domicile

this game of life: sponge bob at the wheel

In the past few years many of my dearest friends have taken the leap (sometimes more of a falling off a cliff than an active leaping) into parenthood. And I have watched with awe and admiration as those folks all become parents. And while I have yet to have my own child (soon mom, I promise), being with Martin has brought a smaller someone into my life in what may be construed as a parenting role. We tend to eschew formal labels here at the domicile and I am certainly not a "step-parent" in any formal way to Martin's daughter, but let's just say that the role of "daddy's girlfriend" is becoming a regular character and not just a bit part these days.

And so, it is that my life is now littered with the cultural reference point of the 9-year old girl set. To wit: after a particularly rousing evening of playing the Sponge Bob Square Pants (TM) edition of the Game of Life, I find my head today full of all kinds of random Sponge Bob-ish trivia. It is, for example, preferred Life According to Bob the Sponge to end up with Grandma's House as your place of residence. Cheap, cozy and better than "the cave" as the other low-rent option, Grandma's House is a much covetted card in this game. And having stayed with my own Grandma last weekend, I think Sponge-y may have a point here. In addition, the Game of Life (TM) according to Sponge Bob is best navigated with one of the two career options: Fry Cook or Business Owner. A few months ago I would have found that an incongruous pairing, but knowing the lore of the Sponge as I now do, I understand that Sponge Bob's job (Fry Cook) is just as covetted (and apparently as well paying) as that of the independent business owner. Sweet! Though it is worth noting that one does have to follow the college track and get an education to become a Fry Cook, something Martin pointed out isn't too far from reality. Also good to know: you definitely do not want a giant clam as a pet (expensive!) and you will be rewarded in cash money if you protect the covetted secret formula for the Krabby Patty. Have I lost you yet? Only a few months ago this was a mystery world to me too, and now somewhere along the line it seems I picked all up and now I too can navigate the seas of Sponge Bob.

There are other things. I know the age, dating status and approximate height of Hilary Duff. And I finally understand those damn Tamagotchis, which totally baffled me the first time around. Somedays I fear that something valuable may be being lost in my brain space to make room for all this new trivia, but then Sponge Bob wouldn't stand for that kind of worrisome introspection, so I try to shrug it off.

RSS Confessional

Today appears to be the day of the past saying hello.

My morning bus driver was an old friend, whose path I rarely cross these days. He's moved onto my bus route (in fact he's on the bus that I should be on every morning) recently and today we seemed to be on a strangely empty Monday morning bus so had a chance to do some catching up.

My email then contained a note from a friend who would easily be described as "long lost" though really, I generally know exactly where he is. Tony is the father of my first true love, and a man who I deeply adore. Among his excellent qualities as a fabulous joke-teller, gracious host and man with the world's greatest personalized map of Venetian wine-bars is his less admirable quality of infrequent letter writing. Which would really be generally unremarkable, hidden as it is amongst such wonderful traits, but he seems entirely unable to forgive himself for it. So, the lack of letter writing is generally the topic of his infrequent letters.

And finally, though this particular person is much less lodged in the past as we are now in touch again, my dear friend Kate, who I've known since I was nearly 3 years old, has started up a blog for her daughter who is officially 16 months old. It is great to get these little chronicles of the life of Ms. Djuna Emily, and by proxy her mom and it caused me to think for the very first time that I might want to set up an RSS feed. For I must admit, that until now I've been pretty negligent with RSS, generally passing it by entirely, paying attention to it primarily for client purposes. Which isn't to pass judgement on it in anyway, more a reflection of where I have time/energy really. But I'm struck by the idea of how much I would enjoy a "friends of the past" RSS feed that would collate and update me on the goings on in their lives. Perhaps I'll get one started with Djuna now, and see what others come my way.

Where are my ballet shoes?

