Life in Melonville

You know how people talk about six degrees of separation? I have a friend who likes to say that here in Melonville it is more like 3 1/2. Ain't it the truth.

I have a niece who recently began dating a new guy. Not a brand new guy, like not a newborn, the guy has been on the planet for a number of years now, he is just new to her. Okay.

Wouldn't you know it, his grandmother and her grandmother ( my mother) are church friends. Of course they are! This is Melonville! This Sunday after Mass my mom made her way to New Guy's grandma to celebrate yet another match that will keep the Melonville bloodlines intertwined.

My mother went on and on about what a lovely girl my niece is. His grandmother thinks he hung the moon.

Sigh.

Then it happened. New Guy's grandma, pulled my mom aside, apart from the crowd. She needed my mom to know that New Guy is indeed a peach. Lovely boy. Good job. Loves his grandma....but....BUT...she needed to know if my mom had seen him yet. No? Well, then she needed to know, and please remember he is a lovely boy, lovely, but well, he....he...it seems he...have I mentioned what a peach he is? Because he is, it's just that he's ummm........

TATTOOED!

AAAGGGHHHH! OMG!

I kind of blanked out at this point in the story. For all I know one or more grandmothers needed to be revived with smelling salts and the priest may or may not have administered a therapeutic belt of altar wine.

And my husband wonders why I want our kids to spend as much time away from here as possible.

Kate

So yes, Kara and I did spend top off an unbelievably great day of kateandkara time with Eddie Izzard. Sweet Lady Gaga, but he makes me melt, you have no idea. George Clooney gives me butterflies, but Eddie MELTS me.

If there was any way I could get to NYC to see him in Race I would be there in a heartbeat....sigh.

Okay, see here is the problem. I had this really great rant in my head, and now I am all about the Eddie. Now I have to go and get some fresh air and have a tea and maybe go buy some groceries and try to refocus.

I'll be back later.

Stiletto

(Also, Kate and I went to see Eddie Izzard last night and I must say, there's nothing sexier than a man in stilettos and full makeup who makes you laugh 'til you cry.)

Kara

EAVB_MFNPPGNNTZ

Fat & Happy

So, I don't know if you remember, but last spring I was all gung ho (do you ever look at a phrase like gung ho and wonder who the hell came up with it? But then, that's what wikipedia is for. Anyway...) to lose weight and regain the basic shape of a human and be fabulous and wear wrap dresses without needing high-tensile foundation garments and reacquaint myself with my ankles and all that jazz?

Yeah, that SO didn't last.

I still go to the gym, mainly because in a fit of ill-advised I Love Exercise! I Will Always Love Exercise! I Will Never Roll Around In Butter Again! enthusiasm I signed myself up for a years worth of once-a-week sessions with a trainer and now I can't get out of it. And, to be honest, I like the guy and it is a great way to start every week, you know all glowy and virtuous and pure (translation: sweating 'til I'm blind and breathing stertorously through open mouth like a beached carp). And I even managed to do some classes a few weeks ago and they didn't kill me or make me cry or put me in the hospital. But as the weight slowly ounces its way back on to my 40 year old ass, the guilt about not staying with the program grows and I wonder why the hell I can never stick to this kind of thing.

It seems that I have a problem staying motivated, at least when it comes to mortification of the flesh types of things.

Last week, my friends Robert and William pointed out to me (over a cup of my excellent strong coffee with cream and a pile of fresh baked pain au chocolate that they brought with them, you know the kind where there's so much butter in the pastry that the paper bag turns translucent and the good dark chocolate just oozes out? Mmmmm, that kind.), that when I started going to the gym I was very unhappily employed in a job that couldn't have suited me less, but feeling trapped by the excellence of the salary and benefits. I couldn't leave the job, indeed every attempt to find a new one failed miserably, and I just had to do something for myself that would allow me to accomplish something. So, I started the exercise and diet program and got all high on endorphins and achievement and the thrill of seeing my waistline emerge after many years of hibernation and all was right with the world.

But I couldn't keep it up. Weight-wise, I flatlined for a good half-year or so, which was okay in that I was happy with my size and slightly fine-tuned shape and I always meant to climb back on the wagon of strict eating and exercise habits, but it just never happened. And then my job ended in March and I thought "Hey! With all this free time, I can hit the gym during the day when it's not so busy, this'll be great, I'll be in wicked shape by the time my 40th birthday rolls around in May!"

