To my darling

Rose Marie Lowry
April 3rd, 2008

Silently a flower blooms
In silence it falls away;
Yet here now, at this moment, at this place,
The world of the flower, the whole of the world is blooming.
This is the talk of the flower, the truth of the blossom:
The glory of eternal life is fully shining here.

- Zenkei Shibayama

Hurray hurray, it's V-DAY!!!!!!

Say what you want, Valentine's Day is a happy little holiday in my books. I can't wait till the kids fall asleep so I can creep downstairs to make the kitchen table especially special. We've managed to decorate almost every room in the house so far, but I want to surprise Jade and Dylan with silly heart plates, my special red juice glasses that Jade not-so-secretly covets and heart-shaped pancakes in the morning. I blame my mother for spoiling us rotten with Valentine treats every year; even if you don't have kids or a significant other, there's gotta be SOMEONE in your school or work or life that's worthy of a little extra love on the 14th.

Here's an old post, which made me giggle a bit. As my dear old Babushka used to say, Happy Valenschtines!

Dancing Outside the Barn

It was a sweaty June night in 2007 and we were milking cows. My coveralls stuck to my body in places I’d rather not describe, and I knew my face was the colour of an overripe tomato. D likes to think of doing chores on weekends as “date night.” In the summer, I tend to think of it as “hate night.

As I lurched over the gutter to grab some tit dip, I caught sight of D shuffling down the walkway in a rhythmic step, his eyes glazed over in concentration. He was wearing steel-toed boots and poop-stained summer coveralls, unzipped just enough to allow a downy tuft of chest hair to peek out. His hair was a curly mess from the humidity. He wore turquoise latex gloves on his hands, which were raised to hold the waist and hand of an imaginary partner as he swayed across the manure-encrusted floor.

I realized my husband was salsa dancing, probably practising the steps we’d learned in our dance class a few nights previously. As sweat dripped down my nose and a cow defecated directly behind me, I also realized that I found him dead sexy.

D is a wonderful blend of practical gentleman and unselfconscious goofball. He comes across as a serious, almost courtly fellow: he opens doors for people, urges others go to ahead of him in line and loves to talk about finances and career trajectories. Yet underneath his stolid exterior lurks the heart of a child, a soul that hasn’t lost its capacity for joy in simple, sometimes silly things. I adore his enthusiasm for tractors, motorbikes, hockey and his parents’ dairy barn. Most of all, I adore the way he dances.

D and I first met briefly at The Flying Dog, a club in Waterloo that features Latin Night with free salsa dance classes. I was there with my friend Sinda, who was feeding a burgeoning obsession with ballroom dancing. I don’t actually remember meeting D that night; I danced with his colleague, not him. Apparently I shook his hand though. So much for first impressions.

My first clear memory of D came months later when we were thrown together again by chance at a salsa dancing class in the bowels of the University of Waterloo’s student life centre. Sinda was pondering the idea of becoming a dance instructor, and she needed me to be her “girl” so she could learn how to lead. So there I was, floundering around a beige, windowless hallway to the beat of Latin music with a dozen other salsa misfits, including D.

Nothing romantic happened during those awkward, fumbly lessons (unless you count the time he accidentally grabbed my boob). I thought the neatly dressed, lanky, soft-spoken guy I partnered with from time to time seemed sweet and sincere, unlike the icky lechers I’d run into at The Dog. I liked the way his big smile sprang out of nowhere and how patient he was when I messed up a move. But I was married at the time, and though I knew my marriage was navigating rocky waters, I wasn’t ready to jump ship just yet. So dance lessons were just a favour to Sinda, a good distraction from my troubles at home. And D was just a nice guy I danced with once a week.

A year later, after my marriage had exploded in a burst of soap opera shrapnel, I was most definitely single. Emotionally bruised, full of doubt and anxiety, underweight and utterly sure I was going to be alone for the rest of my life, but available. I was a real catch.

Enter Sinda, still a ballroom dance addict and ever-faithful friend.

“Let’s go dancing,” she suggested one afternoon at work as I was moping in my cubicle.

“Ugh,” I said. “No way.”

“Oh come on, you should get out. Why don’t you email that guy from Christina’s salsa class? He seemed pretty keen - remember he asked us to call him if we ever went to The Dog to practice?”

To this day, I have no idea what made me agree to Sinda’s scheme. I wasn’t feeling ready to venture outside the house, let alone attempt to dance with a guy, no matter how nice or keen he was. Sinda had amazing powers of persuasion, I guess. I sent D an email and he sent back a pleasant, witty reply (which I still have). We met the next night, just the two of us, Sinda’s daughter having conveniently come down with a cold.

When D led me to the dance floor, I was shocked to see his hips move like Ricky Martin’s. His lead was sure and strong, and his steps were fluid. Gone was the awkward windmilling of arms and legs I’d experienced back in the hallway at the university.

“Oh, I’ve been taking lessons,” D said casually, and spun me around like he’d been salsa dancing his entire life.

We’ve been dancing ever since. Our Thursday night salsa dates continued, and we took weekly lessons in a lady’s basement while we lived in Waterloo. We even organized a group dance lesson for everyone who came to our engagement party; the dance teacher choreographed a crazy cha-cha number for us and twelve friends, which we all proceeded to massacre at the wedding reception. At least it entertained the guests.