Since Martin and I moved in together I've noticed that I seem to have developed that eerie mom-habit of always knowing where things are in the house. Beyond that, I also seem to know what he's looking for before he can finish the question, coming from the kitchen that begins "Hey?! Have you seen..." I think I've been doing this for a while without noticing it, but in the past few weeks it seems to keep coming up. I always thought this was somehow an inherited trait that somehow got flicked on in the great big gene-map that makes us who we are once someone gave birth. Not that I really gave it much thought at all, but seems no. Maybe I was wrong and it's less procreation that does it and more something that one acquires as age 30?

I didn't used to be this kind of person. Just ask my old roommate of yore Liisa who was forevering helping me find my keys, bag, wallet etc. She tried to train me to hang my keys by the door, but that was no use. No matter how often I swore I put them by the door, they were never there when I needed them.

And so with the exception of knowing just how many X-Box games are in the drawer downstairs, I generally know where pretty much everything is in the house. Or so I think. Until this week when I could not for the life of me find my ballet shoes. I looked everywhere to no avail. The place I was sure they were. The place that if I had been feeling really lazy I might have put them. The other place where maybe I decided I should start keeping them when I cleaned out my closet. Nothing. And beyond being frustrated at not having my shoes for my class (though I can wear socks) I was unnerved that my vision of myself as the all seeing keeper of stuff in the house had been so totally upset. For not only did I not know where something of Martin's was, I didn't know where something that only I use was. Grr.

In the end, I found the shoes. A day later. They were in fact in the new place that I thought I should start keeping my dance things, only they were wrapped up in a pair of dance pants and so not easily found. So breath a sigh of relief there. And I'm not entirely sure what all the point of telling this to the internet is, except to say that I was/am somewhat bothered to learn just how set on this idea of being the all-seeing-keeper-of-the-stuff person I had become. Perhaps it was about time that myth was erroded.

Pointless Consumption

If there is one household item that I absolutely loathe purchasing it is a phone. Now I am sure that homeownership will cause me to one day rue the day I said that: say the day that we need a new hot water heater, or a furnace or maybe plumbing. But for now I stand-by phone purchasing as my all time least favorite household item. I am, so you know, including in this list: cat litter, toilet paper, the scrubbies you use to clean the dishes and dull things like batteries.

So yes, phone purchasing.

We came by the need for a new phone shortly after we moved in together. Which I suppose really means that both of us needed new phones prior to that, but no matter. My phone had pretty much totally lost its ability to dial the number 6. In a town where you have to dial the "604" area code before every local number that becomes irritating very quickly. Martin's phone had no particular number blackhole, but doesn't really have a reliable push-for-dial ratio. That is, if you push all the numbers you wish to dial it doesn't always dial them, though which ones it dislikes in particular is not evidently clear. So, because my phone sucked all the time and his only most of the time, his phone won. Mine was sold for about a $1 at a garage sale to someone who was warned of its faults and we carried on. And fortunately we don't actually use the phone all that often -- likely because we both talk either on the phone or to people all day at work -- and so we've just made it through with the not-so-much-working phone.

And maybe it was because I was doing a fair bit of Christmas calling around, or maybe it was because I decided that continuing to leak money to the evil that is Telus every month for features like voicemail and call forwarding was just dumb when the technology of digital answering machines is so cheap and available. But sometime around the end of last year I decided we needed to find a new phone. And so, on one of our days off we set off in the 'hood on a mission to not return home without a new phone.

And  here come the two primary reasons why I hate buying phones: Reason 1, almost everyone who makes phones is some degree of deeply evil; Reason 2, almost all places that you can buy phones are horrible, nasty places to be. To explain.

Almost everyone who makes phones is some degree of deeply evil. Whether it is GE (arms manufacturing) or just the fact that they are all made in third world countries where I can be quite sure that the person who made the phone does not have a life so good that they can spend minutes/hours of their evening on a weeknight telling the internet about just how much they "totally hate having to purchase new consumer electronics," there are simply no "fair trade" made by happy workers who earn a fair wage phones out there. And they are made with noxious batteries that poison the earth and made from pretty much totally industructable plastics. And so, everytime I buy a new phone I pretty much feel like I'm saying a big ol'screw you to the earth and my fellow man. Over the top? Perhaps, but that's the way it makes me feel. For real.

