pictured myself on stage belting out some heartsick tune a jillion times, a feeling I've only approximated during my stagette karaoke episode at the Silver Spur, which is best not spoken of.

My voice has been compared to Cher with a cold. Which isn't really a compliment,is it? I've heard myself, and there is a slight nasal-infectiony quality to my singing that is not endearing, especially when sung at high volumes.

To make matters worse, I can't even sing the right words when I do sing. You'd think that after years of studying literature and memorizing lines from sonnets and plays and all that other crap that I could at least remember simple songs like "1-2-3-4" by Feist or at least an anthem or two by Bruce Springsteen. But no - I constantly scramble words up, or blank out mid-song and have to resort to humming tunelessly, or switching the radio dial to mask my shame. If I've got D's car and I'm listening to a CD, I've begun rewinding a pesky song at least 6 or 7 times to TRY and figure out the lyrics and sing them just right. Not only is this annoying to other passengers, I still can't get the lyrics right.

D loves to sing. And he's got a decent voice. AND he knows ALL the lyrics to every song he sings. Which is both delightful and annoying. He always tries to coax me to sing, especially on long car trips. "Sing me a song, Kimmy," he'll say. I've whispered the few lines I know from "Wonderwall" and once I even belted out the first verse of a slightly dirty Chris Whitley tune, but mostly I clam up and let D do the singing.

So imagine my delight last week, as I was making the slow 2 hour drive from Waterloo to Kink, when a song came on the radio and I ACTUALLY KNEW THE WORDS. All of them. Okay, the song was Gino Vanelli's "Black Cars," but I don't feel bad about that. What's important is that I KNEW THE WORDS. It got me to thinking, what other songs might I actually know, Christmas carols and Happy Birthday aside? Here's the brief list I came up with:
-> Pink Floyd, The Wall. - I can sing large snippets from almost every song on this album. I spent a lot of time listening to The Wall on my sony walkman in the '80s...usually while walking around New Hamburg feeling so very, very dark inside.
-> Black Crowes, Hard to Handle . Don't ask. Just...don't.
-> Timbaland/One republic, It's too late to apologize, - Only because I've listened to it obsessively for the last 30 days.
-> Always on the Run, Sympathique -A quirky song about only wanting to smoke. I'm especially proud of being able to sing at least a part of it, considering it's in French!)
-> Billy Joel, Uptown girl - Again, no comment.
-> Eagles - pretty much ANY song, although Take it Easy is a fave. This is directly related to having listened to Eagles Greatest Hits repeatedly one summer while trapped by rainstorms in my friend's cottage at turkey point.

And that's it. That's all I know. No doubt my overall tragic inability to remember lyrics is karmic punishment for laughing hysterically at my sister in the 1980's for thinking the words to Eddie Grant's "Electric Avenue" ran: "We're gonna rock down to/electric avenue/and then we'll take your tires."

What do YOU sing in the shower/car/changeroom?