Once D and I moved to the Bruce, opportunities to dance weren’t as readily available as they’d been in the city. We had to get a bit more creative whenever we felt the need to get our boogie on, such as tipsy two-stepping at stag n’ does in Ripley or a singles ballroom dance party in Goderich. We’ve gone to swing dances at the pavilion, the Legion to hear the Glen Boyd Orchestra (featuring D’s uncle on saxophone) and even danced to the Glen Miller Orchestra when they came to Owen Sound. We’re usually the youngest couple on the floor when we go to these events, but it doesn’t matter, because the music is always excellent and swirling around the floor together makes us both happy.

One dance at the Pavilion stands out in my mind. As D and I swayed to Moon River, we noticed an older couple dancing near us. They’d been up for nearly every song, even though they had to be in their late seventies or even early eighties. He wore a wine-coloured shirt under his suit jacket, and she wore a slim leather belt of the same colour around her blouse. They giggled and hugged each other after every dance. They weren’t always on the beat, and they seemed to repeat the same pattern of steps regardless of the music, but you could tell they’d been dancing together for years. The pure joy in their eyes made me smile. I wanted that to be our future.

Dancing with someone is an intimate thing, because every person has their own rhythm, their own style and pace. It can be downright ugly if you’re not in tune with your partner, or vice versa. When you dance with someone and your bodies connect, well...it can take you out of your head completely and into a purely sensual experience, where music and touch and movement are the only things that matter. That’s how it is with D and me, when we dance. Sometimes, anyway. We’ve had our share of horrible missteps and embarrassing moves; times where we’ve laughed at the other person’s clumsiness, times where we’ve thrown up our hands in frustration at our partner’s inability to get it right. It’s sort of like marriage.

And, like our marriage, we’ll keep practising our steps, even if most of our dance parties these days take place in the kitchen instead of a dark club and involve squealing children in pyjamas instead of sultry singles in strapless dresses. And you know what? Whether it’s in the barn, the Legion or our living room, I plan to dance with D for as many years as our legs will let us. I want to be like that couple in the wine-coloured outfits at the Pavilion: maybe our moves will be old-fashioned and a little out of synch, but we’re going to be on the floor for every dance as long as the music’s playing, with goofy smiles on our faces.

Date Night, Someday Style

My friend Ruth and I have our wedding anniversaries on the same day. We both have two young children and know how precious a night out with our hubbies can be. Last year, a few days before my fifth anniversary and her eleventh, we were talking on the phone and comparing battle plans.

“What are you guys doing to celebrate?” I asked her.

“Oh, I think we’re going out for dinner to Bhima's and then to a movie. We’re going to try to get away for a weekend too. What are you and D up to?”

“Well,” I said, “We’re going to the Legion in Lucknow. They’re having a dance.”

It’s not often that I can make Ruth go completely silent. Most of my city pals have never darkened the door of a Legion, much less celebrated a special occasion by dancing there. What can I say? Date night in the country can be a unique experience.

Don't get me wrong; there is a wide variety of stuff to do up here, just as there is in the city. You can still take your sweetheart to a movie, eat out at a posh restaurant, or see a live show. The difference is that the movie theatre is cosy and has fabulous popcorn, you can probably get into the restaurant without making a reservation a month in advance, and you're likely to recognize a relative performing at the theatre. But why bother with these boring old choices when there are so many other opportunities to get your romance on, country style?

Take the dump, for instance. A place often relegated to husbandly duty, the dump was a revelation to me the first time I was invited to come along. Yes, the smell in the summer is fit to gag you and sometimes you see rotting stuff you wish you hadn’t. But there are so many good things about the dump that cancel out the nastier bits. Like the dress code. No high heels, Spanx or hairspray are necessary. I simply pull on my grungiest jeans, D’s oldest sweatshirt, my trusty rubber boots and I’m good to go.

Then there's the truck. Many Bruce County women own trucks, or are used to driving them regularly, but riding in - or better yet, driving - a pickup is still a novelty to me. Especially when D says, “Your turn to back ‘er up, Kimmy,” and I have to navigate the truck backwards to the (gulp) edge of the dump pit, which is a gaping hole in the earth that looks big enough to swallow three tractor-trailers whole. Nothing gets the heart pumping like the thought of demolishing your spouse’s beloved vehicle, and nothing makes a country boy randier than watching a woman back up a large piece of machinery.

To me, the best part of the dump is when I have to clamber over the tailgate to help chuck stuff into the pit. There’s something incredibly freeing about getting rid of all the accumulated crap that’s built up over a season by sending it sailing as far as your skinny arms can throw. I also get wicked satisfaction from tossing armfuls of the twigs and brush I’ve cleared out of the gardens in the spring and fall; it feels good to trim it, but it’s even more gratifying to pitch it into the pit. And don’t underestimate the goofy, childish high you get when you throw in something breakable that makes a glorious smash. When your man raises an eyebrow and remarks, "Good one, hon'," you know your country romance is going strong.