But that's not what happened at all! Instead of watching what I eat and making daily pilgrimages to the Altar of Fitness, I've been cooking up a storm, perfecting my sourdough breadmaking abilities, puttering around the house and generally enjoying myself. In short, I'm happy. Truly, sickeningly, oh-god-Kara-would-you-ever-just-shut-up-about-it happy. And happy, it seems, is a state that doesn't inspire a whole lot of motivation for me to do the kinds of things required to lose 100 lbs. Now, I'm still much more fit than I was before this all started, much stronger and straighter thanks to the trainer and my now daily habit of long trail walks with the dog, but it would seem that for me at least, happy = fat.

That said, I have a preliminary job interview on Friday. Who knows? I might be back in the rat race sooner than anticipated and that extra avoirdupois might just melt away again.

Kara

A gross of gross

We went to Costco today. Since there's just the two of us, we don't really go to Costco except to buy new tires for my ancient Ford on what feels like a semi-regular basis. However, as you all know, it's a useful membership to have when you need a gross of something. And don't we all need a gross of something at some point?

The logic behind today's visit was to stock up on a few things as I prepare for us to Live On A Strict Post-Layoff Budget. Toothpaste, toilet paper, those Ace Bakery pre-baked baguettes of fabulousness that you keep in the freezer, that kind of thing. All very sensible. Of course, what we came home with was a tower fan, a pint of shucked oysters, a herd of single serve bottles of Arranciata, a bottle of pomegranate juice, a box of protein bars and some chocolate milk.

This, in my relatively limited experience, is par for the course at Costco. You just end up coming home with shit you didn't think you (and probably don't) need. Sometimes when we amble through the aisles (waiting for our tire installation, naturally), I wonder aloud about just who's going to buy a flashing neon OPEN! OPEN! sign, or a collapsible kayak, or an entire case of Tucks medicated pads, but then I'm distracted by the 100-pak of my favourite Sharpie pens or 5 pound bag of frozen asparagus tips and forget what I was saying. There's just too much to look at.

But, as I said, we don't go too often, so perhaps it's just that the Grocery and Dry Goods Carnival of Weirdness that is the warehouse/club type of shopping experience has never lost its novelty element for me. It's akin to going to one of those gizbillion square foot grocery superstores in the States and standing, mouth agape, in the pudding aisle, amazed at the sheer variety of a single product.

The excess of it all, however, is something I don't like to think of too deeply. There's something of a fiddling-while-Rome-burns kind of decadence about all of that everything, right there for the taking. I start to feel a tremendous guilt, not only about how much stuff is available in each aisle, but also that I should be spending my money in smaller, independent stores, not this huge chain. Of course, there's precious few independent grocery stores left these days (whither Mr. Hooper?) and I do spend an awful lot of our food budget at the only one I know, the extraordinary Punjab International. But it's not really enough to assuage the guilt.

But there are times, as all of you who hold Costco memberships know, that you just need a gross of something. Or, in the case of the 100-pak of Sharpie pens, you just think you need a gross of them. And it would take a stronger woman than I to resist a pint of shucked oysters for $10. Or a whole herd of Arranciata. Or the biggest bottle of pomegranate juice I've ever seen. Or cheap chocolate milk.

Sigh.

Kara

Goddess, domestic (variety of)

I've been thinking a lot about domesticity and such, lately. More specifically, how bad I am most of it, and how stay at home moms really need to enjoy much more credit than they currently seem to earn.

It all began because of the whole unemployment thing. Much like my husband, I've always been absolutely hopeless at housework. We can throw a great dinner party, but the two of us are terrible at maintaining even a modicum of neatness. Granted, we live in a tiny house with pets and way too much stuff, but even if we lived in a place three times the size, we'd still live in a whirlwind of crap. It's just the way we are, especially when both of us are working. We're not proud of it, it's embarrassing when my father draws a happy face in the dust on the t.v. screen each and every time he comes over, but it sort of just became the status quo.