Almost all places where you buy phones are horrible, nasty places to be. Places like Future Shop, Circuit City, The Source (where we bought our phone), department stores, and yes even London Drugs are the kinds of places I really don't ever like going much at all. They have bad lighting, are generally filled to the gills primarily with things that no one needs and are almost always places you need to drive to. The Source, where we bought our phone, won out because it is walking distance from our house and they had more selection than the London Drugs. And yes, I could avoid trips to these places by buying a phone online, but I kind of like to see the phone upclose to see what I'm getting. And yes, I could avoid adding another phone to the landfill and somewhat dampen the effects of my evil purchase by buying a secondhand phone, but I have a second-hand phone and it doesn't work. That's why I'm getting a new one.

And so, now that I've gone on ad nauseum about just how much I hate buying phones it may not surprise you to know that we have ended up having to buy two phones. Two? Yes, two. Because the first one, for all its promise if grandeur and mail-in rebates, sucked. First it sucked because the person on the other end of the line couldn't really hear you (a primary feature that should not be lacking in a phone). But then we thought maybe that was just that one time. And while I did so enjoy yelling at Martin in short bursts standing in the kitchen "I! Will! Be! There! Soon! I! Will! See! You! There! OK!" it didn't happen more than once. More correctly twice in one night. Then, the other night, while we were playing Scrabble the phone started "bleeping" at us. It was nicely ensconced in its little charger base, happy as a clam, and it just started bleeping and kind of "blurping" if you can imagine. We tried to see what it needed. Was someone calling? No. Was there a message? No. Was it low on batteries? No. Did it need to be off the base?  No. And so: the phone went back.

And now we are on phone number two. It's still charging out there in the kitchen, but I have high hopes for this one. I'll be sure to let you know how it goes.

The Cat Lovers Must Have Gift

If you have a cat lover in  your life, or really even just someone who has a more than indifferent relatinoship to the feline in their life, then you've probably noticed that they all seem to acquire some form of cat-themed parphenalia. In its worse form, this can take the guise of crystal cat figurines on the mantle, bedazzled persian kitty sweatshirts and cat paw printed bath mats. In its most prevalent and run of the mill it is often expressed as a fridge magnet. Something along the lines of: "A House is Not a Home Without A Cat" or the one that I will admit to having somewhere in our vast backstock of magnets  colelcted over the years "I don't need a higher power, I have a cat." Of course, I don't actually believe that my cat is god. Utlimately that would necessitate a belief in God afterall, and I'm not quite sure I'm there yet. But I will admit that I grinned when I was given the magnet and it enjoyed many proud years on multiple fridges.

However, I would like to officially move that this ubiquitous cat-lover peice of paraphenalia be promptly replaced with a far superior (and arguably more functional) item: "The Cuidado: Vomito de Gato" warning sign. (Or in English: Caution: Cat Vomit, but I like the Spanish better). Every cat owner should have one.

Those who know me well, know that when Pluto the Wonderkitty isn't feeling so hot I get, well quite distressed. When he was younger this grip of despair would often take me over even when he had just thrown up somewhere in the house. I can remember my boyfriend at the time, who was around when Pluto was first acquired and for the first many years of his charmed life, once saying to me: "Emira, cats puke. It's nothing to worry about." And he was right. They do. And generally it isn't. Which is perhaps why I find this sign so very amusing. I may have to send him one, as he recently acquired a feline companion and I'm sure it will come in handy.