To be honest, I never really thought of going to the dump as a "date" until the second time we went and the friendly clerk said, "So, out on another dump date today, folks?" My husband looked sheepish. "Hey, if you're out together without the kids, consider it a date," she reassured us, handing over two of her trademark lollipops. I decided she had a point. With both of us working full time and two active little ones at home, time alone with D had become a rare commodity. A dump date was fine with me.

Motorbike rides are another outing with D that I never tire of. I wouldn't have dared climb on the back of his elderly Honda in the city, but it's more exciting to bump over fields and scare seagulls than it would be to putt-putt our way through Waterloo traffic. Plus, on a motorbike we can get up close and personal with the mighty windmills, or take a mellow drive under a canopy of trees on the lower shore road. It’s just not the same in the city. We have so many motorbikey memories here, anyway; D knows that for me, the best motorbike date is a trip to the lighthouse, where we reminisce about our engagement (he knelt beside his motorbike at the foot of the lighthouse), and end up at the restaurant in Point Clark for some fries and souvlaki. It’s simple, and perfect.

Beach dates are a given, especially with my aunt’s cottage so close by. Swimming in heavily chlorinated city pools was never a favourite pastime of mine; I much prefer a stealthy skinny dip in the lake to a noisy, crowded pool that makes my hair smell like bleach for a day. I took D to the Goderich pool on a date night, since he loves swimming and it too cold for the beach, but I just can’t find my lovey dovey vibe at a public pool. D isn’t much of a beach person, so I treasure the times when he relents to a long walk on the sand without the kidlets tagging along. There’s just something about the purr of the waves beside us, the stars twinkling out above and the soft sand beneath our feet that brings out the lover in me. Even when D insists on wearing socks and shoes.

One date night I never pictured myself enjoying was spending a Saturday evening in the barn, milking cows. Now that we have two little ones in our lives, I’ve decided that pretty much any time together alone with D is an opportunity for romance, even in a stinky dairy barn. Leaning in for a quick kiss as we pass each other on the walkway, belting out our favourite songs to an audience of cows and cats and the odd squirt-of-milk fight makes our time together in the barn pleasant. There's something to be said about working side by side with the guy you love, even if you're up to your ankles in poop

We still catch the occasional movie or have supper out. But the date nights that stand out in my mind are the ones that could only happen up here in Someday land: learning to drive a tractor while cutting hay at 1 a.m.; throwing brush into the gully on a hazy September afternoon (and clocking D in the noggin with a wayward branch); taking long snowshoe tramps in snow that shone like diamonds all around us. I'll never forget the morning I wandered out onto our bedroom balcony and looked down to find my name growing in the grass; my hubby had drawn it in triple 16 fertilizer early in the spring without telling me. Stuff like that just wouldn't have happened back in Waterloo.

As D and I twirled around the creaky wooden floor of the Lucknow Legion last year on our anniversary, enjoying the familiar sounds of the Glen Boyd Orchestra, I couldn't stop smiling. Ruthie may have been skeptical of our choice of date, but she’s just never experienced romance, Someday-style.

The Cross and the Bunny

Here's a question for you:

Does one attempt to teach an almost-three-year-old about the Bibical origins of Easter, or does one just give her a chocolate bunny and run away?

I grappled with this last year. Thankfully D was there to snap me out of my religious/cocoa conundrum with his patented "Woman, have you lost your marbles?" stare when I broached the subject. He was right. My two year old didn't need to know about the cross just yet.

But this year Jade would be nearly three, Easter was around the corner, and I felt like I should be telling her about Jesus while she ate her chocolate eggs. Or how eggs and bunnies symbolized the rebirth of spring. Or something.

I was raised Lutheran by a father who didn't attend church and a mother who didn't believe in organized religion but made us go to the Lutheran church anyway. So Sunday School, confirmation, all that stuff - chore and bore. My sister and I got taught about the bible, but nothing was ever practised at home. I faithfully taught Sunday school and bible school all through my youth, and got to know the Bible inside and out, but didn't really undertand it on a spiritual or emotional level. It was just stuff I had to do.

Then I met up with a sincere, rowdy, fun, youthfully devoted bunch of born again Christians when I was sixteen and my life changed. I even got baptized - full immersion dunky-dunky style - when I turned 17. My mother watched reproachfully from the very back of the church; she was certain I'd joined a cult.

As I grew into my twenties, I enjoyed a vigourous faith in a church that felt like it was full of long-lost family members I never knew I had. I loved the prayer groups, the adult bible studies, the concerts and the services. I stage managed yearly plays with the church and led a young women's bible study group. I learned, read, debated and felt like I was on pretty solid ground with God.

My church life screeched to a halt during the last tumutous years with my ex, who was raised in a devout Christian home but had begun having crises of faith. Suddenly showing up at church without your husband back then was akin to standing up after a hymn and screaming, "MY HUSBAND IS A BACKSLIDER!" I couldn't handle the curious looks and gently pointed questions like, "So where's your hubby today?" And after the break-up, I gave up my old church all together. I began to attend a United Church down the street, where I could be silent and miserable in the back pew without any pity from the congregation. I loved the giant, beautiful, ornate space, the pastor seemed very kind, and I loved the way the church reached out to the local community. Most of all, I loved being anonymous.