However, when my contract ended and I realized I'd be home for some time, I decided there was no excuse for living in chaos. I had grand plans for a massive spring cleaning, including repainting the bedroom (which I have done) and making sense of the office/spare bedroom (which I have not mustered the will to do...yet) and finally ridding the basement of all kinds of unnecessary crap, as well as getting the garden ready for the summer, planting vegetables, staying on top of the mountain of ironing (we really need to start wearing more jersey and less broadcloth) and making a gorgeous dinner every night.

Well.

It took me a few weeks to get out of the habit of staying up all night reading and sleeping in half the day (left to my own devices, I revert entirely to my undergraduate ways), and it took a few more to get out of the habit of listlessly shuffling through the mess every morning and then deciding to go out for coffee with my non-working friends instead. It wasn't good, but eventually the level of household chaos got to me and I reaffirmed my commitment to living like a grown-up.

Which is when I realized how much bloody, bloody work it is to keep a house (even this one, which could double as a set for The Borrowers) tidy and pleasant. Some of it, such as cooking, baking and most gardening, are joyously creative and provide enormous satisfaction. But a lot of it is dull, dirty, and often strenuous work. And the thing is, it never ends. I no sooner have the bathroom spotless, for example, than little drifts of shed pet hair begins to eddy about in the white-tiled corners. The livingroom is cleaned thoroughly and then, like magic, tiny piles of receipts and bits of mail begin to pile up on various surfaces. The neverending cycle of laundry is another thing -- apparently, without thinking, the husband and I have become serious clotheshorses and the ironing pile reaches about 6 feet in height if I don't stay on top of it. And the dust! I know that living in an industrial city means extra dirt but for the love of pete, what is with all the dust???

So, as I work my way through the house, a cyclone of mess, often leaving the rooms I've cleaned looking slightly worse for wear, it occurs to me that this job would be that much harder if we added children to the equation. Can you imagine? Any child of mine would end up looking like that Pig Pen character from the Snoopy comics, abuzz with wavy lines of smells and dirt, whether it wanted to or not. Surely, I'd eventually develop enough of a routine to keep us out of the diphtheria zone, but I fear the child would be off to university before I managed it.

I blame myself entirely, of course. When I was growing up, my mum was always at home and I realize now that I never really paid attention to all she did to keep the house running smoothly. Not that I took her for granted, but I just didn't pay enough attention to the mechanics of running a household. Now, however, I'm beginning to appreciate just how hard it is to keep things spotless while also having enough time to do the things you truly love.

Moo!

If you're like me, you have a Pavlovian response to the words Fried Cheese. Cheese? Gooood. Fried? Gooooood. Put 'em together and you might as well ring a bell and commence salivation.

Although I've been a fan of fried Haloumi for some time, its relative scarcity around these parts (you can find it if you look hard enough, it's just not always the best) coupled with its occasional destructive effects on our digestive systems means that I'd gotten out of the habit of fried cheese and salad for dinner.

Well, no more. My mouth is happy and my hips are sobbing but Upper Canada Cheese Company has resuscitated this household's fried cheese habit.

Always late to the party (I really have to start paying attention to the outside world again), I only just heard about Upper Canada Cheese Company's amazing Guernsey Girl cheese. Made from the milk of a single herd of Guernsey cows, this cheese is absolutely meant for frying or grilling. It's buttery but not bland, creates its own delicious crust in the pan and squeaks a bit as you bite through. Fried up and sprinkled with a crunchy salt like Maldon, it's pure dairy heaven. So much so that I'm not sure I'll ever explore the recipes devised for the Guernsey Girl challenge, it's just so perfect on its own, hot out of the pan.

Read a bit more about it here or at www.uppercanadacheesecompany.com. Then get thee to the Cheese Boutique, or, even better, to Upper Canada in Jordan, ON and buy it by the blockload!

Kara

A Door Closes and No Window Opens (but at least I finally have the time to get that window really clean)

For the first time in I don't know how long, I'm unemployed. Well, technically, I'm employed until April 30 but because the campaign I was part of is essentially finished, my employer is (very generously and, frankly, wisely) allowing those of us whose contracts will not be renewed to vamoose/get out/stay home while they pay us out.

Yes, that's right, I'm getting paid to stay home. Commence envious gasping now.