The Shrimp Dimension

Avid fans of the Buffy-verse may pickup on that reference to the dimension filled with nothing but shrimp. Aparently it's not as begnin as it sounds, and as a vegetarian I can so very much believe that. One of the unexpected results of Martin and I shacking up has been the entry of meat into my life. And let me preface this by saying that it has been an entirely voluntary intrusion and not one that I resent. (Though I honestly didn't think it would go so smoothly). That said, it was very unexpected. If I were honest with you dear reader, I would have to say that while Martin and I joked about sharing pots/plates between veggie and not-so-much dishes, I didn't really think it would happen. A year ago I certainly never would have imagined my vege-ass standing somewhat perplexed in the aisles of my local grocer wondering whether frozen prawns would defrost in time for that night's dinner (turns out they maybe would have) and worried whether or not having their little leggies still attached was considered "good" or "bad" in the world of shrimp purchasing.

Now, let's get this straight: I haven't breached the gap into eating shrimp, chorizo or any of the other meat varieties. For while I'm admittedly a bit surprised to see how easily I've accpeted them sharing some space in my kitchen, they are in no way headed for lips or my tummy. For while I have over the years dabbled in meat in my youth, and some fish in my twenties overall the stuff just doesn't appeal. I've actually acquired some pretty strong political/social reasons for this, but I must admit that ultimately my primary motivation in eschewing the stuff is this: it doesn't look like food to me. It really just looks like cooked animal to me, and you see I'm not so into cooked animal. Even if it is accompanied by a nice quince glaze or madiera gravy... And yet, meat has in a small way made its way into my life and it causes me forms of stress I could not have predicted. Mostly, this stress revolves around fear of killing people. Really. For those of you whom meat is an everyday or even once a week normalicy have no idea how treacherous it can seem to a total outsider.

With the exception of one notable occasion when I "seasoned" two steaks and put them on the BBQ for Martin and his roofing pal in the summer, I have yet to cook the stuff. (For the record: ick. I keep describing that process as being like putting pepper on someone's skinless thigh and plopping it on the fire, apparently meat eaters don't find that as disturbing an image as I do. But overall, it was kind of worth it in terms of the mileage I've been able to get at family/friend dinner parties when I announce that I cooked steak.) Generally I leave the cooking of the critters to Martin or visiting kitchen guests more familiar with the mechanics of chorizo preparation. Still, my fear of killing Martin (and often his visiting daughter as that's typically when we trott out the meat) by purchasing the wrong thing, somehow transporting it incorrectly or storing it improperly are about as large and looming as the fear of the unknown tends to be. Afterall, eggplant: not too many dangerous e-coli inducing pitfalls! (Though I do know someone recently hospitalized on account of bad hummous...).

I'm trying to let go a bit, as I'm beginning to suspect that Martin thinks I'm a bit nuts, but then I'm not sure that I really ever want to get too comfy with meat/critters unless their the kind that crawl in bed with me and purr. Speaking of which, Pluto was pretty pleased with last night's garlic prawn addition to the menu and as our backs were turned managed to help himself to one. Seems he doesn't share my fears about the dangers that lurk within! Perhaps he really is my alter ego.

In which I tell you far too much about coffee

Since the days of my youth when my mom's friend Bonnie used to buy cases of canned soy dogs direct from a Mennonite community, the world of meat/dairy substitute soy products has grown significantly. From Tofurkey to Neatballs and oh so delicious soy sour cream, today's vegan/veggie can partake in a diet that your 1950s nuclear family would be proud of. And while there is some division amongst my tribe of meat/dairy eschewing friends on the topic of Fake-B-L-Ts, there is one product that pretty much all of us have come to worship: Silk Soy Creamer.