When D and I began dating, I remember how D's mother proudly showed me all his sunday school pins for pefect attendance. He wouldn't be winning any pins these days, but he and I agree there is a God and that we're here to help our fellow humans. We sporadically attend the Pine River United church up here in Kinkytown, but our kids don't go regularly. Personally, I think they're too wild to be penned up inside a sunday school classroom just now. So teaching the finer points of religion is a responsibility that falls directly on our shoulders.

I ended up buying Jade a children's picture book that presented a fairly bloodless, less graphic version of the Easter story without missing any of the important plot points. Her only question was, "Where's heaven, Mummy?" And she still got lots of chocolate eggs and begged Grandpa not to shoot the Easter bunny.

I guess the main thing is that we present the kids with enough information to encourage them to think about God, spirituality and why things happen the way they do. I want them to have enough information to ask questions, even though I shudder to think about having these conversations when I'm no longer as solid with God as I once was. And eating a few chocolate bunnies while we talk won't hurt.

February 14th 2012: Pink smarties, Heart cookies and Elbow soup

It's a curious thing, spending Valentine's Day alone. I know a lot of folks do it, and not always by choice, so I'm not complaining - just sayin'. D is away overnight, so it's just me and the kidlets here on Happy Heart Day.

D left me a giant bouquet of iris and delphinium before he left, telling me he got me blue flowers because that's the way he'd be feeling when he went to bed alone tonight. He's not usually that sentimental, so I smiled rather than rolled my eyes. And they are beautiful - sapphire and cobalt and lapis, with snow-white asters in the middle of the bouquet. I hate red roses, so these are perfect.

Last night, I baked six dozen teeny tiny cream-cheese heart cookies in between sips of a delightful coffee porter. The cookies are my mom's tradition - I have never found her exact receipe, but I make do with one I scrounged off the internet. This morning I iced the little morsels with pink icing flavoured with fresh lemon juice, although my mom always preferred mint. Jade iced a few of her own at breakfast to take to Grandma's, but mostly she occupied herself with wolfing down pink smarties and those nasty little sprinkles I abhore but she adores. Dylan smashed his cookie into a billion pieces, licked all the coating off his smarties and dribbled chocolate onto his shirt before making a valiant attempt to plunge face-first into the bowl of icing. Nothing says Happy V Day like kids covered in sticky yuck.

I wrestled the little monsters into their winter coats (boy, I missed D's strong arms!), found the hats and mitts and snowpants, got the cookies and valentine's gathered up. As I was forcing Jade's reluctant feet into her boots, I heard a clang and a smash that could only mean one thing: I ran to the cold room to find dear Dylan up to his elbows in the soup I'd made the night before. He had tomato and cabbage smeared across his arms, hands and lips and a blissful look on his face. Well, at least he likes it.

So that's my V-day so far. I'm blessed with healthy, active children, yummy food to eat, and a much-needed coffee with Bailey's waiting for me at my desk. That's all I really need, even though a warm bed with D in it would be preferable.

Happy V day to you, my bloggy friends!

Bittersweet

Last week, D was doing chores and Jady was asleep. It was still and quiet in the house and I felt lonely. So I snuck upstairs, tiptoed over to Jade's crib and did something I never do: I eased her out, tucked her into my arms, crept over to my bed and cuddled with her for an hour.

She barely stirred - thankfully she's a sound sleeper! - and it was so good to feel her warmth, her heartbeat against my breast again. She's been weaned since May, and while I don't miss the middle-of-the-night feedings, I do miss the easy intimacy nursing afforded us.

Jade is a busy girl. The only time she's content to sit in my lap without wriggling around like a fish out of water is when she's tired (or asleep!). And then I'm in Mummy heaven. Her downy blonde head smells like honey; her chubby toes curl and uncurl when I stroke them with my finger. She still sucks two fingers and sometimes she looks up at me with an undescribable expression her sapphire eyes. And to think that ten years ago, I was convinced I didn't want children...

Lying in bed with Jade the other night, I was struck to my core with a strange blend of deep joy and profound grief. I couldn't help but think of how my other two lost little ones should be there with us, cuddled in my arms with as much right to be there as Jade. So I allowed myself the luxury of closing my eyes and imagining their presence - what their scent, their warmth, their own personalities might have been like. I think those few minutes of fantasy defined the term bittersweet for me; I'm learning that so much in motherhood is exactly that.

In Memoriam

Rose Marie Lowry
April 3rd 2008

Silently a flower blooms
In silence it falls away;
Yet here now, at this moment, at this place,
The world of the flower, the whole of the world is blooming.
This is the talk of the flower, the truth of the blossom:
The glory of eternal life is fully shining here.

- Zenkei Shibayama

In praise of: Valentine's day

Last year I wrote a rather heated entry in defense of good ol' V-Day. But I don't feel the need to go all vitriolic on you V-day haters this year. I've mellowed. Okay, I'm just really tired, but still, I don't feel the urge to get on my V-day bandwagon again. I think it's because I've heard so many nice, simple stories from friends and family about how they've spent their 2010 Valentine's Day that my heart is satisfied. Some couples went to the pancake breakfast in Ripley (and so did we), some went skating at the outdoor rink at McGregor Point, some hung out and watched sappy movies. To me, it's all good.