Of course, I have no idea what I'm going to do next, absolutely no idea. I do know, however, what I won't be doing any time soon and that's fundraising. After 10 years, I'm done. Like dinner. Just thinking about it makes my jaw clench and my brow furrow. I can't bear the thought of asking anyone for money for any cause and, more to the point, I don't think I'm any good at doing it any more. Once upon a time, in the right circumstance, for the right organization and with the right boss/mentor, I was good at it. I hit my targets, I made donors happy, I was fulfilled and enjoyed myself so much it almost seemed criminal to accept a paycheque. I didn't even mind the donor who insisted I pick up his cheque in person every year, the better to stare pointedly at my chest as he handed it to me over his desk (I retaliated by staring pointedly at his toupee for the entire exchange), it was all fun and games at the time.

But no more. It's over. I'm too self-conscious about it now, too aware of the ridiculousness of a job that requires you to beg, professionally. Oh, I know, it's not begging, it's not sales, it's fundraising!, but when you're facing a seemingly insurmountable financial goal with prospects who have no intention of voluntarily ante-ing up and you no longer believe in your ability to charm donors, it's pretty much begging. And I never meant to be a fundraiser in the first place, I just sort of fell into it by accident, so it's not like I'm walking away from The Perfect Career. I've been kidding myself about this line of work for years now.

So what to do next? Not a freaking clue. And yet, I'm strangely unmoved by this. I was more panicked about what I'd do post-campaign when I was still in campaign. Now that it's all over, and it's all official that my contract is over, I just feel free. I haven't clenched my jaw to the point of cracking molars in three weeks. I can't remember the last time I had a headache. The cooking rut I'd had us holed up in since Christmas has ended. I can think of all the stuff I want to do around the house without getting all verklempt and, more importantly, I've started getting that stuff done. With pleasure. I really excel at this staying home stuff, you know?

Of course, all good things come to an end and I will have to find work at some point -- if all goes to plan, not just yet, but soonish -- which begs the question of what sort of work I want to find. At this point I can't imagine what I want to do or who I want to be when I grow up, but I'm quite convinced that the further I get away from the fundraising character I've been playing, albeit badly, since 1999, the closer I'll be to figuring out what I'm supposed to do next.

Kara

Glad Rags

It will surprise anyone who sees me on a regular basis that I actually love clothes. I don't love them on me, necessarily, what with being the type of girl who looks best in a dirndl, hefting 9 or 10 full beer steins in each meaty paw while encouraging you to finish your damn 'wurst, but I do love clothes, fashion, costume, whathaveyou and always have. I've been buying Vogue since I was 12, my favourite library books in grade school were a couple of History of Fashion type encyclopaedias and I was never really as interested in playing with my Barbies as I was in their extensive couture wardrobes, cunningly sewn every Christmas by my mother -- tiny evening dresses, suits, a black velvet cocktail dress with purple trim and a very au courant disco outfit of white satin pants and a coordinating top that consisted of little else than long gold fringe. Mum even crocheted knickers for Barbie out of superfine white yarn!

But, as I've noted before, I'm a curvy girl in a low-rise jean world, with legs like tree trunks and a generous caboose. With fashion over the past few years largely designed for people who are built more in the straight up and down mode, I'd kind of lost interest in clothing in general, preferring the far less judgmental world of accessories, specifically handbags, which always fit. A month or so ago, as I sat in my cubicle at work and realized I'd worn yoga pants to the office, and thus actively adopted the official uniform of the I Give Up Club, I realized that it was time to climb back on the fashion train and start paying some attention to what I was wearing or I was going to end up on that People-of-Walmart website or similar.

At Christmas my favourite co-worker gave me a copy of Scott Schuman's book, The Sartorialist, and suddenly it got me thinking about style all over again. Although almost everyone depicted in Schuman's book and on his website are longlegged and lanky creatures and therefore wholly unlike me, this doesn't actually matter as the book reminded me that style really has little to do with whatever is actually in the stores. Much like Malcolm Gladwell's description of cool, true style is that elusive x-factor that's simply unique to the stylish person. It's the way they put stuff together (and, if you look at The Sartorialist, how they tie a scarf) that makes the difference, much more so than the actual items worn. But beyond the elusive concept of style, the other thing that's so wonderful about this little book is the reminder that clothing is the best, easiest and most simple way we have to communicate who we are (at that particular moment) to the world.

