Game face

I've recently joined an Aussie Rules Football team here in Toronto. No, I've never played before. Yes, the irony is amusing.
While there's lots of blokes playing footy in TO, we're the only women's team in the city. For games, we either play against ourselves, or organize meets with other cities. So far the team has played against Montreal and New York City (although I had to miss out, due to A. my husband's birthday and B. my ongoing, farcical immigration debacle).


Still, even the lack of any health coverage can't keep me from the field. This weekend, I was in the ruck, which is the rough equivalent of a basketball tip-off but involves a higher risk of getting a knee to the gut. 
The girl I was against is Allison. She's about a foot taller than me, and -- I discovered on Saturday -- has a really intimidating game face just as she's about to face off.
This is us going for the ball:

I think I got a surprising amount of air!

This is Allison going after me: 

This is me, apparently going after the Village People:

The white team won, but we blues went down fighting. Or, at least, flailing.  
Next up, Ottawa on the weekend of my husband's and my first anniversary. I'll keep you posted!

File under A for Awesome

Need to get some wing nuts, but don't have anywhere to park your horse?
No worries.

The good people at Home Depot in Waterloo have got you covered! Horse and buggy parking, just five minutes from downtown and a mere stroll from Conestoga Mall.

Judging by the teeth marks left on the interior wall lining, your horse might get a bit bored.  But that's a small price to pay, eh?

Back on top!

Enough of the drama! And end to the drivel! We're getting back on top of things, people, and we're doing it in style.
Kitchener Waterloo is a hotbed of op-shopping glory. Don't get me wrong. It's tough on these here streets. Op-shops are busy. Competition can be fierce. But that doesn't mean one should go crazy. As always in the vintage-loving underbelly of fashion, you've got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em up and put them back, and know when to run.


I scored a few great finds, including some great brooches (or 'pins' as they're known in Canada) and an awesome yellow enamel scarf clip which happily tethered my Montreal Olympic commemorative scarf the other day.


But the ultimate piece, the one that had my husband looking at me askance and then hoping I might be about to serve him a slice of pie, is this little number:

I bagged it for $7.99 at a Goodwill. It would have been less at the Mennonite Thrift store I plundered earlier this week, but beggars -- sorry, vintage hounds -- can't always be choosers. 

I attribute this purchase to a number of factors: My dearest friend has me watching Twin Peaks again, and I'm finding Donna's 1990s threads disturbingly appealing; I've spotted a number of gals out on the town in 80s biker denim and office dresses; it had massive shoulder pads (which, yes, I removed).

But mostly, I think it's the amount of Golden Girls I've been watching this week. Those ladies are still dangerous, after all these years.

The interminable wait

Visa update: 


Citizenship and Immigration Canada do not like T. and I holidaying in Port Elgin. Each time we do, we get home to a nasty note from them. First, it was them telling me to leave the country. This past Tuesday night, it was a cranky email threatening to close our file.


It seems CIC has decided to arbitrarily change the rules. The forms we filed last year, which were exactly as specified by CIC, are no longer good enough, they say. We must now send my traffic history (which, ironically, I originally sent to a different government arm last year as per CIC instructions.)


CIC says it informed us of the change last December. We never received that December request. Our lawyers never received it. It seems my application has been languishing untouched for the past five months because CIC is fucked up beyond all hope of salvation.


No movement on my file for FIVE MONTHS!! And my future in Canada is in their hands. Heaven help us all.

Be

I have been ruminating deeply of late on the state of being. To be is vastly different than to want, to strive, to avoid. To be is powerful. It is humbling. It is to know not only what you are, but what you are not. Better yet, if done right, it's only one moment in a lifetime of becoming.


Probably the hardest state of being, the one that slips and slides out of grip and refuses to be pinned down in a suitably infuriating manner, is parenthood. Or, to be precise, step-parenthood. To be a good parent is a constant challenge. The internal conditions can be tumultuous enough, given that the only real frame of reference is usually your own upbringing. Add in a batch of building hormones, some adorable but blinding teen awkwardness, and the strangeness of becoming part of an established family, and you've got a fairly slippery beast.


So Sunday was an interesting day. Mother's Day. I rang my own mum and messaged my sister (who is expecting her second bubba in September) the night before.
Then on Sunday, T., the boys and I went shopping to get the boys' mum a present, and had a lovely day at my mother-in-law's, as all of her children came round to visit with gifts, hugs and good cheer. It was also T's birthday the next day, so there was lots of well-wishing going round, but none came to me. 


On our way to dinner that night, I started getting really dejected. This is my first Mother's Day. Sure, I'm not with the boys all the time -- we have every second weekend and school holidays -- but I love the buggers, and as my own mum would say, I'm not exactly chopped liver. 
I tried to beat down the beast and put a good face on things in front of the boys. That's what being a good parent is about. The boys couldn't be expected to understand how I'm feeling. It would be nice if they did, don't get me wrong, but it's not their fault either if they don't. (I remember the astounding self-absorption of teen-dom. They'll swear they're not self-absorbed, but I know it's a self-deception. I'd have made the same argument.)


I told T. how I was feeling -- I may put a good face on things for the lads, but I will not become a martyr -- then cheerily sucked it up and shared a lovely dinner with my family. 
And as we sat down to eat, and raised our glasses for a toast to mothers everywhere, T. looked at the boys and said "And..."
"Oh yeah!" they said. "Happy Step-Mothers Day!" A. and E. raised their glasses again, with big smiles.
We clinked, and all that disquiet sadness evaporated to make way for my massive, beaming smile.


I got a rose at the end of dinner, as did all the mothers in the restaurant that night. It's a beautiful deep pink, and has now been carefully transported to Lake Huron for T.'s birthday getaway, and back to Toronto, where it's sitting on the dining table. 
Best flower ever.