D spent the weekend doing chores so his brother C could play in a hockey tourney (that was not the heartwarming part) and spend the weekend with his girlfriend (that was the heartwarming part). It meant late suppers for both of us and less help with Jady lady in the evenings, but I figured it was for a good cause. We still managed to spend time together in front of the fire, enjoy a really kick-arse lasagne and our traditional dessert of chocolate-covered strawberries. AND D bought me the most gorgeous bouqet of tulips, which are even now making the house feel like spring.

Instead of cards, this year we exchanged our favourite memories of each other, which was kinda fun. Jade and I made D a card; she mostly smeared the purple and pink hearts I drew and tried unsuccessfully to taste each marker, but the card turned out to be pretty cute. Jade received cards from her cousin and both sets of grandparents so I still got my mailbox thrills vicariously. Plus it was fun to dress her up in red and pink; D even got Jade her very own flower.

All in all, I just like Valentine's day and the cool stuff it represents. Here's hoping yours was rosy, fun and full of warm fuzzies.

In praise of: making your own baby food

You're probably thinking that this is a pretty weird "In praise of" topic, huh? The truth is, I've become addicted to making Jade's baby food. Seriously, hardly a day goes by that I don't have my nose buried in the baby food cookbook (The Baby's Table), the Magic Bullet a-whirring or the steamer steaming. Cooking for me and D has always been rewarding and fun, but cooking for baby Jade is fulfilling on a whole different level. (Okay, except for the part where she spits out a recipe or does her whole fake-gag act. But that's only happened with parsnips and plums.)

Not only is it rewarding to see your tiny offspring gobble down meals of your own making, you have complete control over what goes into her food. It's a bit horrifying to read some of the ingredients on baby cereals, snacks and other pre-packaged baby foods. Check this one out: RICE FLOUR, DRY SKIM MILK, PALM OLEIN, POTATO MALTODEXTRIN, CANOLA OIL, COCONUT OIL, PREBIOTICS (OLIGOFRUCTOSE, INULIN), SUNFLOWER OIL, MINERAL AND VITAMINS (FERROUS FUMARATE, NICOTINAMIDE, THIAMINE MONONITRATE, RIBOFLAVIN), BIFIDOBACTERIUM LACTIS CULTURES. I'm sorry, but what the what are Palm Olein and Potato Maltodextrin and Coconut Oil doing in my 8 month old's food? Ugh.

I'm thankful that Jady Lady is a good little eater, and likes everything except the aforementioned P words. It's so much fun to see what foods she favours (avocado, tofu, broccoli, melon) and which she eats with less gusto (peach, egg yolk, papaya). I'm loving all the funky recipes in her baby cookbook, especially now that we've moved beyond the steam&puree-the-crap-out-of-veg&fruits stage. My latest favourite recipe? Baby Ratatouille. It's delicious, nutritious and best of all, Jady, Mummy and Daddy all enjoy it. So, dear reader, in praise of making my own baby food, I will share my version of the recipe with you. Even if you don't have a wee one to feed, this stuff is veggie gold for adults too. And you don't even have to wear a bib.

Baby Ratatouille
1 cup broccoli florets
2 small zucchini, chopped
1 can tomatoes with juice
1 red pepper, peeled and chopped
1 potato, cubed (peeling is optional)
1/2 onion, chopped (optional)
1 clove garlic, minced (optional)
1 cup no-salt vegetable broth or water
1 cup cheddar cheese, grated
handful fresh basil (optional)

Chuck it all in a pot and bring to a boil; simmer covered 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove the lid and simmer another 10 minutes uncovered. It should look like a thick stew when it's done. Serve hot over egg noodles or orzo, sprinkled with copious amounts of cheese and basil. Soooo good on a cold winter day.

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.

In praise of...my new car!

I tend to be pretty set in my opinions (see my blog entry about my need to always be right), but strangely, since marrying D, I've come to change quite a few of them. He takes great pleasure in teasing me about all these changes of heart, too.

For example, I vehemently opposed all-inclusive vacations, declaring them "boring" and "prissy." Then D took me to Mexico for a week, and as I sighed with bliss on the beach with a frozen drink in my hand, he asked me how I liked all-inclusives. If I remember correctly, I stuck my tongue out at him and went back to sunbathing.

I also used to bemoan the noise and stink of snowmobiles. My dad and I always grumbled about them as they blared up and and down the road in front of his cabin, and I made the mistake of complaining to D about the wretched things one winter. "They really disturb the peace," I muttered. "So loud and stupid." So he stuffed me into a snowmobile suit and put me on the back of his loud, stupid machine. We were on it less than an hour before I was begging him to please let me drive.

So it goes that I used to violently oppose owning any vehicle larger than a 4 door sedan. Definitely NOT an SUV. Oh no, I'd never own one of those. SUVs were for right-wing eco-haters who got their jollies frittering away our precious fossil fuels. When D strong-armed me into test-driving a Toyota RAV-4, I was secretly relieved that I didn't enjoy it. Same with the Honda CR-V. But then I made the mistake of letting my Dad talk me into trying a Subaru Forester when he and I were in Owen Sound one day. I don't hang out with my Dad very much, so I did it to humour him. D gets a kick out of quoting what I said when I came home: "Oh, that car was sah-WEET!"