Anyway, all of this has got me thinking of the various bits and pieces of clothing I have loved over the years. Suddenly, in the same way that scent can richly and immediately invoke the strongest memories of an event or meal, remembering the outfits I donned at various times in my life helps me remember who I was and, in a way, how I got here. From my childhood lederhosen and batiked t-shirts (what? it was the 70s!), to the black pinstriped pencil skirt my mother sewed sans pattern, draping it on my teenaged hips like my very own Madame Gres, to the Doc Marten Mary Jane shoes I wore to death in my 20s and the voluminous orange and green silk ball gown I wore to get married, all of these costumes are helpful reminders of the various incarnations of Kara that have existed over the years.

Of course, I have no idea who I'll be in the future so I can't predict what sorts of outfits I'll be wearing (please GOD let the futuristic white satin jumpsuits so prevalent in the sci-fi tv series world never come to fruition), but I do know that I plan to pay just a little more attention to what I wear, what I'm telling the world about myself. Metaphorically speaking, I may not be shining my shoes for Seymour's Fat Lady, but I will be accessorizing for Schuman's Sartorialist camera.

Kara

Roadtrippin'

Greetings from Chilly Florida!

This weekend was spent Driving Miss Patty (my beloved mother-in-law)to her fun vacation rental in Florida, so I'm writing this from a house that has a lanaii. And a resident aligator. I'm not kidding. There's an aligator out there, a real, live lizard, not far from where I'm sitting. I am simultaneously thrilled and freaked by this and if you readers are red-blooded Northerners, then you are too. Admit it. And when I tell you that manatee and dolphin sightings are also a possibility, then if you don't admit that's a teensy bit pants-wettingly exciting, you need to stop reading this right now.

Manatees! In the backyard! Come on!

Florida. Wow. This place is so weird, but I kinda love it already. I never did the Florida thing as a kid (mine is the kind of family where you road tripped to Cape Cod. In March.) and the only other time I've been down here was for two press junkety type trips to Disney and we all know that Disney is a planet unto itself and not exactly representative of the actual Sunshine State. Of course, so far all I've seen is Rte 301 and the I75, the Walmart where we stocked up on pool noodles and the Winn Dixie where we stocked up on snack cakes (just kidding, we didn't buy any snack cakes, though the variety of donettes and snack cakes was positively psychedelic), and of course, this fabulous house. That has a pool. That's kind of indoors.

I'm never leaving.

Or, if I do, it will be very hard not to turn around and drive down here all over again. I have loved every minute of the whole trip. So much so, that I'm trying to figure out how to do this professionally (long haul trucking? Can anyone tell me how I go about becoming Large Marge?), how to get paid for driving through North America, particularly the United States. We started this trip in snow and ice, and by day two had left that all behind -- do you know how funky it is to kick-start Spring by just leaving Winter behind you on I77? Then, on Sunday, I began my day by driving through a mountain, people! Not over, not around, but through a mountain. And I liked the experience so much, a few miles down the road I drove through another mountain. And then down a mountain, enjoying all the while a view that must have stretched a hundred miles or more. Just spectacular.

And did you know that the friendliest people on earth live in Georgia? I defy anyone to stop at the Welcome Centre on Rte 301 just after crossing the South Carolina border and not be welcomed to the very zenith of welcomedness. Those people are friendly! And welcoming! They had pins with the Georgia peach and a Canadian flag on them. Seriously! Why? I don't know, but they did and it made me love them all the more. Plus, they gave us free coca cola products to refresh us for our journey. Admittedly, I'm a total pushover for fountain pop of any sort, but when it's a waxed paper cup of icy cold cherry coke proferred with a genuine "how y'all doin?", my heart melts a little. Best Welcome Center ever!

I want to do this whole trip again. And if you come with me, you have to be as nice to me as my lovely mother in law, which means you have to let me drive your car (mine's a lemon, we're taking yours) and you have to sit beside me, reading out interesting historical facts about the towns we're driving through. From now on, this may be the only way I'll travel.

Kara