Now I've typically always taken my coffee with milk. I've never been a cream girl. I chalk this up to my family of origin in which the choices were: drip coffee with milk (mom's daily addiction of choice) or dad's Rocketfuel. Now, as an adult I appreciate the stronger side of coffee. Everything from the luscious crema  on a strong espresso with a twist of lemon rind, to a good cup of arabic coffee with cardamon and rosewater. As a 14 year old, when I started drinking coffee, I was a fan of something with a bit less personality. For as peach schnapps is often the training wheels of alcohol consumption (how we survived those days of chugging that stuff behind the gym I will never know), so too is sweet, weak coffee the entryway for a lifetime of blessed caffeine adoration/addiction. And so, my dad's morning beverage was not up my alley. Rocketfuel was made every morning on the stovetop in a blue enamel turkish-style coffee pot by mixing a few scoops of coffee, a few scoops of demerara sugar and some water. This mixture is then boiled and cooked to a thick syrup and the top liquid was poured off into little chinese tea cups. And while that may be a decent option as a 30 year old, it definitely wasn't on my teenage radar. And so, I was a coffee with milk and a bit of sugar girl.

I dropped the sugar fairly early on, though I can't quite remember how long ago now. And while I still sigh deeply everytime I think of the many litres of truly divine caffe latte I've consumed both in my own Italian neighbourhood here and particularly in Italy over the years, a few years ago I began to drink soy instead of dairy, converting my latte to a soy latte. Same too for my morning coffee (made in a stovetop Italian stainless steel pot bought in a hardware store in a small town just outside of Rome almost 10 years ago now), which for a short decadent period of time was partnered with vanilla soy milk and then eventually just the plain stuff. Then came Silk Soy Creamer.

I can't remember if it was Inga or my friend Theresa who introduced me to Silk first. My hunch is it was Inga on a trip to Olympia many years ago, when it wasn't even yet available in Canada. However it was, I was sold. Slightly sweet, definitely thick and creamy, there was really no going back. Until, perhaps, this morning. For this morning while having grapefruits and coffee with Martin and his daughter for a leisurely Sunday breakfast I took the last savoured sip of my first coffee of the day and encountered something that can only be described as: blobby. Gelatinous, slimy, icky: blobby. I'm quite sure it was from the Silk as there was no where else it could have come from, and while I am also 98% sure that there was nothing wrong with it -- afterall they have to put some kind of goop in there to thicken that stuff up -- the experience of something solidish and definitely slimy in my morning cuppa has thrown me off.

And so: 2006 may be the year of the Americano. Black. Maybe I'll think of it as the sophisticated caffeine of my 30s....

What Ever You Do: Do Not Relax

   
  Originally uploaded by emira.

The transition from living solo to couple-shacking-up has been pretty darn smooth for both Martin and I (I'm taking a bit of liberty speaking for him here, but I'm quite sure he'd agree). And while generally all is well, smooth and pretty darn happy I have to admit that I harbour a small fear that should we ever find ourselves with oodles of time off to spend together that maybe things wouldn't be so harmonious. You see, while we have a fairly domestic life, we are not actually home together for all that many waking hours. Martin works Tuesday - Saturday, giving me Saturdays at home alone in the house, and Sundays are generally filled with his daughter. Evenings he often gets home an hour or so after me, and that gives us enough time for some dinner, maybe a video or project or two and then it's sleeping time. So while all of this is happy and good, I do sometimes worry that if we ever both found ourselves with spare time on our hands and an itch to spend it, that we might run into a clash or two. (If you don't already know me well, then you should know that if I don't have something tangible to worry about, I will find something, which goes a long way to explaining this concern of mine). And so, with the holidays presenting a whole week of shared time off together, the possibilities in my worried little head for strife and turmoil were endless!

I'm pleased to report that we did in fact have quite a lovely holiday and even enjoyed a day or two of doing nothing together. And, we never really got to test my theory of relaxation = conflict because come Boxing Day morning (after only one day of rest) we woke up and decided to venture to the wilds of Home Depot and start a "humble" home reno project.

Now at 10am on Boxing Day as we sat in our back office considering our many options for renovations, the day stretched out before us, we believed that we were setting out on a day long task. Not surprisingly, this was somewhat ambitious. The full project -- which was to build custom shelving for the room -- ended up taking that day, and another couple before it was complete. However, we did manage to finish it before we went back to work, and still had a day of total aimless laziness when we were through.