Nope, I didn't end up with the "sah-weet" Subaru in my driveway. But I do now have a Nissan Rogue. Which is kind of like a baby SUV. Sure, it's full of phthalates and it guzzles slightly more gas than the Kia did, but I...and it hurts me a little to say this...I love it. That's right. I LOVE MY NEW CAR. Me, the one who hasn't actually ever owned a brand new car. So to further my "In praise of" series, here are a few reasons why I love it.

1) It starts. It stops. The Kia didn't do either very reliably. 'Nuff said.

2) It's like the last bowl of porridge in the Three Bears' house: not too big, not too small. It's not scary like a Hummer, or obnoxious like a Lexus SUV, but it's no hurridly built piece of crap either. The Rogue is shiny, spacious, and pleasant-looking without being all "Hey! I'm a brand new SUV! Lookit me, you lousy 1985 hatchback! Yeah, I'm talkin' to you!" No, the Rogue is all about Polite Modest Luxury. And that's just fine with me.

3) It's one heck of a smooth ride. The Kia would hit 90km/h and start to shudder like a bowl of Jell-O; the Rogue hits 110 before I even realize we're in an 80 zone. (Don't worry, I'm working on my lead foot.)

4) Stuff fits in it. Car seat, stroller, overnight bag, coffee mugs, oversized purse, shoes, beach chairs, beach umbrella, diaper bag, groceries, bags of dog food...oh, I could go on. I have no idea what its capacity for "stuff" is, but I plan to find out.

5) No dog hair. Yep, the Rogue is a no-Neko zone, as decreed by my husband. Secretly I am not at all sorry about this, although I put up a weak protest just for appearance's sake. But it is so nice not to sip coffee with dog hair floating in it, or drop an apple and have it come off the floor looking like a hedgehog.

6) My husband calls it my "truck." Or my "vehicle." Cuz it has 4 wheel drive. I've never owned a car that didn't automatically spin doughnuts in the snow before. Or one that warrants being called a truck or vehicle. That makes me feel like a big girl.

RIP Kia...long live the Rogue!

Get Yer Motor Runnin'...

My brothers-in-law both have shiny, growly Harley Davidsons - Sportsters? Roadsters? Something with a "ster" in it - that they are very proud of. They deck themselves out in Harley helmets, jackets, chaps and belts and go thundering down the road looking quite cool. D has a 20 year old Honda 350. It's covered in dust, has two broken tail lights and was recently diagnosed with a bad case of mouse nest in its innards. When we ride it, we usually wear lumber jackets and work boots.

I think I detect more than a hint of wistfulness in D's eyes when C comes rumbling out of the shop on his way for a tour. D doesn't surf the 'net much, but when he does, it's to scroll through pages of used motorbikes every blessed time. I keep coaxing him to buy a new one, but he won't. I'm not really sure why, but I think it's because he never wants to spend money on himself. Surprise me with a ruby and diamond necklace for Christmas? No problem. Purchase a new grain mixer for his Dad's farm? No biggie. Buy himself a used motorbike to replace the one he's had since forever? Not gonna happen.

While it's tempting to want to buy one for him, I wouldn't know where to begin. My motorbike expertise begins with tooting around on the teeny tiny old '70 at his parents' farm, and ends with me balancing on the back of D's bike until my butt hurts. And C has vowed never to help me, for fear of incurring D's wrath. So what to do?

I've been for a ride on both my brothers' Harleys, and while they're a lot of fun, I still prefer D's beat up old bike. The Harleys are incredibly loud; your head aches after a half hour on the back of one. I don't like the way everyone stares at you when you roar through town either. The passenger seats aren't as comfy as the old squishy one on D's bike. Plus the brothers would never allow their bikes to go for a joyride down the dirty 6th concession, let alone a heart-pounding buzz through a freshly shorn field.

I have so many good memories associated with the Honda: the first time D took me for a spin, through fragrant meadows and down bumpy dirt roads, around his Grandpa's old farm and the Lowry Grain elevators; the time we dumped 'er executing a tight turn and smashed the only remaining tail light; the night he proposed at the Point Clark lighthouse with the ring hidden in the bike's secret compartment. Yeah, I love that old bike! Even if by some miracle I can convince him to get a new one some day, the dusty red Honda will always be my favourite.

A Top 10 list of mushy things...

1. MOVIE - Favourite doomed romance: Laszlo (Ralph Fiennes) & Katherine (Kristin Scott Thomas) in The English Patient. Adultery is not one of my favourite subjects to watch, but there is such incredible passion & chemistry between these two that I'm able to wink at poor Katherine's husband's plight (and this is the ONLY movie I've ever seen where Colin Firth is positively repulsive, so it makes it easier).

2. MOVIE/MUSIC - Favourite unrequited romance: Once. Such a lovely, gentle story. And the music is so powerful in its simplicity it often brings me to tears. I highly recommend the soundtrack. Eternal thanks to Yay/Nay guy for lending me the movie.

3. FOOD - Favourite romantic supper: anything that can be eaten with your fingers, like empanadas, pizza, fried chicken, wee fancy sandwiches, spaghetti (hey, one of the most romantic suppers I ever had was spaghetti eaten with fingers and wooden spoons cuz all our silverware was packed up for a move).

4. DRINK - Favourite lust-inducing beverage: a glass of the boys' delicious home-made apple cider will make mature adults fling off their panties and dance around in the buff. Trust me. But Ravenswood Red Zinfandel is good too if you're looking for a more subdued seduction.

5. BOOK - Favourite sigh-inducing read: Pride & Predjudice. It's witty, the main female character is strong and independent, and Darcy...well, heck, he's Darcy!

6. CLOTHES - Favourite article of clothing to wear on V-day: My red dress. Plunging neckline, plunging backline, and oh-so-firey. Look out Saturday night dance in Goderich - here I come! (oh, and of course, my lucky heart underwear)

7. MUSIC - Favourite anti-love song: It's gotta be "Broken F*cking Heart" by Luther Wright & the Wrongs. Great Canadian band with a biting sense of humour. Seriously, you'll howl.

8. SONG - Favourite song to make your heart swell with happiness: Po Girl's "'Til it's Gone." (You can listen to some of it online if you scroll down to the second album on the list.)

9. WEBSITE - Favourite wistful & sometimes romantic notions: PostSecret. Some of these secrets will break your heart.

10. MOVIE - Favourite sappy, embarrassed-to-admit-I-like-it film: Greencard. I used to have a terrible crush on lumpy ol'Gerard Depardieu and found his character in this movie charming. (How can you not like a character that separates garlic cloves by smashing them with his fist?) And though the movie completely tests your ability to suspend disbelief, the first time G and Andie MacDowell kiss makes it all worthwhile.

11. Yeah, I know - this is #11, but I have to sneak it in:
PLAY - Favourite play of all time: Cyrano De Bergerac. The poetry, the sacrifice, the sheer, swaggering manliness of it all - ooh, gives me shivers. I re-read it every year, but only Anthony Burgess's translation. And joy! Bliss! They're putting it on at Stratford this year with Colm Feore.

Now, share some of YOUR top lovie-dovie, sentimental or even anti-sentimental faves, wouldja?

The V-Day Debate

Ahhh, Valentine's Day. To buy into the canned romance, or loftily scorn it as an exercise in commercialism? To stick a cinnamon-heart-stained tongue out at the cynics and bake heart-shaped cookies or stonily spend the day organizing your sock drawer?

I know Feb 14th has become a marketing nightmare. The pressure to spend is silly. But look at it this way: V-day is an extra chance to celebrate love, friendship, warm fuzzies, whatever. It doesn't have to be done in an expensive or elaborate manner(although planning a V-day scheme of some sort is always half the fun in my eyes). And it doesn't have to feel like canned romance either if you're creative.

I don't care whether you're male or female, young or seasoned, single or matched up. Even if you're a growly old bear who forcibly damns all Valentine celebrations back to Hallmark, you CANNOT tell me that getting a Valentine card - even if it's home-made - on your desk or in the mail doesn't make your gravelly heart soften just a leeetle bit.

C'mon, admit it: didn't you love being a kid, filling out a bunch of those weeny little cards, sticking a paper bag on the side of your desk and gloating over it when it got full?

I partially blame my mother for my constant love of V-day. She celebrated it in style: big construction paper hearts with doilies stuck on every window; cards for my Dad, sister and me along with some sweet treat; an elaborate breakfast table that inluded pink grapefruit halves decorated with a cinnamon heart in the middle, home-made crepes, and the ruby-coloured goblets full of freshly squeezed OJ that only came out on February 14th. We always had to wear something red or pink that day. So did she. I LOVED IT!

So I'm celebrating V-day, people, and I urge you to do the same, even if it's just in some small way. This year I am going all out, Alisa Feick style: I bought some heart decal thingies to stick on the windows, I'm making crepes for D on the 14th, and I'm even going to put on my lucky heart-dotted underwear and bake those delectable, heart-shaped, cream-cheese cookies mom used to make with the pink icing in the middle. If you're nice to me, I might even send you some.

And when I walk the long lane down to my mailbox on Friday, I hope I find a card or two in there from those of you who haven't completely drowned in the mire of anti V-day cynicism.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it - HOLY CRAP!

I love snow. There, I said it. I'm not ashamed of it, either. So, nyah.

Usually when I say that sentence out loud to people, I get massive eye rolls and dirty looks. A lady actually shook her fist at me once. It's pretty rare that I get a "ME TOO!" or meet a fellow winter-lover who wants to high-five me.

I cannot understand folks who continue to live in Canada but moan and bitch for five solid months about winter. Some, like my wise older sis, recognize their aversion to white stuff and move somewhere warm, like Australia.

But all you winter whiners who stay put and poison my fun - you hate winter? You detest driving in slush? You like snow "at Christmas" and then want it all gone? Well, guess what? We live in CANADA and this is how it's been for eons. Better suck it up, snowflake, cause until global warming takes over, it ain't gonna change. Really don't like it? MOVE! Us winter-lovers will be happily rid of you.

Okay, I know moving isn't a particularly realistic solution, but I wish people would at least quit their constant complaining. Why moan about something that isn't going to change? Then again, a professor once told me that whinging about the weather "is part of our Canadian identity." I shudder to think that might be true.

At any rate, after two raw, blustery days here at Someday farm, the skies cleared around 10am this morning. Snow sparkled on the fields, every branch and berry on my ash tree was coated with dainty snow-lace, and the sun warmed my office through the south window. Winter heaven! Of course, that all changed at approximately 3:30pm, when the skies darkened and began to dump a fine, sugary snow that knocked off all the pretty, feathery stuff. I just checked the weather network and was informed that Bruce county will be having massive squalls all weekend - resulting in possible accumulations of 50 cm!!! Holy crap!

Sometimes one must be careful what one wishes for. But I'm quite content to put on my thickest coat, goofiest hat, and clunkiest boots to brave the snowbanks. There are barn cats to be fed, a winter-loving dog to walk and bird feeders to fill. Why fight winter? Embrace it and it just might grow on you. (Or at least it will fill up your mouth with snow so you can't complain anymore!)

Three reasons why my husband rocks

1) He knew I'd have a difficult day yesterday, and called me twice just to say hi.
2) He went grocery shopping, walked the dog and did the dishes - just 'cause.
3) I opened the freezer today to find a whole rasher of BACON (my favourite dead animal, which D doesn't like) and the junk food cupboard to find a whole bag of CHEEZ DOODLES (he prefers ripple chips). It was like finding two separate notes that said, "Kim, I love you. I want you to be happy. And a little fatter."

So yeah, he's good. And handsome. And kind. And funny. What more could a girl ask for? I'm so glad I bought that black short dress yesterday with him in mind.

A Unitarian wedding and a very Montreal reception

If I were a cynical person, I might huff that a wedding is a wedding is a wedding. You go to a stuffy place of worship, hear the same tired vows, then sit through bland speeches and an even blander supper. I might say that I used to love both 1Corinthians 13 and chicken breast, but as a repeated wedding mixture over the years, that they're starting to lose their appeal.

But when D and I attended my good friend Jarrett's wedding in Montreal last week, my jaded, easily-bored self remembered why I just can't be cynical where weddings are concerned.

The ceremony took place on the East end of the city, at a Unitarian church. I've never been to a Unitarian church, much less a Unitarian wedding, and I was impressed with its non-dogmatic approach. I liked the way Unitarians are able to find compatibility between spirituality and science, even if I still believe in a triune God.

The pianist played a full 30 minutes of classical music exquisitely on the church's grand piano before the ceremony. The rich sound echoed through the small, high-ceilinged building. The music sounded fresh - not snobby, the way classical music can sometimes come across at a formal event - and was an interesting complement to the young cousins who came bashfully down the aisle to place white calla lillies in an old maple syrup pail at the front of the church.

The entire wedding party sat in chairs on a small platform facing the congregation - an arrangement I'd never seen before. It felt very personal, as you could make eye contact with the bride and groom from time to time. Two friends of the couple read a gorgeous poem - one read it in French and the other translated in English - and a cousin of the bride sang a Pete Seeger song. The vows had a lot to do with respecting one another's individuality and support for one another's dreams - no nonesense about loving and obeying. It was a beautiful moment.

The bride's dress was quite simple, but when you looked closer at it, you could see little golden rosebuds embroidered all over the skirt. When I told Cynthia how much I liked the details, she said that her female friends and relatives had come over one night and each woman had sewn on a bud.

She and Jarrett looked so happy. I've never seen a calmer, more relaxed groom than Jarrett that night. It does my heart good to know he's found the perfect partner.

But the best part was the reception. Held at what was once a 1920's cabaret called Le Lion D'Or, the party was classy, sophisticated and a whale of a good time. I loved the live jazz quintet that played all the oldies - Jarrett is a sucker for old-fashioned music - the delicious supper, the crisp, cold glasses of Blanche, trading wit with my two old friends (now PhDs) I've known since Kindergarten but haven't seen in ages. D and I danced nearly every song together. Nothing like a wedding to remind you how good it is to be in love.

Romance, triple 16 style

Sometimes I bemoan the fact that I've married a very practical man. He grew up on a farm, so practicality runs through his veins like blood. D is logical and likes to see the world for what it is, while I prefer looking on the bright side as much as possible without becoming too annoying. He likes to tease me about my daydreaming habits and calls me his little idealist. Well, yesterday I discovered that my stalwart farmer boy has a romantic side.

I was upstairs in the bedroom trying to sweep dirt and fluff out of some stubborn floorboard cracks. I thought I'd better clean off the broom, which was starting to resemble Santa's beard, so I went out on the balcony to give it a shake. In my glazed-over housecleaning state of mind, my eyes wandered over the front lawn, along the rail fence, past the blue spruces, and back up the line of red maples. It was then that I noticed a particularly healthy patch of lawn sticking up greenly just below the balcony. Once my eyes began to focus, I realized that the green patches actually spelled "K-I-M." Yep, my clever husband had spelled my name...in fertlizer.

Who says farmers can't be romantic?